False Allegations

Heather called Tuesday night, leaving a number I didn't recognize. It was after midnight when I got the message from Mama, but I called anyway.

"Hello?" Her voice was wide awake, buoyant.

"It's Burke," I said. "You called?"

"I wanted to…thank you again…."

I didn't say anything, waiting.

"…and to tell you, it's all set. Either tomorrow or Thursday, whatever you want. Anytime, day or night."

"What's all set, Heather?"

"The interview," she said, a throb in her voice now, telling me how important this was. To her? "He says to tell you you'll have as much time as you want, okay?"

"Okay. Let's make it Thursday, all right? First thing in the morning okay with you?"

"With me? Oh! You mean with—"

"Yeah. Nine okay?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"See you then."

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Would you want me to, maybe come over and…see you?"

"I already said I'd do it, Heather. I made a deal; I'll keep it. Don't worry about it."

"Not for…that. I know you'll do it. I know you're a truthful person. That's all I care about, you know. The truth. It's holy to me. I'm just…sorry about what happened. And I thought I could maybe…make it up to you."

"We're square," I said.

"Well, if you ever change your mind…"

"You'll be the first to know," I said, and cut the connection.

Then I called the precinct and asked for Morales.

I met him at the dead end of Old Fulton Street in Brooklyn, a few blocks from the Federal Court. Outside of territory for both of us. He was already there when I pulled in, still driving that fire–engine–red Dodge Stealth, convinced it was the perfect undercover vehicle. Like every player in the city didn't know it was his.

"You all healed up?" I asked him.

"Like new," he growled, smacking his chest where Belinda's bullet had taken him hard enough to crack a rib a while back. He looked the same: ball–bearing eyes in pouchy pockets of flesh, a round face with a pushed–in nose and a thin scar of a mouth sitting on a tree stump of a neck. Stood a couple of inches shorter than me, short arms, big chest. Morales looked like a not–too–bright pit bull, but the first part was all wrong.

"Thanks for the stuff," I said.

"No problem. Like I left word, motherfucker's dirty."

"Meaning…?"

"He did work for Aiello. You know, the greaseball who took over for Sally Lou on The Deuce."

Sally Lou had been a fringe player for the wiseguys. Not a made man, but what they call an "around guy," sniffing at the edges, doing whatever. His game had been rough–stuff porno. In the freak sheets, he peddled it as "extreme, not terminal," but street talk was that he could find you a snuff film if you hauled enough green. No question about kiddie porn though—Sally Lou specialized in video of hairless little girls. He was gone now, part of the fallout in a mess I got into a long time ago. And, like always, some other slime seeped in to fill the void. Crime's like Nature—it hates a vacuum.

"What kind of work?" I asked Morales.

"I don't know exactly," the cop said with a "what the fuck does it matter?" shrug. "Legal research, it said on the bill. A big bill, I know that much."

"That's not dirty."

"Yeah, it is. Anything for that maggot Aiello is dirty. But I think it was something else. Word is, this Kite, he knows a lot of people. Political people."

"Like senators?"

"Like judges. Aiello was on the hook deep. A video studio, in a basement off Forty–fourth. The usual whips–and–chains stuff, no big deal. But there was little girls in there. Little girls. There was some kinda legal bullshit, like could we prove he knew they was underage? Fuck, you just look at the stuff, you know they wasn't grown. Anyway, the judge tosses it. Said the search was bad too. The CI spooked. Disappeared. Or maybe got done. But we couldn't produce him in court. That was just the excuse though—the whole thing was juiced from jump."

"Kite was the lawyer?"

"Nah, Aiello had a regular mob mouthpiece. Your old pal, Fortunato, remember him? Like I said, wired like a motherfucking Christmas tree. Fortunato put out the word Kite did the research, like I said. But the way I scope it, the only research he did was knowing a bent judge."

"Okay."

"I wish Wolfe was still on the job. Wouldn't have happened if she was there—too much media heat. I love that bitch."

"Me too," I said. Then I caught his look. "I mean, I wish she was still working too."

"Yeah. Right. Anyway, watch your back, Burke. If this Kite motherfucker knows judges, he knows cops too, you understand me?"

"Sure. Thanks."

"Anything else I could…?"

"Run a phone number for me?"

"You got it."

Early Thursday morning, I let Pansy out to her roof. Then I cut a fresh semolina bread at the two–third's mark, scooped out the interior from the one–third and painted inside the crust with a light coating of cream cheese. That was mine. I put the two–thirds piece and the guts from mine in Pansy's steel bowl. Then, on the hot plate, I heated up some Mongolian beef with scallions I took from Mama's and I poured the whole thing over the bread. When she came back downstairs, she snarfed it up like it was a vitamin pill.

I had mine with some cold ginger beer. To settle my stomach.

I dressed carefully that morning—I figured this woman had already seen enough lawyers, but I didn't want to look like a hood either. Or a cop. When I told her the problem, Michelle had come over the night before and picked everything out. "The alligator boots, babe. They're always perfect. Casual class—that's our look, okay?" She put together a pair of gray flannel slacks, a black–and–white striped shirt with a button–down collar, and a dark–purple silk tie. From a garment bag she carried over her shoulder, she pulled a soft charcoal wool sports coat. "This is perfect, honey. It's semi–structured. See, no shoulder pads. Lots of room, very comfortable. It whispers money. Put it on, let's see how it works."

"I'm sure it'll be—"

"Put it on, honey."

It fit perfect. Michelle's eyes were micrometers. "How much?" I asked her.

"Thirteen hundred—"

"What?"

"Oh, that was retail, honey. I got it for only six. Some bargain, huh?"

"Six hundred dollars?"

"Yes, six hundred dollars," she said, in the tone you'd use on a moron. A stubborn moron. "I do not buy at Bloomingdale's, baby. And you'll need this belt too—it'll go perfectly with the boots. Now give me some money, honey."

I couldn't wait for the clash of wills when it came time for her and The Mole to outfit Terry for college.

Pansy insisted on rubbing against my leg and being petted goodbye. So instead of cologne, I hit the subway wearing Eau de Neapolitan mastiff. And carrying the black aluminum briefcase, empty.

Heather was on her side of the grille when the elevator arrived. This time she was wearing a modest plum–colored silk blouse over a black pleated skirt. But her dark stockings were seamed up the back and the skirt was six inches too short. I could see the faint outline of an ankle chain surrounding the bandage on her left foot. Her spike heels were the same color as her blouse.

"Hi!" she said brightly.

"How you doing?" I responded.

"I'm great…now that it's finally happening. Come on, they're waiting for you."

I followed her down the hall, listening to the rasp of nylon as her thick thighs brushed together under the short skirt. She turned the corner, ushering me in ahead of her.

"Mr. Burke," Kite said, getting to his feet. "Thank you for coming."

"Like we agreed," I replied, shaking the bony, blue–veined hand he offered me, going along with the show.

"This is Jennifer," he said, nodding toward a young woman seated in a straight–backed teakwood chair. "Jennifer Dalton."

I walked over to her, held out my hand. "Pleased to meet you," I said.

"Me too," she answered, not getting up. Her eyes were too big for her thin, pinched face. Her hair was mouse brown, thin at the temples. She was dressed in a slate–gray business suit over a fussy white blouse with a small embroidered collar, modest black pumps on her feet, sitting with her knees pressed together.

"Would you prefer I…leave you alone?" Kite asked.

"Up to you," I said to the woman.

"I'd rather you stayed," she said to Kite. Her voice was low and reedy, but very clear, every syllable articulated.

"As you wish," Kite said, taking a seat in his fan–shaped chair.

I took the leather armchair. Heard the tap of Heather's heels but this time, she was wasn't going to stand behind me—she took a position between the woman's back and the hologram, standing with her hands behind her, chest outthrust, orange eyes steady on me.

I settled in, investing thirty seconds in observing the woman's composed face. "How old are you?" I asked.

Her face twitched. It wasn't the question she expected. "I'm, uh, twenty–seven. Twenty–eight in November."

"Were you born here? In New York?"

"In Queens. In Flushing. But we moved around when I was little."

"Where?"

"New Jersey. Teaneck, then Englewood Cliffs. Then to upstate New York. But I really grew up in Manhattan. On the Upper West Side."

"You went to private school?" I asked her.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Just a guess. You have any brothers and sisters?"

"I have a brother. Robert. He's two years older."

"What does he do?"

"Do?"

"For a living."

"Oh. He…doesn't do anything, I guess. He's in rehab."

"For…?"

"Drugs."

"He ever do time?"

"Time?" she asked, her face confused.

"In jail."

"Oh. No, he was never in jail. I mean, just once. A couple of weeks, that's all."

"Did you go and visit him?"

She shifted slightly in her chair. "Why are you asking all this?"

I looked over her shoulder. Heather was in the same spot, standing stony. "Just background," I said.

She looked over at Kite. He didn't respond, watching her as though she was a chemical experiment, waiting for the result.

It was quiet for a long minute. "No, I didn't visit him," she said quietly. "We're not close."

"Are your parents still together?" I asked.

"No. No they're not. Is that 'background' too?"

"Yes, it is, Miss Dalton," I said smoothly. "These are…delicate matters. I want to establish a foundation before we explore the central issues."

She took a breath through her mouth, her shallow chest not involved in the process. "Go ahead," she said finally.

"Your turn now," I said, switching gears. "Just tell me about it."

"He—"

"From the beginning," I said softly. "From before it started, okay?"

She gulped another breath. "Okay. When I was twelve…I know that's when it was because it was just after my birthday, that's just before Thanksgiving…School was already started. I was doing all right there. Not great or anything, mostly B's and C's on my report card. And I was never any trouble. My teachers liked me. I had friends and everything. But my parents thought I should be doing better."

"Your grades?"

"Not just my grades. I was a puller."

"Trichotillomania?"

"Yes!" her eyes rolled up, settled back down, focusing on my face. "How did you know about that?"

"I had a friend who had it," I lied. "Did they send you to a doctor?"

"No. They didn't know it was a…disease, then. They just thought I was strange, I think."

"So what did they do?"

"My parents were very religious. Psalmists—do you know it?"

"No. It sounds fundamentalist."

"Well it's not," she said primly. "The official name of the church is the Gospel of Job's Song. And its prophet is Job, not Jesus. It was founded in the sixteenth century by John Michael, a man who suffered terrible misfortunes—he had epilepsy, and he underwent a crisis in faith. When the revelations came to him, he started the church. Eventually, the Psalmists had to emigrate to America to escape persecution. They settled in upstate New York. Some say their teachings were an influence on Joseph Smith."

"The Mormon prophet?"

"Do you know his work?" she asked, a faint look of surprise playing across her face.

"Only what I've read," I told her. I didn't know what Kite had told her about my background, so I didn't tell her where I read about religion—prisons get more missionaries than tropical islands. "You were raised in the church?" I asked.

"We both were, me and my brother. But we didn't shun others, Psalmists aren't a cult or anything."

"So they turned to the church for help with your…problems?"

"They said I needed lessons. Religious lessons. So they sent me to Brother Jacob. Psalmists believe you have to pay with your own labor for what you receive. So I had to clean Brother Jacob's house in exchange for the lessons."

"Tell me about the lessons," I said, leaning forward. Heather was a rock in the middle distance, the hologram winking behind her, shape–shifting in the morning light.

"The lessons were all about loving myself. Brother Jacob said if I didn't love myself, I would keep hurting myself. He said that's what people did when they were drunks, or drug addicts. Or even murderers. They hurt themselves. That's why I pulled my hair. And I had to stop or I would never be happy."

"Lessons from the Bible?"

"From Psalms. The Psalms are the truth, the real truth in the Bible. Brother Jacob said the Bible was written. By people, not God. But the Psalms were songs that had stood the test of time way before anyone knew how to write."

"So he taught you the Psalms?"

"The meaning of the Psalms."

"And how did he teach you, Jennifer."

"First with the ruler," she said, face tightened as her skin bleached slightly. "He said the ruler was for learning rules."

"A wooden ruler, like for measuring?"

"It was for correction, not measuring," she said in a mechanical voice. "First I would get it on my palm. He would ask me, every time, if I was pulling my hair out. If I told him yes, I would get the ruler. It stung at first, but I got used to it. After a while, he'd have to hit me really hard to make me cry."

"But he did that?"

"Yes. I always had to cry."

"When did he switch?"

"Switch?"

"To someplace else. Besides your palm?"

"How did you know that?" she asked, dry–washing her hands, looking at her lap. "How could you—?"

"Just a guess," I said. "Maybe an educated guess."

"One day, I didn't want to get hit. So I lied. I told him I wasn't pulling my hair out. I used to sleep with gloves on. Even with a ski mask on my head—so I couldn't get to my hair. It didn't work. But when he asked me, I lied."

"And then…?"

"He used it on my thighs. He made me lift my dress and he hit me on the back of my thighs with the ruler."

"And it hurt worse?"

"Yes! Not just my…legs. It made me feel all…crawly inside."

"So you stopped lying?"

"Yes. I mean, no. It didn't matter. He started asking me if I had learned to love myself. Every time I said I couldn't, he would hit me. Sometimes with my pants down. After a while, he made me take all my clothes off to be hit."

Heather had shifted her stance slightly, leaning forward with her back arched, like a ship's figurehead cutting the wind, mouth set and hard. "Did you ever tell your parents, Jennifer?" I asked her. "About what Brother Jacob was doing?"

"I…tried. But when I started, my mother told me I had to trust him. He was from the church, so I had to trust him. Whatever he was doing, whatever it was, it was for my own good. I never told her any more after that."

"What happened next?"

"How did you know there was a 'next,' Mr. Burke?" her voice hardening with suspicion.

"There's always a 'next,'" I told her. "The only question is what it was."

"Don't you know?" she leaned forward in her chair, a sly, challenging look on her face.

"You learned to love yourself."

She put her face in her hands and started to cry. Heather stepped close behind her, putting her hands on the woman's shoulders, unblinking orange eyes steady on mine.

Kite didn't move.

If I was a therapist, I would have stopped it then. We'd been going a long time, it was a natural place for a break. But if anything was going to break, it was going to be Jennifer Dalton. "Tell me about it," I said.

She looked up at me, her thin face framed by her hands, too–big eyes blurry from the tears. "It sounds like you could tell me," she said. "How did you know? I need to know how you knew!"

"I didn't really know anything," I assured her. "But when you hear the same material over and over again from different people—"

"You think I'm lying? That I made this up?"

"No. I don't think that."

"Then you believe me?"

"Not that either. I'm just listening, okay?"

"When do you make up your mind?" she asked me, her hand twitching near her hair.

"When I'm done," I said, going along patiently, letting her take me wherever she wanted me to go.

"Could I have—?"

Heather was already in motion, her heels tapping a faster rhythm than usual. She was back in a few seconds with the heavy brass tray, this time loaded with two small bottles of Coke, a heavy–bottomed clear glass tumbler, and a chrome ice bucket. She used a pair of tongs to drop three precise ice cubes into the tumbler, screwed the top off one of the Coke bottles in one long twist, and poured carefully. She held the tumbler in her left hand, watching it closely, like measuring medicine. Satisfied, she handed it to Jennifer Dalton—a bartender serving a regular customer the usual.

Dalton took a long, deep drink, wrinkling her nose from the bubbles' tickle. She smiled up at Heather. "Thank you."

"Sure, baby," Heather replied, holding the brass tray in one hand, patting Jennifer on the shoulder with the other.

Jennifer cleared her throat, facing a task. When she spoke, her voice was flat, just–the–facts uninflected. "He told me to…touch myself," she said. "First my chest. I mean, I didn't really have a chest then, but it was…enough. So you could see it, I mean, enough. I had to smile while I did it. A real smile—he would always know. Then I had to do it…other places. Every other place."

"Were you still pulling your hair?"

"Yes. But mostly my eyebrows by then. He was giving me a drug—"

"Brother Jacob?"

"Yes."

"Was he a doctor?"

"No. He sent me to a doctor is what I should have said. A Psalmist doctor. Psalmists love the natural sciences—it's part of the teachings. The doctor prescribed the drug, but Brother Jacob gave it to me the first time."

"You only took it that one time."

"No, I took it every day. Once with each meal, and one more time before I went to bed."

"So you had to take them yourself, right? You weren't with Brother Jacob all day…"

"He told my mother," Jennifer said, as though that settled it. "He told her I had to take it. She made sure I took it."

"What was it, do you know?

"A capsule. Orange and white. That's all I remember."

"Do you think it helped? With the hair pulling?"

"In a way, I thought it did. But I thought the…other stuff did more."

"Touching yourself?"

"Yes. Like a good medicine that tastes bad, you know?"

"Were you still getting hit?"

"When I did something wrong, like lying. But not very much. I didn't touch myself…down there," she said, nodding toward her lap, "the right way. But Brother Jacob didn't hit me. He said he would show me. To help me."

"Did it help you?"

"Yes. Yes it did," she said earnestly. "He did it…better. It was…it made me feel…warm. And safe. When he did it, I mean. It was safe when he did it."

"Why was that so safe, Jennifer?"

"Because he was in charge. He was in control. When he was in control, he could make me do things. Things for my own good. I never pulled my hair in front of him. Never. He told me, once I got my period, I would never pull my hair again. Because he had prepared me. But he wasn't finished…"

She was quiet for so long that I tossed her a question to snap her out of the trance. "He wasn't finished with preparing you…?"

"For my period. He said I had to be a woman before it came. My period, I mean. He did it with his hand. His thumb, I mean. He was very gentle. It took a long time. And he was right."

"About what?"

"About everything. He stopped hitting me after that. He just…prepared me. We were in love by then. Both of us. I mean, he was older, but he truly loved me. He said we would be together forever. First in spirit. Then in body. Then in wedlock. In the church. We were already together in spirit. But we couldn't join in body until I became a woman. He loved me, so he said we had to wait for that. And we couldn't wed until I was through with college, that's when it would be right."

She went quiet again, but this time I didn't prod her, warned off by a sharp glance from Heather. "It came when I was a couple of months past my thirteen birthday," she finally said. "That was late, everybody said. I couldn't stand the waiting, but Brother Jacob was a rock. We did…other things. But he never came inside me until I had my period that first time. I couldn't wait to tell him."

"How long did it last?" I asked.

"That first time?"

"No. The…situation. With you and Brother Jacob?"

"Oh. Until I was fifteen. Almost sixteen."

"What happened?"

"They transferred him. To another community. In Buffalo—all the way on the other side of the state. We wrote to each other. I still thought it was okay. But then I found out—he had another…girlfriend, I guess it was. Whatever. She was much younger than me. Just a baby."

"How did you find out?" I asked softly, needing her to tell me the whole thing before she shut down again.

"I went to visit him. A surprise, it was supposed to be. I took the bus. I told my mother I was going on a school trip. It took all day. By the time I got to his address, it was late afternoon. When he opened the door, I could see the shock on his face."

"Did he let you in?"

"Yes. He had to. It was cold outside, and getting dark too. He told me he was angry with me for just showing up like that, but he said he wouldn't tell anyone. He took me into a front room and told me to sit down. He said he was seeing somebody, but he'd only be a little while. That's when I saw her. That's when I knew."

"What did you see, Jennifer?"

"I heard a door open," she said, hands clasped together so tightly they were mottled with bloodless white patches. "I heard him walking down the hall. Away from me. I hear another door close. That's when I knew what he was doing. Going to the bathroom. He always used to do that, just after…"

Her voice trailed off. I let this one go, warning Heather with my eyes to stand where she was.

"She was about ten years old," Jennifer finally said. "I snuck down the hall while he was in the bathroom. I looked in and I saw her. Skinny little girl. She was…playing with it. With the ruler. I used to do that too. That's when I knew."

"What did you do?"

"I just left. I walked out. I don't even remember going to the bus station. I just went home. And then I just forgot about it."

"What do you mean, forgot about it?"

"I mean forgot it," she said. "Blanked it out…I don't know. But I never thought about it again until…"

"Until…?"

"Until I tried to kill myself. The last time. Psalmists have a prohibition against suicide. A powerful, strong prohibition. Job wished for death, but he never tried to take his own life. His refusal mocked Satan and so made Job great. I knew I could be shunned for trying to kill myself, and I was afraid. But the church counseled me. First a neighbor—"

"In the hospital?"

"A 'neighbor' means a member. All Psalmists are neighbors. They can't do pastoral counseling, but they can be…supportive, I guess. But it was a minister who did the real counseling."

"Why did you try and kill yourself, Jennifer?"

"Because it was all…nothing," she said, just above a whisper. "Just nothing. No matter what I tried to do, I failed. I flunked out of school. College, I mean. The work wasn't hard, but I just never did it. I drank. A lot. And I smoked marijuana. I took pills too."

"The orange–and–white capsules? Too many of them?"

"How did you…? I did do that, but that wasn't what I meant. Uppers mostly. Speed. The church helped me with that too. When I flunked out, they got me a job. In an AIDS hospice. Psalmists are the leaders there," she said proudly. "The Church has an encyclical condemning anyone who says AIDS is God's punishment for sin. Job's suffering was multiplied by his neighbors' belief that he committed some hidden sin. But really it was Satan who had tricked God into testing Job's faith. Job passed, and God has never tested any of us that way since. AIDS is a plague, not a punishment."

"But the hospice job didn't work out either?" I asked, guiding her back to what I needed to know.

"Nothing worked out," she said, hollow–voiced. "I had a boyfriend. We were engaged. But he broke it off. I never knew why—he just came over to my apartment one day and told me. It was hard. Very hard to tell my mother…"

"She knew the man? The one you were engaged to?"

"No. She didn't really know him. But he was a neighbor. And his father was a 'son.' That's like a deacon in another church. His whole family was very highly respected."

"And after that?"

"After that, I suffered. But not like Job. Not from illness. And not heroically either. Just…suffered. I got pregnant. And I didn't even know who the father was. I had an abortion. And I got…hurt when they did it. I can never have a baby now."

"Did you think—?"

"I knew it wasn't a punishment," she interrupted. "God doesn't do that. It was a mistake, that's all. Another failure. Like me. I worked sometimes. I was a waitress. And I did office temp too. But I was always bad at it. Bad at everything. I knew I wasn't stupid but I just…didn't care, I guess. I knew I would always lose whatever job I had, so I always got lousy jobs so I wouldn't care when I lost them. I did the same thing with men. Do you understand?"

"Yeah I do," I told her. Stone truth that time.

"I started pulling again," she said. "All the time. Even in public. I never did that before—I never went so far. Then I realized I couldn't even stop that. And I knew I had stopped it once. So I would never get better. I had no friends. No real friends. Nobody to talk to. I started to cut myself. Not to die, so I could feel something. See?" She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, showing me the perfectly parallel cuts on her left forearm, as neat as tribal markings. "I have them on my legs too. It always made me feel better…I can't explain it."

"Do you ever poke yourself?" I asked her "Like with the tip of the knife, or a pin or anything?"

"Yes. I did that too. I did everything to myself. And one day, I cut myself and I didn't feel anything. Nothing at all. I watched the blood run down my leg and I didn't feel anything. I was going to cut my throat. The artery—I know where it is. But I…couldn't. So I found a vein."

"Did you leave a note?"

"Who would I leave a note to? There was nobody."

"How did—?

"I failed at that too," she said quietly. "I passed out, but I didn't die. I was supposed to pay the rent that afternoon. The landlady always came by to get it—she wouldn't take checks, it always had to be cash. When I didn't answer the door, she just opened it up. She had a key. She called the paramedics, and I woke up in the hospital."

"A psychiatric hospital?"

"No, a regular one. Later, I went to a…home, I guess it was. It didn't have bars on the windows or anything, and it wasn't a hospital. I don't know what to call it."

I could feel Heather's eyes, but not Kite's—like he wasn't giving off any heat, just a piece of furniture. When I looked past the woman, Heather had turned her back to me. She was looking at the hologram, standing hip–shot, one hand under her chin, like she was studying a painting. I looked where her eyes were trained. The child's kite was gone. Now there was a bird, hovering high, face to the wind. A hawk, maybe, watching the ground. I couldn't see where the hawk was looking—Heather's hips blocked that part.

"All that time," I asked Jennifer, "you never—"

"All what time?"

"From when you walked out of Brother Jacob's house in Buffalo to when you tried to kill yourself. How long was that?"

"Nine, ten years."

"You never thought about what happened? Never thought about Brother Jacob?"

"No. If I had, I would have gone to a judge."

"Sued him?"

"No, the church has a judge. Every congregation has a judge. Any neighbor can file a complaint against any other neighbor, even a minister. Judges have to investigate the complaints, and then they report to the Council."

"That's still in the church."

"Yes. The Council is always seven: three judges, two deacons, and two neighbors. They're elected. If the judge files a report, the Council decides if there's guilt. And if there's guilt, the Council decides on the punishment."

"Which can be what?"

"You can be fined. Or suspended. Even banned from the church, depending on what you did."

"But you never—"

"No. I never thought about it. Not about going to the judge. I mean, about…it."

"You never called Brother Jacob, or wrote a letter?"

"No. I mean, not after that time when I found out—"

"And he never contacted you."

"No. I just went into a void, I guess. I don't really know—I don't understand that part so well."

"So how did you—?"

"When I started the counseling, I just told them the truth. I failed at everything, and I didn't know why. After a while, they said there were…gaps, like. That's when I went for hypnosis."

I could feel Kite stiffen next to me, but he didn't make a sound. "By yourself?" I asked her.

"Yes. Oh! You mean…no, I mean, it wasn't my idea. They found the therapist for me. The hypnosis, that was just part of it, not the whole thing. And it was a doctor. A real one, I mean. Not a Ph.D. doctor, like I have for my regular therapy."

"How long were you in—"

"I still am," she said, cutting into my question. "I guess I will be for a long time. It was…months before I even started to remember."

"But then it all came out?"

"I don't know if it's all out," she said, her voice resigned. "I don't know…yet. I remember stuff more and more all the time. But what I told you, that much I know is true."

"We've been doing this for a while," I said, glancing at my watch. "I need some time to absorb everything before we talk again, all right?"

"Yes," she said. Her eyes confronted mine. "Do you believe me?" she asked, her voice so thickly veined it vibrated a little.

"I don't think you're lying," I said carefully.

"Heather will show you out," Kite said to her, suddenly coming alive. "And I'll call you as soon as we have another appointment."

"All right," she said quietly, getting to her feet. Heather was at her side instantly, a pudgy hand on the woman's forearm. I heard Heather's heels moving away on the hardwood floor. Closed my eyes.

I heard a faint rustle from Kite's direction—he was getting to his feet. He moved away, soundlessly. I kept my eyes closed.

The tap of Heather's heels, coming close. Blood–orchid perfume. Sharp intake of breath.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

I could feel her voice on my face. I didn't open my eyes. "Yeah," I told her. "Just…processing it all."

"He's an evil man," she said.

"Brother Jacob?"

"Yes. An evil man. A liar. That's the worst thing you can be."

"The worst thing?"

"Lying is the root. Every time. But he wasn't just lying for himself, was he? He made her a liar too. He changed the truth for her."

"Heather, have you ever talked to her?"

"Well…sure."

"I don't mean here. Anyplace else? Just you and her, alone?"

"No. I mean…when would I?"

"I don't know. I was just asking."

"I'd tell you if I had. I'll tell you everything, if you want to know."

"When?"

"Someday," she whispered, leaning so close her lips were against me. I felt the kiss on my face. Right under my cheekbone, next to the bruise. Then I heard her heels tap away until she was standing behind me, waiting for Kite.

When I opened my eyes, they were on Kite's reposed face. He'd slipped back into his chair as quietly as a bird landing on a branch.

"It bothers me too," he said. "The whole hypnosis thing. You know about the so–called 'false memory' controversy?"

"I heard about it," I said, neutral.

"The water is very murky. There is no question but that the recovery of repressed memory is a documented, scientific fact. Repression? Of course it exists."

I listened to him. Wishing some of my memories were repressed. Maybe there wouldn't have been that dead kid in that basement in the Bronx…

"You can't 'remember' pain," Kite went on. "You'd go stark raving mad if you could. Not physical pain, anyway. But some memories certainly can be repressed…and then surface without warning. Take the 'Vietnam Vet' syndrome. I actually provided some help to the defense in one such case—a man who committed a series of rapes while reexperiencing combat in Vietnam. Flashbacks caused him to—"

"That guy was convicted, right?" I said. I remembered the case. One of Wolfe's, before she got fired. The perp said he'd been flashbacking, believed he was back in Vietnam when he committed the rapes. But he'd robbed the women after he was through with them every time—and he came unglued when Wolfe asked him how many gold chains he'd snatched in Vietnam.

"Society is not always alert to scientific advances," Kite replied, undisturbed. His face shifted into harsh lines, and his voice tightened. "But that does not change the truth. We will never succeed as professional debunkers, we will never be able to testify credibly in a court of law, we will never be able to make a real contribution to society…to the world…if we persist in the overheated rhetoric that none of those with recovered memories are telling the truth!"

I heard the tap of Heather's heels behind me, but she wasn't moving, just shifting her weight, caught up in Kite's jury–summation voice.

"I realize I may be dismissed from the movement for this," he said, letting a deeper organ–stop into his voice, as though he realized it was getting shrill. "But I will not be humiliated in court the way I have seen it happen to my colleagues. 'Have all the cases you've investigated turned out to be false allegations, Mr. Kite?' he said in a sarcastic imitation of a high–pitched woman's voice. 'And if you ever found out an allegation was true, you'd go right to the police, wouldn't you, Mr. Kite? I will never go through such an experience. I need one victim, one real victim, one whose memories are just resurfacing. And now, I've found one. At least, I believe I have…"

"A legit—?"

"Trauma is scar tissue over memory," he said, his voice changing to a reasonable tone. "There have been cases of violent bank robberies, for example. A woman teller is terrified, goes into traumatic shock. She can't identify the robbers, not even their age or race or height. She undergoes clinical hypnosis at the hands of an experienced, trained professional. And she recovers her memory to the point where she can describe the robbers perfectly. The defense says that you can't trust memories like that—too many other factors might have interfered with the 'picture' the woman's getting. But the videotape from the bank surveillance camera shows her description of the robbers was dead accurate. So we know it can happen. But…"

"You don't always have videotapes."

"No. And there seems to be no question but that charlatans with agendas of their own can implant memories. Especially when the subject is in a highly confused state. Or drug–impaired. Or suffering from a delusional disorder. With certain disorders, there is an enormous need to confabulate. Do you know what that—?"

"Fill in the blanks," I said. "Some people lose time. They can't account for whole blocks of it, sometimes even weeks. It's scary to them."

"Multiple personalities especially," Kite said, an intensity to his voice. "But they test perfectly. A multiple would survive any conventional psychological screen. The MMPI, for example. That could explain accounts of alien abductions."

"Multiples who need to fill in the missing time?"

"It could be; that's all I can commit to at this time. But it remains a possibility, one that cannot be discounted."

"You think she could be a—?"

"No. She's been tested. And there's other evidence."

"Such as?"

"We took her down the same road."

"Hypnosis?"

"Sodium amytal. She went right back to it. We had her in the room. Brother Jacob's room. When she was a little girl. She even remembered his cologne."

"A twelve–year–old girl knew his—?"

"Not the name," Kite said, anticipating, "the smell. She described it. And the next time, we brought samples, a whole variety. She picked it right out."

"It happened a long time ago," I said. "Can you—?"

"We know we have a statute problem," Kite interrupted, answering the question he thought I was going to ask. "New York has been a strict jurisdiction, very hostile to delayed discovery."

"What's delayed discovery?"

"Ah," he said, changing tone, finally on ground where I didn't know the way. "The analogy is to medical malpractice. An operation is performed and a surgical instrument is left inside the patient. She doesn't discover the error until a long time later. Perhaps when she has other medical problems as a result. The statute of limitations doesn't begin to run until she actually knows malpractice was committed."

"But Jennifer did know…"

"She knew it when it was happening, yes. But the perpetrator's own conduct—the shock of the sudden knowledge that she was a victim—literally drove it out of her mind. She was in a psychiatric coma. She didn't discover it until later. And that's another doctrine we plan to utilize: equitable estoppel. It simply means a wrongdoer cannot profit from his own bad acts. Do you understand?"

"I hit someone in the head with a tire iron. He goes into a coma. Years pass, he's still in a coma. The statute of limitations runs out. He wakes up. Remembers it was me who did it. It was me who took his memory, so I don't get a free pass for doing it."

"Yes! Not the most graceful explanation, but certainly a cogent one."

"But that was physical," I said. "This was…"

"Emotional. Of course. The hardest thing to prove in law is the so–called soft–tissue injury. Any lawyer representing a car accident victim would rather have a broken finger than the worst whiplash. And the human heart is the softest tissue of all," Kite intoned in that jury–summation voice.

"So how are you going to…?"

"Laws change," he said. "Some cases actually make law. I have never heard of a better case to prove the viability of the 'delayed discovery' doctrine than this one. And times are changing. Many states recognize that a child may not have the internal resources to come forward in a case of sexual abuse, especially when the perpetrator is a powerful figure in the child's life. Connecticut has already extended the statute. So has Vermont. And California. I don't fear the odds. In fact, I look forward to the opportunity."

"Okay. You said there was other proof. Could I—?"

"Take this with you," he said, handing me a pile of paper. And a bunch of letters, neatly tied in a black ribbon. I put them into the aluminum case.

At the grille, Heather said goodbye in a soft voice. When I turned toward her, she put her forehead against my chest, whispered, "Could I have another chance?"

"Who knows?" I lied.

I didn't want to use my Arnold Haines ID for a plane ticket, in case something went wrong out of town. And I knew better than to pay cash. Michelle booked me a round–trip on USAir through a travel agent she knows. Now that the federales finally figured out that any crew of drooling dimwits with a rental van and enough money to buy a few tons of fertilizer can level an entire office building, they want photo ID at airports. What they haven't figured out is that anyone with the coin and the contacts can score a complete set of papers in a couple of days. When I showed the uniformed woman at the ticket counter a driver's license that matched the Stanley Weber name on my first–class ticket, she didn't give it a second glance.

I couldn't contract the job out, not in Buffalo. In a few cities, you still have old–time thieves working. Guys who'll do a house as fine as pouring it through a strainer and turn over whatever they find—never even look at what they lift, much less make copies. The old–timers have a professional's pride: "If I take a fall, I take it all," the Prof used to say—no rats allowed in that exclusive club.

But those kind of burglars are a dying breed. Hell, burglary itself is a dying art. Today, it's mostly smash–and–snatch punks, junkies and fools, amateurs who think a fence is what you climb over to get to the windows…which you break with a brick. They don't know how to bypass an alarm, don't even know enough to start at the bottom with a chest of drawers. They leave their trail like it was blazed in neon, counting on the cops' being too busy to do anything but give you a complaint number for your insurance report. And if they ever run into a dog, all they're going to get is bit.

There're no standards now, the way there used to be. I remember a guy who wanted to join our crew years ago, when we were stealing all the time. Hercules, we'd called him in prison, a big, handsome kid, strong as the stench from a two–day–old corpse. He had a deep weakness for the ladies, but he was stand–up—if he got popped, he'd go down by himself, the way you were supposed to. Still, the Prof had nixed him off. "He's a stone amateur, bro—gets his nose open like a subway tunnel. Never keeps his mind on business. Old Herc, he's a hopeless pussy–hound. The boy can't run with us—he's a rooster, not a booster."

So I was never tempted, always stayed with a true–pro crew even if I had to pass up something that looked luscious. And I can still get it done in a few cities. Chicago has one of the best thieves I've ever known, almost in the Prof's class. There's a real slick guy who works San Francisco, one of those small, compact boys who can move like smoke. And in New Orleans, there's a double–jointed woman who could find a diamond in a vat of zircons with her nose. But they're few and far between, an aging class. And every prison jolt thins the ranks.

In Buffalo, I didn't know a soul. I wasn't going to trust some secondhand recommendation—and without a local bondsman and a good lawyer already lined up, it's not righteous to ask your own people to take a risk.

Besides, whatever Brother Jacob had lying around that might help me was probably in his head, not in some desk drawer. I decided this was a one–thief job.

The flight took under ninety minutes, nonstop. I fly first class because it's more anonymous. The seats are separated—the whole setup doesn't encourage the guy next to you to get into a conversation. And you can board the plane after everyone else but still be first off when you land. If you don't check luggage, you can slip on and off the plane like it was a taxicab.

I ate a little bit of the blah food they served, watching the letters Brother Jacob had written to Jennifer Dalton come up on the screen in my head. They were all fun–house mirrors, tricky reflections, bending your vision. The handwriting was strong, with a confident right–hand slant. On heavy, cream–colored, watermarked paper, each letter only one sheet, one side. No return address, no monogram. Expensively anonymous.

Dear One,

I know it's hard for you, Jennifer. It's hard for me as well. But there is a right way to do everything, even the most difficult tasks. Patience doesn't come easily to someone your age, but the greatest joys in life are always worth the investment.

And another…

Most things in life are all a matter of perspective. How you look at something is more important than what you're looking at. You've seen this for yourself, haven't you, dear?

All the same…

Remember, Jennifer, your feelings are your own. They are private, special things, unique to you and you alone. And you are always entitled to them. They are always yours. The best things in life are always investments. You have to wait for them to pay off. And this takes patience. I know things are hard for you now, but they'll get better, I promise.

I thought about promises. In the hands of an expert, they're like razor cuts—so sharp the target never feels them until he sees the blood.

And when the target trusts you enough, sometimes he doesn't even see the blood. Until it's almost all gone.

I rented a bronze Taurus sedan at the airport and used the City Planning Commission maps to find him. It wasn't hard—the house was in Brother Jacob's name, and I had a pretty good photo that came with the file Kite had given me.

A pearlescent orange Jeep chugged up next to me at a light. The sun blazed on the Jeep's wheels—masterpieces of sculpture with hand–set centerpieces, gold–plated. A set like that can set you back a few thousand dollars. Useless—you're paying for the flash. Like two–hundred–dollar sneakers. And like the ultra–sneakers, there were more people stealing them than working for them. And not even real stealing—the robot mutant psychopaths don't have the brains to boost a car or shoplift some shoes, so they rough it off face–to–face. Your stuff or your life—either one gratifies the urban punk killing machines.

It was late afternoon by the time I found the place. A freestanding house of weathered white wood on a short block in what looked like a middle–class neighborhood with aspirations. A matching one–car garage stood at the end of a driveway, no fence around the small front yard. The house looked well tended, but whoever owned it wasn't obsessive about it—the lawn could have used a trim and one of the trees had branches that wouldn't last through the fast–coming winter.

I parked across the street and settled in to watch. A trio of kids flew past on fat–tired trail bikes, shouting each other's names. A woman walked by with a chocolate lab on leash. It was an active block, probably had its share of housebound watchers too. But I wasn't worried about it—if I got out of there without being arrested, the license plate would dead–end with the Stanley Weber ID.

I pulled around the corner and waited. It stayed quiet until evening dropped black–edged gray over the block. Lights snapped on in houses as kids went back inside. Suppertime. I dialed the number I had for Brother Jacob on the cellular phone I'd brought with me. If a housekeeper answered, I'd have to think of another way.

"Hello?" A man's voice. Middle–aged but vigorous without being aggressive.

"Could I speak to Brother Jacob, please?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Weber, sir. Stanley Weber. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time. I—"

"I don't ever respond to telephone solicitations," he said. "If you'd like, you can mail—"

"This isn't a solicitation, sir. I'd like to talk to you about a matter of mutual interest. In a way, I guess you're right: I am a salesman. But what I have to sell isn't to the general public—you're the only one who would be interested, I think."

"I don't understand."

"I could explain better in person, sir. I have some documents you might be interested in purchasing."

"Documents?"

"Yes. I'd rather not go into it on the phone, if you don't mind. I believe it's in your interest that we speak. Privately."

"Look, I don't know who you—"

"It concerns a former…student of yours, Brother Jacob. A young lady. Miss Jennifer Dalton."

The phone went silent, but he hadn't hung up. I listened to him breathing—I couldn't tell if the hook was set. Finally he said, "I'm not sure what you're talking about, actually. But if you would like to—"

"Just a few minutes of your time, sir. At your convenience."

"Yes. Very well. Do you know where I—?"

"I can be at your house in, say, fifteen minutes. Would that be convenient?"

He went back to breathing again. Then: "All right. But I don't have a lot of time. I'm expecting—"

"I'll be right over," I said, cutting the connection.

I gave it ten minutes. Then I locked up the car and walked around the corner to the white house. The door was painted a dull red, with a switch for the bell set into its center. I turned the switch to the right and heard the ding–dong sound inside.

A medium–height white man opened the door. He had thick dark hair set unnaturally low on his forehead. A toupee, and an expensive one. He was about my height, with a soft round jowly face, and he wore a red flannel shirt over a pair of old putty–colored corduroy pants, brown blunt–toed brogans on his feet. His eyes were pale blue, set deep into their sockets.

"Mr.…" he said.

"Weber," I finished for him. "May I come in?"

My midnight–blue suit and white silk shirt reassured him slightly, but he still looked spooked. Maybe because I wasn't wearing a tie.

"Uh…certainly," he said, stepping aside.

The living room was just past the foyer, furnished in what I guessed were antiques: heavy, solid dark wood, light chintz upholstery. I took the couch. He thought about sitting next to me, then passed in favor of a straight chair with padded arms.

"You said…"

"Jennifer Dalton," I told him again, looking at his mouth, avoiding his eyes. I was there as a salesman, not an interrogator. "I have some…documents which I thought might be of interest to you."

"Documents?"

"Letters," I said gently. "Your letters, I think."

"Why would you…?"

"Miss Dalton has been seeing someone. A therapist. In the course of their…work together, she brought the letters in."

"I don't understand," he said, his voice fibrous with tension.

"It's quite a common thing," I said smoothly. "When a patient is trying to…recapture their past, a therapist often asks for…keepsakes. To reconstruct events."

"But I don't—"

"I understand," I told him. "Maybe this was a bad idea. If I wasted your time, I apologize."

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "I don't know. I mean…I can't say."

"You tell me," I said, opening the black aluminum attaché case and taking out one of the letters. I handed it over to him, then busied myself looking through some other papers, keeping my eyes down.

He took the letter. I could hear him turning the single page over in his hand. "This is…this appears to be, something I…might have written a long time ago."

"Yes."

"A letter of encouragement. To a young woman with many personal problems."

"Yes."

"Why would you have this?" he asked, breathing through his mouth.

"I'm a businessman," I said. "I have my finger in a number of pies, so to speak. Therapists aren't very well paid. And this particular therapist happens to owe some money. Not to American Express…to some people who are very impatient."

"I…see. Is this the only one you have?"

"No. I have them all," I told him. "There's eleven all told."

He cleared his throat. Swallowed hard. Then: "If I wanted these…letters, it would be to spare the possibility of….oh, I don't know, unnecessary embarrassment."

"If you have the money, there doesn't have to be any embarrassment," I said quietly. "Not for anybody."

"It's very easy to make copies—"

"They're no good," I lied. "Without the originals, they're meaningless. No professional document examiner would ever—"

"Document examiner?"

"Like they use in court," I said, watching his face. "The important thing about…some letters is the date," I said. "There's no date on any of the letters. And you can't tell the date from a photocopy. You can't test for the age of the paper, the ink won't—"

"I understand what you mean now," he interrupted.

"Do you want the letters?" I asked.

"I'm…concerned," he said. "A therapist shouldn't—"

"I agree with you, Brother Jacob. I make no apologies for my own position. Like I said, I'm a businessman. And the people I represent, they're business people. A therapist does have certain…obligations. Sometimes a person is obligated in more than one direction at the same time—I'm sure you understand. Let me see if I'm following your chain of thought," I said, gentling my voice. "You might be interested in buying back these letters so you can show them to Miss Dalton yourself. So you can prove this therapist to whom she entrusted her deepest secrets is actually not acting in her best interests. Is that about right?"

"Yes," he said. "That is right. Exactly right."

"Good. I won't waste your time in meaningless bargaining, Brother Jacob. This isn't a question of whatever 'value' the letters may have. After all, it's a question only of what the therapist owes my…employers."

"And that is?"

"Twenty thousand dollars."

"That's impossible!" he blurted out. "I don't have that kind of money."

"Well, we would have no way of knowing that, would we?" I asked reasonably. "Because you're the only…market for these particular items, it's not as though we could put them out for bids."

"I understand. I mean…I know what you're saying. But I don't see how I could…"

"That's up to you," I said, holding out my hand for the letter.

"Is it possible to…compromise?"

"I'm afraid not," I said, still holding out my hand. "I'm a salaried employee, Brother Jacob. I don't work on commission. If it were up to me, I'd do something about the price. I know why you're buying the letters, and I admire you for it. Not many people would spend a lot of money just to help someone else out. But there's really nothing I can do."

"What are you going to…?"

"Nothing," I said. "Nothing at all. We'll explain to the therapist that there's no value in the letters. The money will have to come from someplace else. My employers thought it was worth a plane ticket to see if there was another possibility, that's all. I hope you don't feel I wasted your time."

"No. Not at all," he said, still holding the letter.

"Brother Jacob…," I said, looking directly into his eyes.

He cleared his throat again. "Is there a way I could…pay it gradually?"

"Of course," I said. "You could pay for each individual letter. But if you wanted them all delivered at once, certain…security would be required."

"Security?"

"My employers are very serious people," I said. "These are not things you put in writing—it's a matter of honor, you understand? You give your word—you keep your word."

"Yes, of course. But if—?"

"There is no 'if,' Brother Jacob. Except for this one: If you want the letters, I am authorized to agree to a time–payment plan. Say five hundred dollars a month."

"I…believe I could do that."

"For fifty months."

I could see the gears turn in his head for a few seconds. Then: "Fifty! But you said twenty thousand. Fifty times five hundred would be…twenty–five thousand."

"That's the business my employers are in," I said, my voice going flat and hard, driving out the reasonable tone I'd been using. "Lending money. The therapist borrowed a bit less than the twenty, but it's gonna cost twenty to get square. You want to pay this off, you're borrowing twenty. It's gonna cost you some juice to get square too, okay?"

"I…how would I…?"

"In cash," I told him, letting him hear the jailhouse and the graveyard in my voice. "Once a month. We can have somebody come by, pick it up. Or they could meet you, anyplace you say."

"How do I know…?"

"Like I said, the letters aren't worth anything to us. You can have them all, up front. How's that?"

"That seems…fair."

"We operate on good faith, Brother Jacob. Like I said: We trust you with our money; we trust you to keep your word."

"All right."

"I appreciate it," I said. "You keep that one. I'll be back in a couple of weeks with the rest. I hand them over to you, you give me the first payment. After that, once a month, okay?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for your time," I said, getting to my feet.

He didn't offer to shake hands.

Wolfe was waiting in the parking lot, standing next to her old Audi, the Rottweiler by her side on a loose lead. As I approached, the baleful beast snapped to attention, glaring at me with his dark homicidal eyes.

"This is her," I said, handing over a copy of everything I had on Jennifer Dalton.

"You talk to her yourself?" she asked.

"Yeah. And she rings righteous. At least for now."

"We'll take a look."

"Thanks. One more thing. Those addresses you gave me? The co–ops Kite owns. Can you get me a tenant list?"

"How deep you want to go?"

"Far as you can. How they pay the rent, canceled checks, leases, anything."

"Neighbors too?"

"Be careful you don't spook—"

"We know what we're doing," Wolfe cut in.

"I know," I said by way of apology.

A pair of elderly ladies strolled by arm in arm, steps slow but eyes alive. Pals, glad to be with each other.

"Look, Rosalyn," one said to the other, pointing at Bruiser, "isn't that one of those Wildenheimers?"

"Well, I think so," her friend said, raising her eyebrows at Wolfe.

"That's right," Wolfe told her, a merry smile on her face.

"Are they good watchdogs?" Rosalyn asked.

"Oh, very good," Wolfe assured her.

"That's good, dear. A young woman in this city needs protection these days. You can't be too careful."

The two old ladies moved on, yakking away. "A Wildenheimer?" I said to Wolfe.

"That's a Jewish Rottweiler," Wolfe smiled at me. "Don't you know anything?"

"You know anything about the Gospel of Job's Song people?" I asked the slim, hard–featured man. We were in a gay bar just off Christopher Street, talking in the four o'clock dead zone between the lunch crowd and the evening mating dance.

"The Psalmists? Sure. They're not with us exactly: homosexuals aren't really welcome in their hierarchy, and none of us serve as ministers. Not openly, anyway. But when it comes to AIDS, they're right there. I don't care for a lot of their doctrine—hell, I don't care for any doctrine—but they stand tall against that 'God's punishment' obscenity."

"You ever have any dealings with them?"

"Not personally."

"Okay. Thanks for your time."

"Tell Victor I said hello," the man said.

"I don't like the hypnosis piece," I told Kite.

"Not to worry," he said smugly. "We're on all fours with Borawick."

"What's a Borawick?"

"A case, Mr. Burke. The proverbial 'federal case,' as it turns out. The Second Circuit set the standard just last year. It's not a rigid formula—they use the so–called 'totality of the circumstances' test. But the factors the court must consider are all in our favor."

"Tell me."

"Very well. Borawick was the same set of facts: hypnotically refreshed memories of child sexual abuse recovered from an adult who entered therapy for what she thought was an unrelated problem. That in itself is one factor: why the subject underwent therapy in the first place. Then the court will consider the hypnotizability of the subject, qualifications of the hypnotist, the procedures utilized, and any corroborating evidence."

"Which we have."

"Yes. In spades. But the most important issue is whether any suggestions were implanted."

"How could any court tell that?"

He templed his fingers, gazed at me over the steeple. "The key is whether there was a permanent record of the hypnosis itself."

"And…?"

"Heather," Kite said, a tone of triumph in his voice.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor. I heard a cabinet being opened, the sound of snapping plastic. I felt her come up behind me. She gently placed a standard audio cassette into my lap and stepped back.

"I presume you have an adequate machine available?" Kite asked.

"Sure."

"What you have is a copy, Mr. Burke. I plan to introduce the entire history of Miss Dalton's sessions into evidence. And then I shall step back and simply say what I have waited to say all my life as a lawyer: res ipsa loquitur."

He raised his eyebrows, but I didn't take the bait. "It's Latin," he said. "It literally means 'the thing speaks for itself.' And the tapes do. Eloquently, I assure you. And, unlike Borawick, in which the refreshed testimony was not allowed, our hypnotist is not some amateur with a high school education and no formal training who didn't keep adequate records. In our case, Mr. Burke, if you will remember, the hypnotist was a psychiatrist. And a psychiatrist who not only kept written records of his sessions; they were all preserved exactly as they occurred. If ever one searched for the classic case to rebut the so–called 'False Memory syndrome,' one could not do better than what we have."

Most investigators don't even know what the word means. You stop the cops from using informants and the only crimes they'd ever solve would be those by deranged postal workers who come to work once too often. There're plenty of well–meaning amateurs, but they run around like headless chickens on crystal meth. Private eyes? They're mostly ex–cops with some contacts. Or find–out–if–your–husband–is–cheating–on–you keyhole peepers. Or hypertech guys who know all about code–grabbers and digital scramblers but don't get the concept of tire irons and duct tape.

I don't have a license, but the humans I learned from were the best teachers in the world. You want someone to find secrets, use a man who has plenty of his own.

When games have no rules, they're only games to the players who made them up. I never made up the games, but they made me a player. When I was just a kid: ugly secrets, dark corridors, terror around every corner. I learned how to hide real good. And now it's real hard to hide from me.

Plus I was working my own city. Where I know how to find the best slip–and–slide men in the world. The Prof might have lost a step—maybe he wasn't up to bank vaults or high–security buildings anymore—but he could still go in and out of a regular apartment house like smoke through pantyhose.

"Seven G," I told him, unfolding a floor plan. "It's a two–bedroom, top floor, rear. No doorman. I'll make sure she's not around when you go in."

"She bunks alone?"

"Guaranteed," I said, relying on Wolfe.

"And the other one?"

"That's a three–room. Third floor, right off the elevator. Furnished. Six and a quarter a month, utilities included. It's not a hotel, but nobody stays there that long. Mostly studios—she's got one of the bigger units."

"Same deal?"

"Same deal. You need The Mole to take down the basement?"

"That ain't the plan, man. I figure amateur locks, right? What you want, I'll be through in a half hour tops."

"Be a ghost, Prof."

"A holy ghost, Schoolboy."

"You can't imagine what it feels like," the man said. "If you haven't been through it, you'll never understand."

"I can't be you," I said softly. "I know that. But maybe, if you'll help, I can get close."

"Mr. Kite saved my life," the man said, standing on the back porch of his Upper Westchester house, looking out over a rushing gorge. He was in his sixties, thinning brown hair neatly combed to the side over a fine–boned face. His right hand was locked over his left wrist as tight as a handcuff. "He asked me to talk to you—that's good enough for me."

"How did it…happen?"

"'Happen.' That's a good word for it. Like a train wreck. I had no warning. My son had a wonderful life. We had the…resources to give him everything a boy could want. He was a soccer star, you know. When he was small. He lost interest when he started high school, but that's common, I guess. Once puberty hits….

"He had everything, as I said. His junior year in Europe. The whole Continent, Grand Tour. A new car when he was only sixteen. A Corvette. A black convertible—just what he wanted. We did everything together. As a family. Ski trips, Disneyland, ball games…the whole nine yards. He graduated fourth in his class. Phi Beta Kappa at my alma mater. Then he got a Master's degree in English literature. And a wonderful teaching position." The man's voice trailed off, his eyes focusing somewhere out by the gorge. He never looked at me.

"Then he got married," the man said. "A wonderful girl from a fine family—we all loved her. I gave them the down payment on their house as a wedding present."

"You were very generous…"

"Oh, I had it to give," he said. "I've done very well for myself. In business. And what good is money if you can't spend it on your loved ones? It was my pleasure. Always my pleasure."

"When did…?"

"He got divorced. It was so…sudden. A very nice divorce, actually. No name calling, no public displays. She had money of her own, anyway—there was no need to….

"And teaching…well, that doesn't pay very much. He never said why they broke up but I found out later. He was gay."

"He told you?"

"No. He told his mother. That was before…"

"Before…?"

"Before it all…happened. When he was still speaking to her. To us."

"How did you…?"

"A telephone call. The most terrifying phone call a parent can ever receive. It was Tyler. Calling me from his therapist's office. He said it was time to 'confront' me. That's the exact word he used, 'confront.' God."

"What did he say?"

"He said I had molested him," the man said, so quietly I had to strain to pick up the words. "My own son. Saying that to me over the phone. He didn't want to be gay—that's where it all started."

"What do you mean?"

"That's why he went to that therapist. He was gay. Or at least he thought he was. Naturally, he was…disturbed about it. So he went for counseling. That's what he told me, that time on the phone. The therapist helped him 'unlock the memories'…"

He was quiet for a few minutes, crying soundlessly, tears on his face. But his hands didn't move, still vised together.

"'Unlock the memories,' that's what he said. Of me…molesting him. When he was a little boy. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I thought it was some kind of sick…I don't know, joke, maybe. I was in shock."

"Is that all he said?"

"No. He said…a lot. He wanted to meet with me. Face–to–face, he said. I said I had always talked to him that way. Man–to–man. And you know what he said to me? He said: 'You're not a man.' I almost died. Right there on the phone, I almost died."

"Did you ever talk to him. I mean…that way?"

"No. Never. Mr. Kite told me not to do it. He said it was extortion. A common thing, he told me. He knew the therapist. Knew him by reputation, anyway. He…this therapist…does this a lot. Convinces young people who come to him—who come to him for help, for God's sake—that they were…abused when they were children. Mr. Kite said there would be a demand for money. To be ready for it."

"And did it come?"

"Oh yes. Tyler didn't call it that exactly. He said it was 'reparations' or some such garbage. He wanted money. And an apology. That apology, it was very important to him, he said."

"Did you pay him?"

"I did not," the man said. He drew a harsh intake of breath through his nose. "So he got some two–bit publicity seeker of a lawyer and he sued me. But that didn't work either."

"Because…?"

"Mr. Kite got it thrown out of court. Thrown right out. Tyler didn't have any evidence or anything. Just what he said. And it wasn't really him saying it anyway, it was that damn therapist."

"So you never did speak to—"

"No I have not. I haven't spoken to him, his mother hasn't spoken to him, and his sister hasn't either."

"His sister. Is she older or…?"

"Two years older. A fantastic girl. Married, with three beautiful children. He called her too. He tried to turn her against me, but she wouldn't budge. Brittany knows something about loyalty…"

"Maybe he thought she would be loyal to—"

"To him? Why? What kind of loyalty would that be? To a person who ruined an entire family."

"But if…?"

"He did ruin our family," the man said. "Nothing is the same. Oh, his little scheme didn't succeed. He didn't get his 'apology' for something I never did. But my wife and I…it just shattered us. It changed everything we had. And Brittany, she has no relationship with him at all. He actually told her she could never leave her little boy alone with me. Can you imagine that? Can you feel what that must feel like? My own grandson…

"When you're an innocent man, an accusation like he made hurts worse than if it was the truth. A false allegation of child abuse is the ugliest thing one human being can do to another, I know that now. If it hadn't have been for Mr. Kite, I might have done something very stupid."

"Such as…?"

"You don't know what it feels like!" he said, his voice breaking. "You feel so lost, so alone. Tyler even tried to go to the police. To make a criminal complaint against me. But they wouldn't take it…"

"How long ago was this?"

"He said it happened when he was—"

"No. I mean, how long ago did he make that call?"

"More than seven years ago," the man said. "And I still wake up in the night hearing that phone ring. My heart still jumps. For years I couldn't bear to be around any place there was a telephone, afraid it would ring. My business…I've lost everything."

"Did you ever want to get revenge…?"

"Well, I did sue the therapist. But it was a very difficult standard. We had to prove it was malpractice. And with Tyler sticking to his story…"

"And that was the last time you ever heard from your son?"

"I got a letter," he said quietly. "The most hateful letter ever written, I think. I'd show it to you but it's gone. I burned it. Mr. Kite was furious at me for that, but I couldn't sleep another night even knowing that filthy thing was in the world."

He stepped back from the railing, hands still locked. "It can happen to anyone," he said. "Nobody is ever safe from a lie."

It's an industry," the young woman told me, sitting with her legs crossed in a semi–reclined ergonomic chair behind a chrome–trimmed bleached–wood desk. "Driven by a combination of ego and economics. The children may have been abused once, I don't deny that. But now they're being exploited. And the perpetrators are their own parents."

"How does it work?" I asked her, watching her bright–blue eyes through the oversized glasses she wore perched on the end of a surgically small nose.

"It varies," she replied, "but not all that much. The ingredients are always the same. The child is molested—not by a family member, but not by a stranger either…someone in the 'circle of trust.' A drama teacher, a football coach, a religious counselor, a babysitter…whatever. Eventually, the child 'tells.' And it turns out that the abuse has been going on for a long time. The perpetrator is arrested. There's either a trial or a guilty plea, it doesn't much matter. The essential element is that the child goes public."

"Why is that so important?"

"Because the child then stays public, Mister…"

"Burke."

"Oh yes. I'm sorry. Forgive me. Mr. Kite sent you over on such short notice and—"

"That's okay. By going public, you mean press conferences and all that?"

"No. That's a different manifestation. That's when the parents are operating off their own egos. When they don't see the economics."

"I'm not sure I—"

"The ego part is simple enough. The parents go on the talk shows. Or they talk to reporters. Maybe they're hoping for something like a book or movie deal, but that's not the real motivation. What they're really after is self–aggrandizement. Attention for themselves. Sympathy. A chance to be important. Of course, parents of molested children don't have the same impact as parents of murdered children. They get the most attention, those valiant symbols of bravery." Her voice was so heavy with sarcasm it dropped from her mouth like a safe off a high building.

"You don't think much of—"

"I certainly don't. They run around lobbying for their little laws—always named after the child, of course—as though having a murdered child makes them experts on criminal justice. It's all a media thing. It has no substance whatsoever."

"Okay, that's ego. You said something about economics…?"

"Ah, yes. Some of these poor children, they become a road show all into themselves. They travel with an entourage—their own makeup people, speechwriters, press secretaries. And of course, they each have their own stage mothers too. It's disgusting. I have some videotapes for you—Mr. Kite said you'd return them…?"

"Yeah, I will."

"Well, the tapes speak for themselves. Canned presentations, as carefully rehearsed as a play. The brave little child standing up to the horrible abuser. Guaranteed to make you reach for your wallet. They produce so–called 'self–help' films, write their 'own' books for children, act as 'consultants.' Like I said, there's a fortune to be made. And there's plenty of these kids making it.

"What's this have to do with false—"

"With false allegations? Very little. But it's another form of child abuse, that's for sure. Most false allegations come from exploitation. Children being encouraged to lie. Rewarded for lying, in fact. And this business of making the children relive the abuse over and over again just to keep media attention…well, that's another side of the same coin."

"She was out of control," the Latina in the beige wool dress said to me. "I had to do a Tarasoff warning—the first one in all my years of clinical practice."

"What's a Tarasoff warning?" I asked her, watching her fuss with a pack of cigarettes on the top of her desk as though deciding if she was going to take a bitter pill.

"Mental Hygiene Law, section thirty–three thirteen," she said mechanically, pushing her thick black hair away from her face in an absentminded gesture that rattled one of her gold hoop earrings. "When a patient articulates a clear and present threat to another person, the therapist must break confidentiality and inform the potential target. She was obsessed with revenge."

"On the guy who abused her?"

"No," she said, a rueful smile on her face. "On the guy who left her. It was a stormy relationship. She was a very needy, very demanding young woman. And, eventually, her demands strained the relationship to the breaking point. And all the pent–up hatred she felt for…her father got redirected to her boyfriend. He was in real danger."

"What sense does that…?"

"Some patients suffer from a kind of moral dyslexia," she said, brushing her hair away from her face again. "They project the conduct of the abuser onto an innocent person. But what you need to understand is only their facts are wrong. Their emotions are true. The abuse did happen. It's just that—"

"The wrong man paid for it?"

"He paid for everything," she said, finally lighting a cigarette.

"I'm doing a paper on it," the black man told me. His scrawny neck was so long it couldn't support his large head—his face listed at a odd angle. It was hard to hold his eyes.

"How long have you been—"

"Almost six years," he interrupted. "This whole ritual abuse thing has been metastasizing for longer than that though. Despite the fact that there isn't one single documented case—not a single case authenticated by legitimate law enforcement investigation—the number of reported cases has been expanding exponentially."

"Because…?"

"Because the accounts have been traveling through the survivor community," he said in a strong, vibrating voice, punching a thick–bodied black Montblanc fountain pen in my direction for emphasis. "We noticed a certain phenomenon a while back. Whenever survivors gather in groups, especially for allegedly therapeutic purposes, a 'Can you top this?' ethos emerges. One woman says she was an incest victim. The next says she was an incest victim too, but she had multiple perpetrators. The next says they took pornographic pictures. Before too long, they're up to ritualistic murder of babies and international plots."

"You're saying they make this up?"

"They are induced to the images," he responded, like he'd had a lot of practice answering that question. "And seduced by the power it gives them. They don't 'make it up'—they have the images implanted by others. They know they are in terrible pain. They seek reasons for the pain. They know they're hurting more than the last speaker, so they must have suffered more. Do you understand?"

"I understand what you're saying…"

"But you find it incredible? Good! A skeptical attitude is exactly what is needed in this area. The true believers have polluted scientific knowledge. So what we did, sir, is we tested our hypothesis. We used an 'artifact' method, deliberately introducing bogus material to see if it became absorbed."

"You sent a ringer into T–groups?" I asked him.

"That is precisely what we did," he said, a note of triumph in his deep voice. "We prepped and trained three talented actresses. They simply joined existing groups. Groups in which there had been no prior members who made complaints of ritualistic abuse. After a while, each actress introduced her own tale. And in every case, in each group, other members began to 'disclose' similar stories."

"Like group hysteria?"

"Exactly like group hysteria," he said. "And when my paper is published, the scientific community will understand that it has been practicing some group hysteria of its own!"

The man and woman looked two–of–a–kind: same height, same weight, same no–shape. Dressed alike in those brown mail order pants guaranteed to last a lifetime, both wearing white T–shirts with FREE THE BYRDS on the chest. Another woman, a younger one, in a dark blue shirtdress stayed in the background, busying herself with affixing labels to a stack of newsletters piled up on a long folding table.

"We have a mailing list of almost four hundred," the man said. "But our circle of support is much, much wider."

"Do you know them personally?" I asked.

"We have come to know them," the woman said. "We didn't at first—just what we read in the papers. And from the TV. It was Laureen's case first," she told me, pointing at the young woman still working on the labels.

"How do you get your cases?" I asked, ballpoint pen poised over my reporter's pad.

"There are certain things you look for," the man said. I had to look to make sure it was him—his voice was the same as the woman's.

"What things?"

"Media overkill, that's the first sign. Biased reporting. The Byrds were good citizens in every way. Home owners, taxpayers, church–goers…you name it. That is exactly the type of person the media targets, you know. I mean, it's not much of a story if some known degenerate is accused, is it? The feeding frenzy really started a number of years ago. In Jordan, Minnesota. That was the original case for the movement. And after that, it became an epidemic. The media isn't interested in people on welfare committing abuse. The media wants white, middle–class victims for its witch hunt. Look at McMartin, or Marilyn Kelly Michaels. If you work in a day care center, why, you're at risk, it's as simple as that. The list is amazing, just amazing."

"And what they have in common is…?"

"That they are all innocent," the woman said. "But their cases are tried in the newspapers, and the public finds them guilty without any evidence."

"And that's what happened to the Byrds?"

"Exactly!" the man said. "But it's not going to stop there. Appeals are pending. We have a complete fact–sheet on the case. Laureen…" he called over his shoulder. But the young woman was already walking toward me, a stack of paper in her hand.

"You look the same," she said. I knew it wasn't a compliment.

"You too," I told her, ignoring the how the brunette wig didn't sit just right. And the crow's–feet around her eyes.

"Aren't you sweet! But I only work out–call now," she told me, stepping back so I could come inside the studio apartment.

"Just tell me how the trick went," I told her. "Like I said on the phone."

"How'd you know about him?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "It was only that one time."

"You pay money, you get information," I said.

A pathological liar lies—that's what they do. But a professional liar treats truth no different from a lie—you use whatever works. So I told her I'd paid cash for what got me to her door—that kind of thing would make sense to her. No point explaining about the credit card receipts. If people weren't greedy, they'd never get caught. Businessmen have been charging whores to their businesses since forever, billing it as limo service, restaurant tabs…sometimes just "entertainment." If they just paid cash, nobody would ever know—but then they'd have to spend their own money. If you know what you're doing, you can follow the paper trial right into the shadows of their lives. I didn't know where Wolfe got hold of Kite's American Express receipts, but this was the only one that hadn't dead–ended.

"And you're gonna pay me?" she asked, absently rubbing at her coke–ruined nose. Only it wasn't a question.

"You know me, Penny," I said. "I work the same way you do. You're too high class to be grabbing front money, right?"

She sat on the unmade double bed, shifted her too–thin body inside the black silk robe. "I thought he was a trick too, okay? But all he wanted was to talk."

"Sex talk?"

"No. And he didn't want to wear my panties either, okay? Or have me spank him. He wanted to ask me about another trick."

"And you told him you didn't talk about your clients, right?" I asked her, putting it together finally. If Kite had offered her cash over the phone, she would have spooked. So he came in person, like he was a customer.

"Right. But you could see he wasn't a cop. I mean, I never saw nobody ever looked like him. Like he had all the blood drained out or something. And he already knew all about the trick. Just not what we…did, okay?"

"Okay. So you told him…?"

"Yeah," she said, sandpaper in her voice. "I told him, okay? No big deal. It was nice just to…talk, for once. It wasn't like he was paying me to rat the trick out or anything. I mean, he wasn't the heat, right? He was doing…research, like. That's what he said. He was consulting me," she said, her voice loving the sound of the word in her mouth.

"And that was it?"

"That was it, Burke. No big deal. You want to pay me now?"

"Sure," I said, reaching in my pocket. "By the way, did you know that trick was a judge?"

"Oh yes!" she laughed, nasty–edged. "One thing you can always get from tricks, honey—they can't wait to tell you how motherfucking important they are."

I had other things to do besides Kite's job. I'm a professional—I work even when I'm flush, not living from score to score like some rookie. Like most criminals, I learned my trade in prison. On the yard, listening to the Prof preach the gospel:

"Every take ices the cake, schoolboy. But you never finish working, see? It's ain't a bunch of jobs, it's all one job. That's your work, got it? So when the time comes you got to cut into the cake, the cash is there, waiting. You don't got to do something stupid. You ain't in a hurry. Keep that cake rich all the time, so when you got to slice, it stays real nice."

All the scores don't pan out, especially when you work the corners the way I do. And the federales have been crimping some of those corners lately. Used to be I could always count on a steady stream of firearms sales to halfass Nazis preparing for the revolution, but their latest psycho fantasy is biological warfare—dump a load of botulism toxin in the water supply of "Nigger Dee–troit" or "Jew York," wait patiently up in the hills in their ramshackle little hate–houses to mow down the fleeing survivors.

The feds even monitor the White Night shortwave radio traffic now, and the FBI has a whole pack of undercovers working the survivalist beat. The feds cruise the Internet too, but that's still safe for me—I make kiddie porn deals but I never deliver, satisfying myself with the up–front cash. I guess I get some of Uncle's buy–money mingled in there once in a while, but they'll never come close enough to make a bust. Besides, it's the product they want—a lousy fraud arrest doesn't race their motors.

I trade with the feds too, but I never took a CI jacket—Confidential Informants never stay all that confidential. I take it out in favors instead. The way that works is so simple I'm surprised they haven't caught on: I sell guns to some Nazi wannabe, then I drop a dime on him and the feds get a good solid bust. They don't pay me for the info, but I get a couple of more cards in the Get Out of Jail Free deck each time.

G–men are pretty neutral characters. They don't go native like some of the NYPD undercovers do. Hoover's dress code went out the window about the time he went into the ground, but you can still spot the Gee at a hundred yards. Even across cyber–space.

That's the latest frontier, the freshest stalking ground for predators. But the Internet's no different from any other piece of technology. It's neutral, like a scalpel. In the hands of a surgeon, it cuts out cancer. In the hands of a freak, it cuts out hearts.

The Net is paradise for lurkers: nameless, no–scent psychopaths. That's the way camouflage works—by blurring the outlines. Most people look to the edges for definition—when it's not there, they don't see anything at all. But camouflage doesn't help when the other guy's willing to defoliate the whole jungle.

There's a few heavy players working the fringe now. They climb on the Net, usually one of those "kids only" boards, and they get right into the pen pal thing. It never takes long. One of the freaks engages them, chats a bit, makes some promises, and sets up a meet. The freaks especially love airport hotels—in–and–out's their game anyway. They check into the room and, in a little bit, a kid shows up. Whatever they thought they were cybering with—a little Latino boy, a freckle–faced white girl—doesn't matter. But before they can get down to what they do, the door pops open and there's a real big, real angry man there. Turns out—it always turns out—that the kid is his kid. Somebody's gonna get hurt. Real bad. But if the freak spills out enough oil, fast, maybe he can put out the fire before he gets burned himself. All it costs is money. It's the old badger game, updated cyber–style. And the freaks never run to the Law.

I don't go in for that stuff myself. I don't like to operate out of my territory. But I know there's crews working in half a dozen cities. Probably more by now. Freaks lock onto the Net and start salivating. They never figure that, in this world, there's creatures that prey on predators.

The world's nothing but crime. I don't do every kind, but I do more than enough. I've been playing this way for such a long time that I'm doomed to it now, dancing between the acid raindrops, waiting for that manicured hand to drop on my shoulder and read me my rights. That happens, I'm ready for it. Even with my record, I'm not risking a long time inside. Not with the way I work things now. I may sell guns, but I don't carry them.

And I keep swearing I'll never use one again.

The one place I couldn't risk the Prof invading was Kite's aerie. The way I had figured it at first, Heather was living there. The floor plan to the building backed me up on it—there was enough room for a large family in the penthouse. Wolfe had her living in that two–bedroom apartment over in the West Seventies, but I thought that was probably just a place to store her clothes and keep up appearances. Then I found out Kite owned the building she lived in. Not right out in the open—he had a corporation nested inside a holding company, and shares of that company were controlled by a real estate investment trust that also held a mini–mall in Tucson and an office building in Dallas—but he was Heather's landlord all right.

"Bitch is a clean–freak," the Prof told me. "Joint's a fucking hospital. Got one of them filter machines, looks like a waste basket it's so big. No carpet, nothing but tile and wood."

"Look like she lives there?"

"Yeah, I guess. Food in the fridge, stuff in the cabinets over the sink. Hamper got clothes in it, so…But she ain't no chef, I tell you that. All she had was them packaged meals. And a microwave."

"The food just her stuff you think?"

"Oh yeah, bro. Ain't been no man in that place ever, except maybe to fix the sink or something. 'Sides that, she got a motherfucking shrine in her bedroom."

"Religious stuff?"

"Only if your boy Kite is God, Schoolboy. Got pictures of him everywhere. On the dresser, on the wall. Big bulletin board too. Bitch's got every article ever mentioned his name, it looks like. Got a trophy drawer too."

"His stuff?"

"Got to be. Only thing that ain't clean in the entire joint. One drawer, sealed, like. Got a handkerchief, pair of white silk boxer shorts—I know women be wearing that stuff now, but that Heather broad couldn't get her damn leg in the pair I saw. Man's shirt. An old watch. Pair of cuff links. All wrapped in tissue paper. Souvenirs, like."

"Cash? Jewelry?"

"Nothing worth taking. Cheap costume stuff. Except for the chains."

"Necklaces?"

"No, bro. Chains. You know, those little ankle bracelets. Broad's gotta have a couple of dozen of them, all different kinds. Gold, silver…platinum, one looked like. All different patterns, too. She got them on little hooks in her closet. Like she puts on a different one every day."

"Prof, were the chains in pairs?"

"All single–o, bro. All the same exact size too—bitch has got some ankle on her! And for cash, she didn't have more than a couple yards loose, unless she had a real good hiding place. And it didn't smell that way…she's got that joint set up like nobody's ever gonna visit, understand?"

"Yeah. She have a computer?"

"Not even a typewriter. No diary, no notebook. Not even a pad to write on. She got a big TV set though, got three VCRs stacked on top. Whole bookshelf full of tapes too, got a name and date on every one. Seems like she tapes all them daytime things, maybe watches when she gets home."

"What about books?"

"I went through 'em good, when I was looking for a cash stash. Decoration—they was new, like she never cracked them. Except for the porno…"

"Porno?" I asked. The Prof is a stone prude—what he thinks is pornography wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a church waiting room.

"Yeah. You know, paperbacks. Always got a broad and a guy on the cover. In them old–time costumes. Like pirates and shit."

So Heather read romances. And put Kite on the cover in her mind…? "Nothing to interest the cops, huh?" I asked him.

"A smart cop, maybe. She got toys, bro. Brass knucks, steel snap–out baton, set of punch knives. This broad gets close enough to you, she could do some real damage."

"This is all I could put together on such short notice," Hauser told me in his gravelly voice. "The Post's not on NEXIS that far back—I had to go to the morgue."

"Thanks. How're the boys?"

"They're perfect," he said.

"No kids are perfect," I told him.

"What do you know?" he sneered, throwing the electric–blue Ford Explorer into gear and lurching into traffic without looking.

Heather was telling the truth. About the lies. The clips Hauser pulled for me had it all, just like she said.

Except for the suicide note the professor sent her.

"This one was the flip side of the fat broad, Schoolboy," the Prof said to me a few days later, telling me about his toss of Jennifer Dalton's apartment. "Place is a pigsty. Stinks out loud. Got dirty clothes on the floor, roaches. Wouldn't surprise me she had a couple of little cheese–eaters hanging around too. Only decent–looking thing in the place was the answering machine—looked brand–new. Uses the living room for everything: eats there, probably sleeps on the couch too. The bedroom didn't have nothing but the bed. Not even a phone back there."

"What's she read?"

"Total trash, man. You know, space aliens spotted in a parking lot in Miami, getting it on with a bull gator. TV Guide. Confession magazines."

"No romance novels for that one, huh?"

"No romance period, brother. Joint smelled bad, I tell you."

"You come away with anything?"

"Got you this," the little man said, handing me a pair of keys.

"She was a nice girl. I never said otherwise. And I still wouldn't today," the man in the blue blazer said, sitting behind the little gray metal desks they give salesmen in high–volume car dealerships. The gleam from the showroom washed into his cubicle, merging with the overhead fluorescent lighting to give his fleshy, well–scrubbed face a rosy glow under his short–cropped haircut. "It was just one of those things that didn't work out," he said in a brisk salesman's voice.

"Nothing…happened? Like a sudden event?"

"Nooo…" he said slowly, drawing the word out. "It was just that we were sort of…thrust together. You know. Same church, same social events. Our families knew one another slightly. We didn't really have that much in common, but…"

"How long did you go together?"

"We dated for about a year. Maybe a little less. Then we got engaged. But we were just going through the motions—there was no spark, if you know what I mean."

"But you did plan to get married…?"

"Plan? I'm not sure we had any real plan. Maybe that was the problem. We hadn't really thought things through. After a while, I just…"

"Met somebody else?"

"Not really. I mean, not a special person or anything. I didn't meet Melissa, my wife, until after me and Jennifer had broken up for a few months."

"Is Melissa also in the church?"

"Of course," he said, looking at me as though I asked if it was daylight outside. "I am part of the church, and the church is part of me. I wanted children, and—"

"Did Jennifer want children?" I interrupted.

"I guess so. I mean, we never really discussed it. Like I said, we never really talked about very much."

"Did you like her? As a person, I mean?"

"Jennifer is…rigid, I guess you'd call it. I mean, she's very nice. In every way, really. But she's not what you'd call a fun–loving person. Me, I'm more lively. I have to be doing something, you know what I mean? I'm very active in the church. And I'm a great sportsman too. Especially football."

"You follow the Giants?"

"The Jets," he said solemnly. "They are truly Job's team. And they will prevail. We must have faith. I have no use for fair–weather fans. The Jets were once mighty, but they have been suffering under a long period of adversity. I believe they are being tested. But we're going to get a lottery pick this year for sure—the top pick, as a matter of fact. And with the free agent draft plus—"

"Yeah," I said, cutting off the flow. "Would you say Jennifer was a religious person? When you knew her?"

"Religious? I guess so. I mean, she obeyed the tenets. She wasn't…passionate about our religion, but…"

"What about her character in general?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, her character."

"Was she an honest person?"

"Jennifer? She was one of the most honest people I ever met. She never lied, not about anything. It was one of the things I really liked about her. You know, the business I'm in, everybody has an image of it. The sleazy used car salesman. Like the crooked lawyer, right? Well, let me tell you something. In our church, lying is a great sin. One of the reasons I'm so successful is that church members would always prefer to deal with one of their own. But not because of what you might think. It's not clannishness—it's because Psalmists don't lie. If you buy a car from Roger Stewart, you're going to hear the truth about that car, new or used. And the word gets out. They tell their friends. I hope to have my own dealership some day. And when I do, it'll be because people know my word is as good as gold.

"That's the way we are. Any Psalmist who doesn't hold truth to be sacred would be shunned. Everybody knows that. Jennifer? She was a simple person. I don't mean stupid, just…straightforward. Nothing slick about her. Jennifer was a person who always told the truth."

"Ah, she was always in a fucking daze," the waitress told me, shaking her head hard enough to rattle her mop of carrot–color curls. "Couldn't get an order straight, dropped trays. I don't know why Mack hired her, I swear."

"Mack, he's the boss?"

"Boss? For here, I guess so. He's just the goddamned cook, that's all. But he gets to pick the girls, so I guess that makes him something. At least he thinks he is, anyway."

"How long did she work here?"

"Coupla months, maybe. I'm not sure. You gonna order something to drink with that burger?"

"Yeah. Give me a beer."

"What's 'a beer'? You want draft, bottle, what?"

"Whatever you got?"

"You ain't particular, huh?"

"Not about beer."

"Ah, I heard about you private eyes," she said, twitching her hips a little, smiling to let me know she was just playing.

"How come she left?" I asked her when she came back with the beer.

"Left? She got canned, honey. Dumped out on her skinny ass. The customers here, they ain't too choosy, you know what I mean? But they don't go for screw–ups all the time. I mean, maybe they would if I was doing it,"—she grinned—"but I know how to talk to customers. Men, especially—that's about all we get in here. Jenny, she didn't know squat. Girl probably didn't make five bucks a night in tips, even on a full shift."

"You do much better than that yourself?"

"Me? Honey, any night I don't go home with an extra fifty, I figure I'm losing it, you know what I mean? A joint like this, the guys like you to clown around a bit with them, you know what I mean? Jenny, she walked around like she had a sharp stick up her ass. Customer says something to her, she don't even come back at him. Me, I know how to handle myself. I know how to keep them in line, and I know how to play them too. That's part of the business…"

"Ever had any other trouble with her? Before she split?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know…swiping tips from other tables, dipping in the register…"

"Jenny? She was one of those Christian freaks, you know what I mean? One time, she was about ten minutes late. Anyone else, they woulda just told Mack the bus was late or something. You know what she says? She says she didn't get up on time, that's all. Mack told her he'd have to dock her pay. Just kidding around. You know, get a rise outta her. She says, that's okay—that's only fair. A real space cadet, like I told you."

"Thanks for your time," I said.

"You gonna drink that beer?"

"No."

"So why'd you order it, then?" flashing me another come–on smile.

"So I could leave you a bigger tip," I said, tossing an extra twenty onto the greasy formica tabletop.

"She always paid the rent on time," the stolid–looking middle–aged woman in the dull blue housedress told me, the chain on the door to her apartment still latched. "Every Saturday."

"She paid in cash?"

"You a bill collector?"

"Private investigator," I told her.

"What'd she do?"

"She didn't do anything. I'm just checking background. She might be in for an inheritance."

"Like in a will?"

"That's right. But we want to make sure she's the actual party."

"Huh?"

"Well, it's a common name, Jennifer Dalton. There could be more than one."

"Well, she's real thin. Scrawny, like. Never took care of herself. Real pasty–faced, like she never went out."

"Did she?"

"What?"

"Go out?"

"I mind my own business," the woman lied. "All I care about, they don't have nobody over in their rooms, that's all."

"Did she ever get mail?"

"Utilities included in the rent," the woman said. "And she didn't have no phone in her room."

"But…?" I asked, letting her see the fan of ten–dollar bills in my right hand.

"She got two, maybe three letters all the time she was here."

"Personal letters?"

"How would I know that?"

"Were they window envelopes? Like you get from a company? Did they have stamps on them, or a postage meter? Were the envelopes colored or white? Regular size or—?"

"Okay, I see what you mean now. They was little envelopes. And they wasn't typed. You know, handwriting. With stamps."

"Who were they from?"

"That wasn't on the—"

I stood there waiting, holding the money.

"There wasn't no name besides hers," she said. "All I could see, they come from New York."

"I could get in trouble for this," the black man with the shaved head said. "Real trouble, man." His arms bulged from the short sleeves of his white cotton orderly's shirt. A dull white patch of skin ran across his lower cheek. Knife scar.

"They're just photocopies, right?," I told him. "No big deal."

"Fuck if it ain't, man. They catch me doing it, I'm gone. His–tor–ee, Jack. Just like that."

"Yeah. Well, it's already done, true? You got them right there in your hand."

"That's right," he said, neck muscles rigid. "And they ain't going in your hand unless I see some green."

"Five yards, like I said. I'm holding the coin—let me see the goods."

He spread the paper out across the scarred wood table in the barbecue joint, glancing over his shoulder as he did. I didn't touch the paper, just scanned it quickly with my eyes: the name and Social Security number matched against what I had. Date of birth too. Okay.

"Let's do it," I said, reaching into my pocket.

"Hold up, man," he said, covering the paper with a large, thick hand. The nails were long, yellowish and horny, starting to hook. "Like I told you…this is hot stuff. Seems like there oughta be something more in it for me."

"There isn't," I said flatly.

"A couple more yards won't hurt you," he said sullenly.

"It's not in the budget."

"Yeah, well fuck a whole bunch of that 'budget' shit. Man, that's all I hear at the hospital: 'Budget.' I got me a budget too."

"We had a deal," I reminded him.

"Yeah, well, deals get changed."

I held his eyes for a few seconds, the brown iris running into the yellowish white. The last time he'd been to prison, he probably got some strange ideas about white men—if I went a dime over what I'd agreed, he'd be thinking "fish," and that wouldn't do. "Maybe some other time," I said, ice–polite, getting up.

"Wait up, man! Don't be so cold."

"Those papers are no good to you," I said quietly, still standing. "They aren't worth a dime. Fact is, I don't take them off your hands, you got to burn them. I got five hundred dollars in my pocket. I'm gonna trade or fade, pal. Pick one."

He held out his hand for the money, muttering something under his breath.

I got what I paid for. The hospital had wanted to hold her after the emergency admission, but the "AMA" note at the bottom of the chart told the story. She had signed herself out Against Medical Advice. She hadn't opened up to the social worker who'd interviewed her—not a single mention of the hair–pulling. And not a hint of Brother Jacob anywhere in the slim file of papers.

A psychiatric resident had written up the case after speaking to her, laying it out in the cold language shrinks use to label human beings.

DSM III–R DIAGNOSES (DISCHARGE)

A) POST–TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER, 309.89

B) R/O DYSTHYMIA

C) R/O MAJOR DEPRESSION, RECURRENT, UNSPECIFIED

A) HISTRIONIC PERSONALITY FEATURES

B) R/O BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER

A) SUICIDE ATTEMPT

B) ASTHMA

Back in my office, I used my own copy of the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—to decode the shorthand. The suicide attempt was the "presenting problem." The clinical picture was mostly guesses: "R/O" means "rule out"—a possibility they wanted to consider once they got her into treatment.

But that never happened.

They put down getting fired and breaking up with her boyfriend as "psycho–social stressors," writing it like they happened at the same time. Probably the way she told it.

And the GAF was "Global Assessment of Functioning." The score was her highest level in the last year. A 55 meant "severe symptoms; significant interference in functioning." Good guess.

The whole file was nothing but outline sketches. Except for one handwritten note: "Patient states she has attempted suicide at least twice before. Expressed regret only in her lack of success…'I even failed at this.' No insight exhibited during interview."

If Jennifer Dalton knew why she tried to take herself off the count, she wasn't telling.

Not them. And not then.

"Doc," you remember that guy you told me about, Bruce Perry? The one working on the brain–trauma stuff?"

"Yeah," he said slowly, waiting for the punch line. "You got a good memory, hoss."

"I got a case. A legit case," I assured him quickly. "And I think he's the man for me to talk to. Can you set it up?"

"I'm listening," Doc said, his wrestler's upper body shifting behind the cluttered desk, eyes homing in the way they did years ago when we first started talking. When I was inside the Walls. Telling me there better be more.

"I've been doing a lot of that myself—listening," I told him. "A girl says something happened. A long time ago. It happened, but she didn't know it. Or didn't remember it, anyway. Until now."

"Recovered memory?"

"That's what she says."

"And you say…?"

"I don't know what to say. That's the job—for me to say."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on mine behind the wire–rimmed glasses he always wears. "We go back a long way, Burke. You've spent more time studying child abuse than any Ph.D. I know. Your gut's as good as anyone's. What do you need Perry for?"

"He's a science guy, right? Hard science, not the blah–de–blah stuff."

"Like I do?" Doc asked. Not challenging me, just getting at it, the way he always did.

"What you do…it's only as good as the guy doing it, right?"

"Sure. Same as building a house. Or fixing teeth. Or playing the piano."

"But there's a truth somewhere, Doc. A true truth. Like the way they test for gold—you drop the chemicals on the metal and you see the truth."

"You think Perry's stuff is like that?"

"Don't you?"

"I'm not sure yet, hoss. Could be. Tell you what—I'll give him a call and tell him the truth. About you too, understand? He wants to go for it, that's up to him."

"Thanks Doc. I owe you."

"Yeah, right," he said, waving me out of his office.

The flight touched down at Houston International at two–thirty, on time even with the transfer from DFW—there were no nonstops out of New York and you couldn't pay me to fly out of Newark. When I got to the hotel, there was a note waiting for me at the desk.

"Hi! We're already here, me and Jennifer. It's all set up. Dr. Perry said to call him as soon as you're settled."

The handwriting was rounded, immature. Signed: "H."

"The best predictors of current functioning are past experiences. The most critical part of any evaluation, then, is getting a thorough, accurate history," the man said, smiling sheepishly as though he knew how pompous the words sounded. He was tall, well put together, with a frank, open face and thick tousled hair. Looked like a recruiting poster for North Dakota. "Childhood experiences have a grossly disproportionate effect on adult functioning…and those experiences are almost exclusively provided by adults."

"But what if the patient is the only source of that history, Doctor?" I asked him, watching my language, wondering what he'd been told about me. I'd already guessed the dress code wrong: I had on a dove–gray silk suit and a conservative tie; he was wearing a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of weathered jeans over scuffed cowboy boots.

"It's doesn't matter. I would still look for a set of emotional or social characteristics in the family which would increase a child's vulnerability—those factors which make children feel isolated, inadequate, lonely, unattractive, incompetent…different," he said, leaning forward, engaging me, telling me to ignore the heavy language and listen to the core. "A harsh, demanding, cold parent…an overwhelmed, depressed parent…absence of supportive extended family…social isolation…a parent who was raised abusively who hasn't come to terms with it—"

"Most families weren't the Brady Bunch," I said, cutting him off. I know there's always a price to pay for information, but I hadn't come all that way to listen to what I'd learned before this guy had been born.

"Sure," he replied, nodding. "But those factors tend to be transgenerational. It's rare to find an adult who was neglected, humiliated, unloved—made to feel worthless for whatever reason—who can easily provide optimal nurturing. You can't give something you never received."

"Yeah you can," I said, greeting his sermon with a flat prison–yard stare.

He was quiet for a minute. "You think I'm sugar–coating it?" he asked.

"I don't know what you're doing," I told him. "It sounds like you're telling me someone like Jennifer could be an easy target because—"

"Look," he said, cutting me off. "Not all stealth predators are successful. Many are rebuffed—"

"Stealth predators?"

"Those who don't use force. They operate from within what the child believes is a safety zone—they're always people the child has been told can be trusted—and they proceed in highly stylized ways. They would call it 'seduction.' We call it what it is: hunting."

"And some kids just blow them off?"

"A good many do just that, in one way or another. But if the child were reared in a highly competitive or consistently humiliating environment, if the child's primary caregiver was overwhelmed or emotionally distant, that child might be susceptible to what feels like…caring."

"So for the kid to be set up, he doesn't actually have to be abused?"

"Emotional abuse is as devastating as any other form, Mr. Burke," he said, his voice not open to argument. "And it leaves as indelible a physical scar on the developing brain as a brand would on the skin."

"So your mother telling you you're a piece of shit is the same as your father fucking you every night?"

"Children don't react to inputs the same way adults do," he said, turning aside my deliberately coarse language, waving his hand to tell me to wait until he was finished. "Let me put it this way: The nearer the target, the more damaging even the slightest blow can be. And when the target is the developing human heart…"

"You think that's what turned her into a puller?" I asked, trying to get him off the soapbox and on to the reason I came.

"The trichotillomania? Most likely. That's very primitive, self–soothing behavior. You remember your college psychology? The 'fight or flight' reaction?"

I nodded so he'd keep going. I guess Doc hadn't told him everything when he'd vouched for me. Me, I had what you'd call a lower education. But the tuition had been a lot more costly than college. Started much earlier too.

"Well, it's palpable ignorance to believe a baby has those options," Perry said, anger flashing across his handsome face. "When a baby is threatened, she can't fight and she can't flee. And when the threat actually induces terror, sometimes the only option is to run to a 'safe' place…to dissociate. Cut off the pain and threat from the outside world and stay inside. Deep inside. Dissociation is connected to a release of endorphins—you know, natural opiates—and the result is soothing, pleasurable. The inner retreat 'feels' good to the baby. It is, if you will, rewarding."

I thought about Fancy, a girl I knew a long time ago—Fancy telling me how the taste of the whip got all the endorphins racing through her brain. Made her feel good. But I didn't say anything, just shifted my body posture enough to let him know I was listening.

"And because the brain 'learns' from experience," Perry went on, "behaviors and emotions that result in 'reward' are repeated. Eventually, the child continues to seek that reward even if the original stimulus—the threat or the terror—isn't present. That's one of the keys to the survival of our species. Would it surprise you to know that those same biochemical 'rewards' can be released when a baby smiles at a woman holding her?"

"The mother gets an endorphin rush?"

"If you like," he said, ignoring my tone of voice. "The point is that the woman holding the baby is rewarded for the baby's smile…and seeks that smile the same way a terrorized child seeks safety. That's part of the reason why mothers protect their children. But that capability, it's only a genetic potential. If the caretaker herself was never fed or held, never nurtured or loved as an infant, those biochemical 'reward' systems in her brain don't develop to the maximum. So when her baby smiles, the 'reward' isn't as powerful. And she's not as impelled to seek it again."

So maybe my mother's mother hadn't…I threw that thought into the garbage can I keep in my mind for things like that, looked him in the face and took him back to Jennifer Dalton: "What if this 'reward' gets thin after a while?" I asked him.

"Thin?"

"Like dope. After a while, what used to get you high doesn't even get you off the ground."

"Dose–related, right," he agreed. "Are you asking if—?"

"If pulling didn't give her enough, make her feel good enough, could she start cutting on herself?"

"That happens sometimes," he answered, temporizing. "It's not always so progressive—we don't see that all the time. It does happen, but…"

"But it's rare, right?"

"Trichotillomania is rare, sure. So is self–mutilation. Pain signals have the ability to turn on the brain's endorphins, like I said earlier. Children living in a constant state of terror may overdevelop those systems, like a bodybuilder overtaxing a muscle to make it grow. The more you use any part of the brain, the more it develops. So instead of feeling more 'pain' when they pull their hair or cut themselves, they actually feel more soothed. Their brain systems are organized differently from the rest of us."

That's you, not us, I thought, thinking how violence had soothed me so many times when I was younger. Not my pain; someone else's. Sometimes anyone else's…

"What we're looking for is…plausibility," he continued. "A set of circumstances that could account for high vulnerability. We look for evidence in the individual's ability to give their own history…and then we look for 'dissociative' gaps," he said, using two fingers tapping against each thumb to make quote marks around the word, "spaces where recollection of key experiences is fuzzy, incomplete—or even missing entirely."

"Liars would have spaces in their memory too," I reminded him.

"Not usually," he said. "In fact, skilled liars, malingerers—we would call them—often display a richness of detail that the average, honest person might not."

I filed that one away—a professional never stops learning.

"The brain stores traumatic experiences differently from others," Perry went on. "Because when the brain is in a state of alarm, it pays attention. So words are stored much less efficiently than the nonverbal signals that are important to survival—facial expressions, body movements, sounds, smells. We remember trauma at some level, but suppression is a factor in that equation too. Recall is scattered—the resulting narrative isn't always linear or precise. So we don't rely on it totally. We try to determine how an individual feels about specific traumatic events…and whether they can identify trauma–related cues. That's why we use self–report forms too."

"You mean what patients say about themselves?"

"Yes, and the usual standard psychological tests as well. We want to examine various aspects of the patient's personality—coping styles, IQ, the themes of the patient's inner world…hopes, fears, wishes…. But in this case, we have hypnotically refreshed memory, and that raises some other issues."

"Like…?"

"We use the Stanford Susceptibility Index—we want to know if the patient is easily hypnotized."

"You can tell that from the way they answer questions on a test?"

"No," he said. "Here, let me show you. Follow my finger with your eyes."

He moved it left, right, up, down, finally looping his finger all the way up, way past my vision. "Okay, now, without following my finger, roll your eyes up as far as they can go.

I did it.

"So?" I asked him.

"Generally, the more white exposed on the extreme eye–rolls, the more susceptible to hypnosis the patient is."

"How'd I do?"

"Fine," he said, something flitting quickly across his face. "We also need a sleep history," he said quickly. "If the patient has chronic difficulty falling asleep, or wakes up suddenly—especially about three hours after they fall asleep—we have some indication of dysregulation of the noradrenergic system."

I wanted to ask him if he had an English–speaking translator on the grounds, but I settled for: "Nora–what?"

"Norepinephrine is a chemical—like the other chemicals I talked about for the reward systems—only these noradrenergic systems are the main mediators of the fear response. And when someone is exposed to traumatic stress—especially in childhood when those systems are first organizing—those systems become hyperreactive."

"Even when the kid's asleep?"

"If the whole environment is stressful, sure. The key is the heart—it's only one synapse away from the brain. Trauma increases the heart rate. If the environment is heavily laced with trauma, you get an overreaction to even the most simple stressors…and that brings on a major change in functioning. You see it in all traumatized individuals: anxiety, impulsivity, depression, aggression…even dissociation."

"So you put them on an EKG machine and wait for…?"

"Pretty close. Actually, the instrument we use looks like a wristwatch; kids get used to it in seconds. When we—or they—bring up a traumatic topic, the heart rate increases. And when the internal anxiety gets high enough, the brain has to 'act,'" he said, making the quote–marks sign again, "and this can be a primary, external behavior—like agitation or aggression—or a primary internal response: freezing, going numb, dissociation. If the response to threat is external, the heart rate stays elevated. But if the response is dissociation, the heart rate plateaus…and ultimately decreases. We can actually track this, in association with specific cues. And with time–sequenced video, we get a very precise assessment of what topics and what cues and what stimuli are associated with a deeply ingrained memory…the memory of the state of fear present in the original trauma." He took a deep breath. "Is any of this making any sense to you?" he asked in an apologetic tone. Perry used language in exactly the opposite way lawyers did—he didn't want to hide behind it; he wanted you to get it. A fucking genius without being arrogant, explaining the meaning of life with that "aw, shucks" farmboy front—he must be a killer on the fund–raising circuit.

"A normal person gets scared, their heartbeat goes up," I told him. "Eventually, that calms them. If they've been abused, the heart rate just keeps climbing until they go somewhere else in their heads. To a safe place. Then the heartbeat slows down. Like the tail wagging the dog," I said softly. Thinking how I learned to do it for myself: staring at a red dot on my mirror, going into that dot until I wasn't afraid anymore. I didn't get all his vocabulary, but if you translated it, every abused kid in the world would recognize it.

He nodded, not saying anything.

I stayed quiet too, listening for my own heartbeat.

The hotel was set up right inside the hospital complex. For families who wanted to stay around while a patient was hospitalized, Perry told me. That way they could be close at hand, feel more a part of the process. I figured I'd stay there too, took a two–room suite for the duration.

After I unpacked, I took a stroll until I found a pay phone and called Mama.

"All quiet," she said. "You okay?"

"Sure," I told her. I gave her the number of the hotel room, just in case.

I went back, took a shower, and started reading over some of the material Perry had given me, wishing I'd brought my medical dictionary along. I started reading this stuff years ago, swiping books from Doc's library in the prison. Doc never admitted he knew what I was up to, but whenever he left a book lying around for too long, I knew he meant me to take it. Maybe if he knew I was running a nice little business writing phony psych reports another inmate clerk substituted for the real ones that went to the parole board, he wouldn't have been so eager to further my education.

I always returned the books when I was done. Couple of things I learned in prison: nothing you stole was ever really safe in your cell, but once it went into your head, no goon–squad shakedown could take it back.

When I was locked down, I used to read all the time—that's where I got my vocabulary. But I don't do it as much any more. Like the guys who stopped lifting iron soon as they hit the bricks. There's other ways to pass time once you're free.

I'd forgotten how much I'd loved it, reading and studying. I'll bet if I'd been raised by humans instead of a collection of freaks and the fucking State, I'd have been…a scientist, maybe. I don't know.

I know I wouldn't have been what I am now. You don't get born bad.

I jumped when the phone rang next to the bed. None of the crew would call me here unless…

"What?"

"Burke? It's me. Heather. I'm in the hotel too. You got my note, right? They're keeping Jennifer overnight. To run some tests or something. Did you eat yet?"

I glanced at my watch. Jesus! It was almost nine o'clock—I'd been lost in Perry's stuff for hours.

"Ah, no. I was just gonna—"

"Can we have dinner together? We don't have to go anyplace, okay? Just room service and—"

"Where's Kite?" I asked her.

"He's back…home. Working on the case."

"Yeah, okay. Dinner. You want me to—?"

"My room's really small. Could I come up there?"

"Sure. Whenever you're ready."

"I'll be right up," she said.

I dug out the room service menu. Sounded pretty good, reading down the list. But they always do, I guess. It wasn't five minutes before I heard a tentative knock at the door. Heather. In a bone–colored business suit and matching pumps and stockings. The only traces of color were her black–cherry hair and a black lace bra she wore instead of a blouse under her jacket. And her orange eyes under long dark lashes.

"You look very nice," I told her.

"You too," she said politely, as though my white sweatshirt and chinos was an evening ensemble.

She took a seat on the couch, knees touching decorously. I handed her the room service menu. She studied it carefully, tracing each item with a blunt white–lacquered fingernail. "You want a steak?" she finally asked.

"Sure."

"Salad?"

"Whatever."

"I'll take care of it," she said, getting to her feet. She walked over to the desk and sat down in the straight chair next to it. She picked up a ballpoint pen and one of those cheap little pads you find in hotels, crossed her legs like a steno getting ready to work. "How do you want your steak?" she asked, looking over at me, poised to write.

I gave her the whole order, right down to a pineapple juice with plenty of ice. She called it in, speaking slowly and carefully like it was real important to her that they got it exactly right in the kitchen.

"It'll be about forty minutes," she said when she hung up the phone. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, it's normal. Eight minutes to microwave it, half an hour to bring it here."

"It's pretty late to be eating dinner, huh?"

"It just feels later—we're an hour behind New York down here, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah, I forgot. What do you…think of it? I mean, so far?"

"No way to tell," I said. "Anyway, it's only a piece of the puzzle, right?"

"Right. I mean…I guess so. But…this was your idea, wasn't it?"

"You mean, not Kite's?"

"Yes. He never even heard of this place," she said.

"You sound surprised."

"Well, I was a little. It's so…complete here. I mean, they have everything. I thought it would be…famous, like."

"It might be, some day. But it's brand–new now. And I don't think they're much about publicity—I'm sure the last thing they need is more customers."

"It's mostly kids, huh? I mean, when I was waiting. With Jennifer. It seemed like the place was full of kids."

"Sure. That's why we're here with her, isn't it? Something that happened when she was a kid?"

"I know. It's just that…you know what I was thinking? That maybe there should be a special place. Just for grown–ups who had it…happen when they were kids. Not a kids' place. You understand what I mean?"

"They have places like that, Heather. Places full of grown–ups who got all fucked up when they were kids."

"What…places?"

"Prisons. Whorehouses. Psycho wards."

Her face fell. "I don't mean that. There are plenty of…kids who didn't turn out like that. No matter what happened to them."

"That's true. I'm not arguing with you. Being abused…it's no guarantee."

"It's no excuse either," she said, looking at me with those orange eyes.

A gentle knock at the door. Room service. Guy in a maroon uniform with black piping on the sleeves, OSCAR on an aluminum strip over his heart. He wheeled in a table of food, spent a few minutes showily setting it up: uncapping the dishes, laying out the silverware, working hard for the ten bucks I eventually put on top of the bill after I signed it.

"Thank you, sir. Just call Room Service when you want the table cleared away."

The food was okay. Nothing spectacular. But the steak was medium–well, the way I'd ordered it, the salad was crisp, with no brown on the lettuce, and they didn't stint on the ice. Heather tore into it with gusto, cleaning her plate and uncapping the goblet of vanilla ice cream like a gold miner unearthing a plump nugget.

"I shouldn't eat so much," she said, smiling.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm fat," she said.

"No you're not," I told her matter–of–factly.

Her face flushed. She dropped her eyes, saying nothing.

It was past eleven by the time Oscar had collected the food table. I sat back in the only easy chair the hotel put in the suite, lit a cigarette and closed my eyes.

"You have a headache?" Heather asked softly. If the cigarette puzzled her, her voice didn't show it.

"No big deal," I told her, wondering how she could have known. "They never last."

"You want an aspirin or something?" she said, making a circuit of the room turning off the lights. The curtains were open and the room was flooded with moonlight, strong enough to see by.

"No, I'm fine."

She went into the bathroom, closed the door behind her. I smoked slowly, letting the dark quiet comfort my headache. Just as I finished the cigarette, the bathroom door opened and Heather stepped into the moonlight. The only white left on her was her body. The black bra topped a matching garter belt, the hooks dangling loose against her round thighs. She was barefoot.

"Still think I'm not fat?" she whispered across the room.

The moonlight penetrated the bedroom too. Heather's pale body gleamed in the reflection. On her knees, hands clasped at the intersection of her thighs, she looked down at me lying on my back, hands behind my head, listening, eyes slitted so she was a soft blur.

"I don't know a lot about…this part," she said, biting her lower lip. She reached behind her and unclasped the black bra. Her breasts spilled out in a lush tumble. She cupped them, pulling them toward her mouth, licked the top of each one. "I used to do this all the time," she said. "By myself. When I was alone. I wanted to know what it felt like."

I didn't say anything, just made a sound to let her know I was paying attention, waiting for the rest of it, whatever it was.

She dropped her breasts—they bounced hard against her rib cage. Her eyes narrowed and she unhooked the garter belt, tossing it aside. Then she put her hands on the inside of her thighs, pulling them apart. She was as hairless as a baby, not even a trace of a razor's shadow in the moonlight. A white–tipped fingernail disappeared inside her, orange eyes steady on mine. "I used to taste this too. So I'd know…"

"Know what, Heather?"

"Why he did it," she whispered. "It seemed so strange to me." She pulled her hand away, put the tip of her finger into her mouth.

"Did you ever figure it out?" I asked her.

"No. It even…hurt a little bit. It doesn't hurt now, though."

"Did he want you to…shave everything too?" I asked gently. Getting close to it, but leaving her room to run if she wanted to.

"It's not shaved," she said, spreading her thighs even further. "It's gone forever. Electrolysis. I had it everywhere."

"Damn! That must have been painful. Why did—?"

"I told you before," she said. "I don't mind pain. I know how to take it."

"Do you—?"

"I don't want you to talk about it. I want you to look, okay? Just look. How old do you think I am? To look at me, I mean."

"Twenty–eight?"

"I'm not, you know. I'm…older than that."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. You know it does. To a man, I mean."

"Different men are—"

"Men are the same," she said in a harsh whisper. "All the same. Everyone I ever met. Except…one."

"Look, girl, you don't have to—"

"I don't have to do anything, do I? I know. That's true, now. I don't have to do anything. You don't have to either. But it looks like you want to. Do you?"

"Yes."

"Would you…do it like I want? I only…"

"What?"

"Could you…stand up? And not say anything?"

I got to my feet, watching her face.

"Come around. Behind me. Please."

I walked around to the foot of the bed. Heather bent forward and pulled a pillowcase off the pillow. She carefully fitted it over her head, all the way down to her neck. Then she dropped her shoulders to the bed, her buttocks high and elevated. The way she'd been on the floor of Kite's apartment after I'd climbed off her and released my hold on her neck.

I felt the baby oil girding my cock as I entered her. She was tight, but I couldn't feel even a trace of stubble—her sacrifice had gone deep. I felt the talcum powder on her wide hips, followed her deep–set spine with my eyes from the cleft of her rump until it disappeared under the pillowcase, heard her stifled breathing, felt the spasms inside her as she let go.

I was right behind her, locked in hard. She slowly slid forward on her belly, disengaging from me. Then she turned on her side and slowly pulled the pillowcase off her head. I lay down next to her. She burrowed her head in my right shoulder, whispered, "That was good, wasn't it?" a halo of anxiety around the soft words.

"Perfect," I lied, patting her black–cherry hair.

She drifted in and out of sleep after that. Every time she'd come around, she'd start talking. She never kissed or cuddled, but she'd always reach for my hand before she said anything.

"You didn't say anything about the…pillowcase," she whispered.

"I…"

"I know what you think. I have low self–esteem, right? But that's a lie."

"I don't—"

"That's those stupid talk shows. I watch them all the time. Hundreds of them. Every night, when I get home. I tape them all. For him. For the research. The people in the audience, they're…cruel. Some poor woman is sitting on the stage. All alone, telling her story. And no matter what it is, no matter what horrible things happened to her, some nasty smug little person stands up, grabs the microphone and tells her: 'You have low self–esteem!' Like that's supposed to be so fucking brilliant. Like it's supposed to fix everything. Low self–esteem…those people, they don't know anything about it."

I knew most of it by then. But I didn't push for the missing piece—I knew it would come.

"How did you know, Heather?" I asked her later, still lying next to her.

"Know what?"

"How to do it."

"I don't. Not really. I mean…"

"Not…what we just did. I don't mean that. When you made the…false allegation. About that professor? You said you knew what to tell the cops. About what he supposedly did. If you hadn't actually…"

"He loved me," she whispered. "A true love. When I was little, he loved me. If I hadn't…matured, he still would have, I know. Not my…boobs. That was all right. Little girls sometimes have them early. I did. When I was only ten, I already…But the…other stuff: hair and all…As soon as I did, he stopped. Just stopped. That's when he left."

"Your father?"

She found my hand in the moonlight, squeezed it into numbness while she cried for a long time.

The clock read almost three in the morning, before she got to the part I didn't know. "I would never have sex with him," she said. "He doesn't do that. He's not like other men. He's like a…god. It was hard, at first. I thought it was just me he didn't want. I did everything I could to…but he never paid any attention."

"Maybe he's gay," I said, voice neutral.

"He's not," she snapped. "He's just…higher, that's all. Higher than other men. I'm with him all the time. For years. I even told him, if there was something…special he wanted, I would do it. Whatever it was. But that's not the way he is. He doesn't have those feelings. He's pure."

"But he likes it when you…dress up, right?"

"No! I mean, it doesn't matter. He sees the way men look at me. Women too, some of them. He knows I like that. He knows I'm…weak, I guess. People are weak—he always says that. It's the truth, what he says. But that doesn't make it bad."

"No."

"No, it doesn't. You thought him and me, we—"

"Sure. Why not?"

"It would be like having sex with a priest or something," she said. "I didn't use to see that, but I do now. I would never…"

I looked into her orange eyes and I got it then.

"When do you do the brain stuff?" I asked Perry two mornings later. It was almost eleven, the time he said he'd have free for me.

"Well…actually, all of this has been 'brain stuff.' We reviewed every available record, her self–report forms for past recollections and current symptoms, the cognitive and projective test results…and Jennifer has had a series of nonstressed, unstructured clinical contacts during which we monitored her heart rate. We videotaped all those interviews and time–sequenced the tapes with the continuous heart rate data. So, up to now, it's all been relatively unintrusive. She has been exposed to a variety of our team members. I don't do any of the initial work—I just kind of float around the perimeter so they grow accustomed to my presence. When I sit down to do the actual forensic interview, I want to be richly informed, but I don't want to be the gatherer of the information."

"Because…?" I promoted him.

"The nonstructured interview is a critical component," he explained. "But before we use that technique, we need to know some evocative cues: what will set them off. When it comes to memories, some of the most reliable and powerful cues are olfactory—smells. These tend to be very deeply ingrained…so that if a particular smell is associated with a buried trauma, one whiff and the patient can be right back there. A classic example is the smell of bleach; for many children, it is reminiscent of the smell of semen. Or ask a Vietnam vet about the smell of flesh and napalm—it doesn't go away. We see this with kids in here all the time, even when they're way too young to speak."

I still remember smells. From that foul war in Biafra. Dead flesh, ripe–to–bursting from the relentless jungle sun. And the terror stench from those packed–earth tunnels they called bomb shelters. That was just a stink—I've smelled it since, and I stay in control.

But I remember the smell of chains too. The chains they put on me in that basement of the foster home. To hold me against that post while they…

Maybe that's why the first time the cops tried to put handcuffs on me I fought them so hard they had to knock me unconscious. I came to, blood fogging my eyes, trapped, hate and fear struggling for supremacy in my soul, wishing for a gun with all my tiny heart. I was nine then. I shoved the memory away, reached down and grabbed my center, calmed my voice. Asked him: "So you just…watch them to see if they react?"

If he noticed anything, it didn't show on his face. "No," he said. "As a matter of fact, external observation is bound to give you inaccurate results. One of our most remarkable findings is that the heart monitor is often inconsistent with affect. A child can be telling us about his home, nothing intense, just describing a regular day. His heart rate is predictable, varying according to his narrative. But then we introduce an innocuous word, like 'bedtime,' and although the narrative doesn't change, the needles bounce to the sky."

"Like a polygraph?"

"No," he said, a hint of sharpness in his voice. "There's no real connection. The child isn't being tested for truth. It's an internal probe—it has to be tightly focused to really work. At different points during the interviews—while we're monitoring heart rate and videotaping—we collect samples of stress–response hormones: melatonin and cortisol. We ask the kids to chew some Trident, and at different points they spit into a little tube. Then we measure these hormones—"

"Which is where the brain…?" I asked, starting to struggle a little bit.

"Again, all these things give us different parts of the whole picture of how the individual's brain is organized. How it functions; how it is regulated. And after all of this, we look more directly at brain processing by putting EEG leads on the child's head and have her read a series of vignettes from her life, which we put together when we gathered her history. One would be an account of a neutral event; another, say, a sad event. And then an event which should elicit a 'trauma' response," he said, making the quote–marks sign. "We can examine how different parts of the brain are activated and which parts shut down…"

"So you don't actually ask them questions?"

"Not at this point. Not about the actual…allegations. Later, during the final forensic interview, which I conduct, I will. We want to match those responses against not only her individual patterns of brain reactivity, but against those of other individuals who experienced similar events at similar times in their development."

"Okay," I said, thinking it through. "But what if someone did a lot of reading? You know, on child sexual abuse. They'd already know what people who'd been abused were supposed to feel, right?"

Perry's face tightened, but his voice went on smoothly, as though he hadn't caught what I was really asking him. "One of the most useful procedures we will use this next couple of days is during the sleep study. In some people, we can see changes in their brain activity when they're exposed to sounds or smells associated with the original trauma. 'Lying' under those conditions, clearly, is not possible."

"But how do you know—"

"Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Burke. Look, the brain develops over time. It doesn't just come as this minibrain that grows into a big brain, like a pumpkin from a seed—it grows sequentially and almost all in the first three years of life. First the brain stem, then the midbrain, then the limbic system, and finally the cortex—that part that allows us to 'think.' When we look at the data from all these comprehensive evaluations, we can literally place in what part of the brain the dysfunction resides. This allows us to fix the time, to some degree, when the disrupting event—the trauma—took place.

"See, when adults are traumatized, they will have event–specific changes in brain functioning. But when a child is traumatized—while the brain is still in development, still organizing—the trauma acts like a fault line, impacting everything that grows around and over it. The neurobiology of the traumatized adult will be different from that of the traumatized child. The alterations will be more pervasive. And those vulnerabilities may not show up until later in life."

"Like a scar? A scar you can't see unless you know…?"

"More like a substance that fluoresces under a special light, or turns color when exposed to a specific reagent. Like the field test for cocaine…?"

"Yeah, I get it," I told him, meaning it.

A young woman with the face of an Indian princess and braided black hair to match rapped against the jamb of the open door to Perry's office. She was wearing blue surgical scrubs, face set in severe lines. When he looked up, the nurse said: "She got a court order. She's coming to visit him. This afternoon. At three o'clock. What should we…?"

"Set up the Munchausen camera," he answered her. "You know, the fiber–optic one? Tell Ronnie to monitor. If she makes a move on the kid, you stop her, right then and there, understand?"

"Yes!" The woman flashed a smile, like someone just gave her a present.

Perry turned back to me like he'd never left the track. "The key to understanding the brain is to understand its role in mediating every signal that the organism receives. The brain processes information, and some early–childhood damage changes the way the brain works. If you wave at a little baby," he said, waggling his hand to show me what he meant, "the baby coos and giggles, right? But for some babies, when they see an adult's hand raised, you get a startle reaction instead. That's not because the baby has learned a raised hand means a blow; it's because, to that baby, the brain translates that raised hand so it becomes a blow, you see? It's not learning; it's processing."

"And once that's locked in…"

"Yeah, that's right," he said sadly. "It takes an enormous amount of work, highly skilled work, over a long time, to even have a chance of modifying it. Trauma generalizes—that's its nature. So instead of the child being afraid of the man who hurt her, she becomes afraid of all men, understand? The brain takes the baby to a safe place in response to chronic pain and terror. After a while, the baby does whatever it takes to get to that place. Sometimes that means dissociation. Sometimes it means hair pulling."

"Or homicide?"

"Yes. The mystery of life isn't why a tortured child becomes a serial killer—it's why so many children don't. If we could only understand how the brain learns new accommodations…But we do know this: it's some form of interference later on."

"Interference?"

"Some other input. A friend, a counselor—hell, a puppy…the brain develops over time, and even if it's set in motion one way, it doesn't have to continue on that path. Child abuse connects to crime, no question. Abused children are more likely to be arrested than nonabused children. But the overwhelming majority of abused children never get in trouble with the law," Perry said, fury suppressed in his voice. "There's nothing 'inevitable' about it. Anyone who says that abused children are doomed to carry on that same behavior is a hopeless idiot."

"But until they learn new ways, you can see how they react to stuff, right? So the younger the kid, the easier to prove abuse?" I asked him, trying to move him away from the social philosophy to the reason I was there.

"To prove trauma, certainly," he said. "Then comes the investigative component. We have to rule out all other possible causes of the trauma as well. But when we have a history…or physical damage…or a sexually transmitted disease…"

"Or pictures?"

"Photographs?"

"Kiddie porn."

"Yes. But that's relatively rare. We have to rely on other evidence. And that means accumulating a large enough sample from the heart rate monitoring and evoked potential—sorry: the brain wave—studies. Then we apply multivariate computer analysis to crunch all the data—the tests, the interview, the history, everything. There's the ultimate forensic value of our work. We eliminate the impossible, then the improbable, and finally…"

"You nail it."

"Sure. Once you've proved the existence of the trauma, the question becomes, What else could cause this totality of data? When we cross–compare to other, documented cases, the task simplifies radically."

"So when they say kids make lousy witnesses, that they have different memories…?"

"Kids may not be articulate, Mr. Burke. But they are great communicators. Their internals speak volumes—it's just a matter of gathering the data, developing the protocols, training the personnel….It can be done. And we're doing it, right here."

"How much does all this cost?" I asked him.

"In real money?" he shot back.

"What does that mean?"

"The work we're doing on your…client, that's the gold standard. Best of everything. When you include the full week's stay, all the personnel involved, the tests themselves…it's costing your Mr. Kite around fifteen thousand dollars."

"Damn! So there's no chance of all kids—"

"All kids don't need this extensive a workup," he said. "And our children's program is about ninety per cent subsidized. As we treat children, we also gather data for our research. Most of the kids don't have insurance anyway. In fact, you're our first true paying customer. Once this is standardized, once the computer programs are set up, the costs will drop precipitously."

"You can't set up field hospitals in every city," I said. Thinking of politicians closing AIDS wards to save money.

"No, and we don't have to. Once local personnel are trained to do the initial screening, our methods will be called upon only in the most difficult cases."

"So what you really need is…?"

"That's right, Mr. Burke. Money. We need about fifteen to twenty million dollars to finish the research, publish it, defend it…and make it exportable. But we're already doing the work…and the money will come," he said, hope and faith tangling in his voice.

"Girl call," Mama said.

It was around ten o'clock at night, and I'd invested over an hour walking around trying to find a pay phone that looked safe. I wasn't in the mood for mystery. "What girl?" I asked her.

"Say Pepper. You call her, okay? Very important."

"Yeah, okay. Anything else?"

"No."

"I'll call you—"

"You want Max?" Mama interrupted.

"Not down here," I told her. "I'll be back soon."

"Is Pepper around?"

"That's me, Chief," the Pied Piper girl's voice bounced over the long–distance line.

"I got a message to—"

"Delta flight six eighty–two to Atlanta tomorrow morning at six–twenty a.m. Can you be on it?"

"Maybe. Why should—?"

"When you arrive, stay in the Delta terminal. Meet flight six oh three from La Guardia, okay? You can catch a return at three in the afternoon."

"There's isn't much time to—"

"You already have reservations, round trip, Mr. Haines," Pepper said, mocking the voice of a super–efficient secretary. "You had enough frequent flyer mileage on Delta for an upgrade too, so you'll be going first class. Will there be anything else?"

"No. Thanks a lot," I told her. Especially for the message that the Arnold Haines ID was all shot to hell.

I came out of the deplaning chute carrying the black aluminum attaché case in one hand. In a medium–blue two–button suit, clean–shaven with my hair combed, I was an anonymous fish in the entrepreneur stream that clogs the hub airports every weekday.

My flight had been almost a half hour late. I was thinking of where to meet Wolfe when I spotted her standing behind the barrier. Hard to miss in that sunburst–yellow silk dress with the long strand of black pearls the only decoration down the front. Her hair was in a French braid, the white wings prominent against her high forehead. She raised her hand and waved, a smile sparking across her lovely face.

For just a piece of a minute, I felt like a man coming home to his wife. Or what I thought that would feel like, anyway. I shrugged it off, not grieving for what I'd never lost.

Wolfe gave me a kiss on the cheek, took my arm and steered me away from the gate. If you were watching, you'd never guess it was business. She was a pro, all the way.

"It's probably better if we find somewhere to sit," she said. "You have breakfast?"

"Not really. Airplane food…"

"Me too," she said. "I know a good place. Come on."

We ordered Atlanta breakfast sandwiches—sausage wrapped in French toast. Wolfe poured maple syrup over her sausage like it was mustard on a hot dog, but I didn't have the heart for that. She had black coffee; I had apple juice.

"I heard something," she finally said. "I don't know if it's true. But I didn't want to wait to tell you. And I didn't want to use the phone."

"About the—"

"Yes. Brother Jacob is on the Internet. At least, Chiara thinks it's him—she's the one who works the computers for us. There's a room on the Web. The server's somewhere in Europe, near as we can tell. When you go in, it looks like it's all about bringing Asian women to America. For marriage. You know, stuff about immigration laws."

"So?"

"There's a whole line of chat about 'dowries.' It sounds like they're trafficking."

"He wants to buy a girl to bring here and marry?"

"No. Chiara says there's a subtext. Not straight–up encryption, but some kind of code. She's still working on it, but where she is now, she thinks he has some kind of merchandise he's offering."

"Not a one–time sale?"

"No. A regular line of it. Whatever it is."

"Can you…?"

"I don't know," she said softly. "It's a delicate probe, going in like this. If I was still on the job…"

"I may know someone," I told her. "A cop."

"Do I know him?"

"Morales."

"Oh yes, I know him," she smiled. "The only difference between him and a dinosaur is he's not stupid."

"He likes you too," I said.

We killed an hour or so just walking around the airport, Wolfe's hand on my arm. I told her I had to make a phone call. Went and bought her a white rose at the florist shop. She gave me a kiss and boarded her flight, not looking back.

I had a couple of hours to kill before my flight. I got a shoeshine, prowled through a bookstore, just walked around. Then I worked the pay phones.

Every line I'd thrown out was reeling in the same kind of fish. Every tile dropped onto the mosaic was different, but I already knew what picture was going to appear when it was done. So when I met with Perry for the last time the next morning, I wanted it without the frills.

"Bottom line, doctor: Is she telling the truth?"

"Well, she signed the release, so…First of all, let me start by saying that whatever you do, encourage your client—Jennifer—to get some help. I can give you some names of good therapists in her community. I discussed this with her and she seemed somewhat resistant…she said she's already in therapy, but judging from the test results, I…"

"I'll talk to her about it," I said, guiding him back to what I needed to know.

"All right. Good. Anyway, she has a set of primary symptoms—anxiety, dissociation, dysphoria, profound sleep problems, increased startle response, recurring intrusive ideations about specific humiliating experiences, poor self–esteem—all consistent with any number of DSM–Four diagnostic labels. But the most important aspect of her symptoms is that they do appear to be cue–specific. And in this regard, she would meet diagnostic criteria for PSTD. And for a dissociative disorder as well—a whole host of apparently benign cues produce dramatic heart rate increases, which are followed by classic dissociative responses."

Poor little bitch, I thought. Hung out to dry, trained to dance so hard she kept it up even when the music stopped. But every time she heard that music again…"Sure," I said, "but is she—?"

"With regard to her hair–pulling," he rolled on, refusing to be derailed, "both in her reporting to me and in her projective testing, she had confusion about intimacy, sexuality, and pain. Hair pulling—we have some on tape—was associated with the same decrease in heart rate that a dissociative response was. In other words, she does it because it soothes her. For Jennifer, it's like taking a little hit of morphine every time. The confusion about what is soothing and what is arousing, of course, makes her vulnerable to sexual exploitation. I'm sure you've seen that before."

"I've seen it cut both ways," I told him.

"It can," he agreed. He leaned back in his chair, rotating his head slightly as if he was working out some kinks in his neck. Then leaned forward, elbow on the desk, cupping his chin in his hand. "With regard to trauma…it's clear from both her history and the corroborating neurophysiological reactivity—and her symptom constellation—that she has been exposed to multiple trauma at different times in her childhood, certainly some coming prior to adolescence."

He took a deep breath, looking me full in the face. "I'm told that you have considerable investigative experience in this area, Mr. Burke. What's your gut instinct?"

"That it happened," I told him flat out. "That she's telling the truth. That she was a damaged little girl. That this Brother Jacob sniffed her out like a shark spotting a belly–up fish. And that he had sex with her when she was a kid."

"Me too," he said, holding out his hand to shake, telling me we were done talking.

I couldn't think of another rock to turn over. Truth is, I believed her the first time I heard her. It was only Kite who kept me going, following every spot of blood on the tracks. It wasn't the money. I know how to go through the motions without actually doing anything. And I know more about killing time than a Peeping Tom knows about backlighting.

Later, when I was thinking about it—when I was trying not to think about it—I snapped to what had been going on, why I had been working so hard. I was finding the truth. Truth doesn't mean much to a con man. It's all presentation, not substance. Kite showed me what he had, put it right on the table. When it started, all I wanted was to get him off my back. And take his money. That's what I told myself.

He was an evangelist, I knew that. I didn't realize I'd become the congregation until I was down too deep.

And by the time I came out the other side, there was nothing to do but go with what I really knew.

"Please don't do that," Kite said.

"Do what?"

"Stare so deeply into my eyes—it's not polite. I suffer from nystagmus, and your staring makes me uncomfortable."

"Sorry," I lied, sitting in that butterscotch armchair. "Anyway, it's the real deal. It checks out every way there is."

"You're sure?" he asked softly. "There's no mistake?"

"Unless there's some more evidence lying around, I got it all," I told him.

His eyes flared behind the pink glasses. "Do you believe there might be some?"

"Might have been," I said. "But this Brother Jacob character won't be stupid enough to hold on to it. I'm done digging—there's no pay dirt left."

"Is there anything else? Anything you haven't turned over?" he asked, one long finger tapping a thick stack of documents on the little round table to his right.

"Just this," I said, pulling a list of names and addresses out of my jacket pocket. "It's not the coffin, but, with everything else, it's damn sure another nail."

I handed it over. He scanned the list, shaking his head. "I don't see what this—"

"Third page, fourth name from the top," I told him.

"'Russell J. Swithenbrecht.' A post office box in Erie, Pennsylvania. What does that have to do with—?"

"That's him," I said. "Brother Jacob. He keeps the box under that name. Drives over about once a month. Only takes about an hour and a half, two hours tops. Always the same way. Drives there on a Friday night, stays over, hits the box Saturday morning—the branch is only open until noon. Then he drives back to Buffalo in time for his regular sessions on Saturday afternoon. Been doing it for years."

"And that proves…?"

"What you have in your hands is a printout of a subscription list," I said. "For a little magazine called Unique Yearnings."

Kite's eyebrows lifted into a question.

"Girl–lovers, they call themselves," I told him. "Little girls."

"We have found the truth," Kite said, looking up directly into my eyes.

I could feel Heather standing behind me—feel the heat coming off her.

I met Morales in Bryant Park, right behind the Public Library, a block from where the heart of Times Square would be if it had one.

"This guy I'm looking at for Kite. If you ever hear anything—"

"What you got so far?" the cop asked.

It took another six weeks to assemble the ingredients. Then Kite dropped the bomb. Jennifer Dalton sued Brother Jacob in New York County Supreme Court. For twenty–five million dollars. Her complaint alleged sexual abuse, statutory rape, sodomy, extortion, intentional infliction of emotional distress, assault, battery, pastoral malpractice, and half a dozen other charges. The Psalmists were not named in the lawsuit—it was all Brother Jacob.

I caught it on the news, a thirty–second clip from a press conference called to announce the litigation. "Yes, we understand that these events occurred some time ago," Kite was saying smoothly, looking implacable and immaculate in a dark–chocolate double–breasted suit. "And while it is too late for the criminal justice system to act, we believe it is time for New York to join other, more progressive jurisdictions in providing a civil remedy for a child driven into a psychiatric coma by the deliberate, predatory acts of a sexual abuser. We are prepared to prove that the perpetrator's conduct was calculated to assault and impair the victim's reality–testing. This was no accident. It has happened time and time again. It is happening as we speak, to children all over this country."

The newspapers ran with it heavy, Kite piling on fact after fact, every detail displayed for the public, holding nothing back. They even broke out one of Kite's quotes in a black–bordered box in the middle of the article: "The statute of limitations was designed to be a shield to protect the innocent from claims filed so late that the evidence had disappeared. But now it is being used as a sword, a sword to attack the weakest, most vulnerable members of our society. When it comes to child sexual abuse, the statute of limitations has no place in a civilized society. This case isn't about the law. This case is about the truth."

The lawyers for Brother Jacob kept saying they didn't want to try their case in the press. But Kite kept up the assault, wondering out loud who was paying for Brother Jacob's defense. Tabloid TV reporters surrounded the house in Buffalo, blanketing the neighborhood for the usual empty quotes. Brother Jacob moved to an undisclosed location. A spokesman for the Psalmists appeared on a talk radio show. When he said something about the suffering of Job, the board lit up with enraged callers demanding to know if Jennifer's suffering meant anything. When the Psalmist spokesman tried to explain the church's position, the radio host called him a dirtbag and kicked him off the show.

Kite's legal papers ran almost three hundred pages, counting exhibits. Photocopiers at the courthouse pumped around the clock. The document became a best–seller overnight, turning up at coffeehouses and society parties and college campuses. Some commentators wondered out loud if Brother Jacob could ever hope to get a fair trial. And their colleagues pounded back, wondering with even more vehemence if Jennifer Dalton would ever get justice.

Just as the fever broke, a new wave hit. Five more victims came forward. With their lawyers. Three different lawyers.

Two of the victims were in their thirties. One claimed to have reported the sexual abuse to the police twenty years ago. Even said she was interviewed by someone from the DA's Office. But nothing happened.

The other three victims weren't women. They were girls. One fifteen, one sixteen, the other just turning eighteen.

"The statute of limitations won't protect him from this," Kite crowed on TV.

Michelle was watching with me when they made Brother Jacob take the Perp Walk for the assembled cameras. He kept his head down, a coat over his wrists to hide the handcuffs, but he turned his face up just before he bent forward to get into the back seat of the police cruiser.

"He's got the look," Michelle hissed. "You can smell it right through the TV set."

I knew what she meant. They didn't all look alike, that was their camouflage. But they all had the same look when captured—that icy predator's glare promising no cage will ever change them.

"Cop call," Mama said.

"How'd you know it was a cop?" I asked her.

"He say. Say, 'Tell Burke it's his friend on the force.' Okay?"

"Yeah. He leave a number?"

"No number. Say he call back. Tonight. Late. You wait here, okay?"

"Sure," I said, looking at my watch. It wasn't even nine.

When Max rolled in, he signed he wanted to play cards, but…

I understood what he was telling me. His taste for gin was gone forever—he could never recapture the magic of that last time, and he knew it. But we still had a few hours, so I figured it was a good time to teach him to play casino. Mama didn't know how to play either, but by the time Morales finally called, she was already giving Max bogus advice. And I was about a hundred bucks ahead.

"Look for a bitch on the stroll over on Lex in the twenties," Morales' harsh voice came over the phone. "She's wearing a long white coat, got a pair of black hot pants under it, you can't miss her. Name's Roselita. She got the key to a locker at Port Authority. Tell her your name's Mr. Jones, slip her a yard, the key's yours. Use it tonight—it's only good for twenty–four hours."

"You sure she'll be there? If she scores a trick—"

"She'll be out there walking, don't worry about it. Bitch owes me a favor."

"What if her pimp—?"

"She ain't got no motherfucking pimp. That's the favor."

She was where Morales said she'd be, a tall slender woman with a Gypsy's long black hair, and white plastic dangle earrings, slowly strolling the block but not calling out to any of the pussy–cruising cars that slithered by. When I tapped the horn, she swivel–hipped over to the Plymouth and leaned inside the passenger window, pulling the long white coat apart to show me her slim, flashy legs and small, high breasts bouncing free under a flimsy red tank top while shielding the display from everyone behind her—a real pro move. One look at her face and I could see she'd had plenty of time to learn, the harsh tracks of the Life showed right through the stage makeup. You didn't need the VACANCY sign in her eyes to know her body was for rent.

"Wha's yo' name, hombre?"

"They call me Mr. Jones," I said, holding the hundred–dollar bill splayed between the fingers of my right hand.

"Hokay," she said, not even the trace of a smile on her greasy red lips. She fished a locker key from the pocket of the white coat and we traded.

Later that night, Max took my back as I opened the locker at Port Authority. Inside was a chunky package wrapped in enough layers of plastic filament tape to take a strong man with a box cutter half an hour to open it.

Back at my office, I unwrapped it carefully, taking my time, half watching some old movie about gangsters with Pansy.

Once I saw what it was, I could see I'd need another kind of key to unlock it. I used the cellular to tap the Mole.

That was it then. There was a lot of media buzz about the cases, but it went the way it always does, especially when the first judge assigned refused to allow cameras in the court. Kite objected, saying the people had a right to know. The judge just shrugged that off—a veteran of twenty years on the bench, he knew the value of a lawyer's speech. And that it wasn't "the people" who got him his job.

Besides, a serial killer was tying up prostitutes in Times Square hotel rooms and then making sure they took a long time to die. Media triage. And none of Brother Jacob's victims were all that sexy–looking anyway.

Besides, the Governor was busy explaining why the newly passed death penalty hadn't stopped a freak from sodomizing a little girl to death in a housing project stairwell, covering her tiny face with his hand to stop her from screaming, doing it so tightly that she stopped breathing.

Even vultures prefer fresh corpses.

Then one cold, rainy Monday, Jennifer Dalton brought Brother Jacob back from the dead. The cellular buzzed. I picked it up, not saying anything. "You near a TV set?" the Prof's voice asked.

"Yeah," I said, watching Pansy watch me.

"Turn it on, bro. You not gonna believe this."

He cut the connection. I flicked on the set, rotating the channel knob until I found her.

"I lied," she told the freeze–faced reporter from one of those garbage–picking TV newsmagazine shows. The reporter kept nodding unctuously as Exclusive! Exclusive! Exclusive! trailed across the bottom of the picture.

"I made it all up," she said, crying into her cupped hands. "At least, I think I did. But I don't know. And now I know that's wrong. I can't go on with it any longer."

She kept talking as the screen cut to silent shots of newspaper headlines of the lawsuit. As the camera panned away, I could see a woman seated next to her, patting Jennifer's forearm. The other woman was dressed in a conservative business suit. The screen caption identified her as "Doreen Z. Landover, Feminist Lawyer."

Jennifer told the reporter the same story she told me. Except that, this time, Brother Jacob hadn't done anything to her. Oh, she'd had a schoolgirl crush on him, but he'd never taken advantage of it. She told the reporter about her broken engagement, about how she got so depressed she didn't want to live. Said she was drinking heavily, drifting. When she went into counseling, the therapist kept pressing her, she said. "He kept asking me about sexual abuse. In my family. He said that had to be the reason for all my troubles. It would explain everything, that's what he said. But I knew…my family had never…and that's when I told him about Brother Jacob."

"Do you mean about the alleged sexual abuse?" the reporter asked, smarmy–voiced.

"No. Not at first. I just told him…what had really happened. But he kept after me. And I was so…sad and depressed. After a while, it seemed to all make sense to me. And now I've ruined a man's life. I'm so ashamed…"

She broke down then. The camera stayed on her sobbing face while they split the screen and showed clips of Brother Jacob doing the Perp Walk. Her new lawyer explained how Jennifer had been programmed, how she'd come under the spell of a "sincere but misguided" therapist. No, they weren't going to sue for malpractice. Hadn't there been enough lawsuits?

The reporter did a three–minute rap about false allegations, his voice throbbing with self–importance. "Isn't it ironic," he concluded, "that in 1996, in these days of space travel and the Internet, the Salem witch hunts are still a fact of life. But this time, one of the so–called victims has found the courage to come forward and speak the truth. And just in time to stop society, to stop all of us, from burning a man at the stake. Jennifer Dalton, a tortured young woman, lost in a life of sadness, sought some answers. And, as we have seen, some of those answers raise much larger questions indeed."

I didn't move from the set for hours. They finally located Kite. He spoke at a podium so loaded with microphones that only the top of his head was visible. He sounded lost. Distraught. "I assure everyone, and especially Brother Jacob and his counsel, that I personally investigated this matter thoroughly before the lawsuit was brought. I assure you that it was brought in good faith, and only after I was personally satisfied as to its validity. I am…shocked. I don't know another word for it. This makes me question…everything. Not just this case, but myself. And my profession. I apologize to Brother Jacob and his family, personally and professionally."

"Are you dropping the case?" one reporter shouted out.

"There is no case," Kite replied. "I'm sorry…I have nothing more to say."

A phalanx of bodyguards muscled Kite through the crowd of thrusting microphones. I couldn't see Heather anywhere in the crowd.

Every talk show in town vultured in, but Jennifer Dalton wasn't talking. Rumors flew that the tabloid TV magazine had paid her a hundred thousand dollars for the exclusive interview.

"This has nothing whatever to do with our case," the lawyer for two of the young girls told a newspaper reporter. "We are still suing Brother Jacob." When they printed that news, hostile letters to the editor flew like raindrops in a hurricane.

Brother Jacob was released from jail on his own recognizance.

Doreen Z. Landover announced her client was giving a deposition to Brother Jacob's counsel in the other lawsuits. She said Jennifer Dalton was sorry…and she was going to do everything in her power to make things right.

"She's out."

"Stay with her."

"White on rice," the Prof promised.

I used my key to let myself into Jennifer Dalton's apartment, moving as carefully as a minesweeper. I wasn't there to thieve—I wanted to leave something for her.

The back bedroom was the same filthy mess the Prof had described. I popped the portable video player out of the duffel bag I had carried over my shoulder. I was looking for an electrical outlet when the cellular buzzed in my pocket.

"She doubled back. Almost there. Just going into the lobby. Step quick!"

I moved over to the window. It was barred from the inside. No fire escape. I heard a key turn in the front door, snatched the video player and moved behind the bedroom door.

I heard her come in. She turned on the TV set, then the sound suddenly disappeared, like she hit the Mute. I heard the refrigerator open, the sound of some liquid being poured. The springs on the couch made a faint protest. The TV sound came on again, some talk show. She was flicking the remote, changing channels so fast it was a sound–blur when a sharp series of raps sounded on the front door. She hit the Mute again. I heard her walking toward the door. Sound of the peephole cover being slid off. Harsh intake of breath.

Heard the door open. "What do you want?" Jennifer asked.

"I want to talk to you." Heather's voice, rage in it like a bubble ready to burst. Sound of a grunt, door closing.

"Sit down!" Heather said. "Right there."

Sound of someone hitting the chair. Springs sagging heavy—must be Heather on the couch.

"Why did you do it?" Heather asked, her voice thick. "How could you do that to him?"

"He was the one who did it to me," Jennifer whined. "It wasn't my fault."

"He never did…Wait—who do you mean?"

"The therapist. He was the one who—"

"Kite," Heather said. "How could you do it to him?. He believed in you. You know he did. How could you let him sacrifice his whole career, his whole life, for you when you knew it was all a lie?"

The room went so quiet I could hear Heather's harsh breathing.

"It wasn't a lie, Heather," I said, stepping into the silent living room.

Jennifer gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Heather whirled to face me. "You!"

I tossed the videotape cartridge at Heather. She didn't make a move to grab it out of the air—it landed against her chest. She didn't flinch, eyes only on Jennifer.

"It's all there," I said quietly. "Isn't it, Jennifer? Brother Jacob must have edited hours and hours of tape to make this one production, huh?"

"I don't know…"she said softly.

"Had to be," I told her. "There's years of you on this. Everything you said. Lifting your skirt for the ruler. Playing with yourself while he watched. Getting on your knees and—"

"Stop it!" Jennifer screamed. "It wasn't my fault. I didn't want—"

"No, it wasn't your fault," I said, moving close to her. "It was never your fault. It was all the truth, so why did you…?"

"I wasn't going to get any money," she said, face tightening into rigid lines. "The statute of limitations. I was too late. This way, I get paid. I have to think of myself, don't I? I can get fixed now. Anything I want. Plastic surgery even. It's only fair."

"You're dead, bitch!" Heather snarled, coming off the couch, the brass knuckles already fitted over her right fist.

I was ready for it this time. I swept the knife–edge of my hand down against Heather's wrist, spinning so my back was to her as I fired an elbow into her gut.

She gasped and went down.

"Just stay there!" I snapped at her, my foot right next to her face. I turned to Jennifer, holding out my hands like a traffic cop to keep her in the chair. "This is gonna be all right," I told her. "Just relax—I'll have her out of here in a minute."

I dropped to one knee next to Heather, put my lips close to her ear. "You owe me," I whispered. "It's you and me now. It's not about that sorry bitch over there. Come on."

She staggered to her feet holding my arm, leaning heavily against me, tears blotching her face. "He—"

"Shut up now," I said. "There's plenty of time for that." I pushed her gently back onto the couch, keeping hold of her until she was seated.

I stepped away quickly, grabbed my duffel bag out of the back bedroom, slung it over my shoulder.

"You can keep that tape," I told Jennifer. "A little souvenir. I got copies. I'll give you three days. Seventy–two hours. That's enough for you to get paid. Then you better get in the wind."

She sat there with her mouth open, like I'd slugged her in the gut too. I held my hand out to Heather. She took it. I hauled her to her feet, thumbed the cellular into life, hit the memory button.

"Go," the Prof's voice came back.

"All clear?"

"Quiet as the crypt."

I held Heather's pudgy hand tight all the way down the back stairs.

It took two complete loops of the FDR before she stopped crying. I finally found a place to pull in near the heliport on Thirty–fourth. I held her against me in the darkness. Her whole body trembled with what she knew.

"I don't believe it," she said finally. "The truth…"

"The truth is just a toy they played with, Heather. It's up to you now. It's your call."

"What are you going to…?"

"Me? Nothing."

She was quiet for a long time after that. Finally, she turned in her seat. "I have to know. I have the key. Will you come with me?"

"It's not mine," I said. "I'm done."

She shifted her body against me, pulling at my jacket until I looked in her face.

"I love you," she said. "You found the truth."

I didn't say anything.

"Please…"

The concierge wasn't at his desk, the lobby deserted at that hour. We stood close together in the small elevator. "Breathe through your nose," I told her. "Stay inside yourself. Calm. You wanted the truth, Heather. You know where it is."

She opened the grille. I followed her down the hall. He was in the fan–shaped chair, like he'd been waiting for us.

"It was the truth!" Heather blurted out. "We know the truth. She—"

"Shut up, you cow!" Kite hissed at her. "What's wrong with you? Have you forgotten our work?"

"Our…work? To find the truth…"

"No!" Kite said sharply. "We know the truth, don't we? False allegations, that's the truth. All the pernicious lies, all the exaggerations. The phony therapists. The witch hunt—remember Heather? There was only one way to stop it. Only one way to put a stake right through the enemy's heart."

"But you knew…All along, you…"

"This is a chess game," he said in his empty voice, eyes shielded behind the glasses. "An intellectual problem. The real weapon in this war is propaganda. And I have just delivered the master stroke. It will take them years to recover. Public perception will never be the same. I did this. Nobody will ever get away with a false allegation again—everyone is on the alert now. Just as I promised you when we started together."

Heather sat down on the floor and bawled like a little girl. A little girl who had lost her compass.

"No hard feelings?" Kite said to me, talking over Heather's slumped body like she wasn't there. "We're both professionals, you and I. And I appreciate the work you did—I admire it. You are the finest investigator I've ever worked with. But this was never about investigation."

"And you got paid."

"Did I? You know nothing about it, Mr. Burke. No, you got paid. And paid well. For myself, the payment is my syndrome. The syndrome, Heather," he said, shifting to a gentle, kindly voice. "You remember all the time I have invested in it? How important it is? Well, my syndrome is now the truth."

Heather's face snapped up. Her makeup was streaked, black–cherry hair hanging limp. Her movements were stiff, almost robotic. She caught her upper lip with her lower jaw, bit down so hard a drop of blood blossomed.

Kite returned her stare calmly, waiting for the dice to stop rolling.

"Can I still…?" she asked, finally.

"Of course you can," Kite smiled down at her like a father forgiving a child. "Things will be just as they were. With us, I mean. There's still so much work to do. Now why don't you go into the bathroom and pull yourself together. Then you can show Mr. Burke out."

She got to her feet silently. I kept my eyes on Kite, listening to the tap of her heels on the hardwood floor.

"You're not planning on doing anything stupid, are you Mr. Burke? I can't imagine you believe your…testimony would be worth very much in a court of law. And I know some things—"

"I'm all finished," I cut him off. "Can I just ask you a question?"

"Certainly. In fact, I'll even answer it for you. I was, shall we say, retained by a certain group in anticipation of certain lawsuits being filed. But the plan, the strategy, the tactics…they were all my own. Uniquely my own. And I have committed no crime. As I said, I did a full–scale investigation. And I proceeded in good faith throughout. And I'm sure you understand that I have a rather complete record of our…dealings. So…"

Heather came back into the room, face freshly scrubbed. "Will you please show Mr. Burke out, Heather?" Kite said, the control–leash tight in his voice.

She did an about–face and started down the hall. I followed close behind. At the door, I pulled her to me, holding her against my chest. "For your love," I whispered, pressing the brass knuckles into her chubby little hand.

I gave the videotape to Wolfe. Just in case somebody at NYPD decided to treat their copy like they had the French Connection heroin.

Jennifer Dalton disappeared the next day. The cops said there was no evidence of foul play.

Kite was a different story. A maid discovered his body in the penthouse a few days later. He'd been beaten to death. His files had been looted, picked clean. "It could have been anyone—we've got a long list of suspects," the lead detective on the case told the newspapers. "But whoever did it was a pro—they knew what they were doing."

They got that part right anyway.

I don't know where Heather went to. But wherever she is, I know her eyes aren't orange anymore.