Final Breath

CHAPTER TEN

Eli listened to his mother calling out for him. She seemed awfully panicky, considering he'd just stepped out less than a minute ago. What was her problem? It was barely twilight, not even dark yet.

"Eli? Honey, can you hear me?" she called out, her voice shaky. "Oh, God..."

He kept his back pressed against the brick wall in an arched alcove to the caretaker's unit. There was a light above him, but none of the outside lights had gone on yet, so Eli was shrouded in darkness. It sounded like his mom was crying. Part of him felt bad for her, but he was angry at her, too.

Okay, so she'd caught him searching for that letter from his dad. She didn't have to get all snippy about it. Could he help it if he missed his dad?

Eli waited until he heard her go back inside the apartment. Then he slowly emerged from the shadows to make sure she'd gone. On the opposite side of the courtyard, he thought he saw someone in the alley. A dark figure darted behind some Dumpsters.

Eli gazed at that alley for another moment. Nothing moved. He told himself it must have been his imagination.

He glanced over toward their apartment. He thought about sneaking out of the courtyard and walking for a while--maybe along the beach. He just wanted some time to calm down--and yeah, maybe keep her wondering about him a little bit longer. It was pretty dumb, really. Here he was, twelve years old, and running away from home. Some home. He didn't think he'd ever call this place home.

He really did need to be alone for a while right now. He kept thinking about what that psychic lady had told him--about the danger around him, the loss he would have to face, and his communication with someone dead.

Reaching into his pocket, Eli pulled out the twenty-dollar bill with the two corners ripped off. He felt a little pang in his gut. His mom had given him this money to go on rides and have fun, and now he'd made her cry. What a little shit he was.

Eli figured he'd better go back inside and let her know he was all right. But then he saw something move in the alley again. He hesitated, then ducked back into the alcove. Keeping perfectly still, he studied the alleyway, especially around the Dumpsters. But he didn't see anything. He wondered if it had been a crow or something.

Maybe there were ghosts outside their apartment, too. Maybe Carl wasn't the only undead spirit haunting Tudor Court.

Eli glanced at the caretaker's door. If anyone knew about their ghost--and the murder-suicide in their unit--it would be Larry, the caretaker.

Eli figured his mom would be okay for another minute or two. In fact, that was all she probably needed to realize he'd just stepped out to blow off some steam. He was coming back. No reason for her to freak out about it.

He rang the caretaker's bell--then listened at his door. Larry's studio apartment was in the basement. Eli heard someone coming up the stairs. He stepped back from the door as it opened.

"Mr. Eli McCloud in Unit Nine," Larry said. "What can I do you for?"

About thirty, with a pale complexion, dark eyes, and a crooked little smile, Larry was handsome, but also kind of crazy looking. When they'd first moved in, Larry's black hair had been in a ponytail, but he'd recently cut it all off so he was practically bald. He was friendly enough, but a bit of an oddball. He'd come to the door in a thin, yellowish, tight T-shirt, pale blue shorts, and brown socks with sandals. Thick, black hair covered his pale arms and legs.

"Sorry to bother you," Eli said. He shot a glance over his shoulder. "I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Didn't I just hear your mother calling out for you?" Larry asked.

"Yeah, she found me," Eli lied. "Everything's okay. Um, do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure. My dinner's in the oven, but it won't be ready for a while. C'mon down."

Eli followed Larry down a short flight of stairs toward his apartment. He hadn't been inside Larry's place before, and had only glimpsed it passing by the basement windows sometimes. It seemed like a really cool place to live. But now, as Eli walked down the steps to a dark corridor, it felt like a dungeon. Whatever Larry was cooking had an overly sweet, spicy, meat odor that filled the studio apartment. It wasn't the kind of smell that was welcome on a hot day. But at least Larry's place was a bit cooler.

"Have you had dinner yet?" Larry asked, leading the way into his combination living room and bedroom. "I'm cooking rabbit. There's enough for two. It's mighty tasty. I have a whole freezer full. My buddy's a hunter."

"Oh, gosh, thanks anyway," Eli managed to say.

For someone who kept the Tudor Court's grounds so neat, Larry was a slob at home. Clothes were strewn over the unmade bed as well as the back of an easy chair that was losing its stuffing. Random pictures Larry had torn from magazines were haphazardly taped to the beige walls: lots of pretty girls (Eli recognized Cameron Diaz in three photos); some race car shots; nature scenes; and quite a few pictures of the Beatles. In the corner, he'd spread some newspapers beneath the cage holding a canary that wouldn't stop chirping. Just enough light came through the small, high windows for Eli to see how dirty and dusty the place was.

"So what did you want to ask me?" Larry said, heading into his kitchen.

Eli stopped in the kitchen doorway. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, and a portable TV sat on Larry's battered, old wooden breakfast table. A Princess Di commemorative plate was being sold on the Home Shopping Network. Larry had it on mute.

"Um, I was wondering if you knew anything about the lady and her son who used to live in our place," Eli said.

Larry stirred some greasy-looking potatoes and cabbage cooking on the stove. "What lady and son?"

"The ones who died there, back in the seventies," Eli said.

"Oh, them," Larry nodded. "Well, I wasn't here then, sport. Hell, I wasn't even born yet." He opened the oven and checked on his rabbit.

"Still, I figured you might know something about them though, maybe like how they died or something."

Larry was silent for a few moments. Eli listened to his canary chirping away in the next room.

"Listen, I'd like to help you out," Larry said, finally. "But if the property manager ever got wind I was flapping my mouth off to you about what's gone on in Unit Nine, I'd get shit-canned in no time. Then Anita and I would be out on our tails."

"Who's Anita?"

"She's my girl," Larry said.

Eli stepped aside as the pale, hairy caretaker walked back into the messy living room. He opened the birdcage. "C'mon, Anita, girl. There's my boopie-boopie. That's my nickname for her. Hey, boopie-boopie!" The canary jumped on his finger, and Larry carefully took Anita out of her cage.

"My mom and I already figured out the place is haunted," Eli said, watching him play with his bird. "Plus one of the neighbors told us about the lady who killed her son in there and then killed herself. I just thought you might know more. I won't tell anyone you said anything, I swear."

Larry pursed his lips at the canary and cooed at it. Then he gave Eli a wary look. "You rat on me, and I'll have Anita peck your eyes out."

"I wouldn't," Eli murmured.

"Ha, I'm messing with you," Larry grinned. He put the bird back in its cage, then fussed with the water and feeder trays. Eli heard some seeds spill onto the newspaper. "I really don't know that much about it, sport," Larry said. "I do know they replaced the tub upstairs in that unit."

"The tub?" Eli repeated.

Larry nodded. He seemed focused on his chores with the birdcage. "Yeah, that's where she shot herself after she slit the kid's throat."

"The mother shot herself in the bathtub?" Eli said, blinking. He thought about all the weird disturbances in their bathroom.

"Yep," Larry replied. "They found her in the tub with a bullet in her head and the gun on the bathroom floor. They replaced the tub for the next tenant. Everything else in there is the original fixtures."

"And the son," Eli said numbly. "Where did they find him?"

"In his bed," the caretaker answered, still tinkering with his canary's cage. The bird wouldn't stop chirping. "I think she killed him in his sleep, but I'm not sure."

Eli nervously rubbed his forearms and felt gooseflesh. He was thinking about what the Ouija board had told him. It had said the boy died in his bedroom. It had spelled out L-A-C-ER-A-T-I-O-N. "She cut her son's throat?" Eli heard himself ask.

"That's what I hear."

"Do you know how old the son was?" Eli asked. The Ouija board had said Carl was fourteen.

"A young teenager, I think," Larry replied with a shrug. "Probably around your age."

The sweet, spicy smell of that rabbit cooking started to make Eli sick. "Um, do you know when this happened?" he asked. "What year?"

"Some time in the mid-seventies."

"Did you--did you ever get their names?"

"Nope," Larry said, wiping his hands on the front of his pale blue shorts. He peeked into the cage. "Okay, boopie-boopie, all cleaned up," he cooed to Anita. The bird kept chirping.

"Is there any way to find out their names and when they lived here?" Eli pressed. "I mean, the management company must have some kind of records, right?"

Larry reached under his yellowish T-shirt and scratched his pale, hairy stomach. "Nope, sorry, sport." He shook his head as he walked past Eli and into the kitchen again. "They tossed out all the old documents when the apartment complex changed ownership back in 1987." He stirred the potato concoction on the stove, then turned up the heat.

"Do you think any of the neighbors here might know more about them? The kid and his mother, I mean...."

"I doubt it," Larry said, opening the oven to peek at his rabbit again. "Most of the people who were living here when it happened in the seventies are long gone now."

"Do you know if any of them still live in the neighborhood?" Eli asked.

Larry shut the oven door, leaned over the stove, and scratched his chin. "Shit, what was that old lady's name?" he muttered--almost to himself. "Vera something, she moved away two years ago. Wait a sec, I know..."

Larry brushed by him as he moved back into the living room. He opened up the middle drawer of an old rolltop desk. "She sent me a Christmas card last year. It's in here somewhere. Good thing I don't throw anything away. Vera something, she was still pretty much on the ball for an old lady, only her legs were giving out. So she moved into this rest home. Sucks to get old. Here it is..." He pulled out an envelope. "Cormier, Vera Cormier," he said, reading the preprinted return address label. Then he handed the envelope to Eli. "Go ahead, you can keep that if you want."

Eli glanced at the shaky penmanship on the front of the envelope and the Christmas wreath return address label:

Vera D. Cormier

Evergreen Point Manor

7711 Evergreen Court, N.E.

Seattle, WA 98177-5492

"Do you know where this Evergreen Point Manor is?" Eli asked.

"It's this rest home up in north Seattle," Larry said. "Not too far, about a fifteen-minute drive."

There was a hissing sound, and Larry rushed to the stove to turn down the heat on his potato dish, which was boiling over. Now a burning smell competed with the sickly sweet waft from the roasting rabbit.

"Did you want to keep the card?" Eli asked, pulling out the Christmas card. It had a cheesy painting of a bird on a holly branch on the cover.

"Read what she says, will ya?" Larry replied, tending to his potatoes and cabbage.

Under the preprinted Merry Christmas, she'd scribbled something in her frail hand. "Um, 'Happy Holidays to you and all my Tudor Court neighbors,'" Eli read aloud. "'I keep busy, busy, busy here. Miss you, Larry. Hello to Anita. Best Wishes for the New Year. Vera.'"

"Keep it," Larry said, still toiling over the stove. "Anyway, if you want the real lowdown on that murder-suicide, Vera's your lady. She was living right next door in Number Ten when it happened."

Eli politely turned down Larry's second offer to dine with him. Larry cut off a piece of his roasted rabbit, then wrapped it in tinfoil, and stuck it in a plastic store bag for Eli to take home with him. "I promise you, you haven't tasted anything like this," Larry said with a wink.

"Well, thanks," Eli said. And I promise you, I'm not going to taste it, he thought.

He was glad to breathe fresh air again as he stepped out to the courtyard. Slipping Vera's Christmas card back into the envelope, he folded the envelope and shoved it in his pants pocket. Eli held onto the plastic bag with the roast rabbit part in it. Though tempted to toss it in the Dumpster, he didn't want Larry finding it tomorrow and getting his feelings hurt.

A cool wind came off the lake, and Eli shuddered. He suddenly had a weird feeling. It was the same sensation he sometimes got in his bedroom at night--when he wasn't quite alone. He felt this invisible other presence, like someone or something was there watching him.

Glancing around the courtyard, Eli didn't see anyone. He stopped to stare at that alley again. But no one was there.

He still felt a little sick to his stomach, but it wasn't something left over from the smell of that rabbit cooking. It was a feeling of dread he couldn't shake.

Eli nervously patted the envelope in his pocket, and he hurried toward the apartment.

"Eli?" his mom called, when he came in the front door. "Honey, is that you?"

He didn't even have time to answer or shut the door. She scurried out of the kitchen. "Oh, thank God," she said, hugging him. "You gave me such a scare. Where were you?"

He gently pulled back from her. "I just went for a short walk, that's all. What's the big deal? Why are you acting so weird?"

She glanced at the plastic bag in his hand, the one holding Larry's roast rabbit section, wrapped in tinfoil. "What's that?" his mom asked.

"I got some candy at the store," he lied.

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Listen, honey, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. Sit down for a second, okay? I have to tell you something that might help explain why I'm 'acting so weird...'"

Eli sat on the stairs, the third from the bottom step, and his mother leaned against the banister. She asked if he remembered the guy she'd almost hit with her car while pulling out of the driveway earlier that afternoon. Eli had barely caught a glimpse of him. His mother gave a long description of the man: medium build, black hair, olive skin, possibly a Latino, one eye had an infection of some kind, and he wore a navy blue T-shirt with a silver number 59 on the front. She explained how she'd spotted the same man an hour later in the audience at the ValuCo event, only he'd had on sunglasses and a baseball cap. At least, she was almost positive it had been the same man, and he'd had on the same T-shirt. "Did you notice anyone with a navy blue 59 T-shirt when you were wandering around the fun fair?" she asked.

"No, Mom," Eli said, shaking his head. "But y'know, the Seattle Mariners' team colors are navy blue and silver, and 59 is probably a real popular number because of Felix Hernandez. You sure it wasn't two different guys in the same T-shirt?"

His mother just stared at him for a moment. Then she rubbed her forehead. "Oh, good Lord, you must think your mother's a crazy woman." She sat beside him on the stairs. "That didn't occur to me about the shirt. But it did look very much like the same man. And if both guys were one and the same, it means he followed us all the way out to Auburn. He knows where we live. Can you see why I'm a little concerned? I keep thinking about that weird break-in on the Fourth of July."

"So you figure you got a stalker?" Eli asked.

"It's a possibility," she said soberly. "Anyway, do your crazy mother a favor, and keep a lookout for someone fitting that description. If you want to step outside, let me know where you're going and when you'll be back. Let's err on the side of caution for the next few days, okay? Humor me. Maybe I'll give you that cell phone you've been wanting."

Eli nodded. "Okay." He managed to smile at his mother. "Sorry I took off like that, Mom," he murmured, patting her shoulder.

She kissed his forehead, then rubbed her hand over his scalp. "Your hair's starting to grow out again. It looks nice."

"Well, I'm gonna wash up," he said, standing. "What time is Uncle Kyle coming over?"

"I don't know. I haven't heard back from him yet. But I'm hoping we can eat soon. Don't eat too much of that candy and spoil your appetite."

"I won't," Eli said. He started up the stairs, but paused on the landing and glanced back at his mother. She moved over to the front door and double-locked it.

He continued up the stairs and stopped in the second-floor hallway. Switching on the bathroom light, Eli stood in the doorway for a few moments. He gazed at the bathtub, the one they'd replaced after that woman had shot herself in the old tub.

Eli retreated to his room, closed the door, then dumped Larry's rabbit-doggie-bag in the trash can. Something shiny on his desk caught his eye--a tiny metal train engine. It looked like a Monopoly token, only his Monopoly set didn't have a train token.

"Who would..." he started to whisper.

He knew the Monopoly tokens had changed over the years. Maybe they had train tokens back in the seventies.

Back when that kid was murdered in this room.

Sydney didn't hear any water churning in the second-floor bathroom as she climbed the stairs. "Eli, honey, if you're not going to take a shower right now, I might jump in ahead--"

She stopped at the top of the stairs, and set her purse on the half-table in the the hallway.

Eli stood in his bedroom doorway with something shiny in the palm of his hand. "Hey, Mom, did you leave this on my desk?"

She looked at the Monopoly train token, and shook her head. "No, honey."

"Well, it was on my desk," he said. "And I didn't put it there. Do you think your stalker guy broke in and set this on there?"

Sydney hesitated before answering him. Terrific, she thought, I've made my son a nervous wreck. She worked up a smile and shook her head. "I don't think so. The front door was locked when we got back from Auburn, and so was the back door. I checked."

"But maybe he broke in like he did on the Fourth of July, only this time, he locked up after himself."

"I doubt it, honey. I mean, if the man I saw at the ValuCo event is indeed stalking me, he was in Auburn when we were there. He couldn't have gotten back here that much sooner than us." She stroked Eli's arm reassuringly. "It was probably on your desk earlier, only you just didn't notice."

Eli looked like he was about to say something, but hesitated. He frowned at her. "Fine," he muttered finally.

"If you're not going to use the bathroom, do you mind if I pop in the shower?" she asked.

He headed for his room. "I don't care," he said, his back to her.

Sydney watched him close the door. He almost seemed disappointed that they hadn't had a break-in. Of course, she couldn't blame him. To a bored, suddenly friendless, twelve-year-old boy, a potential break-in was something exciting.

Reaching back for the zipper to her top, Sydney headed into her room. She walked through the doorway into a wall of warm air. This room usually didn't cool down until nighttime. A fly darted in front of her--and then another. Sydney stopped to shoo them away. Their buzzing sound seemed to fill the bedroom. She glanced over toward the open window, where a few more flies scurried around against the sunlight. Some stopped to crawl over the windowpanes.

"My God," she murmured. There were at least a dozen flies in her bedroom.

It didn't make any sense. Except for one side window, which was open only a few inches, all of her windows had screens.

Then she noticed something on her pillow, something dark on the pale blue and white sham that matched her quilt bedspread. A swirl of flies buzzed around it.

Her mouth open, Sydney stared at the small dead bird. It looked like a robin--with its mousey brown feathers and reddish chest. The poor thing was perfectly centered on her pillow as if laid to rest there.

Dazed, she took a few steps back and bumped into her dresser. "Eli!" she screamed. "Eli, could you come in here, please? Now?"

He'd left here mad at her, then returned with something in a rolled-up plastic bag. But she couldn't believe he'd do something this sick, no matter how angry he was at her.

"What is it?" he called.

She grimaced at the sight of all the flies picking at the dead robin on her pillow. "Um, come in here, please," Sydney repeated. She was getting so upset, she couldn't breathe right. "I need you to look at something...now."

Eli came to her door. "What's going on?"

Sydney pointed at her bed. "Are you responsible for this?"

He glanced over at her pillow and winced. "Oh, God, gross!"

"You didn't put it there?" she pressed.

He scowled at her, "No, of course not!" He looked at the dead robin again. "Jeez..."

"Well, it didn't just fall out of the sky and land there dead," she argued. "You sure you didn't put that there?"

"Of course I'm sure! God, stop asking me that!" Eli glared at her and shook his head. "You think I killed a bird?"

"I didn't say you killed it. But maybe you found it outside someplace, already dead. I know you were mad at me--"

"I didn't leave that fucking bird there!" he yelled, cutting her off. "God, I can't believe you'd think I'd do something like that! This is so fucked!"

Sydney was stunned. Eli had never used language like that in front of her. She saw tears in his eyes. She took a deep breath. "Okay, I'm sorry, but--"

"God, I hate you!" he screamed over her. He spun around and stomped toward his room. "This really sucks!" he yelled, his voice choked with tears. "I want to live with Dad! I can't stand living with you!"

Sydney heard his bedroom door slam.

Frazzled, she marched out to the hallway, grabbed her purse off the table, and dug out her cell phone. "Well, that's just fine with me!" she screamed. She put the cell phone down on the floor, by his threshold. "Go ahead! Call him! I just left my cell phone by your door. Call your father and tell him you want to stay with him. And while you're at it, tell him you just used the f-word in front of me twice! I don't care how angry you are, you don't use that kind of language in front of your mother. If you pulled something like that in front of your dad, he would have nailed your hide to the wall! Go stay with him! I'll even help you pack! I'm so sick of you moping around and blaming me for everything! Do you think I like this?"

Eli's bedroom door opened a crack. He glared out at her.

Sydney felt tears stinging her eyes. Her throat was sore from screaming. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I accused you of putting that dead bird on my bed," she said in a scratchy, strained voice. "But you left the house mad at me, then returned with something in that old plastic bag and came up here. I didn't know what to think. Anyway, Eli, I'm sorry, I know you'd never do anything that--that creepy."

He stared at her through the narrow door opening. Crouching down, he swiped her cell phone off the floor.

Then Eli shut the door.

"Hi, you've reached the McClouds," his mother's recorded voice said. His dad still hadn't changed the greeting. "Sorry we missed you. Leave a message for Joe, Sydney, and Eli after the beep. Bye!"

"Hello, Dad?" Eli said, after the beep. He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. He didn't want his father to know he'd just been crying. "You home? Are you there? It's me--"

There was a click on the other end of the line. "Hey, buddy," his father said. "I was just call-screening..." He lapsed into his Arnold Schwarzenegger impression for a moment: "I am The Screenanator." Then he went back to his normal voice. "So what are you up to, sport?"

"Nothing much," Eli said. He sat down on the edge of his bed. "I went to some stupid store opening with Mom today. She had to give a speech. How are you, Dad? What have you been doing?"

"Oh, work, tinkering around in the garage, trying to keep busy--same old, same old." There was a pause. "How are you doing, Eli? You don't sound so good."

"I'm not," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I miss you, Dad."

"Oh, hang in there, buddy. It'll get easier."

"No, it won't," he argued. "I want to move back and stay with you. I hate it here. Mom's so tense all the time, and we fight--like every day."

"That's because you two are so much alike. You guys are just adjusting--"

"I want to move back with you. Please, Dad? Mom said I could. She said she'd even help me pack."

He heard his father let out a little chuckle on the other end of the line. "It sounds like she was mad at you about something. Are you guys in the middle of a fight?"

"Kinda," Eli replied. "Dad, please, I can't stand living with her. And she's sick of me, too. She just said so."

"You know she doesn't mean that," he said. "You two are just mad at each other right now. Be patient with her, okay? She's really trying. I know she must have felt bad that Timmy McKenna and Brad Reece couldn't come out and visit. But you'll be making friends there--"

"Wait," Eli interrupted. "What are you talking about? Timmy and Brad were going to come out here?"

"She didn't tell you? I figured you knew. She was trying to do it for you. The McKennas mentioned it to me. Your mom phoned them, offering to pay Tim's way to Seattle so he could stay with you guys a few days. I guess she tried the same thing with the Reeces, trying to get Brad to visit. But--you know, the guys got baseball and they just couldn't get away."

"Mom was trying to do that--for me?" Eli whispered. He suddenly felt so awful for screaming at her.

"She's doing the best she can, Eli. You just have to hang in there. It wouldn't work out if you moved back with me right now. They have me jumping through hoops at work, and I'm awfully busy. You'd be alone in the house most of the time. You're much better off with your mom in Seattle. Give it another few weeks."

Eli said nothing.

"It was ninety-nine degrees here today," his father said. "Believe me, you're better off where you are. Listen, I should scram. You go make up with your mother now, okay?"

"Why can't you make up with her?" Eli asked quietly.

"It isn't as easy for adults," his father muttered. "And you and I have been over this before, sport. Now, I better go. I love you, Eli."

"I love you, too, Dad."

"G'night," his father said. Then he hung up.

Eli clicked off the cell phone. Wiping his eyes, he wandered to his door. He opened it--just wide enough to put the cell phone down on the floor.

He closed the door again, then lay facedown on his bed. Eli buried his face in the pillow so she wouldn't hear him crying.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sipping pinot grigio from a Speed Racer jelly glass, Sydney sat in a patio chair by the kitchen door, which she'd propped open. There was a railing in front of her, and just beyond it, Lake Washington. She always felt as if she were on a ship's deck back here on this little stretch of concrete behind the town house. The lake was still. Moonlight revealed only a few silver ripples. She listened to the night swimmers on the beach next door, laughing and splashing. It made her feel so lonely, she wanted to cry. In the distance, she could see the headlights of cars on the 520 floating bridge.

She'd wrapped the dead robin in some paper towels, then put it in the garbage can on the other side of the kitchen door, just behind her. She'd found a can of Raid in the broom closet and sprayed in her bedroom, all the while thinking about ozone depletion. After vacuuming up the dead flies, she'd stripped off the pillow shams and quilt, then stuffed them in a big plastic bag. The bag would take up most of her closet floor--covering her sneakers, sandals, and slippers--until she hauled it to the dry cleaner on Monday.

Maybe by then, Eli would have decided to come out of his room and speak to her. She'd ordered a small cheese pizza for him around eight o'clock and left it outside his room, along with some napkins and a cold can of Mountain Dew. Then she'd knocked on the door. "There's pizza here by your door, honey. Don't let it get cold. And don't starve yourself just because you're mad at me."

She heard his portable TV going when she checked an hour later. The Jet City Pizza box was where she'd left it, but when she opened the box, only one piece remained. The Mountain Dew can was empty. At least he was eating.

She was the one self-starving. She'd thrown together a salad, but only had a few bites of it before reaching for a jelly glass and the bottle of pinot grigio, then heading outside.

This was her second glass.

Sydney wondered how that robin had gotten in her bedroom. She hadn't noticed any loose feathers while vacuuming up the flies, so it was highly unlikely the poor thing had flown in through the small opening in the window and then died on her bed somehow. And to land right in the center of her pillow like that? This hadn't been any freak accident.

If Eli hadn't put it there, who had? Was it her stalker? She'd already answered that question earlier while talking with Eli about his Monopoly token. If Mr. 59 had indeed followed them to Auburn this afternoon, when would he have had time to break in and plant that little avian surprise?

Sydney wondered if it was their ghost--or whatever it was haunting this apartment. Freakish, unexplainable things had been happening in there. Why not this bird death?

It was a silly notion, one Eli might fancy. He was too angry to talk with her right now. But once on speaking terms with her again, he'd probably come up with some pretty fantastic notions about ghosts and birds and Monopoly tokens. Then again, maybe he wouldn't say a thing to her. He could be very secretive at times.

It was a trait he'd inherited from her and his dad--but mostly her.

She remembered back in May, waiting until Kyle had left for Seattle before she'd checked the story on the Internet. She needed to confirm what Polly's friend, Aurora, had told her about that drug bust at Fort Jackson Point Pier. She remembered it must have been during the first part of March, because she'd been in Boston, covering a Movers & Shakers story. Otherwise, she would have found out about it--if not from Joe, then from the Chicago papers.

Sydney used her computer in her basement office. The keywords Fort Jackson Pier Drugs Police Raid, yielded several Google results. She clicked on the first one, and an article came up from The Chicago Tribune, dated March 6th:

2 SUSPECTS DIE IN CAR FIRE DURING POLICE RAID

Officers Seize $12,800 in Narcotics at Fort Jackson Pier

CHICAGO : A police raid Tuesday on a narcotics operation near Fort Jackson Pier turned deadly as fleeing suspects opened fire on the arresting officers. The suspects, Ahmed Turner, 28, and Derrick Laskey, 23, both perished in a fiery explosion as their minivan, carrying an estimated $43,000 worth of cocaine, spun out of control and crashed into several drums containing highly flammable creosote residue.

Turner, who had been driving the vehicle, was shot in the neck by police returning fire. Laskey, in the passenger seat, reportedly died in the ensuing fire...

The article confirmed everything Aurora had told her. Sydney stopped in the middle of the fifth paragraph. She felt an awful tightness in her chest as she saw something she'd hoped not to find. It was Joe's name, listed with the three other cops who had participated in the raid gone awry.

His name came up again a few paragraphs later:

"We had no choice but to return fire on the perpetrators," said Detective McCloud, a 16-year Chicago Police veteran. "My fellow officers acted responsibly and very professionally."

According to the article, the $12,800 worth of cocaine recovered had been left behind in a backpack by one of the fleeing suspects. Both Ahmed Turner and Derrick Laskey had a long list of prior arrests.

Sydney googled both their names for any articles about a follow-up investigation into what had happened that night. But there were none.

She had to talk to Joe--even if he got testy. She had every right to ask her husband about something he did that was reported in the newspapers, for God's sake. The rest of the day went by without her finding the right time and opportunity to broach the subject.

She couldn't sleep worth a damn that evening. After an hour under the covers with Joe, she thought about getting up and reading in the family room for a while. Then she felt him nudge her, and his arm went over her. "What's with you tonight, babe?" he mumbled, his face against the back of her neck as he spooned her. "You've got the fidgets something fierce. I feel like I'm in bed with a whirling dervish."

"I ran into Adele Curtis in the vegetable aisle at Dominick's today," she lied. It was the "casual" lead-in she'd been planning all day to use. "She--um, asked how you were and said she read about you in some drug bust at Fort Jackson Point Pier a few weeks back. Adele said a couple of guys were killed. I felt stupid not knowing anything about it."

Joe's arm slipped away as he turned on his other side. "It happened while you were in Boston, covering that cancer survivor story," he muttered. "By the time you got back, it was old news. I didn't think it was worth going into."

"Not worth going into?" she repeated. "Honey, in the last thirteen years you've only fired your weapon--what, four times? Two guys were killed, and you didn't talk to me about it..."

"You were editing and scoring your cancer story," he said. "I knew you had to stay focused on that. I didn't want to distract you with my problems."

Sydney said nothing for a moment. Considering how often she went on the road to cover a story, leaving Joe to play bachelor-dad with Eli, he was usually pretty good about it. Only once in a while did he make her feel guilty, and this was one of those times. She rolled over toward him--only to stare at the back of his head. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," she whispered. "Do you want to talk about it now?"

"Talk about what, the drug raid? It was a routine raid on a small-time operation. It got screwed up and two career criminals fried in their getaway car. It happened nearly a month ago, and no thanks, I don't want to talk about it."

"And you wouldn't have wanted to talk about it when it happened either," she pointed out. "So--don't try to make me feel bad because I was away when it happened."

"Fair enough," he grumbled.

She studied the back of his head. "Is there any connection between this drug bust and that Arthur 'Polly' Pollard person who was shot?"

He sighed, but didn't flinch at all. "Not that I know of," he muttered.

"Did they ever find out who shot him?" she pressed.

"I think it was a mob hit. But they haven't nailed down any suspects yet. They probably won't. Polly had more enemies than friends." Joe yawned. "Listen, why don't you take a pill if you can't sleep?"

Sydney didn't take a pill, and she didn't sleep much that night. Three days later, she went to Madison, Wisconsin, to cover a Spam-carving contest. Despite the "wacky" festivities, she was in a somber mood during the two-day trip. She had to fake her frivolity for the contestants and the cameras. All the while she was in Madison, Sydney thought about Polly and this drug raid. She wondered if she could just drop it and choose not to know any more. In order to survive, some husbands and wives turned a blind eye to their spouses' extramarital affairs or crooked--even nefarious--business deals. That was how they stayed married. The trouble was Sydney didn't know if she could be one of those wives.

When Sydney returned home, there was a surprise waiting for her in the family room. Joe put his hands over her eyes, and Eli led her by the hand. And when Joe took his hands away from her eyes, Sydney was watching a scene from Superman Returns on their new big-screen, high-definition TV. "We're going to see Movers & Shakers in HD, sweetheart!" Joe declared. Eli couldn't wait to see Lord of the Rings in HD. But Sydney just stared at the beautiful, sharp picture on that huge, state-of-the-art TV screen and felt sick to her stomach. She knew where the money for it had come from. "Can we afford it?" she murmured.

"No, but I figure it's a tax write-off for you," Joe said. "We'll work it out."

The next day, she neglected the editing and scoring of her Spam-carving piece so she could rifle through Joe's desk and check the e-mail in his computer again. There was nothing. She called Visa; the charge for the TV had gone on their joint card. They had barely enough in their checking account to cover it. Joe wasn't the type to spend money he didn't have. So where was the extra money? Where had he hidden his cut from this drug bust--or correction, this heist that had cost three people their lives? Did he have a secret bank account somewhere?

In her earlier searches she would have noticed a bank passbook or checkbook among Joe's things. So she went through his closet and the pockets of his clothes. Sydney checked under the rug and behind the framed photos in his study. Then it dawned on her: they had the cleanest garage on North Spaulding Avenue. He was always working in there. If Joe needed to hide something from her, the garage was where he'd stash it.

Sydney stormed the place, rifling through his built-in work desk and cabinets. She accidentally yanked one drawer out all the way, spilling a bunch of bolts and screws on the garage floor. But she didn't care. She ransacked the contents of two different toolboxes. In his cabinets, she shoved aside old paint cans to make sure they weren't hiding a bankbook or some incriminating document. "Where is it, Joe?" she kept whispering. "What are you hiding from me?" From the shelves he'd installed, Sydney tossed work gloves, coveralls, and paintbrushes aside so she could get a better look at what might be concealed behind them or beneath them. She scoured through boxes of Christmas decorations, finding nothing.

Dirty and sweating, she paused for a moment and gazed up at the top shelf, where he stored a rolled-up paint tarp. Sydney dragged a ladder over to the shelf and climbed up to reach the tarp. It started to unravel. Frustrated, she finally pushed it off the shelf. The big heavy cloth landed in a heap on the garage floor--around the bottom of the ladder. The shelf was empty now--except for a third toolbox. It looked new. "Oh, no," Sydney murmured, feeling her stomach turn.

Trembling, she took another step up the ladder and grabbed the handle of the tan metal box. It wasn't as heavy as the other two toolboxes she'd examined. She could tell he didn't have any tools in there. Sydney almost tripped on the tarp as she climbed down from the ladder, hauling the metal box with her. Setting the box on the hood of her car, she unfastened the latches. Her hands were shaking as she opened the lid.

Receipts.

He'd stashed old receipts for paint, power tools, and yard equipment in there. Sydney let out a grateful little laugh. It looked like a whole boxful of receipts--until she picked up a few to examine them even closer. That was when she saw part of a twenty-dollar bill under the pile of loose papers. She dug past those old receipts and saw more twenties. There were stacks of them, banded together. "Damn it, Joe," she cried. "Damn it, damn it to hell..."

She didn't count the money. But Sydney estimated there was at least twenty thousand dollars in that metal box.

As she stacked the money back into the metal receptacle, Sydney couldn't stop crying. She covered the stacks of bills with the old receipts. If Joe had the receipts in any kind of special order to detect if someone had gotten into the box, she didn't care. She would tell him tonight that she knew and that their marriage was over.

She couldn't live with this secret. She couldn't look at Joe the same way ever again. He'd once been her hero, and now he was a lying, corrupt cop who let three people die for a little bit of money. And he'd forever ruined three more peoples' lives: his son's, hers, and his own.

Sydney rolled up the heavy tarp and hoisted it back onto the top shelf, once again concealing the metal box. She moved the ladder back to its original spot. Still sobbing, she swept up the bolts and screws she'd spilt from his work desk drawer. Her face was filthy because she kept wiping away tears and snot with her dirty hands.

She wouldn't blow the whistle on her husband. For now, his secret was her awful secret, too. But she wasn't going to stay with him, either. She couldn't be associated in any way with his crime--and neither could Eli. They needed to put as much distance as they could between themselves and him. These thoughts weren't new to Sydney. For the last few weeks, ever since she'd learned of Arthur Pollard's death, she'd tried to prepare herself for this.

But it still devastated her.

Sydney's head was throbbing by the time she wandered out of the garage. In the kitchen, she took three Tylenol, and then glanced at her wristwatch: 4:25. She had to pick up Eli from basketball practice at school in a half hour.

It was strange, walking into their bedroom and undressing to take a shower. Suddenly, the room seemed different somehow, like it wasn't hers anymore.

Even under the warm, pulsating shower, Sydney still didn't feel clean. She turned off the water and began to dry herself. Wrapping the towel around her, she opened the bathroom door, and a shadow swept in front of her. She gasped. Someone was in the bedroom.

Then she saw it was Joe. "My, God, you scared me!" she said, a hand over her heart. "What are you doing here?"

He stood near the foot of their bed in his "plainclothes": blue blazer, tie, and khaki slacks. "We need to talk," he said soberly.

Sydney nodded. "I know. But I have to get dressed, and pick up Eli at school."

"Sharon McKenna's picking up Eli, and taking him back to their place for dinner."

"That's nice," Sydney murmured. She ducked behind the bathroom door, took her pale blue jacquard silk robe off the hook, and put it on. Then she tossed her towel over the shower curtain rod. "It's nice that you're talking to Andy again, too," she said, emerging from the bathroom again. She tied the waist sash of her robe.

"I heard you were asking Sharon at the wedding if she knew about Polly," he said. "That was really careless, Syd."

"I asked you first--several times. I needed an answer."

"All you did was put a big spotlight on the situation," Joe said. "Today, I had to hear from someone that you were sniffing around a Cicero bar, asking questions about Polly."

"Who told you?" she asked, running a hand over her damp hair.

"Never mind," he grumbled. He plopped down on the bed, rubbed his forehead, and sighed. "The point is, you're linking my name with his. You don't know how much damage you're doing, Syd."

"What about the damage you've done, Joe?" she asked, pointedly. "I know about the money. I found it today in the garage--in that metal box you've hidden. It's your cut of that drug-bust swindle, isn't it?"

His mouth open, Joe just stared at her.

Sydney felt tears welling in her eyes. "The minute you took that money, Joe, you ruined our marriage. You ruined this family."

"You don't know the circumstances."

"Fine. Look me in the eye and tell me you've switched to Internal Affairs work and this is all some undercover thing. I'll believe you, Joe. I want to believe you. Tell me this money doesn't have blood on it. Tell me I'm wrong, and in a month or so all of this will be switched around and you're going to be my hero again--instead of some low-life corrupt cop on the take."

He gave her a wounded look. "Is that what you think I am?"

"What am I supposed to think? Every time I've asked you about this sordid business, you've been evasive or you've snapped at me, or you've lied to me. So what really happened, Joe? It can't be any worse than what I've imagined."

He gazed down at the floor, then rubbed his eyes.

"I'm thinking you and the three other cops killed those two guys," Sydney answered for him. "Then you set fire to their van to make it look like an accident--but not until you'd already unloaded the drugs. How much did you get for the cocaine? Did Polly demand a cut? Is that why he was killed?"

"You're not very far off," he said quietly. "Sydney, I didn't know what the other guys were up to until it was too late. If I hadn't gone along with them, they would have shot me right there."

She gazed at him. "Did you kill anybody?"

He turned and looked her in the eye. "No, honey, I didn't."

"How much did they steal?"

"Over half a million's worth," he muttered.

"And how much was your cut?"

"Thirty-two thousand," he answered. "But I wasn't going to spend any of it. You can go look in that metal box again and count it if you want. It's all still there. I'm thinking of anonymously donating the whole wad to charity."

"No, you aren't," she argued. "You might have convinced yourself of that on the surface. But I know you, Joe, and you don't spend money you don't have. We can't afford a big-screen, high-definition TV, but you bought one because you knew you had some money to fall back on in a pinch. You're spending it already, and you don't even know it." She shook her head at him. "Why didn't you just turn around and give the money to Len? He's your superior officer. You trust him. If you were really coerced into this swindle, why didn't you go to Len and explain it to him? Why not go public with this?"

"Believe me, I couldn't," he said, exasperated. "It's too complicated to explain. Once I took that money, I was screwed. But if I hadn't taken it, they would have killed me. Would you rather have me dead right now?"

Sydney just stared at him. He was being evasive again.

He let out a cynical laugh. "Huh, of course you'd rather have me dead. Just think what that would do for your ratings if you were the widow of a murdered cop."

His words stung. She continued to glare at him. "And just think of how fast my career would go down the toilet if news of your involvement in this heist ever got out. Think about Eli, and how this would devastate him." She moved to a stuffed chair in the corner of the room and sat down. Sydney nervously rubbed her leg. She felt her whole body tensing up. "Joe, I--I've been wondering what I should do--if all this was true. I'll keep your secret, but I can't stay with you. I'm sorry, but you crossed a line when you took that money and hid it. You crossed it when you lied to me and made me ashamed of you. This isn't some little scandal. I'd stand by you if it was something like that. But people were killed, Joe. And I--I can't pretend that didn't happen."

He gazed down at the floor. "So what are you going to do? Where will you go?" He shook his head. "Because I'm not moving out of this house, that's for sure."

She was surprised at the sudden anger in his tone. "School ends next week," she said steadily. "I'll take Eli, and we'll stay with my brother in Seattle for a while--at least until I figure out something more permanent."

Joe got to his feet. "You know, this didn't have to happen," he grumbled. "If only you'd kept your fucking mouth shut and believed in me. You never gave a crap about my work until this. And now, thanks to your snooping around, they're breathing down my neck. These guys have it out for me. But go ahead, desert me, sweetheart. Hell, I'm used to it. Maybe if you were home for a change while all this shit was going down, I might have had some support. Maybe I wouldn't be in this bind right now."

Sydney stood up. "Don't try to blame this on me--"

"Why wait until next week to leave?" he yelled. He flung open her closet door, then yanked her two suitcases off the shelf. "Why don't you find yourself a nice hotel tonight, huh?" He flung her suitcases on the bed. "Start packing. I don't want to see any of your shit in here tonight. Anything you leave behind I'll throw in the fucking garbage. And don't worry about Eli. You never did before. I'll call the McKennas and ask them to put him up for the night. Then he can stay with you tomorrow, and he'll see what it's like to be on the road with his mom for a change."

She moved toward him. "Joe, stop being this way. Don't you think--"

But she didn't finish. He hauled back his fist and hit her across the face.

The blow sent Sydney flying back, and she slammed into the dresser. She landed in a heap on the floor. Stunned, she couldn't see anything for a few moments. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Her head felt like it was going to explode, and then the side of her face started throbbing.

Sydney caught her breath and blinked a few times until he came into focus.

Joe stood over her, his hand still clenched in a fist. But he had such a tormented look on his face, she thought he might start crying. Tears welled in his eyes, and he shook visibly. "Just get out," he whispered.

Then he turned and stomped out of the bedroom.

Sydney did what Joe told her to do. She packed two suitcases and two boxes and spent the night at a Holiday Inn. She phoned Kyle and asked if she and Eli could stay with him the following week. Kyle kept saying she sounded terrible, and Sydney admitted that Joe had hit her. She didn't tell him anything else.

She refilled her ice bucket twice--for the homemade cold compresses she applied to her face most of the night. Not surprisingly, she didn't sleep well. She was worried about Eli and how his parents separating would destroy the poor kid. He wouldn't want to leave Joe. They were so close.

At one point in the evening, Sydney finally got out of bed and wandered to the window. She pushed the curtain aside a bit and peered outside at her car, parked just a few feet away. Three spaces down from that was Joe's Honda Civic. Sydney wasn't sure why he was there. Did he plan to kick down her door and beat her up some more? He'd never hurt her before tonight. It was like he was a different man. She didn't know what he might do.

The light from the green Holiday Inn sign illuminated the front seat of his Civic. He sat at the wheel, looking miserable and staring off in another direction. Even in the distance, she could tell he was crying.

He wasn't there when she woke up in the morning. But his older sister, Helen, was. A stocky brunette with a pretty face, Helen was divorced, and lived in Evanston with her twin seventeen-year-old sons. Sydney liked Helen, despite her habit of telling everyone what to do. "You and Eli are staying with me and the boys until you work this thing out with Joe," she announced in the doorway of Sydney's hotel room.

"Oh, Helen, I don't think Joe and I have much chance of working things out," she admitted. Her hair a mess and her face badly bruised, Sydney was still in her robe. "How did you know where to find me?"

"Joe told me. He isn't a detective for nothing. So you'll stay with us until you come up with Plan B, whatever that is. I won't take no for an answer. Eli should be with you right now, but not here in some hotel. He should be with family. The boys will keep him entertained and distracted. If you're moving out of the house, I'll help you find some movers who aren't going to rip you off."

Sydney squinted at her. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you and Eli are family," Helen answered matter-of-factly. "And my kid brother is acting like a dickhead--if I can borrow a term my boys overuse. I hope you slugged him back."

The temporary living arrangement with Joe's sister and her teenage sons should have been awkward, but it was oddly ideal for everyone. Eli had his cool older cousins to help buffer the blow of his parents' impending separation. They'd been through it before when Helen had thrown their dad out of the house for the final time three years before. Eli asked his mother about her bruised left cheek, which makeup didn't quite conceal. She told her son that she'd run into a door, and he believed her.

Between Joe's visiting Eli at Helen's house, and Sydney's trips back and forth as she finished all the packing at North Spaulding Avenue, running into each other was unavoidable. Other people were usually around, so Sydney and Joe were civil to each other. But every time she saw him, he looked so forlorn.

"Let him suffer," her sister-in-law advised her.

Sydney didn't tell Helen the reason she'd decided to leave Joe. She had a hunch that perhaps her sister-in-law already knew. It didn't really matter. Sydney was grateful to Helen for helping her survive that miserable week in limbo.

Sydney had moved all of her things out of the North Spaulding house--along with everything that originally belonged to her family. Eli had taken about forty percent of his stuff, mostly things he would need over the summer. Unlike her, Eli would be coming back for visits--court appointed, once they'd started divorce proceedings.

"We haven't discussed divorce yet," Joe had written in that awful letter she'd received today. "And I hope we can keep the situation status quo for a few more weeks. I need this break from you and Eli..."

Sydney took another sip of pinot grigio from the Speed Racer jelly glass. She stared at the headlights of cars on the 520 floating bridge in the distance. A cool wind came off the lake. She touched the side of her face that had been black and blue for several days back in May. For a while, she'd thought it would never stop hurting.

That damn letter. Eli obviously knew where she'd stashed it. She'd caught him prying into that breakfront drawer earlier tonight. It was what had started this latest fracas.

Getting to her feet, Sydney carried her glass of wine inside, then closed and double-locked the kitchen door. She stepped into her office and switched on her computer. It always took a moment to warm up; so she headed into the dining room. She dug Joe's letter from the built-in breakfront's bottom drawer, then returned to her little office and sat down in front of the computer. Her new e-mail messages popped up: a bunch of spam from Macy's, AOL, Amazon.com, and others, and what looked like a fan e-mail: "Thank You" from prettylizg@gilfordcorp.com.

She deleted the spam e-mail, then glanced at Joe's letter again. She could understand him not wanting to see her, but why brush off poor Eli, who adored him?

Sydney ripped up the letter. She was about to toss the torn pieces away in the trash can by her desk, but hesitated. She imagined Eli going through her trash later, finding the scraps and taping them back together again--only to discover that his beloved dad needed a break from him.

Leaving the scraps of Joe's letter on the corner of her desk, she decided to toss them in the garbage outside after she checked her e-mail. She clicked her mouse to open up the thank-you message:

Dear Sydney,

It was so thoughtful of you to send those beautiful flowers. I m still in shock over Angela's death. It hasn't sunk in yet that my sweet older sister is gone. I got the terrible news late Tuesday night, and your flowers arrived the very next afternoon, before anyone else's condolences. The roses were perfect. They were Angie s favorite flower. Thank you for your kindness.

Yours Very Truly,

Elizabeth Gannon Grogen

PS: I found your business card among Angie s things, and it only had your e-mail. Please forgive the e-mail Thank You, but I didn't have your regular address.

Baffled, Sydney had no idea who Elizabeth Grogen was. It took her a moment to connect her to Angela Gannon, the paralegal who had talked that suicidal man in from the fourteenth-story ledge of her office building in Chicago.

"Angela's dead?" She reread her sister's e-mail, but there was no mention of how Angela had passed away.

It had happened again--another one of her Movers & Shakers people had died suddenly, and someone had sent flowers to a surviving family member, signing her name on the card.

When she'd read that note from the Dvoraks, thanking her for a flower arrangement she didn't send, Sydney had assumed they were confused. But no, obviously someone with the network must have been sending these flowers for her. It was strange they hadn't notified her about what they were doing on her behalf.

Sydney's fingers worked furiously over the keyboard. She went to Google, and typed in the keywords Angela Gannon Chicago death. Several articles appeared. "Oh, God, no," she whispered, covering her mouth as she read the first search result:

The Chicago Tribune - Front Page News

Woman Plunges to Death from...Victim Had Intervened...Chicago: Dominique...The victim was Angela Gannon, 31, a paralegal at a law firm on the 14th floor...www.chicagotribune.co/news/womanplunges/070908-14k

She clicked on the search engine, and anxiously read the article. The date was July 8th, last Wednesday, the same afternoon her flowers were delivered to Elizabeth Gannon Grogen's front door.

WOMAN PLUNGES TO HER DEATH FROM 14TH FLOOR OF MICHIGAN AVE. OFFICE BUILDING

Victim Had Intervened with a Suicidal Coworker at the Same Window 9 Months Ago

CHICAGO : Dominique Chandler, 26, was talking with a friend, Zackary Ross, 24, outside the Dexter Building on Michigan Avenue at 10:20 Tuesday night when they heard a scream from above. "We both looked up and saw this thing hurtling down at us," said Chandler. "It took me a moment to realize I was looking at a human being, a woman. It was as if the poor thing just fell out of the sky. Then her body hit the sidewalk curb with an awful thud. It was terrible."

The victim was Angela Gannon, 31, a paralegal at Gaines, McCourt and Weymiller, a law firm on the 14th floor of the building. Investigators on the scene discovered Gannon's purse beside an open window in the law office. No suicide note was found.

Just eight months ago, on November 14, Gannon had intervened when a disgruntled coworker had attempted to jump from a ledge outside that same 14th floor window. She managed to talk the man into climbing back inside, a feat that won her brief national attention when the story was profiled in a "Movers & Shakers" segment for the primetime TV newsmagazine, "On the Edge."

"I worked alongside Angela all day on Tuesday, and she was in a great mood," said Margarita Donovan, a coworker and friend. "I have a difficult time believing only hours later, she took her own life." Police are questioning another friend, Kent Blazenvich, 36, who had drinks with Gannon in the bar at a nearby Houlihan's Restaurant. Gannon left the bar alone at 9:40. Blazenvich remained there until approximately 11:30...

Sydney read the article, hoping to find something more conclusive about Angela's bizarre death. Obviously, at press time, the police hadn't yet determined if it was a murder or suicide. They'd discovered Angela's car in the Dexter Building's underground parking garage, and it had been vandalized. Sydney wondered if this business with the car might have somehow triggered Angela's suicide. Sydney had sunk into horrible moods over less; sometimes one little thing could push a person over the edge, and a vandalized car was a pretty big deal.

Sydney had interviewed Angela back in November but hadn't corresponded with her since then. Still, she'd liked Angela's sense of humor. She had a lot of panache--and probably a lot of boyfriends, too. Had one of them been angry enough about her date that night with Kent Blazenvich that he'd vandalized Angela's car, dragged her up to the fourteenth floor of the Dexter Building, and hurled her out a window?

Clicking back a page on the Internet, Sydney tried to find another article on Angela's death that would give more information or an update of some kind. But none of the other articles offered anything new. Each story carried that same quote from the woman who had seen Angela's body plummet: "It was as if the poor thing just fell out of the sky."

Sydney rubbed her forehead, then switched off the computer. It was strange--first Leah and Jared, and now Angela Gannon. They'd died--violently--only four days apart. And their deaths, as far as she knew, were still unsolved.

Sighing, Sydney got to her feet and collected Joe's torn-up letter from her desktop. With the scraps of paper clutched in her fist, she wandered to the back door and unlocked it. She was thinking about Angela and Jared and Leah. Those kind of tragedies always happened in threes. Was that already three, or would someone else die?

A light breeze came off the lake as she stepped outside. The lid to the garbage can was stuck, and she had to jostle it a bit before she could open it.

"Oh, shit," Sydney whispered, startled. She'd forgotten about the dead robin in there. It must have rolled out of the paper towels when she'd moved the garbage can lid. Now the poor dead thing lay there in the moonlight.

Sydney still wondered how the dead bird had ended up on her pillow. She tossed the scraps of Joe's letter into the garbage. Then she very gingerly picked out a sheet of the paper towel and covered up the frail little feathered corpse again.

"Poor thing," she said to herself.

Then she thought of Angela, and a chill raced through her.

"It was as if the poor thing just fell out of the sky."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sydney frowned at her slightly puffy reflection in the bathroom medicine chest mirror. This is what you get for that third glass of pinot grigio last night, she thought. She'd already gone downstairs and started up the Mr. Coffee machine. She'd also phoned the network.

George Camper was a head honcho in publicity. Forwarding fan letters and handling special requests were among his department's responsibilities. If someone from the network had sent Elizabeth Grogen and the Dvoraks flowers on her behalf, George would have known about it.

But the network was operating with a Sunday skeletal staff this morning, and nobody knew anything. They'd given her George's home phone number. Sydney had called there and left a message.

With her hair pulled back in a scrunchie, Sydney put some Visine drops in her eyes and then washed her face. She was still haunted by the thought she'd had last night--that perhaps there was a connection between the dead robin on her pillow and Angela's bizarre death.

Drying off her face, she heard the water dripping and glanced over at the sink. The hollow dripping sound wasn't coming from there. She gazed at the closed shower curtain with the map of the world on it. The curtain billowed in and out slightly--almost as if it were breathing. The dripping sound got steadier--then abruptly stopped. Sydney pulled back the curtain and saw the beaded water drops around the tub's drain. One last drop clung to the faucet. Suddenly, something crept out of the drain.

Sydney gasped and bumped into the sink as she recoiled. It took her a moment to realize it was a medium-size spider. But the black crawly thing had still scared the hell out of her. With a shaky hand, she gathered up some toilet paper, then swiped up the spider and flushed it down the toilet. She gave it a second flush, just to be sure.

She wondered if maybe that dead bird had more to do with this creepy town house than with Angela Gannon's death.

Opening the bathroom door, she hadn't expected to see anyone, and there stood Eli in his pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. Sydney gasped. "Good God, Eli, you scared the you-know-what out of me."

"Sorry," he muttered sleepily.

She caught her breath. At least he was talking to her now.

"You done in there?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

She nodded, but remained in the bathroom doorway. "Are we okay?"

"I guess so," Eli replied. "Sorry about dropping those f-bombs on you last night."

She let out a stunned little laugh. "You're just lucky you didn't end up with a mouthful of Dial. I've never heard you use that kind of language." She patted his shoulder. "Anyway, I'm sorry I accused you of putting that bird on my bed. It really unnerved me to find it there. Maybe that sort of thing happens when you live this close to the water--or in a friggin' haunted house."

Eli cracked a smile. "So friggin' is okay to use?"

She kissed his forehead. "Only in front of me--and sparingly. Anyway, we're all forgiven, right?"

Eli nodded, then he slid his arms around her. "I called Dad last night," he said. With his face in her shoulder, his voice was slightly muffled. "He told me you tried to get Brad and Tim out here for a visit. Thanks for trying, Mom."

Sydney held him tightly. "Well, I'm sorry I wasn't able to pull it off."

After a few moments, Eli squirmed a little. "Mom, I got to pee."

She pulled away and mussed his hair. "How about homemade waffles for breakfast? I haven't broken out the waffle iron in months."

"Sounds good, Mom," Eli replied, ducking into the bathroom.

Sydney's first attempt at making a waffle in three months was a disaster. One side was burnt black, the other side nearly raw. She unplugged the waffle iron. "Eli?" she called. "Honey, a little delay to breakfast! It'll be about another fifteen minutes."

"No sweat!" Eli answered from upstairs. "Don't knock yourself out, Mom, because I really don't think..." She couldn't hear the rest, because his voice was fading, and the phone rang.

She checked the caller ID and saw it was George Camper, calling back. She grabbed the cordless. "Hello, George?"

"Hi, Sydney."

"Thanks for getting back to me. Sorry to bother you at home."

"No problem, Sydney. What can I do for you?"

"I wasn't sure if you knew anything about this or not, but last week this couple from Movers & Shakers, Leah Dvorak and Jared McGinty, the ones who stopped the robbery at the Thai restaurant--"

"Yeah, I heard they were murdered," George finished for her. "That's just awful. What a tragedy..."

"Yes, well, last night I found out Angela Gannon committed suicide, at least the police seem to think it might have been a suicide. She's the woman I interviewed who talked that man out of jumping from that office building ledge in Chicago."

"Oh, sure, I remember that story. The girl's dead?"

"Yes," Sydney said. "You didn't know?"

"No, I hadn't heard anything, Sydney. God, that's terrible. In one week, you lost three of your Movers & Shakers people. Were you--um, thinking about doing some kind of posthumous tribute or something?"

"No." Sydney hesitated. He'd already answered her question: he didn't know about Angela's death. Still, she had to ask. "Listen, George, do you think someone in your office might have sent flowers to the Dvoraks and to Angela's sister on my behalf?"

"I'm not sure I understand, Sydney."

"I've gotten notes from the Dvoraks and Angela's sister, thanking me for the flowers--and I didn't send any. Do you think someone in your department--or any other department--might have sent flowers to these people and signed my name on the card?"

"Not in my department," George replied. "I can't think of anyone at the network who would have done that. The folks in Legal have names and addresses on file from when your interview subjects sign the waivers making sure we don't get sued. But I really doubt anyone in Legal sent the next of kin flowers. Besides, they wouldn't have the addresses of the relatives."

"No, of course they wouldn't," Sydney heard herself say.

"Is there anything else I could do for you, Sydney?"

Numb, Sydney sat down at the tall cafe table in the corner of her kitchen. If no one from the network had sent flowers in her name to the Dvoraks and Angela's sister, then who had? Who would have the addresses of the deceased's relatives?

"Sydney, are you still there?"

"Yes, George," she said. "Um, thanks for your help."

"No worries," he said. "I'm sorry about your Movers & Shakers friends. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

"I will. Thanks, George," she murmured. Then Sydney clicked off the phone.

She sat there in a stupor for a moment until she could smell bacon burning. She put down the cordless phone, quickly got to her feet, and hurried to the stove. "Eli!" she called, removing the bacon from the grill with a set of tongs. "We're having our bacon extra crisp! Is that okay with you?"

There was no response from upstairs.

"Honey? Eli?"

Switching off the stove, she headed up the hallway to the foyer. Sydney stopped abruptly when she saw a piece of paper taped to the banister newel post:

I didn't want to bug you while you're on the phone. I decided to go to the beach like I was telling you. I'll get something to eat at the bakery. Be back around 3.

Love, Eli.

Dressed in khaki shorts, gym shoes, and a white T-shirt that had CHICAGO POLICE and their insignia on it, Eli carried a backpack as he shuffled along the sidewalk. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and Madison Park beach was a mob scene. A few boom boxes competed with the ice cream truck that played "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" over and over. Eli couldn't see any grass on the sloping lawn leading down to the water--just blankets and people, lots of nearly naked people. He noticed one cute teenage girl in a yellow bikini that he liked. She was doing a sexy little dance and squealing--very loudly. Then he saw she had a cigarette in her hand, and he decided between the squealing and the smoking, she was probably a jerk. So Eli moved on, bypassing the beach--even though in his backpack he had a beach blanket, his trunks, and a tube of sunblock.

Passing restaurants, shops, and then the bakery, he walked to the bus stop. His timing was perfect. Eli could see the Number 11 coming up the street. He dug into his pocket for bus fare and Vera Cormier's Christmas card.

The bus came to a stop in front of him and then the door whooshed open. Eli stepped aboard, and dropped his fare into the receptacle. He showed the bus driver Vera's Christmas theme return address sticker on the envelope. "I need to go to this address," Eli said. "Could you tell me where I should transfer and on what line?"

The driver was a thin black woman in her late thirties. She had auburn hair and wore sunglasses. "Sure, handsome," she said with a smile. "Just park it right behind me there in the handicapped area, and I'll tell you what to do. I know that place. It's nice. Visiting a grandparent?"

A dark-skinned man with a green Izod polo shirt and sunglasses stepped in after him. The man threw some money into the machine and then brushed past Eli. He took a seat near the back of the bus.

Eli glanced at him for a moment before he sat down in the handicapped area. "Um, yes," he said to the driver, as the bus started moving again. "I'm visiting my grandmother. And I've never been there before."

Eli had called Evergreen Point Manor early this morning, while his mother had been downstairs in her office. He'd asked if Vera Cormier still lived there. The operator had told him yes, and would he like to be connected to her extension?

"Um, no thanks," Eli had whispered into the phone. "I'd like to surprise her. How--um, how's she doing, by the way?" He'd imagined going all that way to meet with some loopy old lady who couldn't even talk. "Is she okay?"

"Vera? Oh, Vera's great. She'll outlive us all."

Eli had thanked the operator, then hung up. It might have been easier to talk with the old lady on the phone, but he remembered something his mother had told him about interviewing people. She'd said online and phone interviews were okay in a pinch, but it was best to do it in person, one-on-one.

He glanced around at some of the other passengers on the bus, and his gazed stopped on the man with the green shirt seated near the back. He looked so familiar. With his dark hair and olive complexion, he looked like an Italian actor in The Sopranos.

Gazing at him, Eli remembered something else his mother had said--about her stalker. He was an olive-skinned man, possibly Latino, medium build, and with an eye infection of some sort. This guy on the bus still had on his sunglasses. He wasn't wearing a Felix Hernandez Mariners shirt, but otherwise the guy totally fit the description of this stalker.

Eli kept studying the man, who stared out the bus window. Eli hadn't seen the guy in the Mariners number 59 shirt yesterday. So why did this man on the bus seem so familiar?

Suddenly, the man turned and faced him.

Eli quickly looked away. He remembered him now: the man he'd almost collided with at the fun fair, the one who stood and stared at him. For a while, Eli had thought the guy was following him. He'd even screamed at someone else in a beige top, thinking it had been that man. Then he'd realized his mistake and figured if that man had indeed been following him, he must have given up.

Eli stole a glance at the stranger near the back of the bus, and he realized something.

The man hadn't given up at all.

"MARCO...POLO! MARCO...POLO!" The kids were screaming in the shallow water near the shore. Shrieking, flailing their arms, another swarm of wet children raced by her, and she was sprinkled with water.

Sydney wandered along the shore, looking at all the swimmers, as well as the sunbathers on the grass. The beach was packed, but she didn't see Eli anywhere. There had been a few false alarms, boys who looked like Eli from behind or at a distance, but no Eli.

Craning her neck, Sydney stood on her tiptoes for a better look at a large raft tied to poles in the deep water. It was crammed with people, many of them standing in line to use one of the two diving boards. She couldn't tell from here if Eli was among them.

"Attention, swimmers!" a lifeguard announced into a bullhorn. He got up from the little bench on his observation perch. "Eli McCloud, please report to the lifeguard station at the beach house. Eli McCloud, please report to the lifeguard station at the beach house."

Sydney waved and mouthed thank you to the lifeguard, and he waved back at her. Then she threaded around all the blankets and sunbathers over toward the beach house. If only she'd caught a glimpse of Eli as he'd left the apartment. Then she would have known which pair of swim trunks he had on, and it might have been easier to spot him.

She felt so frustrated--and anxious. She couldn't really be angry at Eli for leaving the way he had. Obviously, when he'd called down to her while she'd been on the phone, he must have said something about skipping the big breakfast for this beach trip. Why wasn't she listening to him?

She'd warned Eli last night about her stalker. But he hadn't taken her too seriously. And why should he have? He didn't know she was worried about more than just this stranger in a Mariners number 59 T-shirt.

In his note, he'd said he would return at three o'clock. That was two and a half hours from now.

Standing by the lifeguard station, Sydney shielded her eyes from the sun. She scanned all the faces and body types, thinking there was still a chance she'd see Eli. She kept hoping that he'd emerge from the crowd and come toward her.

But she had an awful feeling Eli wasn't anywhere near here.

Eli waited for the swarthy man in the green shirt to take off his sunglasses. He wanted to see if one of his eyes was infected. But the man's glasses stayed on.

Eli remembered a ValuCo price tag had been sticking out of the sleeve of the guy's beige jacket at the fun fair yesterday. Obviously the guy had picked it up in a hurry so he could cover his Mariners 59 T-shirt. Maybe he'd grabbed the baseball cap, too; anything to alter his appearance--just in case his target had started to catch on to him.

The closer they got to downtown Seattle, the more the bus filled up, and now people were standing. The bus driver announced they were in a free-ride zone, and people started getting on and off through a door closer to where that man sat--as well as the one up front.

No one had asked Eli to give up the handicap seat, thank God. He'd been able to sit there while the driver told him where to transfer for the bus to Evergreen Point Manor.

A woman in the back pulled the Stop cord for the driver. Eli watched her get out of her seat and waddle over to the bus's back door. Eli stood up. "This isn't your stop yet, honey," the driver told him.

"I know," Eli whispered. He held onto a pole and leaned close to her. "There a creepy guy in a green shirt back there. He's got sunglasses on. I think he's been following me."

Her eyes searched in the rearview mirror. "Looks normal enough," she said. "What--is he a pervert or something? Want me to radio it in?"

"No, but I'd really like to lose him."

As she pulled over to the next stop, Eli moved closer to the door. Casually glancing back, he saw the man get to his feet. He shuffled past a few passengers in the aisle, then stood behind the woman at the back door.

No one was at the stop as the bus ground to a halt. And no one stood behind Eli at the front door. It whooshed open. He took another step toward the door, then crouched down and turned to the driver. "Has that guy stepped off yet?" he whispered.

Her focus shifted up to the rearview mirror. She kept one hand on the door lever. "One second...okay..."

Eli heard that whoosh sound again, and the doors closed right behind him. He felt the draft on the back of his legs.

Grinning, the bus driver started to pull into traffic. The man in the green shirt pounded on the rear door to get back in. Eli spied him through the window. He looked so pissed off. He was running alongside the bus.

"Hey, stop!" yelled a woman passenger. "Stop, driver! Somebody wants to get on!"

The driver picked up speed. "Like the song says, 'It's Too Late, Baby!'"

"Thank you," Eli whispered, and he returned to his seat.

The transfer stop to the Number 41 was only a few blocks from where they'd ditched the creepy guy in the green shirt. So while Eli waited in the bus shelter, he kept a lookout for the strange man. He felt bad for not taking his mom more seriously when she'd said she might have a stalker. But his mom was wrong about one thing: this weird guy wasn't stalking her; he was stalking him.

The bus driver on the Number 41 wasn't nearly as nice as the lady driver on the Number 11. He was a pasty-faced guy in his forties. When Eli asked if this was the bus to Evergreen Point Manor, the driver nodded tiredly. "Your stop's Northeast 125th. You'll walk three blocks north from there."

"Um, how will I know if--"

"I'll announce it," he interrupted. "You got about twenty minutes. Take a seat."

Eli did as he was told. He found an empty seat. But at the first stop on I-5, the bus filled up with a score of noisy, obnoxious teenagers who kept screaming and laughing. A big woman with BO ended up sitting next to him, and she talked loudly on her cell phone the whole time. It was all Eli could do not to rip it out of her hand and hurl it out the window. The noise died down when most of the people got off at Northgate Shopping Mall. His stop was two stops later.

It was an industrial park area bordering on a big forest. The buildings housed medical and dental offices, as well as some insurance company branches. Every building looked the same: cold, sterile, and boring--each with a big parking lot. Eli couldn't find Evergreen Court Northeast. He wandered around for fifteen minutes until he saw a bus pull into another parking area beyond some trees. Then he noticed the big stone slab with raised lettering on it at the edge of the lot:

EVERGREEN POINT MANOR

A Seniors Community Since 1998

There was also a sunflower carved in the stone. That must have been their symbol, because the same sunflower was stenciled on the orange awning over the front door. The drab three-story building was beige with tan trim and a lot of balconies--probably with views of the boring industrial park. A couple of woman with walkers slowly lumbered toward the front entrance. Eli was amazed to see one bundled up in a sweatsuit, and the other had a sweater on--in this warm weather. Two elderly men sat on a bench by the door. One wore a hat and a sweater; his buddy appeared to have dressed for a golf game, only his shirt was inside out and he held onto a cane. "Hey there, sport!" the hat-wearing old man on the bench called to him. His friend with the cane waved and smiled.

Eli was waiting for the two ladies with walkers to make it through the door, which opened automatically. He smiled and waved back to the guy on the bench. "Hi, how are you?"

"Finer than frog's hair!" he replied. "And it's a beautiful day!"

When the old ladies finally made it inside, they turned and smiled at him and said hello. They seemed nice and so happy to see him. It was weird being in this strange place in a city he still wasn't used to. This whole trip had been pretty scary. He felt so grateful for the friendly smiles. He even started to tear up a little, and he wasn't sure why.

At the front counter, there was a sign, BINGO 2-NITE! 6:30--ACTIVITIES ROOM. Beside it was a Latino woman with shoulder-length hair and orange scrubs that had the sunflower logo on it. She smiled at Eli and asked if he needed any help.

"Yes, I'm here to see Vera Cormier," he said.

She reached for the phone. "I'll see. I doubt she's in her suite."

Eli's heart sank a little. Had he come all this way for nothing?

"Are you Vera's grandson?" the young woman asked. She had the phone to her ear. "I didn't think Vera had any kids."

"Um, my mom's a friend of hers," Eli lied.

She hung up the phone. "No answer." She turned toward the doorway to a room behind her. "Hey, Noreen, have you seen Vera? She isn't in her digs. Do you know where she might be?"

"Three guesses!" called the woman from the back room.

The pretty receptionist nodded, then smiled at Eli. "She's in the garden, honey--"

"You guessed it," said the woman from the back room.

The receptionist told Eli to go straight down the hall to another set of doors that led outside. The garden was just to the right of the flagpole. He couldn't miss it.

As Eli headed down the corridor, a slightly putrid smell filled his nostrils. He passed a few people in wheelchairs parked in the hallway. Some of them were in their robes or nightclothes, and they looked pretty out of it.

He breathed easier outside. The lawn in back was bordered by the forest. A winding path snaked through the yard and the garden area. Several benches flanked the path, most of them occupied by the elderly residents. A few nurses in scrubs were pushing folks in wheelchairs.

Eli headed to the garden, dense and cluttered with tall plants, flowers, and blooming bushes. Someone had set a bunch of different lawn ornaments in the garden--a birdbath, a fake deer, a couple of gnomes, a Cupid, and even a small replica of the Statue of Liberty. It reminded Eli of a miniature golf course.

A blond woman was on her knees at the edge of the garden, planting some pink, purple, and white flowers. She wore a straw hat and gardening gloves. On the back of her tan sweatshirt was a drawing of some flowers over the words: COMPOST HAPPENS.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Eli said, approaching her. "Are you Vera?"

The sweet-looking old lady turned and gaped up at him. "Am I under arrest?" she asked.

Eli was confused for a moment, then he looked down at his CHICAGO POLICE T-shirt. "Oh, um, no."

"Well, that's a relief," she said, with a grin. Holding the hoe, she dabbed her brow with her sleeve. "For a minute there I thought I'd forgotten to pay a parking ticket back in 1973 or something. Do I know you, dear?"

"No, we--we haven't met," Eli said, a bit nervously.

Setting down the hoe, she took off a gardening glove and held out her hand to him. "Well, I'm Vera, resident tiller of the soil here."

Eli shook her hand. "I'm Eli. I--um, I like your garden a lot."

She frowned at the fake deer. "Personally, I think some of this tacky stuff can go, but I've been outvoted. These new petunias ought to be nice. They're such a cheery flower." She looked him up and down, then smiled. "Eli, that's a nice name. So what did you want to see me about, Eli?"

"I live in the Tudor Court Apartments with my mom," he said. "We moved in about five weeks ago. We're in apartment number nine."

The smile ran away from her face. "Oh."

"We've had some pretty weird things happen in there." Eli squatted down so they were face-to-face. "We figured out the place is haunted. I hear this woman killed her son in there, and then she shot herself. I was talking to the caretaker, Larry, and he said you were living next door in number ten when it happened."

A slightly pained look on her face, she nodded again. "How is Larry? Does he still have the canary?"

"Yeah," Eli said. "Larry's fine."

"A nice man," Vera said. "Bit of an odd duck, but a nice man and a hard worker."

Eli could tell she didn't want to talk about the murder-suicide. She was changing the subject on him. "Anyway," he said. "I was hoping you could tell me something about what happened with that woman and her son. No one seems to know what really went on. No one even remembers their names and when it happened."

With a long sigh, the old woman glanced down at the box with three more petunias in plastic pots. The rest of the box held empty pots. "You know, these petunias can tolerate a lot of heat," she said. "But this afternoon sun is a bit strong for yours truly. Why don't we sit over there in the shade?" Pulling off her other work glove and dropping it on the ground, Vera nodded toward a nearby bench--beneath a sycamore tree. "First, help an old lady up. These knees aren't what they used to be."

Eli took her by the arm and helped her up from the kneeling pad at the garden's edge. He noticed she had some trouble walking, and she clung to him until they sat down on the bench. "Whew!" she said, taking off her hat and fanning herself. "So--you want to hear about Loretta and her boy?"

"Loretta? That was the mother's name?" Eli asked, sitting beside her.

Vera nodded, then she squinted at him. "Say, why don't you just look up all of this on the Internet World Wide Web or whatever?"

Eli shrugged. "Because I don't know their names--or when it happened."

She stopped fanning herself with her hat. Her mouth twisted into a frown. "You know, Eli, you and your mother should just find another place to live. Ever since Loretta and her son died there, something's been wrong with that apartment."

"Do you remember the son's name--and how old he was?"

She nodded. "He was about your age, fifteen."

"I'm going to be thirteen soon."

She smiled at him. "Well, you're very mature for your age. Earl, he was a young fifteen."

"Earl," he repeated. The Ouija board had said that the boy's name was Carl and he was fourteen--just one letter and one year off.

"You remind me of him," Vera said. "Your names are similar, too, Earl and Eli. He was a good-looking boy, too, and very sweet."

"What was their last name?" Eli asked. "Do you remember?"

She nodded. "Sayers, Loretta and Earl Sayers." She slowly fanned herself with her hat again. "They moved to Tudor Court in July 1974. Loretta had just left her husband, an older man who lived in--um, Magnolia, I think. And he had some older children from a first wife who died." She ran her bony fingers over her mouth. "I can't for the life of me remember his name. He and Loretta weren't married for very long. His name wasn't Sayers. That was the name Loretta went back to. Earl was her son from a previous marriage, this Sayers fellow. I don't know what happened there."

"What was she like?" Eli asked.

"Oh, she was a very beautiful girl--or I should say, woman. She was in her late thirties and a bit withdrawn--moody at times. Maybe she was just lonely. I never saw her with a friend or a boyfriend."

"What about Earl?" Eli asked. "Did he have any friends?"

"Only one that I ever saw, but he was over quite a lot," she answered. "I forget his name, but he was a little older than Earl. He had to be at least sixteen, because he usually drove over, and ended up blocking my car in the garage. It really got my goat, the way he'd just leave his car right in front of mine for hours on end. I don't know how many times I had to call Loretta and ask Earl's friend to move his silly car..."

"When did they die?" Eli asked. "Do you remember?"

"November, that same year," she replied. "The shot woke me up. It was around three in the morning. I thought someone had lit off a rocket-bottle on the beach."

"Bottle rocket," Eli said. "Did you call the police?"

Vera shook her head. "No, but the next morning, her husband came by--I don't think they'd officially divorced yet. He got the super to let him in, and they found Loretta and Earl upstairs. A lot of people talked about how the murder-suicide looked staged. I don't see how they could say anything like that, because the police sealed off that place right away. So no one saw anything in there except for the authorities. But there was some gossip that maybe the husband had murdered them both, only he'd set it up to look as if Loretta had killed Earl and then herself. I suppose I did as much to fan those flames. The police asked me about him. He visited there quite a lot, especially during the first month or so. It was late summer, and with the windows open, I could hear them arguing. For such a quiet little thing, Loretta's voice sure got loud at times. I'd hear her screaming at him on the phone sometimes, too. I got the distinct impression he didn't want to let her go--at least, not without a fight. And fight, they did."

"Did you ever hear him threaten her?" Eli asked.

Vera let out a little laugh. "You sound just like the police." She pointed to his T-shirt, "You look like one, too. Well, Eli, I'll tell you what I told them. I tried not to eavesdrop, but it wasn't easy when their voices were coming right through my window. I never once heard him threaten her. But some of the other neighbors, I guess they heard differently, because the newspapers at the time reported he'd threatened to kill her on more than one occasion."

Vera glanced up at the darkening sky as the sun went behind a cloud. "The police couldn't find enough evidence to make a case against the husband. But that didn't stop people from gossiping. If you ask me, I believe the official story. Loretta seemed to have a lot of emotional problems. I think she slit her son's throat while he was sleeping. The newspapers said she even tucked him in afterward. Then she got undressed, got into the bath, and shot herself through the head." She shuddered. "Well, there's just no polite way to talk about it, is there?"

Eli just nodded. He felt a little numb. He didn't know what to say.

"So--you've been having some strange problems in the upstairs bathroom," Vera said. "Am I right?"

"In my room, too," Eli murmured.

"Oh, of course, that only makes sense. All the different people who have moved in and out of that apartment always reported strange goings-on in the upstairs bath. But most of them used Earl's room as a guest room, and they wouldn't have been in there very much." She patted his arm. "You poor boy, having to stay in that room where Earl--" She shook her head. "Well, I've talked too much."

"No, I asked to hear it." Eli put his hand on top of hers. "Thank you."

She nudged him. "You and your mom shouldn't be living there."

"Right now, I'm trying to get her to move back to Chicago," he admitted. "But I don't think it's working."

Vera glanced up at the sky again. "Looks like we're losing our sun. And I've been sitting down too long." She was a bit unsteady as she got to her feet. Eli tried to take her arm, but she pulled away. "Nope, thank you, dear, but I need to walk on my own."

He walked alongside her until she reached the garden's edge. "I'm moving like molasses in January, I know." She groaned as she got down on the kneepad. "It's no fun getting old, but it beats the alternative."

"Thanks for talking with me," Eli said.

"I hope you don't have nightmares thanks to me," Vera said. She put her gardening gloves back on. "Come back any time, Earl."

He balked. "Um..." He was about to say, 'I'm Eli,' but instead, he just said good-bye to the nice lady. Then he walked away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dear Elizabeth,

I really enjoyed working with Angela on Movers & Shakers last November. Spending time with your sister and getting to know her was a lovely experience. She had such a wonderful spirit. I was so sorry to hear about her death. In my book, she was a true hero and a very special human being.

I got your kind e-mail today. I'm glad the flowers arrived. Do you by any chance know the name of the florist who delivered them? I'm sorry to bother you with this during such a difficult time, but...

"But what?" Sydney muttered to the computer monitor. What kind of excuse should she use in this e-mail to Angela's grieving sister? How could she explain her interest in the local florist that had delivered the roses she'd never sent? She hoped somehow to trace whoever had put in the order by talking with the people on the delivery end.

But it didn't seem right, bothering Angela's poor sister about this. She was still in shock--and mourning. How devastating to lose a family member in such a violent, bizarre way.

To lose a family member.

Sydney looked at the clock again: 2:40. She sat back in her chair and sighed. Eli had said he'd be back by three. She still had twenty minutes before she went into panic mode. Sydney glanced out the window at the gray clouds forming over Lake Washington. The beach had to be emptying out. Why wasn't he home yet?

The phone rang, giving her a start.

Sydney jumped up from her chair and raced into the kitchen to answer it. She didn't even bother checking the caller ID box first. "Hello?"

"You sound haggard," her brother said on the other end.

"I am, totally," she muttered.

"I figured something was up. Three messages since yesterday afternoon and you sounded more and more frazzled in each one. I was out with friends last night, and by the time I got home, it was too late to call you."

"So--did you get lucky at least?" she asked, a bit of cynicism creeping into her tone.

"Yeah, I found a dime on the sidewalk. God, I can tell you're mad at me--"

"I'm not," she insisted. And she wasn't, really. Her brother had a life of his own. She hated herself for being so needy and demanding of his time lately.

"Syd, I was out with work people at this lame-o play and then a late dinner. I dragged my ass home alone at twelve-twenty. I didn't call back because I thought I might wake you guys. I slept in and almost missed opening an open house at nine. That just ended, and now I'm finally calling you back. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, rubbing her forehead. "I'm sorry I'm Needy Nelly and left you three messages, but I'm freaking out here."

"'You kids, and all the bickering!'" he said, imitating their late mother. It was scary the way Kyle could sound just like her. Then he lapsed back into his own voice. "So--what's going on? Why are you freaking out?"

Kyle already knew about Leah and Jared. Sydney told him about Angela Gannon's death, and how--for the second time--someone had sent flowers to the next of kin in her name. "It's nobody from the network, I checked," Sydney said.

"It isn't someone on your film crew?" he asked.

"No. That wouldn't be like them. We pass the hat whenever we have to buy someone a birthday cake. If one of them was sending flowers in my name, they'd let me know."

"That's really screwy," he said. "No wonder you're freaking out."

"Oh, that's just for starters," Sydney said. She recounted her brush with the stranger in the Mariners 59 T-shirt, the dead robin on her pillow, and the blow-up with Eli last night. She took him right up until three hours ago when Eli had gone off to the beach. "He didn't answer the lifeguard's page. Maybe he didn't hear it. But with everything that's been happening, I don't want him roaming around by himself."

"I understand why you're going into meltdown territory, Syd," Kyle said. "But Eli's very smart and very mature for his age. He'll be fine. Nothing is about to happen to him in the middle of the day on a crowded beach. He's all right."

Sydney let out a shaky sigh. "Kyle, let me remind you that in the middle of a hot July day on a crowded beach--by Lake Sammamish--Ted Bundy abducted two of his victims."

Kyle was silent for a few seconds. "That kind of creeps me out," he admitted. "Okay, now I'm officially worried, too."

She glanced at the microwave clock again. "If Eli's not back in ten minutes, I'm going to the beach again. It should be less crowded. I ought to have a better shot at finding him--" Sydney heard a beep on the line, another call coming in. "Oh, maybe that's Eli right now," she said. "I'll call you back."

"Okay," Kyle said, and then he hung up.

Sydney clicked the Flash button on her receiver. "Hello?"

"Is this Sydney Jordan?" It sounded like a woman, her voice weak. But the nasally whine was very familiar. Sydney hadn't heard that voice in over ten years. She cringed, and her grip tightened on the phone.

"Sydney? Is that you? Hello?"

"Yes, this is Sydney," she said.

"It's Rikki Cosgrove, Sydney." There was a pause, in which it seemed she struggled for a breath. "I saw you on the five o'clock news last night--at that ValuCo thing in Auburn. I had no idea you were back in town. Shame...shame on you for not calling me."

"I'm sorry, Rikki," she said. She glanced at the clock again. "I've just been very busy. How are you? How's Aidan?"

"Oh, I'm not doing so well. I've been seriously ill, Sydney..."

Rikki Cosgrove had always had problems--and demands. Sydney didn't want to hear them now. For the last thirteen years, she'd managed to avoid Aidan's mother. Unfortunately, that had meant losing touch with Aidan.

"Well, you do sound very weak, Rikki. I can barely hear you."

"Oh, it's true. I can't even get out of bed..."

Sydney wondered if Rikki was still smoking in bed. They say that was how the fire had started. Even with all her respiratory problems, she hadn't quit smoking.

With the cordless phone to her ear, Sydney wandered to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. She gazed at the courtyard and the gate at the end of the driveway. All the while she listened to that raspy, whiny, weak voice: "...haven't been able to get around for quite a while now. The doctor says there's not much they can do..."

Sydney remembered back when she'd been recuperating in the hospital, trying to keep her spirits up by visiting the other patients. But the one patient she'd missed seeing was the boy whose life she'd saved. So Sydney had arranged a trip--by ambulance--to Harborview Hospital's Burn Center. She'd made arrangements on the phone with Aidan's mother, whom she hadn't met yet either. How was she to know that Rikki Cosgrove had decided to transform the private visit into a media event?

After they'd arrived at Harborview, instead of escorting Sydney to Aidan's room in the ICU, the orderlies took her by wheelchair into the lobby, where two slick-looking hospital PR people met her. They rolled her to the stage entrance of the hospital's small auditorium. Dozens of reporters, photographers, and TV cameramen clogged the aisles and crammed into the first few rows. At least another two hundred people filled the seats. Sydney thanked God she'd had her hair washed recently, and before leaving for Harborview, she'd applied a little makeup and donned a not-too-humiliating, dark-blue sweatsuit. Still, she was wearing a plastic neck brace and one of those halo contraptions with the screws in her forehead. She also had a cast on her right leg, and her arm was in a sling.

Some hospital bigwig with glasses and a blue suit greeted her as she was wheeled onstage. Flashbulbs blinded her, and the audience broke into applause. They even gave her a standing ovation. Sydney worked up a smile, all the while thinking how pathetic she must look in that neck brace. She used her workable arm to wave. Still, it hurt.

The bigwig stepped up to the podium. He talked about Sydney's figure-skating career and what an inspiration she was to so many youngsters. And now she was even more of an inspiration, a genuine hero. The orderly hadn't turned her wheelchair around to face the speaker, and Sydney couldn't move her head to look back at him. So the whole time, she was staring at the audience, trying to smile, and feeling like a total idiot while the man sang her praises. Worse, she desperately had to go to the bathroom. Bladder problems were just one of the many side effects of a spinal injury. She'd thought this would be a ten-minute private visit; and assumed she could hit the bathroom at any time. Instead, she was trapped on this stage with this well-meaning windbag.

The lights dimmed, and two big-screen TVs were rolled out on either side of the stage. The orderly turned her wheelchair toward one of the television sets. They started to play the home video of her rescuing Aidan. Until now, Sydney had managed to avoid seeing the clip.

Sydney watched herself in the slightly shaky, slightly grainy home video. She weaved through the crowd and called up to Aidan Cosgrove. The camera kept tilting up and down--from the boy to her. It pained Sydney to see that poor, sweet handsome boy on that ledge again. A collective murmur and a few gasps came from the audience as Aidan's shirt caught on fire. They gasped even louder as he jumped from the ledge and plummeted down toward Sydney. Her arms were outstretched in an effort to break his fall. She winced at the sight of him crashing down on her. Small wonder they both weren't dead. Sydney could almost feel her bones and organs being crushed all over again.

There was an awkward silence as the video clip ended and the lights came back on. It was like watching the Zapruder film; obviously, no one wanted to applaud. But they didn't even whisper or cough.

"Sydney," the big shot said at last. "There are two people here who would like to thank you for your courage and your selflessness."

The orderly was a bit slow picking up his cues, and she still had her back to the speaker while the bigwig was addressing her. He finally turned Sydney's chair around in time for her to see Rikki Cosgrove emerge from behind the left curtain. Aidan's mother rolled onto the stage in her mechanized wheelchair. It had a small sidecar attachment that held a respiratory device. She took a brief hit of oxygen from a mask, and then set the mask in her lap. Rikki was about forty with a pale, careworn face and coppery-auburn hair that was cut in an unflattering bob with bangs. She wore a shiny lavender and powder blue jogging suit and slippers. She had an anguished look on her face--as if every breath she took hurt. And it probably did, Sydney figured.

Rikki Cosgrove rolled up beside Sydney and rested a hand on her arm--the one in a cast. Aidan's mother had tears in her eyes. Another orderly brought a microphone and set it close to Rikki. Then he lowered the mike so she could make her statement from the wheelchair.

"Sydney," she said, in a strained, almost whiny voice. She seemed to struggle for a breath. "I--I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for you--and--and your humanity." She took a moment to catch her breath again and then started to cry. "I want to thank you for my life and the life of my son."

Sydney put her hand over Rikki's and squeezed it. The audience cheered and flashbulbs popped. Rikki kissed Sydney's hand and held it to her cheek. Sydney was so overwhelmed, she couldn't speak.

The orderlies wheeled Aidan--in a portable bed--onto the stage. Staring at that poor, damaged little boy, all Sydney could think was: It's too soon for him to be put on display. The white bedsheets covered him up to the waist and he wore no shirt. There were no bandages hiding the horrible burns and blisters on his arms, stomach, and chest. A clear salve coated the blood-red and pink scarred skin, making the wounds look moist and greasy.

Several people in the audience gasped at the sight of this beautiful boy who was so disfigured. He seemed in terrible pain, but managed to give the crowd a brave smile. One of the orderlies grabbed the mike, and held it in front of Aidan. He didn't say anything for a moment. He seemed nervous and scared. Finally, he looked over at Sydney. "Thank you, Sydney Jordan," he murmured. "You're my hero."

The crowd applauded and cheered. One orderly moved the microphone back to Rikki while the other man wheeled Sydney to Aidan's bedside. More flashbulbs popped as she reached over and stroked his brown hair. Some of the hair along his right temple had been burned off and hadn't grown back yet. She could see he was trembling. "I kind of hoped we could get together in private," she admitted, under her breath. "I know you're in a lot of pain, honey. I'm--so sorry. I hope you feel better soon."

"You, too," he whispered. The brave smile ran away from his face. "I really, really tried not to land on you. I didn't expect you to catch me."

"That doesn't matter," Sydney said. "All that matters is that you're alive, and you'll get better soon."

No one else heard what was said between them, because Rikki was addressing the audience. Sydney just heard snippets, something about people touching people's lives. She mentioned how difficult it was raising a child on her own and taking temp jobs. She thanked the hospital for everything they'd done for her and Aidan. But the cost of their medical care would be enormous, and she welcomed donations through the hospital from people who wanted to touch their lives the way Sydney Jordan had. "You can be a hero--like Sydney Jordan," she concluded in her strained voice. "We're not asking for a handout--just a helping hand."

There was a polite smattering of applause from the audience while the orderly whisked the mike away from Rikki and set it in front of Aidan again. He nearly banged the thing against Sydney's halo-encircled head in the process.

Once again, Aidan seemed intimidated by the microphone. "Please, be a hero, and give what you can," he said meekly.

The audience applauded again.

Sydney suddenly didn't like any of this. The poor kid had been fed those lines ahead of time. He was obviously in horrible pain, and yet they'd wheeled him under these hot stage lights to perform--all so his mother could raise money to pay their hospital bills. Sydney realized desperate times called for desperate measures, but her heart broke for Aidan and she felt like a pawn in this whole venture.

The hospital bigwig started speaking again. Sydney waited until they moved the mike away from Aidan. "I don't know about you, but I'm awfully tired," she whispered to him. "How are you doing, Aidan?"

"Everything hurts," he murmured. "I just want to go back to my room."

Sydney still felt the need to rescue him. She touched his cheek, and it felt hot.

"...I'm sure you'd all like to hear from Sydney Jordan," the hospital's representative was saying. The orderly set the mike down beside her, and readjusted the height level.

She waited for the applause to die down. "Hi," she said into the mike. "I want to thank Aidan and Rikki Cosgrove for coming," she said. "It's wonderful to see Aidan again. He's an incredibly brave young man. I understand his doctors want him back in his room right now. So we're saying good-bye to Aidan and his mom..."

Blinking, Rikki Cosgrove appeared confused--and a bit perturbed--for a moment. But Aidan gave Sydney a furtive, grateful smile. No one on the stage moved.

"So--good-bye for now," Sydney repeated. "I hope we can get together again very soon."

Finally, the orderlies got the hint and started to move Aidan's bed toward the right curtain. With a pinched smile, Rikki waved to the crowd, then turned her wheelchair around and trailed after the orderlies.

"I'm unable to applaud," Sydney said, moving her one good arm. "But I hope you'll give Aidan and Rikki a hand for me--in more ways than one."

A few people in the audience chuckled at her lame pun, and everyone applauded as Aidan and his mother made their exit together.

Once the clamor died down, Sydney made a brief, off-the-cuff speech, thanking everyone for their cards, encouragement, and prayers. She still desperately had to go to the bathroom, so she announced that she was very tired, and quickly wrapped it up.

As the orderly rolled her out stage left, a thin, balding man she'd never seen before approached her. Wearing a cheap pale blue suit, and carrying a clipboard, he blocked their way. "That's not how the program was supposed to go!" he hissed. "Rikki still had another speech to give, and the kid had some more lines. You screwed up the whole thing!"

Sydney just glared at him. "Get the hell out of my way," she growled.

And he did.

She often thought about that guy, though she never saw him again. She wondered if Rikki had hired him to help raise money. That was the only misgiving Sydney had had about donating $25,000 of her book advance to the Cosgroves. Were the funds being well managed?

Though she never got to spend any time with Aidan alone, Sydney could see they were taking good care of him in the hospital. So she recorded a thirty-second radio spot for their charity, the Aidan Foundation. She also--rather stupidly--signed some document allowing them to use her image for the charity. Sydney cringed at what Rikki Cosgrove's reps came up with: a heavily retouched composite, showing her and Aidan. She hovered at his bedside, but they'd altered a photo taken at the Harborview visit-turned-press-conference. Smiling bravely, Aidan was shirtless and scarred. Beside him, Sydney was no longer in a wheelchair. They'd airbrushed out her halo contraption. They also put her face on someone else's body--a model in a figure skater's leotard with miniskirt. It appeared as if she'd briefly stopped skating to pose for a minute with this poor, mangled, crippled child. It was a ridiculous image, and so airbrushed, she almost looked like a cartoon. Sydney had to tell herself if the stupid ad-photo made money to pay for the Cosgroves' medical expenses, why should she care?

While still in the hospital, Sydney worked on her autobiography with a ghostwriter named Andrea Shorey. About fifty, with glasses and wild, curly gray hair, Andrea was very thorough in her research. She discovered that for a while Aidan Cosgrove was a child model, and a successful one, too. "You know the picture of that cute toddler in all the ads and on the sales tags of those kids' clothes, Toddels?" Andrea asked, during one of their editing sessions in the hospital's lounge. "Well, that's Aidan. He's the Toddels toddler. He was a moneymaker for Rikki until the modeling agency called child protective services on her. During a photo shoot, the photographer's assistant helped Aidan change shirts and noticed all these bruises on his back. Rikki's boyfriend at the time was beating him up. It says "father unknown" on Aidan's birth certificate. Rikki's had a history of bad relationships and lousy taste in men. She has also had problems with drugs and booze. Oh, and did I mention that she's still smoking--even with all her respiratory ailments from the fire? Anyway, Mother of the Year, she isn't. Though I understand from the friends and neighbors I interviewed she's been trying to turn her life around these last few months. Do you want any of this in the book?"

"My God," Sydney murmured, "that poor kid."

She felt so horrible for Aidan Cosgrove--and couldn't help being angry at his mother. She hated thinking this way, but if that stupid woman--that crummy mother--hadn't fallen asleep with a cigarette going, none of this would have happened. Sydney wouldn't have ended up in this wheelchair with this halo contraption screwed into her skull.

"Well, do you think we should use it in the book?" Andrea pressed.

"We're going to have to check with Rikki, first," Sydney answered with a sigh. "Painting that kind of picture of her could really sink the Aidan Foundation, which I know is legit. I don't want to be responsible for that."

Rikki allowed them to divulge her struggles with alcohol and drugs, and even provided some candid quotes about those dark days. But she drew the line when it came to any discussion of child abuse, which she insisted never happened.

While the TV movie Making Miracles: The Sydney Jordan Story was in production, Sydney heard from Rikki's lawyer. Rikki demanded a share of the movie-deal money. Sydney's dad was furious. "The nerve of that woman!" he protested. "I can't believe she's asking for another handout. She's got more balls than a Christmas tree, considering her antics are what put you in the hospital for so long."

Sydney settled with Rikki's lawyer, even though Rikki was merely mentioned in the film. As far as Sydney was concerned, it wasn't worth the hassle. The network asked her to make some promotional appearances with Aidan, but the boy was still in and out of the hospital for surgery on his back and skin grafts to repair the scars. Sydney didn't want to put the poor kid on display. Besides, any association with Aidan meant dealing with Rikki, and Sydney was pretty tired of her. She was always seriously ill or in pain, and always needing money.

Sydney wrote to Aidan, but the responses always came from Rikki, usually hitting her up for a favor or more money. Sydney never got a chance to sit down and talk privately to the boy whose life she'd saved.

After marrying Joe and moving to Chicago, she was glad to have Rikki Cosgrove out of her life--even though it meant losing touch with Aidan. But in truth, she'd never really been able to get together with him anyway. Rikki had always been there, running interference.

"...and as you know, my lungs haven't been the same since the fire." Sydney listened to Rikki's weak, nasally drone. "Aidan's coming up from San Francisco to visit me tomorrow. He's been up the last several weekends. I truly think this will be our last visit. I just can't see me hanging on for another week. I'm so--tired..."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Rikki," Sydney said. Ordinarily, she would have asked the person, "Is there anything I can do?" But this was Rikki Cosgrove, perpetually ill, perpetually manipulative.

Sydney was now sitting on the front stoop with the phone to her ear. A few neighbors had come through the gate and passed by. She'd worked up a smile and nodded at them. But there was still no sign of Eli.

"Sydney, I really need you to do something for me..."

Well, here it is, she thought. "Um, what is it I can do for you, Rikki?" she asked.

"Could you come by my apartment tomorrow? I'd really like you to sit down and talk to Aidan while he's here. I'm so worried about him. He--he says he's doing all right down in San Francisco, but I honestly don't know..."

"How's he feeling? How's his back?" Sydney asked. He'd had two corrective surgeries fourteen years before.

"Oh, his back's much better. He met this woman in San Francisco. She's older. She's become his sponsor or something." There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then some labored breaths. "Um, this woman, she paid for an operation on his back last year--and skin grafts, too. He doesn't have the scars anymore. He--he's his old handsome self--from before the fire, I mean." There was another pause--with some sickly coughing this time. "Anyway, he wants to be an actor. He's already done a play and some TV commercials. I don't know how steady that line of work is. He could probably use some advice, some kind of direction. I was wondering, since you're on TV...."

"Of course, I'll talk to him, Rikki," she heard herself say. This was one favor she wouldn't mind doing for Rikki Cosgrove. It would be her first real opportunity to sit down and talk with Aidan. "I don't know how helpful I'll be, but I'd be happy to answer any questions Aidan might have."

"Oh, that's wonderful..." Sydney heard some wheezing. "Are you--are you free around one o'clock?"

"Um, I'm not sure yet." She ducked back inside the house and hurried into the kitchen. She glanced around for her address book. "Let me get your phone number, Rikki--and your address while I'm at it." Taking the cordless into her office, she saw her purse by the computer monitor. She fished her address book out of it, then sat at her desk and wrote down Rikki's contact information. As long as she had the book open to the C's, she asked for Aidan's address and phone number, too. Sydney figured it would be nice to connect with him some time--without his mother being involved.

There was a frail sigh on the other end of the line. "Oh, it's a new address, and I'm honestly too weak to get out of bed and look it up right now. You can get it from Aidan tomorrow, when you come by. I'll expect you around one."

"Um, like I said, Rikki, I'll call you back and confirm with you."

Sydney glanced at the clock in her office: 3:20. Still no Eli.

"Rikki, I need to scoot," she said into the phone. "It--it was nice to reconnect with you. I hope you feel better. I'll let you know about tomorrow. Okay?"

"All right, and I do hope to see you tomorrow, Sydney. It's very, very important."

"I'll let you know," she said. "Good-bye, Rikki."

Sydney clicked off the phone; then she closed her address book and stuck it back in her purse. She would give Eli ten more minutes, then she'd go to the beach again and have the lifeguard make another announcement.

There was no point in calling Kyle back just yet. She glanced at the e-mail she'd been writing to Angela's sister. She reread the second paragraph:

I got your kind e-mail today. I'm glad the flowers arrived. Do you by any chance know the name of the florist who delivered them? I'm sorry to bother you with this during such a difficult time, but...

If no one from the network or her crew sent the flowers in her name, who had? Who would have had access to the addresses of Leah and Jared's parents as well as Angela's sister?

Sydney gazed at the address book sticking out of the top of her purse. She remembered the newspaper article about Angela's death. They'd found her purse by that open window on the fourteenth floor of that office building in Chicago. Was Angela's address book or Blackberry in her purse?

Jared and Leah had been murdered in their home. It couldn't have been too difficult to find Leah's parents' address--in a notebook or computer somewhere in their apartment.

Until then, Sydney had clung to the notion that someone she knew had meant well by sending those flowers in her name. But the person sending those flowers must have been with the victims at the time of their violent deaths, and he hadn't meant well at all.

Eli knew his mother was probably worried about him.

The next Number 11 bus left at 3:26 from a bus stop not far from where he was right now: the Seattle Public Library on Fourth Avenue.

He'd always thought the ultramodern glass and steel building was cool looking from the outside when he went on trips downtown with his mom or Uncle Kyle. But he'd never stepped inside its doors until an hour ago. The bus from North Seattle had dropped him off downtown, and he'd decided to try the library to look up Loretta and Earl Sayers on the Internet. He didn't want to use his mom's computer for this kind of research.

Eli was temporarily distracted--and fascinated--by the angles and grids of the library's interior, the high ceilings, and the way the sun reflected off the glass walls. He took a tall escalator up to the computer room, where a librarian helped him get online. She was a pretty young Asian in her late teens with short black hair that had a pink streak in it. "This place is awesome," he murmured to the librarian.

Eli tried the keywords Loretta Sayers, Seattle, suicide on several search engines. But the search results he got were mostly about an actress, Loretta Sayers, born in Seattle in 1911, died 1999--not a suicide. The keywords Earl Sayers, murder, Seattle brought him articles about Seattle author Earl Emerson and his murder mysteries. Nothing else was even in the ballpark. He tried altering the way he spelled their last name: Seyers, Seayers, Seiers, Sayrze. Nothing. Eli wondered if Vera hadn't remembered their names right.

He felt so frustrated. The talk with Vera had only made him hungrier for more details about what had happened in that haunted apartment. He desperately wanted to see a photo of Earl, the fifteen-year-old boy whose spirit still occupied that bedroom--thirty-some-odd years after he'd had his throat slit in there. Did he really look like him?

Eli glanced at his wristwatch: almost 3:20. He had only six minutes to catch that bus.

"Shit," he said under his breath. Clearing the computer screen, he grabbed his backpack and got to his feet. As he passed by the librarian's desk, he nodded and worked up a smile for the pretty girl with the pink streak in her hair.

"Find what you were looking for?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Not really," Eli admitted, shrugging.

"Well, maybe I can help you. What are you trying to look up?"

Eli approached the desk. "I wanted some information about a murder-suicide here in Seattle, back in 1974. This woman Loretta Sayers killed her kid and then herself."

She said, "Hmmm, you're probably better off going into the microfilm files for old Seattle Times and Post-Intelligencers. We have those here. Do you know when in 1974?"

"November," Eli said.

She nodded. "Well, it might take a little digging, but you ought to find something on microfilm."

"Gosh, thanks," Eli said. "Are you guys open tomorrow?"

"Until nine. And gosh, you're welcome." She smiled.

Eli knew he had sort of a dumb, grateful-smitten grin on his face. He gave her a salute, and said, "Okay, see you!"

Seconds later, hurrying toward the escalator he wondered why the hell he'd saluted her. Could he possibly be any more of a dork?

However embarrassed he was about the way he'd acted with that cute girl, Eli still felt elated about returning tomorrow. He'd been incredibly bored and lonely all summer. This murder-suicide was the first thing in weeks that he cared about here.

On the bus, Eli realized he had to make another stop before going home. It meant five more minutes. His mother would probably have a major cow when he got home anyway. Five more minutes wouldn't make a difference now.

When the bus let him off at his stop, Eli hurried to the beach. It wasn't very crowded anymore. He ducked into the beach house men's room. Off to one side was a single shower, along with a small changing room with a bench; on the other side were the urinals, a toilet, and a sink. In the changing room, Eli started peeling off his shirt and shoes. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out his towel and trunks. He hoped no one came in while he was naked because he felt very self-conscious about his body lately. He was too skinny and just starting to get pubic hair, so he felt like a freak. Plus he had a farmer tan.

He figured it would be faster and easier to wet his swim trunks, then put them on. He ran them under the shower. Then just as Eli pulled off his shorts and underpants, a little black kid with a buzz cut in red trunks appeared in the changing room doorway. With a finger in his mouth, the wide-eyed boy gaped at Eli as if he were an alien.

"C'mon, we're going home!" boomed his father's voice.

Naked and trying to step into the wet trunks, Eli looked up in time to see the kid's father take him by the arm and lead him out of the restroom. Eli finally got his legs through the trunks and then realized he had them on backward. He had to step out of them and start over again.

A shadow swept past the changing room, and Eli figured it was the kid coming back for another look at the skinny naked guy with the farmer tan. Still struggling to step into the wet trunks, he glanced up and froze. He locked eyes with the man in the green polo shirt--the one from the bus. The man paused in the doorway and glared at him. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses.

Eli felt his stomach tighten. His mom was right. The white part of the man's left eye was bloodshot.

The man turned away and moved toward the toilet stall.

Rattled, Eli almost tripped pulling up his swim trunks. He couldn't breathe right. His hands were shaking as he gathered up his clothes and shoes. He shoved them in his backpack, threw his towel over his shoulder, and hurried out of the beach house men's room. Barefoot, he raced across the sand, threading around blankets and sunbathers. He stepped on a few rocks or pebbles but didn't stop--not until he got to the wrought-iron front gate of the Tudor Court complex. Then he had to dig into his backpack for the keys--inside his pants pockets. He glanced over his shoulder but didn't see the man with the green shirt. Eli fumbled for a few moments as he tried to get the key in the lock. Finally, he heard it click, then he pushed open the gate, ducked inside, and shut it behind him. Hearing that lock click again, he felt better. He pulled out his CHICAGO POLICE T-shirt and his shoes, put them on, then hurried toward the apartment.

"Eli?" his mother tentatively called when he stepped inside. It sounded like she was in her office. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, Mom," he called back. "Sorry I'm late--"

"Oh, thank God!"

Just as he'd figured, she'd been worried. Now he knew why. That creepy man with the weird eye was very, very real. Part of Eli wanted to tell her right away about his two brushes with the guy. But he didn't say anything. He didn't want her to know he'd lied about going to the beach.

He was starving. In the kitchen, he dumped his backpack on the tall cafe table, then helped himself to two fruit rollups and a Rice Krispie Treat. His mom poured him a glass of milk.

He felt bad when his mother told him that she'd gone down to the beach, looking for him. "I even had the lifeguard page you," she said.

His back resting against the kitchen counter, Eli stopped chewing his food for a moment. "Guess I didn't hear you," he said finally. "Sorry, Mom."

He apologized for losing track of the time, too, and then the lies started. The water was really great--just the right temperature. And he met another kid his age there. "Um, I told him I'd see him there tomorrow," Eli added, eying his mom to see how she would react. He needed an excuse so he could sneak off to the library tomorrow. "I think he's a pretty cool guy."

"Oh, I don't think the beach is such a good idea, honey," his mom said, wincing. She sat down at the table. "I told you about this stalker character. Well, there may be a lot more to it than just some weirdo following me around."

"What do you mean?" Eli asked. He stopped eating. "Who is he?"

She gave an uneasy shrug. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

Eli thought once again about telling her that he'd seen the man, but he hesitated. He really wanted to go to the library tomorrow. He'd given that guy the slip twice now; he could do it again tomorrow. "You think he's really dangerous?" he asked.

She sighed. "I'm not sure yet. But in the meantime, I don't want to take any chances. I'm sorry, but I don't want you going off on your own while this guy is out there."

"Oh, please, Mom," he moaned. "You're always telling me I should get out more! This is the first person my age I've met out here. And my buddy is coming with his dad and his older brother tomorrow. I'll stick with them the whole time. I'll be real careful..."

"Well, I'll think about it," she said.

"Thanks, Mom," he replied. "I'm gonna go wash up." He kissed his mother on the cheek, then started to head out of the kitchen.

"Honey, about this new friend of yours," she said.

Eli turned in the kitchen doorway.

"What's your buddy's name?" his mom asked.

Eli worked up a smile. "Earl," he said. "His name's Earl."

As she stepped back into her office, Sydney could hear Eli up in his room--with a U2 CD blasting. The bass was boom-boom-booming. She would tell him to turn it down in a little while. For the moment, she was just glad he was home.

Sitting at her desk, Sydney reread the second paragraph of her note to Angela Gannon's sister on the monitor screen:

I got your kind e-mail today. I'm glad the flowers arrived. Do you by any chance know the name of the florist who delivered them? I'm sorry to bother you with this during such a difficult time, but I was out of town on business when I heard about Angela. I stopped by a florist and put in the order. But I don't think they billed me. Anyway, I don't have a receipt or the name of the florist. I'd like to pay for those roses. If you could tell me who delivered them, I can work backward and figure out where I placed the order. Thank you for your time, Elizabeth. I really appreciate it.

Once again, you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.

Sincerely,

Sydney Jordan

Sydney typed her home and cell phone numbers at the bottom of the e-mail. Then she clicked SEND.

She hated bothering Angela's grieving sister, but if someone had indeed murdered Angela, this might be one way to help track him down.

Hunched over the keyboard, Sydney pulled up another e-mail--one she'd deleted and restored a while back:

Bitch-Sydney

You can t save them.

She'd tried to respond to it on July 5th, but the address, secondduet4U@dwosinco.com, had bounced back as invalid. Maybe she'd just encountered a glitch the last time. She clicked the REPLY icon, and typed the same response she'd used before: Who are you?

Biting her lip, Sydney hit Send.

A moment later, she was almost relieved to hear the click, indicating an incoming e-mail. It was another MAILER-DAEMON delivery failure notification.

Had the person used that e-mail account name just that once--for her? If so, the moniker he'd chosen meant something--the same way that dead bird on her bed must have meant something. Were the murders of Leah and Jared a duet?

If that was what he'd been telling her, then Leah and Jared weren't his first. He'd killed two people together before--if not together, than at least on the same day: second duet for you.

The telephone rang. Sydney jumped up, ran into the kitchen, and grabbed the cordless. She checked the caller ID. It was her brother's cell phone number. She clicked on the phone: "Hi, Kyle."

"Is Eli back yet?" he asked. It sounded like he was in the car.

"He just came in about fifteen minutes ago," Sydney said. "I was about to call you, but I got distracted. Sorry."

"You really had me all wound up. I kept imagining Eli's photo on a milk carton."

"No, he's fine, thank God. He's up in his room with Bono blasting as we speak. I think he made a new buddy at the beach today."

"Oh? Then things are looking up."

"He wants to go back there tomorrow, but I'm not so sure it's such a terrific idea--what with everything that's going on right now." Sydney told her brother she was about to dive into her Movers & Shakers files, and look at the couples she'd profiled in the last year or two. She needed to see if any of them had recently died under suspicious circumstances. She was looking for that first duet--before Leah and Jared.

Her brother was silent on the other end of the line for a moment.

"Kyle?"

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "I just think you've accrued a lot of ifs there: if the message was supposed to be about your Portland friends; if the sender made up the e-mail account exclusively for you; and if someone is indeed bumping off your Movers & Shakers people. I don't know, Syd. Maybe this duet guy is just some music lover who dropped his account name after sending you that crank e-mail and calling you a bitch. Maybe he meant you can't save the whales. You might be freaking out over nothing."

"I hope you're right," she said. "But I still think it's worth checking into."

"Well, knock yourself out," he sighed. "Listen, I have to wine and dine another client tonight. Are you going to be okay? I can cancel and come spend the night with you guys if you're scared."

"Thanks, but I think we'll be okay," she replied.

Yet moments later, after she'd hung up the phone, Sydney realized she'd been lying to her brother--and maybe to herself, too. She didn't really think they'd be okay.

And she was very, very scared.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

New York City--Monday, 1:22 A.M.

He'd established eye contact with Troy about ten minutes before, and now they made a game of glancing and smiling at each other across the crowded bar. Troy seemed to think he looked pretty good in those jeans and the white V-neck T-shirt that showed off his toned torso and muscular arms. A tall, handsome guy, he had short, spiked, straight sand-colored hair and a five o'clock shadow.

It was a look Troy had had for at least eight months now. In fact, when he'd appeared in a Movers & Shakers segment for On the Edge, he'd had the exact same haircut and stubble-length.

He'd been watching Troy for an hour tonight. But he'd watched and studied him many other nights as well. In fact, this wasn't the first time he and Troy had flirted with each other across the bar at Splash.

He wasn't bad looking himself. He'd already had a few Chelsea muscle boys approach him this evening--along with one drag queen. But he'd politely dismissed each one. Splash's Sunday Disco Tea Party was winding down. Yet the bar was still crowded with sweaty men--and pulsating to the beat of Laura Branigan's "Gloria."

He watched a handsome jock-type nuzzle up to Troy at the bar. It looked like the guy was trying to strike up a conversation.

From across the bar, he imagined the questions: So what's your name? What do you do?

He was Troy Bischoff, a thirty-one-year-old struggling screenwriter and full-time waiter at Ting, a trendy SoHo restaurant. And he's not interested in you, buddy, the man across the bar thought.

It looked as if the jock was asking Troy to dance, but Troy shook his head. Mr. Jock patted him on the shoulder and moved on. Troy checked out the guy's butt as he walked away, but then his gaze totally shifted direction--across the bar at him. He grinned.

Troy's smile seemed to say, Look what I just passed up for you.

He smiled back, picked up his beer from the tall table, and moved in for the kill.

In for the kill, he thought.

"Hey, I'm Joe," he said--loudly, over Laura Branigan's singing.

Troy nodded. "I've been wondering how long it would take you to walk over here." He raised his martini glass. "I'm Troy. You look familiar, Joe."

He chuckled, and leaned in close so he could be heard over all the noise. "Well, we've been in this same situation before here, only then, I didn't have the nerve to approach you--too much competition at the time. That was about two months ago. Maybe you remember me from then."

"Maybe," Troy allowed. He looked him up and down, then right into his eyes.

At that moment, he knew Troy was his.

Thelma Houston's "Don't Leave Me This Way" began churning over the speakers. Troy moved his hips in sync with the music. Sipping his martini, he cocked his head to one side and grinned. "So tell me, Joe. What do you do for a living?"

"Believe it or not, I'm a cop!" he shouted over the music.

"No shit!" Troy said, laughing.

"I shit you not. NYPD."

Troy touched his shoulder, then his hand slid down to his chest and lingered there for a moment. "Well, I've never made it with a cop before."

He caressed Troy's arm. "So what is it you do?"

"I'm a waiter. And I'm pretty sure you've made it with a waiter before." He laughed at his own remark, then took another sip of his martini. "But I'm also a screenwriter. I have several people in the industry looking at my latest screenplay."

"Wow, that's really cool." Then he put on a perfect look of jaw-dropping revelation. "Hey, wait a minute. I know where I've seen you before. Last time I was here, I kept wondering why you looked so familiar. That's one reason I kept staring at you--that and the fact that you're so damn cute. You were on TV--Movers and Shakers. You're the waiter who saved that rock star from choking to death in the restaurant..."

Rolling his eyes, Troy nodded. "Yeah, Via. It's my big claim to fame. I gave Via the Heimlich."

"You work in that vegetarian restaurant, Tang."

"Ting, and it's vegan," Troy said with a tiny frown.

"I remember you on that Movers and Shakers. It was aired back in October, right?"

Troy nodded over his martini glass.

"I remember thinking that if you didn't sell a screenplay; you'd probably get some offers to work in front of the camera, because you're so hot-looking. Did that Movers and Shakers help pave the way for anything?"

Troy sighed. "Not really. Sydney Jordan shot a lot of footage interviewing me, but didn't use much of it. She ended up spending eighty percent of the story profiling the woman I took the Heimlich and CPR classes from, Caitlin Something. I forget her last name."

"That sucks, man!" he shouted over the music. "You're the one who saved Via's life. You should have been in that segment more. You know, I always figured Sydney Jordan was a bitch."

"She's not bad," Troy said, shrugging. "At least, I thought she was cool--until I saw how little of me there was on that Movers and Shakers bit."

"Well, I would have liked seeing a lot more of you." He stroked Troy's arm again, and gave him a coy smile. "So is there a chance I can see a lot more of you tonight?"

"I think that can be arranged," Troy said. "I don't live too far from here."

Yes, I know, Eighth Avenue, he thought.

"And my roommate's out of town," Troy continued, leaning in for a kiss.

He pulled away--just slightly. "My ex is here," he explained. "Not that he'll go psycho on us or anything, but I don't want him to see us leaving together. Would you mind leaving first? Then I could meet you in five minutes?"

"This is pretty silly," Troy said.

"I know, indulge me. Then I'll indulge you later. C'mon, meet me on the corner of West Seventeenth and Sixth. I won't keep you waiting long."

Nodding, Troy grinned. "Okay, Officer Joe, I'll see you in five minutes. Don't forget to bring your nightstick." Troy waved to the bartender, and said good-bye to two more people in the bar. Troy was a regular here at Splash. He made his way to the door, glanced back at him, and smiled.

Then Troy left his favorite bar--for the last time in his life.

He wondered if his name was really Joe, and if he was really a cop.

But right now, it didn't matter too much to Troy, because Joe was in his apartment, and he was really hot. They'd already thrown their shirts off. From the way Joe pulled back a little each time, Troy figured he didn't like to kiss--at least, not on the mouth. He'd been with guys like that, and some of them just needed a little warming up.

Fondling and groping each other, they made their way toward Troy's bedroom. His roommate, Meredith, wouldn't be back from Pittsburgh until midmorning. Troy wondered if this Joe guy would be a member of his "breakfast club." Those were the guys he let sleep over. He wasn't sure yet.

"You got some porn?" Joe asked, biting at his earlobe. He glanced over at the TV across from Troy's bed. "I like having porn on when I'm doing it."

Troy kissed his neck--safe territory. "Um, I got some old DVDs, yeah."

"Put one on," Joe said. He playfully bit his shoulder, then pushed him away. Troy had a one-station home gym in the corner of his bedroom. Joe sat down on the stool--under a bar for pulling weights. He started to take off his shoes and socks.

Troy grinned back at him and made a tiger-growling noise as he walked across the bedroom. Squatting in front of the TV, he pulled a few DVDs from the cabinet underneath it. "Um, I got Drill Bill...Below the Belt. How about Dawson's Crack?"

"Anything," Joe said, unzipping his jeans. "You pick it. I just like having the music and all that copulating noise in the background."

"Hmmm, the cop likes his copulating noise." Troy switched on the TV, and popped one of the discs into the DVD player. He hit the chapter selection so it was right in the middle of a sex scene. Then he raised the volume a bit. The music was churning, and both guys in the movie were groaning and grunting.

He turned and saw Joe standing by the bed in only his white briefs. Sweat glistened off his arms and chest. Troy unfastened his own belt.

"No, let me do that," Joe said. He walked up behind him, reached around and ran his hands over Troy's stomach. He tugged at the belt, slowly pulling it past all the belt loops on his jeans. Troy shuddered gratefully as the guy gently slid the belt buckle's metal tongue up his back. He loved that mild scratching sensation. Joe was breathing in his ear.

On the TV, the music and the guys seemed to be reaching a crescendo. It got louder and louder.

Joe was now teasing him with the leather belt strap, wrapping it around his neck as he pushed his pelvis up against him from behind. Troy chuckled. "Oh, man...police brutality..."

Suddenly, the belt tightened around his throat. Troy's head snapped back. He tried to yell out, but he couldn't. His hands came up and frantically clawed at the other man's fists. His face was turning crimson.

Oh, God, if this is a game, he has to stop, Troy thought. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't get any air. Please, God, no...this isn't happening...

The man squeezed the belt around Troy's neck even tighter. A fold of pinched flesh protruded over the leather strap.

There was a loud scream. But it wasn't Troy--or the man choking him. It was one of the actors in the porn movie.

Troy couldn't scream at all. In fact, he'd already taken his final breath.

She heard the waves rolling onto the beach. At her open window, the sheer curtains billowed. And on her nightstand, the digital clock said 3:11 A.M. Sydney was wide awake.

Yet she was exhausted, and her eyes were still sore from all the reading and Internet browsing. Delving through her files for the twenty-eight Movers & Shakers video shorts she'd filmed last year, she'd found six that had profiled couples--seven, if she'd counted Leah and Jared. Among them were a husband and wife in Columbus, Ohio, who trained service dogs for people with spina bifida, and a Kalamazoo couple who rescued four kids from a school bus after it plunged off a bridge into the Kalamazoo River. Sydney didn't just limit her search to traditional couples either. She included two teenage brothers in Winnetka, Illinois, who started their own Designated Driver service and made $3,000 in one semester, and two women, both mothers of leukemia victims, who had bought a vacant lot in their hometown outside Indianapolis and built a playground in the memory of their kids.

Sydney remembered all of them. She dreaded the notion that one of these amazing duets may have been killed recently. But to her relief--and from what she could tell from her search on the net--all of these Movers & Shakers were still alive and well.

She wondered if perhaps Kyle had been right. Maybe she'd been overreacting.

She remembered how full her life had been last year when she'd worked on those stories. It was strange, but she'd felt so independent while still with Joe; without him, she felt scared and needy. She'd been tempted to call him tonight several times

After all, who better to talk with about all of this business than a Chicago police detective? Angela had been killed in Chicago. Maybe Joe knew something about the case that hadn't been mentioned in the newspapers--or online. She told herself that Joe would listen to her, and maybe do something.

But each time she'd almost picked up the phone to call him tonight, she'd thought about that damn letter of his and decided against it.

She and Eli had gone out to dinner tonight: a five-block walk up Madison to Bing's for hamburgers. She didn't see any sign of Mr. 59. It was still light out both coming and going to the restaurant, so she felt safe. It was a good dinner, and a nice change of pace from cooking for two and eating with Eli in front of the TV, usually some movie or show she tolerated for his sake.

Tonight, they'd actually talked. Eli had admitted he still missed his dad, his friends, Cubs games, Vienna Beef hot dogs, really good pizza, fireflies, and thunderstorms. At the same time, he'd gone on about all the cool places in Seattle he would have liked to show his buddies, Tim and Brad: the beach, the mountains, Pike Street Market, Broadway, the bus tunnel; even the library was awesome--at least from what he saw on the outside. He didn't talk much about his new friend, Earl. But Sydney realized Eli was starting to feel more at home here than she did. Of the two of them, she was the one having a tough time being happy.

She glanced at the nightstand clock again: 3:27.

She heard a muted hum, followed by a mechanical sound of something shifting.

Sydney climbed out of bed and crept over to her bedroom door. The noise came from her office downstairs. She realized it was her fax machine. Rubbing her arms, she padded down the hallway and switched on the downstairs foyer light. In her pajama shorts and T-shirt, Sydney stole down the steps. She eyed the front door--double locked, with the chain fastened.

She'd heard a story once about a murderer breaking into a house, then switching on the clothes dryer in the basement to lure a woman down there for the kill. She wondered if someone was just updating it a bit with a fax machine. Who would be faxing her something at 3:30 in the morning?

Sydney opened the closet door at the foot of the stairs and pulled out an umbrella, the same one Eli had brandished for their elusive intruder the night of July Fourth. She made her way to the kitchen, then switched on the overhead light. Nothing had been disturbed. The chain lock was still on the kitchen door. The fax machine let out a beep, indicating it was finished with the job. Sydney poked her head in her small office and turned on the light. She leaned the umbrella against her desk.

She saw something in the fax receiving tray. The top page was blank--except for some printing at the top:

Page 3 of 3 KINKOS/FEDEX 202/555-0416

STA 7-071408 06:32AM

"New York City," she murmured, checking the phone number area code. Was someone from the network working early? But why would they go to Kinko's when they could fax her from the office?

Sydney looked at the next page: Page 2 of 3. On it were six squares, each with a simple illustration on how to give the Heimlich maneuver. The figures in the drawings were like the international symbols for men's and women's washrooms--mere faceless forms in different lifesaving positions.

Page 1 was a cover sheet addressed to her, but the sender line remained blank. The Kinko's/FedEx outlet showed an address on Seventh Avenue. The time was on there as well. Who would be sending her this diagram from New York City and at 6:32 A.M. Eastern time?

The phone rang, giving her a start. Sydney hurried back into the kitchen and grabbed the receiver on the second ring. "Yes, hello?"

No response. But she could hear traffic noise in the background. She still had the fax pages in her other hand. "Hello?" she repeated.

Sydney heard a click, and then the line went dead. She glanced at the caller ID box: CALLER UNKNOWN.

The phone rang again, and Sydney snatched it up once more. "Yes, hello?" she said, an edge to her voice.

Nothing, just the background traffic noise, but she waited a beat. "I got your fax," she said steadily. "Who are you? Damn it, who--"

There was a click, and the connection went dead again.

His hand lingered on the pay phone receiver for a moment. He stood outside the Kinko's/FedEx on Seventh Avenue. The fluorescent light from the store seemed a bit muted from outside now that morning was breaking. They'd already turned off the streetlights, and the city traffic grew more congested.

Of course, he hadn't slept at all last night, and he was dead tired. He had the burning eyes and dry throat that came from sleep deprivation. But his adrenaline was still pumping, and he felt elated, too.

He hailed a cab. "JFK Airport," he said, climbing into the backseat. "And I'm in a hurry." He had an 8:05 flight to catch.

The back of the cab was stuffy, and he rolled down the window. He could still smell Troy Bischoff's cologne and sweat on him. Some people relished the scent of their partner on them after sex; they enjoyed smelling like they'd just screwed somebody.

He felt a bit like that right now. Though he hadn't really had sex with Troy, he still carried his scent. He rolled up the window again, so he could savor it longer. That musky, pungent smell reminded him that he'd just killed somebody.

Sydney counted four ring tones until someone finally picked up: "Kinko's/FedEx," the woman said in a flat, tired voice. "Please, hold."

"Um, wait--" But it was too late, they'd already stuck her in Hold limbo. An instrumental version of "Band on the Run" came on, periodically interrupted by a chirpy woman's recorded voice explaining the benefits of shipping FedEx.

Setting the fax pages on the kitchen table, Sydney kept the cordless to her ear and moved to the refrigerator. She took out the opened bottle of pinot grigio and pulled a wineglass down from the cabinet. Sydney filled up most of the glass.

"Kinko's/FedEx," the same tired-sounding woman came back on the line. "How can I help you?"

"Hi, yes. I just received a fax from your store about five minutes ago. My name's Sydney Jordan, and my fax number is--"

"One minute," the woman said. Then Sydney heard her ask in a loud voice: "Ronny, did you just send a fax? Did anybody just send a fax?"

Sydney sipped her wine while she waited.

"Nobody behind the counter sent you a fax. It must have been a customer using one of the self-service computer-fax machines."

"Well, this guy was just in there five minutes ago," Sydney explained. "Did anybody there see him?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Please, it's very important."

"Ma'am, we've got eight computer stations here, and right now, seven of them are in use. We're awfully busy. Early Monday mornings are pretty crazy around here--"

"Your self-serve machines are activated with a credit card, aren't they?" Sydney asked.

"Yes..."

"Well, if you could please just tell me the name of the person who sent a three-page fax at"--she glanced at the printing along the top of page 2--"at six thirty-two this morning from one of your self-service machines, I'd be very, very grateful."

"I'm sorry, I can't give out that information," the woman replied. "Now, I have customers waiting."

"Please, don't hang up!" Sydney said. But she heard the click on the other end of the line.

After another hit of pinot grigio, Sydney phoned them back and asked to talk with the manager on duty. The man named Paul with a Bronx accent was friendly enough, but he had to stick with company policy. They weren't responsible for the content of faxes or e-mail sent from their store. It sounded like he was reading it from a rule book. Even when Sydney explained that the fax was threatening, he wouldn't budge.

She even resorted to using the "I'm Sydney Jordan from On the Edge, maybe you've heard of me" card, and the guy still wouldn't cave. But he admitted he watched the show and was a fan.

"Listen, Paul," she said, exasperated. Her wineglass was already half empty. "Could you do me a huge favor? Can you ask around and find out if anyone there just saw a man in his late twenties using one of the self-serve computer-fax machines? He's got a dark complexion. He's fairly good-looking, but one of his eyes is infected and all blood-shot. Could you ask your employees if they saw someone like that leaving the store about ten or fifteen minutes ago?"

He didn't answer for a moment. "Sure, Sydney," he said finally. "Hold on."

The woman's recorded voice came on the line again, the same FedEx pitch. Then a dentist-office version of Van Morrison's "Moondance" serenaded her.

"Sydney?" the manager came back on the line. "Sorry, nobody here noticed anyone fitting that description. I even asked a few of the customers."

"Do you have surveillance cameras in that store?" she asked.

"Yeah. One near the counter."

Sydney frowned. That wouldn't do her any good. The person who sent the fax wouldn't have needed to go up to the counter if he'd used the self-serve machine. "Listen--Paul, all I need is his name from the credit card record. I hate people who always want to be the exception, but could you please ignore the rules this time?"

"Sydney, if I gave you his name, and you wanted to charge this guy with anything, the charges wouldn't stick, because the way you got the goods on him wouldn't be legit. You really want to track down this guy who's sending you these threats? You should call the police. Get a cop in here, flashing a badge, and we'll give him this wacko's credit-card info. Okay?"

Defeated, Sydney thanked the Kinko's manager, then clicked off the line. Setting her near-empty wineglass on the counter, she pulled the pinot grigio out of the refrigerator again. As she refilled her glass, she heard a noise outside.

Glancing up, Sydney thought she saw someone in the window above the sink. She gasped, knocking over her glass and spilling wine across the counter. Then she realized it was her own reflection in the darkened window. "Stupid," she murmured.

Sydney frowned at the mess she'd made on the countertop. At least her glass hadn't broken, just some spilt wine--and her cue that she'd probably had enough to drink for tonight. Grabbing a sponge from the sink, she started to wipe up the puddle of wine. It extended to the green Formica backsplash. As she wrung out the sponge, Sydney noticed a few grains of rice in the perforations. She was ashamed at her own sloppy housekeeping. The rice must have been hidden at the far edge of the counter since that box of Minute Rice had mysteriously tipped over on the night of July Fourth.

As she plucked pieces of rice out of the sponge and tossed them in the sink, Sydney realized something. The mess in the kitchen that night hadn't been an accident. It had been deliberate--as deliberate as that dead bird on her pillow and now this faxed diagram of the Heimlich maneuver.

Why hadn't she seen it before? She'd walked through Thai Paradise with Som and Suchin Wongpoom surveying the damage to their restaurant. It had still been a crime scene at the time, and they hadn't been able to clean it up. She'd seen the shards of glass, the smashed plates, and spilt food on that damp, moldy carpet. She'd noticed several steel teapots and spilt bowls of rice on the floor by a bus table that had been knocked over. Rice and tea, staples in almost every Thai restaurant.

On the night of July Fourth, the same night Leah and Jared had been murdered, someone had broken into this apartment and arranged that "accident" in the kitchen. The smashed teapot and the spilt rice were cryptic reminders of the Thai restaurant where Leah and Jared had become heroes. The intruder had returned to the apartment again on Saturday, planting a dead bird to show what had happened to Angela Gannon.

Sydney stared at the fax on her breakfast table. With a shaky hand, she picked up the crudely illustrated Heimlich maneuver instruction sheet. No intruder had broken into the apartment tonight. He was in New York right now. Yet he'd still found a way of getting inside--through the fax machine and her phone.

The last Movers & Shakers story she'd done in New York had been in November--about the people who decorated the big Christmas tree in Rockefeller Square. But before that, she'd shot a story about a woman who taught classes in CPR and the Heimlich maneuver in Chelsea. Sydney remembered her name was Caitlin, and she was a great subject--very down to earth, very funny. At one time, she'd been homeless and she ended up putting herself through nursing school.

"Oh, my God," Sydney murmured. "Caitlin..."

Wiping her damp hands on the front of her pajama shorts, she hurried into her little office. Frantically she clawed through her files for the final quarter of last year. She found the one labeled: Episode: Choke Detector--Airdate: 10/17/07. She opened up the file, and found all her paperwork for putting together the five-minute segment. That included records of expenses accrued during the trip, her editing and scoring notes, lists of the locations used, and schedules and contact numbers for her interview subjects.

Sydney found Caitlin Trueblood's phone number. She accidentally knocked the file folder off her desk as she ran back to the kitchen. Papers scattered on her office floor, but Sydney didn't care. She snatched up the cordless and dialed Caitlin's number. Someone answered after two rings: "Well, God bless caller ID. I wouldn't have picked up for anyone else at seven o'clock in the morning. Ms. Sydney Jordan, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Caitlin?" she said, even though she recognized her voice. She needed to make sure. "Is that you? Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm doing great, Sydney," she replied. "Are you okay? You sound a little keyed up. My caller ID shows a 206 area code. Isn't that Seattle?"

"Yes--"

"Well, it's four in the morning there. What's going on?"

"Someone from New York just sent me a fax with this illustration of how to give the Heimlich maneuver. I thought you might know something about it, Caitlin."

"No, I'm sorry, I--"

In the background, Sydney heard a doorbell.

"Just a second, Sydney," Caitlin said. "I've got someone at my door--"

"No, wait, wait!" she interrupted. She couldn't help thinking that perhaps this phantom stalker was just now paying Caitlin a visit. "Are you expecting somebody?"

"Yes, my neighbor, Debi," she said. "We always take the subway together. Just a sec..."

Biting her lip, Sydney listened to her opening the door. "Hi!" she heard Caitlin say to her friend. "The coffee's ready. Guess who I'm talking to, Deb? Sydney Jordan!"

"Oh, come off it," Sydney heard her friend say.

"Here, Sydney Jordan, say hello to Debi Donahue."

"Hello?" Caitlin's friend came on the line. "Sydney Jordan? For real?"

Sydney sighed with relief. "Hi, Debi Donahue."

"Oh my God, it's really you. Hey, is Sloan Roberts really as handsome in person as he is on TV?"

"Gimme," Caitlin was saying in the background. "Pour yourself a cup and open the doughnuts." Then she came on the line. "Sorry, Sydney. Anyway, I didn't send you a fax. I don't know anyone who would either. I can ask around in my class and at the high school."

"That's okay," Sydney said. "But you're doing all right? Did the TV appearance lead to any nutcases calling you or stalking you? Sometimes that happens."

"No, in fact, thanks to your Movers and Shakers piece, my class is twice its size. And remember how just after the segment aired we started getting all these donations? Well, I just found out last week, we have funding for the next three years."

"Well, that's terrific news," Sydney said. "Listen, I don't want to keep you, Caitlin..."

As she wrapped up the conversation, Sydney told Caitlin to be careful, but she didn't say why. Caitlin would be taking the subway with her friend, and then she'd be teaching the CPR class at Chelsea High School in SoHo. She would be all right for the next few hours. Maybe she wasn't in danger after all.

After hanging up, Sydney wandered back to her office and started picking up the scattered papers from her Choking Detector file.

The network had assigned her to do this story because the rock star Via had choked on something while dining at a trendy SoHo vegan restaurant. One of the waiters had saved her with the Heimlich maneuver. Via couldn't be bothered with an interview, and Sydney had found the waiter to be not a very good subject--photogenic as all get-out, but slightly vapid and dull. She'd scrapped most of his interview footage and instead focused the piece on Caitlin, who had taught him the Heimlich and CPR in her class. At the time, those classes were about to be canceled due to lack of funding. Sydney had kept Via in the forefront of the piece, stressing that if it wasn't for Caitlin's class, the pop star would have choked to death.

Sydney found the contact number for the lifesaving waiter, whose part in the video short had been reduced to thirty-five seconds. His name was Troy Bischoff. If that strange fax wasn't about Caitlin, perhaps it was alluding to the death of the other Mover & Shaker in that segment.

It was 7:15 New York time, and Troy was a waiter who worked at night. He was probably sleeping, but Sydney took a chance and phoned him anyway. After four rings, an answering machine clicked on, and then a recording: "Hi, this is Troy and Meredith," the man and woman said in unison, cracking up a little. "We're out--and about--so leave a message! Ciao!" The beep sounded.

"Hi, I'm calling for Troy," Sydney said. "This is Sydney Jordan. Sorry to be bothering you so early. Troy, I was--ah, thinking of a follow-up piece to that segment I did for On the Edge last October. I wanted to talk with you again. Could you call me as soon as you get this message? I'd really appreciate it..."

Sydney left her home and cell phone numbers, then clicked off the cordless. She set the phone on her kitchen table, and sat on one of the tall stools.

Though a lousy interview subject, Troy had enjoyed the attention. It hadn't been very nice to lying to him and getting his hopes up, but Sydney figured her proposing to him another shot on network TV would prompt a quick callback.

Unless Troy was already dead.

Sydney stared at the cordless phone in front of her. The manager at Kinko's had suggested she call the police. Where, in New York? And what would she tell them? That she wanted them to investigate who faxed a Heimlich maneuver instruction sheet to her in the middle of the night?

Joe was the only one she could turn to. He had friends all over. He probably knew another cop in New York who owed him a favor. He could find out if there were any new developments in the investigation of Angela Gannon's apparent suicide. Most important of all, if she told Joe about what was happening she wouldn't feel so all alone in this.

She glanced at the microwave clock: 4:18 A.M. Joe was up, probably showered already. For normal workdays, he always set his alarm for 6:07. That was her birthday, June 7th. She wondered if he'd changed his wake-up time since she'd left.

Grabbing the phone, she dialed her old home number. Strange, she'd just made two urgent, potential life-or-death situation calls, but this one made her the most nervous. Sydney's mouth was suddenly dry. She counted the ring tones.

After the third, she heard someone pick up on the other end: "Hmm, yes, hello?"

It was a woman's voice.

Sydney quickly hung up.

Dazed, she set the cordless phone on the tall cafe table's glass top. Sydney couldn't move. The woman had sounded as if she'd just woken up.

Sydney checked the last number dialed. It was home, all right. She hadn't misdialed. Even after everything that had happened she couldn't picture him in their bed with another woman.

She didn't think Joe would return the call unless his friend told him about the hang-up, and he checked the caller ID. He told you he didn't want to hear from you, she reminded herself.

She truly didn't expect Joe to call her.

Yet for the next half hour, Sydney did nothing but sit and stare at the phone.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Meredith O'Malley lumbered up the stairs, lugging her medium-size suitcase, her purse, and a bag full of books she'd taken from her old room at home, among them, her high school yearbooks. She couldn't wait to show them to Troy.

Twenty-eight years old, Meredith was plump, with a sweet, dimpled smile and beautiful, wavy red hair. She'd just spent the weekend from hell at her parents' house in Pittsburgh. Her mother had driven her crazy. The only silver lining was that once she started telling Troy some of her mom's latest insanities, she'd be laughing about it. Maybe she'd get lucky and find that Troy had been unlucky last night. She didn't want one of Troy's "breakfast club" conquests hanging around the apartment this morning.

Meredith hoped to find him still in bed and very much alone. Then she'd crawl under the sheets with Troy and they'd talk the rest of the morning. Maybe after that, they could go out for brunch together. They both had the day off.

During one of her many rants over the weekend, Meredith's mother had asked, "How long do you intend to keep up this Will and Grace thing with Troy?"

As long as I can, Meredith had thought. She knew it was only temporary with Troy. All it would take was a certain guy to come along, and she would lose him.

She reached the third-floor landing and caught her breath. At the door, she put down her suitcase and bag, then pulled the keys out of her purse. Slipping the key in the door, she realized it was unlocked.

Frowning, Meredith opened the door and peeked inside. All the shades were drawn, and the air-conditioning was off. Stepping into the dark, sweltering apartment, she noticed Troy's T-shirt and sneakers on the living room floor. The place smelled like a bar near closing: rank, smoky, and sweaty.

She figured Troy must have had a wild night if he'd forgotten to lock the door--and he was still asleep in this suffocating heat.

Meredith retrieved her suitcase and bag, then set them inside the door. She adjusted the window blinds and switched on the air conditioner. Swiping Troy's T-shirt from the floor, she couldn't resist sniffing it. One solace, it was just his T-shirt. His date from last night was long gone. She glanced over toward his bedroom door. It was open.

She headed into Troy's room. "Well, somebody was a real slut last night. I just hope--"

The next word got caught in Meredith's throat.

She saw the TV was on--stuck on the main menu of a porn movie. Troy's jeans and underwear littered the floor, along with the porn DVD cover.

Naked, Troy slumped forward under the suspension bar of his home gym. The bar held a pull-beam for some weights. And at the moment, it also held him dangling and lifeless. Wrapped around Troy's neck, his belt was twisted in knots and buckled over the support beam.

At his feet--on the floor--was a lemon cut in half and a bottle of lubricant.

Paralyzed, Meredith couldn't quite comprehend what she was seeing. Troy's handsome face was a bluish color, and his tongue protruded over his lips. His dead, half-closed eyes seemed to stare at the floor.

Though she didn't realize it then, Meredith had been right about her and Troy. It had ended just as she'd figured it would.

A certain guy had come along, and she'd lost Troy.

"Well, you packed up, took his son and moved to Seattle two months ago," Kyle said. "You didn't take a toothbrush, Syd. You had furniture shipped here. Did you expect Joe to put his life on hold for you all this time? I mean, this isn't just a little break. You have a six-month lease here. You've officially left him, Syd..."

They stood outside the kitchen door--along the railing that overlooked Lake Washington. The building provided some shade, but it was still warm along that little stretch of concrete behind the apartment. They'd stepped out there so Eli wouldn't hear them. He was watching TV in the living room.

Her hair pulled back in a ponytail, Sydney looked tired, and knew it. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night, and had been inside all morning. She wore some knock-around tan shorts and an old green print top.

It was now 1:30 in the afternoon. Troy Bischoff still hadn't phoned her back yet. She'd put in another call to Caitlin Trueblood a half hour ago to make sure she was still all right. Caitlin probably thought she was crazy. Sydney had even considered getting ahold of one of Via's representatives to make sure the superstar hadn't suddenly met a grisly demise. But then she'd gone online and read that Via was in the middle of a European tour.

Of course, she'd never heard back from Joe. Then again, why should she? Her brother had a good point. She'd left him, and he was moving on with his life. Hell, he probably didn't even know that she'd called.

She'd gotten ahold of Kyle an hour ago, asking if he could take Eli to the beach. She didn't want to leave the house in case someone called her back. Despite thundershowers in the forecast, it was sunny right now, in the high eighties, and Eli was going crazy. This was the first time he'd actually found something fun to do in Seattle, and this Earl he'd met yesterday was his very first friend here. Just because she was scared and miserable, it didn't mean her son had to suffer.

Kyle had shown up in an old oxford shirt and black swim trunks. She'd told him about everything that had gone on in the wee hours of the morning--from the Heimlich maneuver fax to the aborted call to Joe.

"Listen, why don't you just call the son of a bitch again?" Kyle now asked. "You know you want to, or are you afraid of hearing that he has indeed moved on?"

Sydney glanced out at the glistening lake and said nothing.

"I don't know why you'd still want anything to do with him," Kyle went on. "The guy hit you. I know there are extenuating circumstances you won't talk about. But can you tell me this much? Was it something you did? Is that why he hit you? You didn't have an affair while you were on the road or anything like that, did you?"

Sydney rolled her eyes. "Lord, no, Kyle. You know me better than that. I didn't do anything."

"Then he's the one who did something wrong, and it must be pretty god-awful, because you won't talk about it. You spilt the beans about him belting you, but you won't talk about this other--thing he did. And yet, you still want to go back to him, so much that you even..." Kyle shook his head. "I better shut my pie-hole. I don't want to piss you off."

Crossing her arms, she stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Go ahead and say what you were going to say."

Kyle sighed. "Okay. I think you've built up these Movers and Shakers deaths as some kind of threat so you have an excuse to go back to Joe. Don't get me wrong. These deaths are tragic and disturbing. But you didn't find a first duet among your Movers and Shakers people, did you? And to imagine someone is leaving you little signs and souvenirs is just a bit much. Tea and rice, some dead bird, and now this weird fax--and it's all supposed to mean something? I'll tell you what it means. It means someone sent you a fax, probably while drunk, and forgot to write their name on the cover sheet. It means Tweety flew into your bedroom and croaked on your pillow Saturday afternoon. It means some critter got into the kitchen on the Fourth of July. Or shit, maybe it's because this place is haunted. Weirder stuff has happened inside haunted houses. I told you not to rent here, but you wouldn't listen to me. You're acting crazy, Syd. And you're even contradicting yourself."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You don't believe it's safe for Eli to go to the beach by himself--a block and a half away--because some guy is after you. But apparently the same guy was also in New York sending you a fax at six-thirty this morning. You've got your stalker in two places at practically the same time, working both coasts. Or do you think there are two guys after you?"

Sydney frowned at him. "He sent the fax at six-thirty, New York time. He could be here by now. It's quite possible."

"Good God, Syd, listen to yourself." He slumped against the porch railing. "If right now you were back in Chicago with Joe, and all this weird stuff was happening, would you be giving it this much thought? Tell me the truth."

"Probably not," she admitted. "But what about the flowers in my name sent to the next of kin?"

"That's bizarre, I grant you. But it's not exactly grounds for pushing the panic button or calling in the FBI." Kyle shrugged. "But I'm guessing--as far as you're concerned--it's grounds for calling Joe."

Sydney sank down in the patio chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "You're probably right, damn you."

Kyle patted her shoulder. "I'll take Eli to the beach. Why don't you catch a few winks? And if you can't sleep, call Joe and get it over with. The sooner you figure out he's moved on, the sooner you'll get on with your life, too."

The telephone rang, and Sydney sprang from the chair and hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed the cordless and switched it on. "Yes, hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?" Sydney repeated.

"Is...this...Sydney?" The frail voice was barely audible.

"Yes. Who's calling?"

"It's--it's Rikki, dear. Could you come over...please? I'm so, so sick. I'm afraid of dying alone--before Aidan gets here. I phoned him in San Francisco earlier this morning, when--when this last spell came over me. I told him to hurry..."

"Oh, um, Rikki, I'm sorry," she said. "I forgot to call you back--"

"Please...come...I'm so afraid."

Perplexed, Sydney wasn't sure whether or not Rikki was just being her old manipulative self. Whenever she used to call for money or a favor, Rikki had always sounded as if on the verge of crying--or dying. The voice Sydney had heard on the phone yesterday had sounded weak and sickly. But this one almost had a death rattle to it. If Rikki was putting on an act, it was a pretty damn good one.

"You do sound very weak. Maybe you should call an ambulance, Rikki," she said. "Or let me call one for you."

"No, please...I'm scared. Just--just come over, Sydney. Can't you, please?"

Sydney glanced at Kyle, standing by the sink and staring at her.

"Okay, Rikki," she said, a bit exasperated. "I'll come by. In the meantime, can you call a neighbor to come sit with you? If you're really that weak, someone else will need to buzz me in. I'm leaving right now." She paused. "Rikki?"

There was no response. It sounded like she might have dropped the phone.

"Rikki?" Flustered, Sydney hung up.

"Is that Rikki Cosgrove?" Kyle asked. "Icky Rikki?"

Grabbing her purse from the kitchen chair, Sydney nodded. "I forgot to tell you, she called yesterday. She sounds really sick."

"She always sounded sick."

Sydney checked to make sure she had her address book in her purse. "I need to get over there. She says she's dying."

"Oh, yeah." Kyle rolled his eyes. "Better make sure you have your checkbook with you. That's what she really wants."

Scowling at him, Sydney pulled her checkbook out of her purse to show him that she had it with her. "Just do me a favor and take my son to the beach. I won't be long."

"Sucker," he murmured.

Before she'd left to go see some sick old lady, his mom had told him to wear sunscreen, not to wander off too far with his new friend, and to keep checking in with Uncle Kyle.

Wearing a blue T-shirt with Bart Simpson on it, and khaki shorts over his yellow trunks, Eli walked alongside his uncle toward the beach. He had a beach blanket, sunscreen, and a paperback copy of The Sword of Shannara in his backpack. He'd slipped the Number 11 bus schedule inside the book. The next bus downtown was at 1:50.

Eli thought about confessing to Uncle Kyle that he had no desire to go to the beach today, that he really wanted to go to the library and find out more about the murder-suicide in their apartment back in 1974. But Eli didn't want it getting back to his mother.

Madison Park Beach wasn't quite as crowded and noisy as it had been yesterday, and it was easier to see that certain people flocked to certain areas. Gay men seemed to occupy the majority of the north section. The section south of the beach house was crowded with families, kids, and teenagers. The middle section became sort of a smorgasbord of people. The water was choppy, and waves crashed against the concrete steps leading down to the lake. Only one boom box in the area was blaring, and it competed with all the screams and laughter from the swimmers.

The sun beating down on them, Eli and Kyle stopped in the north area amid many a tanned and toned male body. "So I guess you want to pitch our blankets here, huh?" Eli warily asked his uncle.

"Okay, okay, I get it," his uncle said. "You don't want to sit in Homo Heights. Well, I'm not dying to camp out amid all the families with those wet kids running around screaming. The beach is one of the only places where I really can't give someone a filthy look if their kid is making too much noise. Let's compromise. We can sit in the middle section."

Eli squinted over toward all the families in the south section. "Hey, I think I see my buddy from yesterday," he lied. He waved in that direction. "That's him, that's my friend, Earl..."

"Where is he?" his uncle asked. Adjusting his sunglasses, he gazed toward the crowded south section.

Eli kept waving--to nobody. "He's over by that lady in the purple swimsuit under the umbrella."

"I still don't see--"

"Can I go sit with him, Uncle Kyle? Please? Then you can sit with the gays."

"Is he the skinny pale kid in the red trunks?"

"No, he's just a few people over," Eli lied. He pulled on his uncle's arm. "It looks like he's going into the water. I need to catch up with him. Please, Uncle Kyle..."

"Okay, fine," Uncle Kyle nodded. "I'll be right around here. Check in with me in forty-five minutes."

"Forty-five minutes?" Eli repeated, crestfallen. It would take almost that long just getting back and forth from the library. "Give me an hour and a half, at least. How do you expect me to have any fun if you make me check in every forty-five minutes?"

Uncle Kyle lowered his sunglasses for a moment and glared at him. "Okay, an hour, that's my final offer, bub." He glanced at his wristwatch. "And if you don't check in with me by the time the lifeguard announces it's three o'clock, I'll hunt you down and drag you home. Then I'll sic your crazy mother on you. Understand?"

He nodded. "Okay, Uncle Kyle." Eli ran toward the south section of the beach. He remembered to wave and even yelled, "Hey, Earl, wait up!" for his uncle's benefit.

Weaving around blankets, dodging and sidestepping all the other beachgoers, Eli kept running until he figured he was out of his uncle's range of vision.

He only had a few minutes to catch the 1:50 bus downtown.

Sydney found Rikki's apartment building on Thirteenth Street in Capitol Hill. It was a slightly run-down, ugly nine-story concrete edifice with old aluminum-frame windows. She found parking close to the building, hurried up to the front door, and found R. Cosgrove--808 on the intercom panel. Sydney pressed the button, and then waited.

No answer.

She buzzed the apartment number again. Still nothing.

Sydney caught her own haggard reflection in the finger-print-smudged glass door. She tugged at the handle. Locked. Then she shielded her eyes and moved close to the door. The stark, slightly grimy lobby was empty.

She buzzed a few other apartments on the eighth floor. For a moment, she remembered the first time she'd randomly buzzed the apartments of Rikki Cosgrove's neighbors, trying to alert them about the fire.

"Yes? Who is it?" someone finally answered.

Sydney leaned in close to the intercom. "I'm trying to get ahold of Rikki Cosgrove in 808. I think she's sick. Could you buzz me in?"

There was no response.

"Hello? Are you--"

The front door let out a low mechanical drone.

"Thank you!" Sydney called--probably to no one. Then she pulled open the door. Hurrying into the lobby, she rang for the elevator. She wasn't sure how to get inside Rikki's apartment if Rikki wasn't answering the intercom. Maybe this was no false alarm. Maybe Rikki was seriously ill this time.

It smelled like someone had thrown up in the elevator, which made her ride up seem even longer. As Sydney stepped off on the eighth floor, she saw an older woman with glasses, a pink sweatsuit, and a three-pronged cane standing in the hallway. She was knocking on the door marked 808. "Rikki!" she called. "It's Arlene from next door! Can you hear me?"

Approaching the woman, Sydney noticed a hearing aid in her ear. "Aren't you having any luck?" she asked.

Startled, the old woman turned and gaped at her.

"Rikki phoned me about twenty minutes ago," Sydney explained to the woman--loudly. "Is the building manager in? Is there anyone who might have a passkey?"

Arlene shook her head. "I already tried calling them."

Sydney pounded on the door, and rattled the knob. "Rikki!" she yelled. "Rikki, it's Sydney Jordan!"

"Rikki phoned me, too, about ten minutes ago," the woman said. "She sounded horrible. She mentioned something about expecting her son this afternoon. Then it sounded as if she'd fainted or something."

Sydney took her cell phone from her purse, then dialed 9-1-1.

"I'm trying to get inside the apartment of a very sick woman," she told the operator. "She's not answering her door. I think she might need an ambulance. I'm at..." She glanced at Arlene. "Um, what's the address here again?"

The old woman told her, and Sydney repeated it for the 9-1-1 operator. The ambulance would be there in five minutes, the operator said. Sydney had a feeling they were already too late.

Putting away her phone, she pulled her wallet from her purse and dug out a credit card. Her hand shook as she tried to jimmy the lock. She kept jiggling the doorknob at the same time. She wondered if this was all in vain. Maybe Rikki had dead bolted the door. "Rikki? Rikki, are you in there?" she called.

She felt the credit card slip through, and she turned the knob. A click sounded.

As she opened the door, Sydney was hit with a wave of heat and stench. The window blinds were open, and sunlight streamed into the messy living room--catching all the dust floating through the air. Several magazines and newspapers littered the stained beige carpet around a well-worn easy chair. The chair seemed aimed at the television, and beside it stood a cluttered TV table and a bathroom wastebasket with a rose pattern on it overflowing with garbage. Flies buzzed around the room.

The counter that separated the kitchen from the living area was full of dirty plates and glasses. Most of the food on those plates remained uneaten. Empty frozen food boxes, microwave trays, crumpled napkins, and a barrage of prescription bottles also cluttered the counter.

"Rikki?" Sydney called. She tried to hold her breath. The place smelled of sour milk, rotten fruit, and shit.

She realized the source of that last smell when she stumbled into the dark, sweltering bedroom. The shades were drawn. Sydney almost ran into a wheelchair. Beyond it, an emaciated Rikki lay motionless on top of the bed in a soiled nightgown. The bedsheets were covered with excrement. Flies hovered around her.

"Oh, my lord," the old woman gasped. She was standing behind Sydney. "I had no idea she'd gotten this bad..."

On Rikki's nightstand were three water glasses, some prescription bottles, and a telephone with the receiver off the hook. The pulsating alarm tone could be heard across the room.

"We're too late," Sydney murmured, approaching the bed.

Rikki's eyes were closed, and her mouth was open. A fly landed on her lip. Her face looked like a skeleton's head with gray-tinged skin stretched across it. Sydney could see right through the thin mousey-brown hair to her scalp. Rikki's hands and arms were bony with signs of decay already eating away at the flesh.

Sydney tried not to gag. One shaky hand covering her mouth, she reached toward the nightstand with the other. Picking up the receiver, she replaced it on the phone cradle. Then she turned to glance once again at the corpselike thing on the bed.

Rikki's eyes opened.

He found something. He'd been sitting at a computer desk between racks of newspapers, magazines, and other periodicals in the central library's reference room for forty minutes now. Eli was using the digital scanner to search through the microfilm files of old Seattle Post-Intelligencers starting on November 1, 1974.

The last time he'd looked at the clock, it had been 2:50, and the next bus to Madison Park was at 3:07. He was already in a heap of trouble.

Maybe if he apologized enough to his uncle for being late, all would be forgiven. Or maybe Kyle would forget about the three o'clock check-in. Was that too much to hope for?

In fact, Eli had been about ready to give up any kind of hope when he spotted the headline on page 2 of the Monday, November 11th edition:

MURDER-SUICIDE SHOCKS MADISON PARK RESIDENTS

Teenage Boy Slain While Sleeping, Mother's Shooting Self-Inflicted, Police Say

Eli studied the grainy newspaper photo of Loretta Sayers posing with Earl in front of a church. "HAPPIER TIMES," said the caption. "Victims of what police call a 'possible murder-suicide,' Earl Sayers and his mother, Loretta Sayers, celebrate her wedding to Robert Landau of Seattle on May 26, 1973. Sayers and Landau separated earlier this year."

Loretta looked attractive in her frilly white dress, with a crown of flowers in her hair. Her shoulder-length hair appeared blond in the black-and-white picture. She had her arm around Earl, who was as tall as his mother. His hair was the same light shade as Eli's--only it was long and messy. His outfit was pretty goofy-looking, too: a dark suit with a dark shirt and a fat white tie. Earl grinned as if he were about to laugh. Eli could see a resemblance between Earl and himself--if he had a real dorky haircut.

He couldn't help thinking about reincarnation. Didn't Marcella mention something along those lines? Is that why he felt this weird connection with Earl?

He anxiously scanned the article:

SEATTLE: An elegant, lake-view town house apartment in affluent Madison Park became a grisly death site early Sunday morning as police discovered the bodies of residents, Loretta Sayers, 38, and her son, Earl, 15, in an upstairs bedroom and bath. The teenage boy was stabbed while sleeping in his bed. His mother was found in the bathroom with a fatal gunshot wound. A revolver, registered in her name, was found near her body. Police discovered a bloodied knife in the upstairs hallway by the boy's bedroom...

Eli kept reading. Except for saying Earl had been "stabbed," the two-page article was pretty close to what Vera Cormier had told him. He figured maybe they didn't want to say "throat slit" in the newspaper. Either way, it was still a laceration.

Loretta's estranged husband--and Earl's stepfather for less than a year--was fifty-three. Robert Landau had three children of his own, their ages ranging from eighteen to twenty-six. Landau's first wife had died in an auto accident. Eli wondered if Robert Landau had done something to his first wife's car. Maybe he'd "staged" the car accident the same way he could have staged the murder-suicide scene later. Or had Loretta Sayers indeed killed her son and herself?

The article quoted a friend of Earl's, Burt Demick, sixteen. He must have been the one who had often parked in the driveway, blocking Vera's car. He'd had dinner with Earl and his mother in the apartment just one night before the supposed murder-suicide:

"Earl's mom seemed to be in a good mood that night," said Demick. "She made lasagna, then we ate in front of the TV and watched 'Sanford and Son.' All of us were laughing and having a great time. I just can't believe they're gone. I don't think Mrs. Sayers could have done what people say she did."

Eli figured if Robert Landau was still alive, he was now eighty-seven. He wondered if Landau or any of his children were still in the Seattle area. He wondered the same thing about Burt Demick.

Eli glanced at his wristwatch: 3:15. "Oh, shit," he muttered. His uncle would kill him.

He deposited a quarter in a coin slot at the side of the scanner and pressed COPY. The machine started to make a humming noise. While Eli waited for the printer to spit out his copy of the article, he glanced up at the library's ceiling and the glass-and-steel angular walls.

A shadow passed over the room as dark clouds filled the sky. It was almost surreal how the sudden weather change outside altered the lighting in this room. It had been so bright in here just a moment ago. Suddenly he noticed the illuminated computer screens at the other desks and the overhead lights. The tall shelves displaying magazines and newspapers seemed darker. Through the open shelving, he could see silhouettes of people on the other side of the periodical racks. Eli's gaze rested on one of them--a man, only a few feet away. Eli could glimpse only the top half of his face through the opening between the shelves.

The man stared back at him with his one good eye.

"Eli McCloud, Eli McCloud, please meet your uncle in front of the beach house!" the lifeguard announced into his bullhorn.

Swimmers were making their way to the shore in droves. Dark gray rain clouds swept over the lake, and the temperature dropped five degrees within minutes.

"Eli?" Kyle called over and over, roaming around the beach's family area as the crowd rapidly thinned out. People were rolling up their blankets and gathering their kids. Some food and candy wrappers fluttered past him as the wind kicked up.

Kyle wandered back to the beach house, but there was still no sign of his nephew. This awful feeling swelled in the pit of his stomach. He kept calling out his name--and even his friend's name--Earl. He glanced out at the raft in the distance, rocking back and forth in the choppy waters. There were still about twenty people on it--mostly teenagers who were too stupid to swim in when it was about to downpour.