The 6th Target

Chapter 116

THE GALLERY WAS JAM-PACKED with law clerks, crime reporters, families of the victims, and dozens of people who were on the Del Norte when Alfred Brinkley had fired his fatal shots. Hushed voices rose to a rumble as two guards escorted Brinkley into the courtroom.

There he was!

The ferry shooter.

Mickey Sherman stood as Brinkley's cuffs and waist chains were removed. He pulled out a chair for his client, who asked him, "Am I going to get my chance?"

"I'm thinking about it," Sherman said to his client. "You sure about this, Fred?"

Brinkley nodded. "Do I look okay?"

"Yep. You look fine."

Mickey sat back and took a good look at his pale, skin-and-bones client with the patchy haircut, razor rash, and shiny suit hanging from a scarecrow frame.

General rule is that you don't put your client on the stand unless you're sucking swamp water, and even then, only when your client is credible and sympathetic enough to actually sway the jury.

Fred Brinkley was nerdy and dull.

On the other hand, what did they have to lose? The prosecution had eyewitness testimony, videotape, and a confession. So Sherman was kicking the idea around. Avoiding big risk versus a chance that Fred-a-lito-lindo could convince the jurors that the noise in his head was so crushing, he was out of his mind when he fired on those poor people…

Fred had a right to testify in his own defense, but Sherman thought he could dissuade him. He was still undecided as the jurors settled into the jury box and the judge took the bench. The bailiff called the court into session, and a blanket of expectant silence fell over the wood-paneled courtroom.

Judge Moore looked over the black rims of his thick glasses and asked, "Are you ready, Mr. Sherman?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Sherman said, standing up, fastening the middle button of his suit jacket. He spoke to his client. "Fred…"

Chapter 117

"AND SO AFTER YOUR SISTER'S ACCIDENT, you went to Napa State Hospital?" Sherman asked, noting that Fred was very much at ease on the witness stand. Better than he'd expected.

"Yes. I had myself committed. I was cracking up."

"I see. And were you medicated at Napa?"

"Sure, I was. Being sixteen is bad enough without having your little sister die in front of your eyes."

"So you were depressed because when your sister was hit by the boom and went overboard, you couldn't save her?"

"Your Honor," Yuki said, coming to her feet, "we have no objection to Mr. Sherman's testifying, but I think he should at least be sworn in."

"I'll ask another question," Sherman said, smiling, cool, just talking to his client. "Fred, did you hear voices in your head before your sister's accident?"

"No. I started hearing him after that."

"Fred, can you tell the jury who you're talking about?"

Brinkley clasped his hands across the top of his head, sighed deeply as if describing the voice would bring it into being.

"See, there's more than one voice," Brinkley explained. "There's a woman's voice, kind of singsongy and whiny, but forget about her. There's this other voice, and he's really angry. Out-of-control, screaming-reaming angry. And he runs me."

"This is the voice that told you to shoot that day on the ferry?"

Brinkley nodded miserably. "He was yelling, 'Kill, kill, kill,' and nothing else mattered. All I could hear was him. All I could do was what he told me. It was just him, and everything else was a horrible dream."

"Fred, would it be fair to say that you would never, ever have shot anyone if it were not for the voices that 'ran you' for the fifteen years following your sister's accident?" Sherman asked.

Sherman noticed that he'd lost his client's attention, that Fred was staring out over the gallery.

"That's my mother," Brinkley said with wonder in his voice. "That's my mom!"

Heads swiveled toward an attractive, light-skinned African American woman in her early fifties as she edged along a row of seats, smiled stiffly at her son, and sat down.

"Fred," Sherman said.

"Mom! I'm going to tell," Brinkley called out, his voice warbling with emotion, his expression twisted up in pain.

"Are you listening, Mom? Get ready for the truth! Mr. Sherman, you've got it wrong. You keep calling it an accident. Lily's death was no accident!"

Sherman turned to the judge, said matter-of-factly, "Your Honor, this is probably a good time for a break -"

Brinkley interrupted his lawyer, saying sharply, "I don't need a break. And frankly, I don't need your help anymore, Mr. Sherman."

Chapter 118

"YOUR HONOR," Sherman said evenly, doing his best to act as though his client hadn't gone off road and wasn't about to go airborne over a cliff, "I'd ask that Mr. Brinkley's testimony be stricken."

"On what grounds, Mr. Sherman?"

"I was having sex with her, Mom!" Brinkley shouted across the room. "We'd done it before. She was taking off her top when the boom came around -"

Someone in the gallery moaned, "Oh, my God."

"Your Honor," Sherman said, "this testimony is unresponsive."

Yuki jumped to her feet. "Your Honor, Mr. Sherman opened the door to his witness – who is also his client!"

Brinkley turned away from his mother, pinned the jurors to their seats with his intense, shifting stare.

"I swore to tell the truth," he said as chaos swamped the courtroom. Even the judge's gavel, banging hard enough to split the striker plate, was drowned out by the commotion. "And the truth is that I didn't lift a finger to save my sister," Brinkley said, spittle flying from his lips. "And I killed those people on the ferry because he told me, I'm a very dangerous man."

Sherman sat down in his seat behind the defense table and calmly put folders into an accordion file.

Brinkley shouted, "That day on the ferry. I lined those people up in my gun sight and I pulled the trigger. I could do it again."

The jurors were wide-eyed as Alfred Brinkley wiped tears from his sunken cheeks with the palms of his hands.

"That's enough, Mr. Brinkley," the judge barked.

"You people took an oath to do justice," Brinkley trumpeted, rhythmically gripping and slapping at his knees. "You have to execute me for what I did to those people. That's the only way to make sure that I'll never do it again. And if you don't give me the death penalty, I promise I'll be back."

Mickey Sherman put the accordion file into his shiny metal briefcase and snapped the locks. Closing up shop.

"Mr. Sherman," Judge Moore said, exasperation coloring his face a rich salmon pink, "do you have any more questions for your witness?"

"None that I can think of, Your Honor."

"Ms. Castellano? Do you wish to cross?"

There was nothing Yuki could say that would top Brinkley's own words: If you don't give me the death penalty, I promise I'll be back.

"I have no further questions, Your Honor," Yuki said.

But as the judge told Brinkley to stand down, a little red light started blinking in Yuki's mind.

Had Brinkley really just nailed his own coffin shut?

Or had he done more to convince the jury that he was insane than anything Mickey Sherman could have said or done?

Chapter 119

FRED BRINKLEY SAT ON THE HARD BED in his ten-by-six-foot cell on the tenth floor of the Hall of Justice.

There was noise all around him, the voices of the other prisoners, the squealing of the wheels on the meal cart, the clang of doors shutting, echoing along the row.

Brinkley's dinner was on a tray on his lap, and he ate the dry chicken breast and watery mashed potatoes and the hard roll, same as they gave him last night, chewing the food thoroughly but without pleasure.

He wiped his mouth with the brown paper napkin, balled it up until it was as tight and as round as a marble, and then dropped it right in the center of the plate.

Then he arranged the plastic utensils neatly to the side, got up from the bed, walked two paces, and slid the tray under the door.

He returned to his bunk bed and leaned back against the wall, his legs hanging over the side. From this position, he could see the sink-commode contraption to his left and the whole of the blank cinder-block wall across from him.

The wall was painted gray, graffiti scratched into the concrete in places, phone numbers and slang and gang names and symbols he didn't understand.

He began to count the cinder blocks in the wall across from him, traced the grouting in his mind as if the cement that glued the blocks together was a maze and the solution lay in the lines between the blocks.

Outside his cell, a guard took the tray. His badge read OZZIE QUINN.

"Time for your pills, Fred-o," Ozzie said.

Brinkley walked to the barred door, reached out his hand, and took the small paper cup holding his pills. The guard watched as Brinkley upended the contents into his mouth.

"Here ya go," Ozzie said, handing another paper cup through the bars, this one filled with water. He watched as Brinkley swallowed the pills.

"Ten minutes until lights-out," Ozzie said to Fred.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," Fred said.

He returned to his mattress, leaned back against the wall again. He tried singing under his breath, Ay, ay, ay, ay, Mama-cita-lindo.

And then he gripped the edge of the bunk and launched himself, running headfirst into the cement-block wall.

Then he did it again.

Chapter 120

WHEN YUKI REENTERED THE COURTROOM, her boss, Leonard Parisi, was sitting beside David Hale at the defense table. Yuki had called Len as soon as she'd heard about Brinkley's suicide attempt. But she hadn't expected to see him in court.

"Leonard, good to see you," she said, thinking, Shit! Is he going to take over the case? Can he do that to me?

"The jurors seem okay?" Parisi asked.

"So they told the judge. No one wants a mistrial. Mickey didn't even ask for a continuance."

"Good. I love that cocky bastard," Parisi muttered.

Across the aisle, Sherman was talking to his client. Brinkley's eyes were black-and-blue. There was a large gauze bandage taped across his forehead, and he was wearing a pale-blue cotton hospital gown over striped pajama bottoms.

Brinkley stared down at the table, plucking at his arm hair as Sherman talked, not looking up when the bailiff called out, "All rise."

The judge sat down, poured a glass of water, then asked Yuki if she was ready to close.

Yuki said that she was.

She advanced to the lectern, hearing the soft ka-dum, ka-dum of her pulse pounding in her ears. She cleared the slight croak in her throat, then greeted the jurors and launched into her summation.

"We're not here to decide whether or not Mr. Brinkley has psychological problems," Yuki said. "We all have problems, and some of us handle them better than others. Mr. Brinkley said he heard an angry voice in his head, and maybe he did.

"We can't know, and it doesn't matter.

"Mental illness is not a license to kill, Ladies and Gentlemen, and hearing voices in his head doesn't change the fact that Alfred Brinkley knew what he was doing was wrong when he executed four innocent people, including the most innocent – a nine-year-old boy.

"How do we know that Mr. Brinkley knew what he was doing was wrong?" she asked the jury. "Because his behavior, his actions, gave him away."

Yuki paused for effect, looked around the room. She noted Len Parisi's hulk and pinched expression, Brinkley's crazy glower – and she saw that the jurors were all tuned in, waiting for her to continue…

"Let's look at Mr. Brinkley's behavior," she said. "First, he carried a loaded Smith amp; Wesson Model 10 handgun onto the ferry.

"Then he waited for the ferry to dock so he wouldn't be stuck in the middle of the bay with no way out.

"These acts show forethought. These acts show premeditation.

"While the Del Norte was docking," Yuki said, keeping her eyes on the jury, "Alfred Brinkley took careful aim and unloaded his gun into five human beings. Then he fled. He ran like hell," Yuki said. "That's consciousness of guilt. He knew what he did was wrong.

"Mr. Brinkley evaded capture for two days before he turned himself in and confessed to the crimes – because he knew what he'd done was wrong.

"We may never know precisely what was in Mr. Brinkley's head on November first, but we know what he did.

"And we know for certain what Mr. Brinkley told us in his own words yesterday afternoon.

"He lined up the gun sight on his victims," Yuki said, making her hand into a gun and slowly swinging it around in a semicircle, shoulder high, sweeping the gallery and the jury box.

"He pulled the trigger six times. And he warned us that he's a dangerous man.

"Frankly, the best evidence of Mr. Brinkley's sanity is that he agreed with us on both points.

"He's guilty.

"And he should be given the maximum punishment allowed by law. Please give Mr. Brinkley what he asked for so that we never have to worry about him carrying a loaded firearm ever again."

Yuki felt flushed and excited when she sat down beside Len Parisi. He whispered, "Great close, Yuki. First class."

Chapter 121

MICKEY SHERMAN STOOD IMMEDIATELY. He faced the jury and told them a simple and tragic story as if he were speaking to his mother or his girlfriend.

"I've gotta tell you, folks," he said, "Fred Brinkley meant to fire his gun on those people, and he did it. We never denied it and we never will.

"So what was his motive?

"Did he have a gripe with any of the victims? Was this a stickup or drug deal gone bad? Did he shoot people in self-defense?

"No, no, no, and no.

"The police failed to find any rational reason why Fred Brinkley would have shot those people because there was no motive. And when there's zero motive for a crime, you're still left with the question – why?

"Fred Brinkley has schizoaffective disorder, which is an illness, like leukemia or multiple sclerosis. He didn't do anything wrong in order to get this illness. He didn't even know he had it.

"When Fred shot those people, he didn't know that shooting them was wrong or even that those people were real. He told you. All he knew was that a loud, punishing voice inside his head was telling him to kill. And the only way he could get the voice to stop was to obey.

"But you don't have to take our word for it that Fred Brinkley is legally insane.

"Fred Brinkley has a history of mental illness going back fifteen years to when he was a patient in a mental institution.

"Dozens of witnesses have testified that they've heard Mr. Brinkley talking to television sets and singing to himself and slapping his forehead so hard that his handprint remained visible long afterward – that's how much he wanted to knock the voices out of his head.

"You've also heard from Dr. Sandy Friedman, a highly regarded clinical and forensic psychiatrist who examined Mr. Brinkley three times and diagnosed him with schizoaffective disorder," Sherman said, pacing now as he talked.

"Dr. Friedman told us that at the time of the crime, Fred Brinkley was in a psychotic, delusional state. He was suffering from a mental disease or defect that prevented him from conforming his conduct to the laws of society. That's the definition of legal insanity.

"This is not a lawyer-created illness," Sherman said. He walked two paces to the defense table and picked up a heavy hardcover book.

"This is the DSM-IV, the diagnostic bible of the psychiatric profession. You'll have it with you in the deliberation room so that you can read that schizoaffective disorder is a psychosis – a severe mental illness that drives the actions of the person who has it.

"My client is not admirable," he said. "We're not trying to pin a medal on him. But Fred Brinkley is not a criminal, and nothing in his past suggests otherwise. His conduct yesterday demonstrated his illness. What sane man asks the jury to have him put to death?"

Sherman went back to the defense table, put down the book, and sipped from his water glass before returning to the lectern.

"The evidence of insanity is overwhelming in this case. Fred Brinkley did not kill for love or hate or money or thrills. He is not evil. He's sick. And I'm asking you today to do the only fair thing.

"Find Fred Brinkley 'not guilty' by reason of insanity.

"And trust the system to keep the citizens safe from this man."

Chapter 122

"IT'S TOO BAD you guys didn't catch Yuki's close," Cindy said, putting an affectionate arm around Yuki, beaming across the table at Claire and myself. "It was killer."

"This would be your impartial journalistic point of view?" Yuki asked, coloring a little but smiling as she tucked her hair behind her ears.

"Hell, no." Cindy laughed. "This is me speaking. Off the record."

We were at MacBain's, across from the Hall, all four of us with our cell phones on the table. Sydney MacBain, our waitress and the owner's daughter, brought four glasses and two tall bottles of mineral water.

"Water, water, everywhere," Syd said. "What's up, ladies? This is a bar, ya know what I mean?"

I answered by pointing at each of us. "It's like this, Syd. Working. Working. Working." I pointed to Claire and said, "Pregnant and working."

Sydney laughed, congratulated Claire, took our orders, and headed to the kitchen.

"So does he hear voices?" I asked Yuki.

"Maybe. But a lot of people hear voices. Five to ten thousand in San Francisco alone. Probably a couple of them here in this bar. Don't see any of them shooting the place up. Fred Brinkley might very well hear voices. But that day? He knew what he was doing was wrong."

"The bastard," said Claire. "That's me, speaking on the record as a very biased eyewitness and victim."

That day flooded back to me with sickening clarity -the blood-slicked deck and the screaming passengers and how scared I was that Claire might die. I remembered hugging Willie and thanking God that Brinkley's last shot had missed him.

I asked Yuki, "You think the jury will vote to convict?"

"I dunno. They damn well should. If anyone deserves the needle, it's him," Yuki said as she vigorously salted her french fries, her hair swinging freely in front of her face so that none of us could read her eyes.

Chapter 123

IT WAS AFTER TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, day three since the jury had begun their deliberation, when Yuki got the call. A shock went through her.

This was it.

She sat rigid in her seat for a moment, just blinking. Then she snapped out of it.

She paged Leonard and speed-dialed Claire, Cindy, and Lindsay, all of whom were within minutes of the courtroom. She got up from her desk, crossed the hall, and leaned into David's cubicle.

"They're back!"

David put down his tuna sandwich and followed Yuki to the elevator, which they then rode to the ground floor.

They crossed the main lobby, went through the leather-studded double doors to the second lobby, cleared security outside the courtroom, and after going through the glassed-in vestibule, took their places behind the table.

The courtroom had filled up as word spread. Court TV set up their cameras. Reporters from the local papers and stringers from the tabloids, wire services and national news, filled the back row. Cindy was on the aisle.

Yuki saw Claire and Lindsay sitting in the midsection, but she didn't see the defendant's mother, Elena Brinkley, anywhere.

Mickey Sherman came through the gate wearing a flattering dark-blue suit. He put his metallic briefcase down in front of him, nodded to Yuki, and made a phone call.

Yuki's phone rang. "Len," she said, reading his name off the caller ID, there's a verdict."

"I'm at my fucking cardiologist," Len told her. "Keep me posted."

The side door to the left of the bench opened, and the bailiff entered with Alfred Brinkley.

Chapter 124

BRINKLEY'S BANDAGE HAD BEEN REMOVED, exposing a line of stitches running vertically from the middle of his forehead up through his hairline. The bruises around his eyes had faded to an overboiled egg-yolk color, yellowish-green.

The bailiff unlocked Brinkley's waist chains and handcuffs, and the defendant sat down beside his lawyer.

The door to the right of the jury box opened, and the twelve jurors and two alternates walked into the courtroom, dressed up, hair sprayed and styled, a sprinkling of jewelry on the women's hands and around their necks. They didn't look at Yuki and they didn't look at the defendant. In fact, they looked tense, as though they may have been fighting over the verdict until an hour ago.

The door behind the bench opened, and Judge Moore entered his courtroom. He cleaned his glasses as court was called into session, then said, "Mr. Foreman, I understand that the jury has a verdict?"

"We do, Your Honor."

"Would you please hand your verdict to the bailiff."

The foreman was a carpenter, with shoulder-length blond hair and nicotine-stained fingers. He looked keyed up as he gave a folded form to the bailiff, who brought it to the bench.

Judge Moore unfolded the form and looked at it. He asked the people in the gallery to please respect the protocol of the court and to not react outwardly when the verdict was read.

Yuki clasped her hands on the table before her. She could hear David Hale's breathing beside her, and for a fraction of a moment, she loved him.

Judge Moore began to read. "In the charge of murder in the first degree of Andrea Canello, the jury finds the defendant, Alfred Brinkley, 'not guilty' by reason of mental disease or defect."

A wave of nausea hit Yuki.

She sat back hard in her chair, barely hearing the judge's voice as each name was read, each charge a finding of "not guilty" by reason of insanity.

Yuki stood up as Claire and Lindsay came forward to be with her. They were standing around her as Brinkley was shackled, and they all saw how he looked at Yuki.

It was an odd look, part stare, part secret smile. Yuki didn't know what Brinkley intended by it, but she felt a prickling of hairs rising at the nape of her neck.

And then Brinkley spoke to her. "Good try, Ms. Castellano. Very good try. But don't you know? Someone's got to pay."

One of the guards gave Brinkley a shove, and after a last look at Yuki, he shuffled up the aisle between his keepers.

Sick or sane, Alfred Brinkley was going to be off the streets for a long time. Yuki knew that.

And still – she felt afraid.

Chapter 125

A MONTH LATER, Conklin and I were back in Alta Plaza Park, where it all began.

This time, we watched Henry Tyler come down the path toward us, his coat whipping around him in the wind. He reached out a hand to Conklin, gripping it hard, and then stretched his hand out to me.

"You've given us back our lives. I can't find words to thank you enough."

Tyler called out to his wife and to the little girl playing on a hexagonal construction, some new kind of jungle gym. Face brightening in surprise, Madison dropped down from the bars and ran toward us.

Henry Tyler swung his daughter up into his arms. Madison leaned over her father's shoulder and put an arm around my neck and Rich's, gathering us into a three-way hug.

"You're my favorite people," she said.

I was still smiling when Henry Tyler put Madison down and said to us, his face radiant, "We're all so grateful. Me, Liz, Maddy – we're your friends for life."

My eyes watered up a bit.

It was an excellent day to be a cop.

As Richie and I took the path back toward the car, we talked about the hell we have to go through to solve a case – the drudgery, the up close contact with killers and druggies, the false leads.

"And then," I said, "a case turns out like this and it's such a high."

Rich stopped walking, put his hand on my arm. "Let's stop here for a minute," he said.

I sat on one of the broad steps that had been warmed by the sun, and Rich got down beside me. I could see that there was something on his mind.

"Lindsay, I know you think I have a crush on you," he said, "but it's more than that. Believe me."

For the first time it hurt to look into Rich Conklin's handsome face. Thoughts of our grappling in a hotel in LA still made me squirm with embarrassment.

"Will you give us a chance?" he said. "Let me take you out to dinner. I'm not going to put any moves on you, Lindsay. I just want us to… ah…"

Rich read the feelings on my face and stopped talking. He shook his head, finally saying, "I'm going to shut up now."

I reached out and covered his hand with mine.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be… Forget it, Lindsay. Forget I said anything, okay?" He tried to smile, almost pulled it off. "I'll deal with this in therapy for a few years."

"You're in therapy?"

"Would that help? No." He laughed. "I'm just, look, you know how I feel about you. That's almost enough."

It was a tough ride back to the Hall. Conversation was strained until we got a call to respond to a report of a dead body in the Tenderloin. We worked the case together past quitting time and into the next shift. And it was good, as if we'd been partners for years.

At just after nine p.m., I told Rich I'd see him in the morning. I'd just unlocked my car door when my cell phone rang.

"What now?" I muttered.

There was a crackle of static, then a deep, resonant voice came out of that phone, turning night back into day.

"I know not to surprise an armed police officer on her doorstep, Blondie. So… fair warning. I'm going to be in town this weekend. I have news. And I really want to see you."

Chapter 126

MY DOORBELL RANG AT HOME.

I stabbed the intercom button, said, "I'm coming," and jogged down my stairs. Martha's dog sitter, Karen Triebel, was outside the front door. I gave her a hug and bent to enfold Sweet Martha in my arms.

"She really missed you, Lindsay," Karen said.

"Ya think?" I said, laughing as Martha whimpered and barked and knocked me completely off my feet. I just sat there on the threshold as Martha pinned down my shoulders and soaked my face with kisses.

"I'll be going now. I see that you two need to be alone," Karen called out, walking down the steps toward her old Volvo.

"Wait, Karen, come upstairs. I have a check for you."

"It's okay! I'll catch you next time," she said, disappearing into her car, tying the door closed with a piece of clothesline, cranking up the engine.

"Thank you!" I called out as she drove past me and waved. I returned my attention to my best girl.

"Do you know how much I love you?" I said into one of Martha's silky ears.

Apparently, she did.

I ran upstairs with her, put on my hat and coat, and changed into running shoes. We took to the streets we love so much, running down Nineteenth toward the Rec Center Park, where I flopped onto a bench and watched Martha doing her border-collie thing. She ran great joyous circles, herding other dogs and having a heck of a good time.

After a while, she came back to the bench and sat beside me, rested her head on my thigh, and looked up at me with her big brown eyes.

"Glad to be home, Boo? All vacationed out?"

We jogged at a slower pace back to my apartment, climbed the stairs. I fed Martha a big bowl of chow with gravy and got into the shower. By the time I'd toweled off and dried my hair, Martha was asleep on my bed.

She was completely out – eyelids flickering, jowls fluttering, paws moving in some great doggy dream.

She didn't even cock an eyelid open as I got all dressed up for my date with Joe.

Chapter 127

THE BIG 4 RESTAURANT is at the top of Nob Hill, across from Grace Cathedral. It was named for the four Central Pacific Railroad barons, is elegantly paneled in dark wood, staged with sumptuous lighting and flowers. And according to a dozen of the glossiest upmarket magazines, the Big 4 has one of the best chefs in town.

Our starters had been served – Joe was having apple-glazed foie gras, and I'd been seduced by the French butter pears with prosciutto. But I wasn't so taken with the setting and the view that I didn't see the shyness in Joe's eyes and also that he couldn't stop looking at me.

"I had a bunch of corny ideas," he said. "And don't ask me what they were, okay, Linds?"

"No, of course not." I grinned. "Not me." I pushed a morsel of hazelnut-encrusted goat cheese onto a forkful of pear, let it melt in my mouth.

"And after a lot of deep thought – no, really, Blondie, really deep thought – I figured something out, and I'm going to tell you about it."

I put my fork down and let the waiter take my plate away. "I want to hear."

"Okay," said Joe. "You know about my six sibs and all of us growing up in a row house in Queens. And how my dad was always away."

"Traveling salesman."

"Right. Fabrics and notions. He traveled up and down the East Coast and was away six days out of seven. Sometimes more. We all missed him a lot. But my mother missed him the most.

"He was her real happiness, and then one time he went missing," Joe told me. "He always called at night before we went to bed, but this time he didn't. So my mother called the state troopers, who located him the next day sleeping in his car up on a rack in an auto-repair shop outside of some small town in Tennessee."

"His car had broken down?"

"Yeah, and they didn't have cell phones back then, of course, and Christ, until we heard from him, you can't imagine what we went through. Thinking that his car was in a ditch underwater. Thinking he'd been shot in a gas-station holdup. Thinking that maybe he had another life."

I nodded. "Ah, Joe. I understand."

Joe paused, fiddled with his silverware, then started again. "My dad saw how much my mom was suffering, all of us, and he said he was going to quit his job. But he couldn't do that and still provide for us the way he wanted to. And then one day, when I was a sophomore in high school, he did quit. He was home for good."

Joe refilled our wineglasses, and we each took a sip while the waiter placed our entrées in front of us, but from the catch in Joe's throat and a feeling that was growing in me, I'd lost all desire to eat.

"What happened, Joe?"

"He stayed home. We left, one by one. My parents got by on less, and they were happier for it. They're still happy now. And I saw that and I promised myself I would never do to my family what my dad had done to us by being away.

"And then I looked at your face when I showed up last time and told you that I had a plane to catch. And everything you've been saying finally got to me.

"I saw that without meaning to, I'd done just what my dad had done. And so, Lindsay, this is the news I wanted to tell you. I'm home for good."

Chapter 128

I HELD JOE'S HAND as he told me that he'd relocated to San Francisco. I was listening, and I was watching Joe's face – full of love for me. But the wheels in my mind were spinning.

Joe and I had talked about what it would be like to be in the same place at the same time, and I'd broken up with him because it seemed we'd fallen into a way of talking more than forming a plan to make that talk come true.

Now, sitting so close to this man, I wondered if the problem had really been Joe's job or if we had conspired together to keep a safe distance from a relationship that had all the potential to be lasting and real.

Joe picked up his coffee spoon and put it in his handkerchief pocket – I'm pretty sure he thought that the spoon was his pair of reading glasses.

Then he fumbled in his jacket pocket and took out a jeweler's box, black velvet, about two inches on all sides.

"Something I want you to have, Lindsay."

He put aside the vase of sweetheart roses that was between us on the table and handed the box to me.

"Open it. Please."

"I don't think I can," I said.

"Just lift up the lid. There's a hinge at the back."

I laughed at his joke, but I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing as I did what he said. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a platinum ring with three large diamonds and a small one on each side sparkling up at me.

I finally sucked in my breath. I had to. The ring was a "gasper." And then I looked across the table into Joe's eyes. It was almost like gazing into my own, that's how well I knew him.

"I love you, Lindsay. Will you marry me? Will you be my wife?"

The waiter came by and, without saying a word, sailed off. I closed the box. It made a dull little click, and I could swear that the light in the room dimmed.

I swallowed hard, because I didn't know what to say. The wheels inside my head were still spinning, and I was feeling the room spin, too.

Joe and I had both been married.

And we'd both been divorced.

Was I ready to take a chance again?

"Linds?"

I finally choked out, "I love you, too, Joe, and I'm… I'm overwhelmed." My voice cracked as I struggled to speak.

"I need some time to do some deep thinking of my own. I need to be absolutely sure. Will you hold on to this, please?" I said, pushing the small box back across the table.

"Let's see how we do for a while. Just doing normal things," I said to Joe. "The laundry. The movies. Weekends that don't end with you getting into a car and heading to the airport."

Disappointment was written all over Joe's face, and it hurt me terribly to see it. He seemed lost for a moment, then turned my hand over, put the box in my palm, and closed my fingers around it.

"You keep this, Lindsay. I'm not changing my mind. I'm committed to you no matter how much laundry we have to do. No matter how many times we wash the car and take out the garbage and even fight about whose turn it is to do whatever. I'm really looking forward to all of that." He grinned.

Unbelievable how the room brightened again.

Joe was smiling, holding both my hands in his. He said, "When you're ready, let me know so I can put this ring on your finger. And tell my folks that we're going to have a big Italian wedding."

Chapter 129

IT WAS JUNE 6 when Jacobi called me and Rich into his office. He looked really pissed off, as bad as I'd ever seen him.

"I got some bad news. Alfred Brinkley escaped," he said.

My jaw dropped.

Nobody got out of Atascadero. It was a mental institution for the criminally insane, and that meant it was a maximum-security prison more than a hospital.

"How'd it happen?" Conklin asked.

"Bashed his head against the wall of his cell…"

"Wasn't he medicated? And under a suicide watch?"

Jacobi shrugged. "Dunno. Anyway, the doc usually comes to the cell block, but this doc named Carter insists that the prisoner be brought to his office. Under guard. In the minimum-security wing."

"Oh, no," I said, seeing it happen without being told. "The guard had a gun."

Jacobi explained to Conklin, "The guards wear their guns only when moving prisoners from one wing to another. So the doc says Brinkley has to be unshackled so he can give him the neuro test."

Jacobi went on to say that Brinkley had grabbed a scalpel, disarmed the guard, snatched the gun. That he'd put on the doctor's clothes, used the guard's keys to get out, and took the doctor's car.

"It happened two hours ago," said Jacobi. "There's an APB out on Dr. Carter's blue Subaru Outback. L.L.Bean edition."

"Probably dumped the car by now," Conklin said.

"Yeah," said Jacobi. "I don't know what this is worth," he added, "but according to the warden, Brinkley was all cranked up about this serial killer he read about, Edmund Kemper."

Conklin nodded. "Killed about six young women, lived with his mother."

"That's the guy," said Jacobi. "One night he comes home from a date, and his mother says something like, 'Now I suppose you're going to bore me with what you've been doing all night.' "

"His mother knew about the killings?" I asked.

"No, Boxer, she did not," Jacobi said. "She was just a ballbreaker. Look, I was on the way to the can when the call came in, so may I finish the story, please?"

I grinned at him. "Carry on, boss."

"So anyway, Mother Kemper says, 'You're going to bore me, right?' So Edmund Kemper waits until she goes to bed and then cuts off her head and puts it on the fireplace mantel. And then he tells his mother's head all about his night out. The long version, I'm sure."

"That psycho turned himself in, I seem to remember," Conklin said. He cracked his knuckles, which is what Rich does when he's agitated.

I was rattled, too, at the idea of Brinkley at large, armed and seriously psychotic. I remembered the look on Brinkley's face when he'd stared Yuki down after his trial. He'd leered at her and said, "Someone's got to pay."

"Yeah, Kemper turned himself in. Thing is, when he confessed to the cops, he said that he'd actually killed those girls instead of his mother. Get it?" Jacobi was talking to me now. "He'd finally killed the right person."

"And the warden said that Kemper meant something to Alfred Brinkley?"

"Right," Jacobi said, standing, hoisting up his pants by the belt, making his way around Conklin's long legs toward the door. "Brinkley was obsessed with Edmund Kemper."

Chapter 130

FRED BRINKLEY WALKED ALONG Scott Street, looking straight ahead under the brim of Dr. Carter's baseball cap. He was watching the small peaks of sails in the marina at the end of the street, smelling the air coming off the bay.

His head still hurt, but the meds had quieted the voices so that he could think. He felt strong and ka-pow-pow powerful. The way he'd felt when he and Bucky had wasted those pitiful assholes on the ferry.

As he walked, he replayed the scene in Dr. Carter's office, how he'd exploded into action when the cuffs came off like he was some kind of superhero.

Touch your nose.

Touch your toes.

Grab the scalpel.

Put it to the doctor's jugular and ask the guard for his gun. Fred was laughing now, thinking about that stupid guard snarling at him as he taped the guard and the doctor naked together, shoved gauze into their mouths, and locked them inside the closet.

"You'll be back, freak."

Fred touched the gun inside the doctor's jacket pocket, thinking, I'll be back, all right.

I'm planning on it.

But not just yet.

The small stucco houses on Scott Street were set back twenty feet from the road, butted up close to one another like dairy cows at the trough. The house Fred was looking for was tan with dark-brown shutters and a one-car garage under the second-floor living space.

And there it was, with its crisp lawn and lemon tree, looking just like he remembered. The car was in the garage, and the garage door was open.

This was excellent. Perfect timing, too.

Fred Brinkley walked the twenty feet of asphalt driveway, then slipped inside the garage. He edged alongside the baby-blue '95 BMW convertible and took the cordless nail gun off the tool bench. He slammed in a cartridge, fired into the wall to make sure the tool was working. Tha-wack.

Then he walked up the short flight of stairs, turned the doorknob, and stepped onto the hardwood floor of the living room. He stood for a moment in front of the shrine.

Then he took the leather-bound photo albums off the highboy, grabbed the watercolor from the easel, and carried the load of stuff to the kitchen.

She was at the table, paying the bills. A small under-the-cabinet TV was on – Trial Heat.

The dark-haired woman turned her head as he entered the kitchen, her eyes going huge as she tried to comprehend.

"Hola, Mamacita," he said cheerfully. "It's me. And it's time for the Fred and Elena Brinkley Show."

Chapter 131

"YOU SHOULDN'T BE HERE, ALFRED," his mother said.

Fred put the nail gun down on the counter, locked the kitchen door behind him. Then he flipped through the photo albums, showed his mother the pictures of Lily in her baby carriage, Lily with Mommy. Lily in her tiny bathing suit.

Fred watched Elena's eyes widen as he took the watercolor portrait of Lily, broke the glass against the counter.

"No!"

"Yes, Mama. Yes, sirree. These are dirty pictures. Filthy dirty."

He opened the dishwasher and stacked the albums on the lower rack, put the watercolor in the top rack. Slammed the dishwasher door on the complete photographic collection of his sainted sister and dialed the timer to five minutes.

Heard the machine begin to tick.

"Alfred," said his mother, starting to stand, "this isn't funny."

Fred pushed her back down in her seat.

"The water isn't going to come on for five minutes. All I want is your undivided attention for four, and then I'll set your precious picture albums free."

Fred pulled out a chair and sat down right next to his mother. She gave him her "you're revolting" look, showing him the disdain that had made him hate her for his entire life.

"I didn't finish what I was telling you that day in court," he said.

"That day when you lied, you mean?" she said, twisting her head toward the ticking dishwasher, shooting a look to the bolted kitchen door.

Fred removed the guard's Beretta from his jacket pocket. Took off the safety.

"I want to talk to you, Mama."

"That's not loaded."

Fred smiled, then put a shot through the floor. His mother's face went gray.

"Put your arms on the table. Do it, Mom. You want those pictures back, right?"

Fred wrenched one of his mother's arms away from her side, put it on the table, put the head of the nail gun to her sleeve, and pulled the trigger.

Tha-wack. Nailed the other side of the cuff. Tha-wack, tha-wack.

"See? What did you think, Mama? That I was going to hurt you? I'm not a madman, you know."

After he secured the first sleeve, he nailed down the second one, his mother flinching with each thwack, looking like she was going to cry.

The knob on the dishwasher timer advanced a notch as a minute went by.

Tick, tick, tick.

"Give me my pictures, Fred. They're all I have…"

Fred put his mouth near his mother's ear. Spoke in a loud stage whisper. "I did lie in court, Mom, because I wanted to hurt you. Let you know how I feel all the time."

"I don't have time to listen to you," Elena Brinkley said, pulling her arms against the nails, fabric straining.

"But you do have time. Today is all about me. See?" he said, shooting the three-quarter-inch framing nails up the sides of her sleeves to her elbows.

Tha-wack, tha-wack, tha-wack.

"And the truth is that I wanted to do the dirty with Lily, and that was your fault, Mom. Because you made Lily into a little fuck-doll, with her tiny skirts and painted nails and high heels – on a twelve-year-old! What were you thinking? That she could look like that and no one would want to do her?"

The telephone rang, and Elena Brinkley turned her head longingly toward it. Fred got up from his seat and pulled the cord out of the wall. Then he lifted the knife block from the counter and put it down hard on the table. BLAM.

"Forget the phone. There's no one you need to talk to. I'm the most important person in your world."

"What are you doing, Alfred?"

"What do you think?" he said, taking out one of the long knives. "You think I'm going to cut your tongue out? What kind of psycho do you think I am?"

He laughed at the horror on his mother's face.

"So the thing is, Mommy, I saw Lily going down on this guy, Peter Ballantine, who worked at the marina."

"She did no such thing."

Brinkley began to swipe the eight-inch-long blade against the sharpener – a long Carborundum rod. It made a satisfying whicking sound.

"You should leave now. The police are looking -"

"I'm not finished yet. You're going to listen to me for the first time in your spiteful, miserable…"

Ticketa, ticketa, tick.

Inside his head, he was saying, Kill her. Kill her.

Fred put down the blade and wiped the sweat from his palms onto the sides of Dr. Carter's khakis. Picked up the knife again.

"As I was saying, Lily had been teasing me, Mom. Flouncing around, half naked, and then she puts her mouth on Ballantine's dick. Forget the pictures and listen to me!

"Lily and I took the day-sailer out, and we anchored far out where no one could see us – and Lily took off her top."

Liar. Coward. Blaming her.

"And so I reached out to her. Touched her little titties, and she looked at me like you're looking at me. Like I was dog shit."

"I don't want to hear this."

"You will hear it," Brinkley said, touching the blade gently to the crepey skin of his mother's neck. "So there she was in her little bitty half of a bathing suit, saying that I was the freak, saying, 'I'm going to tell Mom.'

"Those were her last words, Mama. 'I'm going to tell Mom.'

"When she turned away from me, I pulled back on the boom and gave it a shove. It smacked her across the back of the head, and -"

There was the sound of breaking glass, followed by a deafening concussion and a blaze of light.

Fred Brinkley thought that the world had blown apart.

Chapter 132

I WATCHED THROUGH THE SMALL kitchen window, horrified, as Brinkley held a sharpened knife to the side of his mother's neck.

We were armed and ready, but what we needed was a clear line of fire, and Mrs. Brinkley was blocking our shot. Breaking in through either door would give him time enough to kill her.

Fear for the woman climbed up my spine like a lit fuse. I wanted to scream.

Instead, I turned toward Ray Quevas, head of our SWAT team. He shook his head – no – again telling me he couldn't take the shot. This situation could go south in an instant no matter what we did, so when he asked for a green light on the flashbang, I said go ahead.

We pulled on our masks and goggles, and Ray jabbed the window with the launcher barrel, breaking the glass – and then he fired.

The grenade bounced off the far wall of the kitchen and exploded in an ear-shattering, blinding concussion.

The SWAT team had the door down in a half second, and we were inside the smoke-filled room, wanting only one thing: to incapacitate Brinkley before he could get his head together and grab his gun.

I found Brinkley on the floor, facedown, legs under the table. I straddled his back and bent his arms behind him.

I had the cuffs nearly closed when he flipped over and shoved me off his body. He was as strong as a freaking bull. As I struggled to right myself, Brinkley grabbed his gun, which had fallen onto the floor.

Conklin ripped off his mask and yelled, "Keep your hands where I can see them."

It was a standoff.

Chapter 133

LASERS WERE POINTED AT BRINKLEY'S HEAD – but he had two hands on his gun grip, prone position, his military training kicking in. His Beretta was aimed at Conklin. And Rich's gun was on Brinkley.

I was right there.

I screwed my Glock into Brinkley's first vertebra hard enough so that he could really feel it, and I yelled through my mask, "Don't move. Don't you move an inch, or you're dead."

Richie kicked out at Brinkley's gun, sending it skittering across the floor.

Six weapons were trained on Brinkley as I cuffed him, exhilaration flowing through me – even as Brinkley laughed at us.

I pulled off my mask, gagging a little from the phosphorus still in the air. I didn't know what Brinkley found so funny.

We had him. We had him alive.

"He was going to kill me!" Elena Brinkley shouted at Jacobi. "Can't you keep him locked up?"

"What happened?" Brinkley said, looking over his shoulder into my face.

"Remember me?" I said.

"Oh, yeah," he said. "My friend, Lindsay Boxer."

"Good. You're under arrest for your prison break," I said. "And I think we've got a reckless endangerment charge to go with it. Maybe attempted murder, too."

Behind me, Jacobi was telling Elena Brinkley to hold still and he'd get her out of that chair.

"You have the right to remain silent," I said to Brinkley.

Elena freed herself – ripped the fabric loose on one sleeve and, tearing open her blouse, released the other arm. She walked over to her son.

"I hate you," she said. "I wish they'd killed you." Then she struck him hard across the face.

"Wow. What a shock," he said slyly to me.

"Anything you say can and will be used against you," I continued.

"Who are you kidding?" Brinkley shouted at me, seeming oblivious to the roomful of pumped-up law enforcement officers who'd love nothing more than to kick the crap out of him.

"All you can do is take me back to Atascadero," Brinkley said. "Nothing you charge me with is going to stick."

"Shut up, asshole," I said. "Be glad we aren't zipping you into a body bag."

"No, you shut up!" Brinkley said, shouting me down, spit flying, a hellish brightness lighting his face. "I'm not guilty of anything. You know that. I'm legally insane."

And suddenly I heard Elena Brinkley scream, "No!" – as the dishwasher started its run.