The Face of Death

The Face of Death

Book Jacket

Series: Smoky Barrett [2]

SUMMARY: ""I want to talk to Smoky Barrett or I'll kill myself." The girl is sixteen, at the scene of a grisly triple homicide, and has a gun to her head. She claims "The Stranger" killed her adoptive family, that he's been following her all her life, killing everyone she ever loved, and that no one believes her. No one has. Until now." "Special Agent Smoky Barrett is head of the violent crimes unit in Los Angeles, the part of the FBI reserved for tracking down the worst of the worst. Her team has been handpicked from among the nation's elite law enforcement specialists and they are as obsessed and relentless as the psychos they hunt; they'll have to be to deal with this case." "For another vicious double homicide reveals a killer embarked on a dark crusade of trauma and death: an "artist" who's molding sixteen-year-old Sarah into the perfect victim - and the ultimate weapon. But Smoky Barrett has another, more personal reason for catching The Stranger - an adopted daughter and a new life that are worth protecting at any cost." "This time Smoky is going to have to put it all on the line. Because The Stranger is all too real, all too close, and all too relentless. And when he finally shows his face, if she's not ready to confront her worst fear, Smoky won't have time to do anything but die."--BOOK JACKET.

For Brieanna,

my "Little B"

A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

To Liza and Havis Dawson, as always, for the great support, advice, encouragement, and representation. To Danielle Perez and Nick Sayers, my editors at Bantam and Hodder respectively; this was a tough book, and they refused to let me call it done till it was done. To Chandler Crawford for her great foreign representation. Finally, to my family and friends for putting up with me while I wrote this book. I don't know about all writers, but I know this particular writer can be hard to live with when the writing is going rough.

THE FACE OF

D E A T H

B O O K O N E

Down at the

Watering Hole

( WHERE THE DARK THINGS DRINK )

1

I DREAM OF THE FACE OF DEATH.

It's an ever-changing face, worn by many at the wrong time, worn by all eventually. I have looked into this face, over and over and over.

It's what you do, dummy.

A voice in my dream tells me this.

The voice is right. I am in the Los Angeles branch of the FBI, and I am responsible for hunting the worst of the worst. Child killers, serial killers, men (and sometimes women) without conscience or restraint or remorse. It's what I have done for over a decade and if I haven't seen death in all its guises, I've seen it in most. Death is endless and erosive. Its unfettered face wears on a person's soul.

Tonight, the face changes like a strobe in a fog, moving between three people I once knew. Husband, daughter, friend. Matt, Alexa, Annie.

Dead, dead, and dead.

I find myself facing a mirror with no reflection. The mirror laughs at me. It hee-haws like a donkey, it lows like a cow. I hit it with my fist and the mirror shatters. A purple bruise blossoms on my cheek like a rose. The bruise is lovely, I can feel it.

My reflection appears in the mirror shards.

The voice again: Broken things still catch the light. I wake from this dream by opening my eyes. It's a strange thing, going from a deep sleep to full awareness in the space of a blink. But at least I don't wake up screaming anymore.

I can't say the same for Bonnie. I turn on my side to look at her, being careful not to jostle. I find she is already awake, staring into my eyes.

"Did I wake you up, honey?" I ask.

She shakes her head. No, she's saying.

It's late, and this is one of those times where sleep still beckons. If Bonnie and I are willing, it will draw us back down again. I open my arms to her. My adopted daughter moves close to me. I hug her tight, but not too tight. I smell the sweetness of her hair and darkness claims us with the whisper of an ocean tide.

When I wake up, I feel great. Really and truly rested, in a way I haven't for a long time. The dream has left me feeling cleansed. Gently scoured.

I feel unrushed and distant and peaceful. I don't have anything in particular to worry about, which is strange; worry is a phantom limb for me. This is like being in a bubble--or maybe the womb. I go with it, floating for a little while, listening to my own white noise. This is a Saturday morning, not just in name, but as a state of being. I look over to where Bonnie should be, and see only rumpled sheets. I cock an ear and hear faint patterings. Ten-year-old feet, moving through the house. Having a ten-year-old daughter can be like living with a fairy. Something magical. I stretch and it feels glorious and catlike. Just one item is needed to make this morning a thing of perfection. As I think it, my nose twitches.

Coffee.

I bound out of bed, and head down the stairs to the kitchen. I note with satisfaction that I'm wearing nothing but an old T-shirt and what I call my "granny panties," along with a pair of ridiculous fluffy slippers in the shape of elephants. My hair looks like it just went through a hurricane. None of it matters, because it's Saturday, and no one else is here but us girls.

Bonnie meets me at the bottom of the stairs with a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, munchkin." I take a sip. "Perfect," I say, nodding. And it is.

I sit down at the dining table, sipping my coffee. Bonnie drinks a glass of milk, and we look at each other. It's a very, very comfortable silence. I grin.

"This is some great morning, isn't it?"

She grins back, and that smile steals my heart again, nothing new. She nods.

Bonnie does not speak. Her muteness is not a result of any physical defect. It's the result of her mother getting butchered while she watched. And of the killer then tying her to her mother's corpse, faceto-face. She was there for three days like that. She hasn't spoken a word since.

Annie--her mother--was my best friend in the world. The killer came for her to hurt me. At times, I know that Annie died because she was my friend. Most of the time I don't know this. I pretend it isn't there, something just too huge and dark and crushing, a shadow the size of a whale. If I were to know that truth too often, it would break me.

Once, when I was six, I was angry at my mother for some reason. I can't even remember why. I had a kitten that I'd named Mr. Mittens, and he came up to me with that empathy animals can have, knowing I was upset. Mr. Mittens approached me with unconditional love, and my response was to give him a little kick.

He wasn't hurt, not permanently. Not even temporarily. But he was never really a kitten again. He would always flinch first when you went to pet him. To this day, if I think about Mr. Mittens, I'm consumed with guilt. Not just a twinge, but a feeling of pure awfulness, a kind of crippling of the soul. It was an evil act. I did permanent harm to something innocent. I never told anyone what I did to Mr. Mittens. It's a secret I plan to take to my grave, a sin I'd rather go to hell for than confess.

Thinking about Annie makes me feel like I kicked Mr. Mittens to death. So I'm comfortable not knowing, most of the time. Annie left Bonnie to me. She is my penance. It's not fair, because Bonnie is magic and wonder and sunny days. Muteness, night screams, and all. Penance should involve suffering; Bonnie brings me smiles.

I think about all this in an instant, looking at her. Thought moves fast.

"How about we hang out and be lazy for a few hours, and then we go shopping?"

Bonnie considers this for a moment. This is one of her traits. She doesn't blithely respond to anything. She gives it real thought, makes sure that when she answers, it's the truth. I don't know if this is a product of what she went through, or a quirk of character she was born with. She lets me know what she's decided with a smile and a nod.

"Coolio. Want breakfast?"

This requires no consideration, food being a consistent exception to that quirk. Affirmation is instant and enthusiastic. I putter around, making bacon, eggs, toast. As we munch, I decide to broach the coming week with her.

"I told you I took a few weeks off, didn't I?"

She nods.

"I did it for a lot of reasons, but one in particular. I wanted to talk to you about it because . . . well . . . it'll be a good thing, but it might be a little bit hard too. For me, I mean."

She leans forward, watching me with a steady, patient intensity. I sip my coffee. "I've decided it's time to put some things away. Things like Matt's clothes, his bathroom stuff. Some of Alexa's toys. Not the photos or anything like that. I'm not talking about erasing them. It's just . . ." I'm looking for the words. I find them, and they form a simple sentence: "It's just that they don't live here anymore."

Succinct, a single line. Filled with all of the meaning and knowledge and fear and love and hope and despair in the world. Spoken after crossing a desert of darkness.

I am the head of the Violent Crimes Unit in Los Angeles. I'm good at my job--real good. I oversee a team of three other people, all handselected by me, all exemplary law-enforcement professionals. I could be modest, I suppose, but I would just be lying. The truth is, you really don't want to be the psycho that my team is after. A year ago, we were hunting a man named Joseph Sands. Nice guy to his neighbors, loving father of two, bearer of just a single flaw: He was hollow inside. He didn't seem to mind, but I'm sure the young women he tortured and murdered did.

We were hot on his trail--close to figuring out that it was him, in other words--when he changed my world. He broke into my home one night and, using just rope and a hunting knife, ended the universe as I knew it. He killed my husband, Matt, in front of me. He raped and disfigured me. He pulled my daughter, Alexa, up, using her as a human shield to catch the bullet that I had fired at him. I returned the favor by filling him up with every bullet in my gun, and reloading to do it all again. I spent six months after that deciding whether I was going to go on living or blow my brains out. Then Annie got killed, and Bonnie was there, and somewhere along the way, life got a firm grip on me again.

Most people can't truly conceive of being in a place where death might be preferable to life. Life is strong. It grips you in many ways, from the beating of your heart, to the sun on your face, to the feel of the ground beneath your feet. It grasps you.

Its grip on me was as thin as a thread. A strand of spider's silk, holding me over the edge of the chasm of forever. Then it was two threads. Then five. Then it was a rope. The chasm began to recede, and at some point I realized that life once again had a grip on me. It had snared me back into the moment to moment of drawing breath and pumping blood, and I cared about it all again. The chasm was gone, replaced by a horizon.

"It's time to make this a real home again, honey. You understand?"

She nods. I can tell she understands it in every way.

"Now--here's the part you might like." I give her a small smile.

"Aunt Callie took some time off, and she's going to come stay with us and help out"--this elicits a smile of pure delight from Bonnie--"and Elaina is going to be coming over too."

Her eyes become lighthouses of happiness. The smile is blinding. Definite approval. I grin. "Glad it makes you happy."

She nods, we get back to eating. I'm woolgathering when I realize she is studying me again, head cocked. She has a soft, quizzical look on her face.

"You wonder why they're coming?"

She nods.

"Because . . ." I sigh. It's another single, simple sentence: "Because I can't do it by myself."

I'm resolute about this, about moving forward. But I'm a little bit afraid of it too. I've spent so much time being fucked up, I'm suspicious of my recent bout of stability. I want friends around to support me if I get a little bit wobbly.

Bonnie gets out of her chair, comes over to me. I feel such softness in this child. Such goodness. If my dreams contain the face of death, then this is the face of love. She reaches up and traces the scars that cover the left side of my face with a light finger. Broken pieces. I am the mirror.

My heart fills and empties, fills and empties.

"I love you too, sweetheart."

Quick hug, canyon of meaning, back to breakfast. We finish and I sigh with contentment. Bonnie burps, huge and loud. A shocked silence follows--and then we both break out in laughter that comes straight from the belly. We laugh until we cry, it subsides to giggles, ends in smiles.

"Want to go watch some cartoons, munchkin?"

A blazing smile, like the sun on a field of roses. I realize that this is the best day I have had in the last year. The very, very best.

2

BONNIE AND I ARE GOING THROUGH THE GLENDALE GALLERIA--

mall to end all malls--and the day has only gotten better. We stopped into a Sam Goody's to look at the music selection. I got a CD set-- Best of the Eighties--and Bonnie got the newest Jewel CD. Her current musical interests seem to match her personality: full of thought and beauty, neither unhappy nor joyous. I look forward to the day that she asks me to buy her something because it makes her toes tap, but today I could care less. Bonnie's happy. That's all that matters. We buy some giant salted pretzels and sit down on a bench to eat them and people-watch. Two teenagers wander by, oblivious to anything but each other. The girl is in her mid-teens, brunette, homely, slender on top, heavy on the bottom, wearing low-slung jeans and a halter top. The boy is about the same age and adorably un-cool. Tall, skinny, gangly, sporting thick-lensed glasses, lots of acne, and hair down past his shoulders. He's got his hand in the back pocket of her jeans, she has her arm around his waist. They both look young and goofy and awkward and happy. Two square pegs, they make me smile.

I catch a middle-aged man goggling at a beautiful twentysomething. She's like an untamed horse, full of an effortless vitality. Perfect jet-black hair down to her waist. Flawless tanned skin. Perky smile, perky nose, perky everything, exuding confidence and a sensuality that I think is more unconscious than purposeful. She walks by the man. He continues to catch flies with his open mouth. She never even notices him. The way of things.

Was I like that once? I muse. Something beautiful enough to lower the male IQ?

I suppose I was. But times change.

I get looks now, it's true. But they're not looks of desire. They are looks ranging from curiosity to distaste. Hard to blame them. Sands did some of his best work when he cut my face.

The right side is perfect and untouched. All the really grisly stuff is on the left. The scar starts at my hairline in the middle of my forehead. It goes straight down to between my eyebrows, and then it rockets off to the left, an almost perfect ninety-degree angle. I have no left eyebrow; the scar has replaced it. The puckered road continues, across my temple, arcing in a lazy loop-de-loop down my cheek. It rips over toward my nose, crosses the bridge of it just barely, and then turns back, slicing in a diagonal across my left nostril and zooming one final time past my jawline, down my neck, ending at my collarbone. There is another scar, straight and perfect, that goes from under the middle of my left eye down to the corner of my mouth. It's newer than the rest; the man who killed Annie forced me to cut myself while he looked and hungered. He loved watching me bleed, you could see it in his eyes, an exaltation. It was one of the last things he felt before I blew his brains out.

Those are just the scars that are visible. Below the neckline of whatever blouse I happen to be wearing, there are others. Made by a knife blade and the cherry-end of a burning cigar. For a long time, I was ashamed of my face. I kept my hair forward on the left, trying to obscure what Joseph Sands had done to me. Life got its grip on my heart again and my view of those scars changed. I keep my hair back these days, tight against my head in a ponytail, daring the world to look. The rest of me is not too bad. I'm a shorty, four foot ten inches tall. I have what Matt used to call "mouth-sized boobs." I'm not thin, but am in shape. I have a not-small ass, more of a bubble butt. Matt used to love it. Sometimes he would fall down on his knees when I was in front of the full-length mirror, grab my butt, and look up at me. In his best Gollum voice he would go, "My preciousssss . . ."

It never failed to give me a case of out of control giggles. Bonnie pulls me out of this idle reverie with a tug on my sleeve. I look to where she is pointing. "You want to go into Claire's?"

She nods.

"No problem, munchkin." Claire's is one of those places that was designed for the mother/daughter experience. Cheap but stylish jewelry for young and old, hair scrunchies, brushes emblazoned with glitter.

We walk in and a twentysomething turns out to be one of the salespeople. She comes up to us with a patented retail smile, ready to help and sell. Her eyes widen as she gets a good look at me. The smile falters first, then shatters.

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Problem?"

"No, I--" She continues to stare at my scars, flustered and horrified. I'm almost sympathetic. Beauty is her deity, and so my face must look like a victory for the devil.

"Go help the girls over there, Barbara." The voice is sharp, a slap. I look over and see a woman in her forties. She's beautiful in that way that beautiful women can have when they get older. Salt-and-pepper hair, along with the most striking blue eyes I've ever seen. "Barbara,"

she repeats.

The twentysomething snaps out of it, flings out a single "Yes, ma'am," and races away from me as fast as her perfectly pedicured feet can carry her.

"Don't mind her, sweetheart," the woman says. "She's big on smiles, but a little lacking in the IQ department." The voice is kind and I open my mouth to reply when I realize that she's not talking to me, but to Bonnie.

I look down and see that Bonnie is staring daggers at the twentysomething. Bonnie is protective of me; she had not been amused. She responds to the woman's voice, turning to her, giving her a very frank look of appraisal. The frown is replaced by a shy smile. She likes the salt-and-pepper lady.

"I'm Judith, this is my little shop. What can I help you ladies with?"

Now she is speaking to me. I give her my own look of appraisal, and see nothing false here. Her kindness is unforced, more than genuine. It's innate for this woman. I'm not sure why I ask it, but the words fly from my lips before I can stop them. "Why aren't you bothered like she was, Judith?"

Judith gives me a look with those oh-so-sharp eyes, follows it with a soft smile. "Honey, I beat cancer last year. It required a double mastectomy. The first time my husband saw the results, he didn't even blink, just told me he loved me. Beauty is a highly overrated commodity." She winks. "So, can I help you . . . ?"

"Smoky," I reply. "Smoky Barrett. This is Bonnie. We're just looking around, and you already helped us a lot."

"Well, enjoy and you just let me know."

One last smile, a small wink, and she's off, trailing kindness behind her like a fairy glow. We spend a good twenty minutes in the shop, loading ourselves down with trinkets. Half of them will never be used, but boy were they fun to buy. We get rung up by Judith, murmur our good-byes, and leave with our loot. I look at my watch as we stand outside the store.

"We should get back, babe. Aunt Callie is going to be showing up in an hour or two."

Bonnie smiles and nods, takes my hand. We exit the mall into a perfect day of California sunshine. It's like walking into a postcard. I think about Judith, and glance at Bonnie. She doesn't see me looking at her. She seems carefree, like a child should.

I put on my sunglasses and think again: This is a great day. The best in a long while. Maybe it's a good omen. I'm clearing the house of ghosts, and life keeps getting better. It makes me certain I'm doing the right thing.

I know when I go back to work that I'll remember: There are predators out there, rapists and murderers and worse. They're walking with us under that same blue sky, basking in the heat of that same yellow sun, always watching, always waiting, brushing up against the rest of us and quivering when they do, like dark tuning forks. But for now, the sun could just be the sun. Like the dream-voice said: We broken things, we still catch the light.

3

THE LIVING ROOM COUCH HOLDS US IN A SOFT, RELAXED GRIP. It's a slightly battered old couch, light-beige microfiber, spotted in places by the past. I see wine drops that wouldn't come out, something food-related that probably dates back years. The loot from the mall waits in bags on the coffee table, which also shows signs of past misuse. Its walnut was shiny when Matt and I bought it; now its top is marred and scarred.

I should replace them both, but I can't, not yet. They've been loyal and comfortable and true, and I'm not ready to send them off to furniture heaven.

"I want to talk to you about something, honey," I say to Bonnie. She grants me her full attention. She senses the hesitation in my voice, the conflict inside me. Go ahead, that look says. It's okay. This is another thing I hope to put behind us, someday. Bonnie reassures me too often. I should be guiding her with my strength, not the other way around.

"I want to talk to you about you not talking."

Her eyes change, going from understanding to troubled. No, she's saying. I don't want to discuss this.

"Honey." I touch her arm. "I'm just concerned, okay? I've spoken with some doctors. They say if you go too long without speaking, you could lose the ability to talk for good. If you never talk again, I'll still love you. But that doesn't mean that's what I want for you."

She crosses her arms. I can see the struggle going on inside her but I can't define it. Then I get it.

"Are you trying to figure out how to tell me something?" I ask. She nods.

Yes.

She stares at me, concentrating. She points at her mouth. She shrugs. She does this again. Points. Shrugs. I puzzle about it for a moment.

"You don't know why you're not talking?"

She nods.

Yes.

She holds up a finger. I've come to learn that this means "but" or

"wait."

"I'm listening."

She points at her head. Mimes being thoughtful.

Again, it takes me a moment.

"You don't know why you're not talking--but you're thinking about it? Trying to figure out the reason?"

I can tell by the relief on her face that I've hit the mark. It's my turn to be troubled.

"But, honey--don't you want some help with that? We could get you a therapist--"

She jumps up from the couch, alarmed. Cuts her hands in the air. No way, no how, uh-uh.

This one needs no explanation. I understand in a flash.

"Okay, okay. No therapists." I put a hand on my heart. "Promise."

This is another reason to hate the man who murdered Bonnie's mother, dead or not. He was a therapist and Bonnie knows it. Bonnie watched him kill her mother, and he killed any potential trust of his profession along with her.

I reach out, grab her, pull her to me. It's clumsy and awkward but she doesn't resist.

"I'm sorry, babe. I just . . . worry about you. I love you. I'm afraid of you never talking again."

She points at herself, and nods.

Me too, she's saying.

Points at her head.

But I'm working on it.

I sigh.

"Fair enough, for now."

Bonnie hugs me back, showing me that it's fine, the day isn't ruined, no harm done. Reassuring me again. Accept it. She's happy, right now. Let her be.

"Let's dig through all this cool junk we got, what do you say?"

Wide grin, big nod.

Yeah.

Five minutes later the trinkets have distracted her from the earlier discussion.

They distract me less, of course. I'm the grown-up. I don't get to soothe my worries with nail polish.

There are things I haven't told Bonnie about this two-week break. Omissions, not lies. A parental right. You omit so your child can be a child. They'll grow up and shoulder the weights of an adult soon enough, and inevitably.

I have some choices to make about my life, and I have two weeks to decide what I'm going to do. That's a self-imposed deadline. I need to make a decision, not just for me, but for Bonnie as well. We both need stability, certainty, a routine.

This has all come to a head because I was summoned to the Assistant Director's office ten days ago.

I have known Assistant Director Jones for the entirety of my FBI career. He was my original mentor and career rabbi. Now he's my boss. He didn't arrive at his current position through politics; he moved up through the ranks by being an exceptional agent. In other words, he's real, not a suit. I respect him.

AD Jones's office is windowless and austere. He could have chosen a corner office with great views, but when I'd queried him on it one time, his response had been something along the lines of "A good boss shouldn't spend much time in his office anyway."

He'd been seated behind his desk, a big, hulking, gray-metal anachronism that he's had for as long as I've known him. Like the man himself, it screams, "If it's not broke don't fix it." The desk's surface was covered, as always, by multiple stacks of folders and papers. A worn wood and brass plaque announced his title. No awards or certificates adorned the walls, though I happen to know he has plenty he could put up.

"Sit down," he'd said, indicating the two leather chairs that are always there. AD Jones is in his early fifties. He's been in the FBI since 1977. He started right here in California and worked his way up the chain of command. He's been married twice and divorced twice. He's a handsome man, in a hard, carved-from-wood kind of way. He tends to be terse, gruff, and unapologetic. He's also a formidable investigator. I was lucky to have worked under him so early in my career.

"What's up, sir?" I'd asked.

He'd taken a moment before answering.

"I'm not big on tact, Smoky, so I'll just lay it out. You've been offered a teaching position at Quantico, if you want it. You're not required to accept it, but I am required to tell you about it."

I'd been dumbfounded. I'd asked the obvious question:

"Why?"

"Because you're the best."

Something in his demeanor had told me there was more to it than that.

"But?"

He'd sighed. "There is no 'but.' There's an 'and.' You are the best. You're more than qualified and more than deserving based on merit."

"What's the 'and'?"

"Some higher-ups in the Bureau--including the Director--feel that you're owed it."

"Owed it?"

"Because of what you've given, Smoky." His voice had been quiet.

"You've given the Bureau your family." He'd touched his cheek. I didn't know if it was an unconscious gesture or apropos of my scars.

"You've been through a lot because of your job."

"So, what?" I'd asked, angry. "They feel sorry for me? Or are they worried about me cracking up down the road?"

He'd surprised me with a grin. "Under normal circumstances, I'd agree with that line of thinking. But no. I talked to the Director himself and he made it clear: This isn't a politicized payoff. It's a reward."

He'd given me an appraising look. "Have you ever met Director Rathbun?"

"Once. He seemed like a straight shooter."

"He is. He's tough, he's honest--as honest as the position allows him to be--and he tells it straight. He thinks you're perfect for the job. It would come with a pay raise, you'd have stability for Bonnie, and you'd be out of the line of fire." A pause. "The thing is, he told me it was the best the Bureau was going to be able to do for you."

"I don't understand what that means."

"There was a time you were being considered for Assistant Director--my job."

"Yes, I know."

"That'll never be on the table again."

Shock had coursed through me.

"Why? Because I got thrown for a loop when Matt and Alexa died?"

"No, no, nothing like that. That's way too deep. Think shallower."

I had, and understanding had arrived. On one hand, I hadn't believed it. On the other, it was Bureau, through and through.

"It's about my face, isn't it? It's an image issue."

A complicated mix of pain and anger had flared up in his eyes. This had died away to weariness.

"I told you he gives it straight. It's a media-driven age, Smoky. There's no conflict with you running your unit and looking the way you do." His lips had twisted into a sardonic smile. "But apparently the consensus is that it wouldn't work in a director-level position. Romantic if you're the hunter, bad for recruitment if you're a Director or Assistant Director. I think it's crap, and so does he, but that's the way it is."

I'd searched for the outrage I'd expected to feel, but to my surprise had found it absent. I could only summon up indifference. There was a time when I had been as ambitious as the next agent. Matt and I had talked about it, even planned for it. We'd assumed that I'd climb the command ladder as a matter of course. But things had changed.

Part of this was pragmatism. Personal feelings aside, the powersthat-be weren't wrong. I was no longer fit to be the administrative face of the FBI. I was good as a soldier, scarred and scary. I was fine to train others, the grizzled veteran. Photo ops with the President? Never going to happen.

The other part was possibility. Teaching at Quantico was a plum position that many aspired to. It came with good pay, regular hours, and a lot less stress. Students didn't shoot at you. They didn't break into your home. They didn't kill your family.

All of this had passed through my mind in an instant.

"How long do I have to give my answer?" I'd asked.

"A month. If you say yes, you'd have plenty of time to make the transition. Six months or so."

A month, I'd thought. Plenty of time and no time at all.

"What do you think I should do, sir?"

My mentor hadn't missed a beat.

"You're the best agent I've ever worked with, Smoky. Hard to replace. But you should do whatever is best for you."

Here in the present, I glance at Bonnie. She's engrossed in her cartoons. I think about today, about relaxed mornings and breakfast burps and trips to Claire's.

What's best for me? What's best for Bonnie? Should I ask her?

Yeah, I should. But not now.

For now I was going to continue with the current plan. I was going to pack Matt and Alexa away. Gone but not forgotten. We'll see what things look like after that.

I didn't feel stressed by the need to decide. I had choices. Choices meant future. Future here, future in Quantico, it was all forward motion, and motion was life. All of that was better than six months ago. You keep telling yourself that. But it's not that simple, and you know it. Something's hiding behind that indifference, something dark and nasty and fang-ful.

Fang-ful isn't even a real word, I reply to myself, scornful. I put all of this out of my mind (or try to) and snuggle closer, let ting Saturday be Saturday again.

"Cartoons rock, don't they, babe?"

Bonnie nods without looking away from the TV.

Yes, she agrees. They do.

Not fang-ful at all.

4

"DON'T YOU BOTH LOOK LAZY AND PLEASED ABOUT IT," CALLIE says.

She stands in the kitchen, posed. Burgandy-painted fingernails tap the black granite countertop of the kitchen island. Her copper hair contrasts with the white-oak cabinets behind her. She arches a single perfect, disapproving eyebrow.

Bonnie and I grin at each other.

If there was a patron saint of irreverence, it would be Callie. She is crass, sharp tongued, and has a habit of calling everyone "honey-love."

Rumor says that she has a written reprimand on file for calling the Director of the FBI "honey-love." I don't doubt it; it is Callie to the core.

She is also beautiful in a way that the twentysomethings envy, because it is a permanent beauty, a movie-star beauty, undeterred by age. I have seen pictures of Callie at twenty, and I can honestly say that she is more beautiful now at thirty-eight. She has flaming red hair, full lips, long legs--she could have been a model. But instead of packing a hairbrush, she packs a gun. I think one of the things that makes her even more beautiful--if that's possible--is her absolute disinterest in her own physical perfection. It's not that she has a poor self-image (far, far from it), it's that her beauty isn't a meaningful trait to her. Callie is hard as nails, smarter than the scientists at NASA, and the most loyal friend a person could ever hope to have. None of this is self-evident. Callie is not a touchy-feely girl. I've never gotten a greeting card or a birthday present from her. Her love shines through her actions.

It was Callie who found me in the aftermath of Joseph Sands. Callie who took my gun away from me, even as I pointed it at her, and pulled the trigger, firing on empty, click-click-click. Callie is a member of my team; we have worked together for ten years. She has a master's degree in forensics to go along with a mind made for what we do. Callie has a certain brutality to her when it comes to investigative work. Evidence and truth are her higher power. If the evidence points to you, she'll turn on you and devour you, regardless of how well you got along before that point. She won't feel guilty about it either. The simplest solution: Don't be a criminal and you'll get along with her just fine.

Callie isn't perfect, she just wears her bruises better than the rest of us. She'd gotten pregnant at fifteen and had been forced by her parents to give up the child for adoption. Callie had kept this a secret from everyone, including me, until six months ago. A killer had forced it into the open. People could envy her beauty, but she'd fought and suffered to become the person she is.

"We are pleased," I say, smiling. "Thanks for coming."

She waves her hand in a gesture of dismissal. "I'm here for the free food." She gives me a stern look. "There will be free food, won't there?"

Bonnie answers for me. She goes over to the refrigerator, opens the door, and comes back holding a Callie favorite: a box of chocolate donuts.

Callie mimes wiping away a tear. "Bless you." She smiles down at Bonnie. "Want to help me polish off a few?"

Bonnie smiles back, more sun and roses. They get milk, an important ingredient. I watch them down some donuts and I reflect on the fact that this, this simple minute, brings to me a burst of happiness that is almost a perfect thing. Friends and donuts and smiling daughters, the elixir of laughter and life.

"No, honey-love," I hear Callie say. "Never eat without dunking first. Unless no milk is available, of course, because that's the first rule of life, and never forget it: The donut always trumps the milk. "

I stare at my friend in wonder. She's unaware of it, engrossed in doling out her donut-lore. This is one of the things that makes Callie one of my favorite people. Her willingness to have fun. To grab, guiltless, at the low-hanging fruit of happiness.

"I'll be back in a minute," I say.

I pad up carpet-covered stairs to my bedroom and look around. It's a good-sized master. Plantation shutters on the front wall can be configured to let the sunshine in by increments, or in force. The walls are painted in off-whites, the bed coverings are a bright splash of light-blue color. The bed dominates the room, four-poster, king-sized, top-of-the-line, heaven-sent mattress. Heaps of pillows, mountains of pillows. I love pillows.

There are two matching chests of drawers, one for Matt and one for me, all in dark-colored cherrywood. A ceiling fan churns away, quiet, its low-slung hum my longtime sleep companion. I sit down on the bed and look around, taking it in as a whole. I need a moment, before it all starts. A moment to see it for what it was, not what it's going to become.

Great things and terrible things and things banal, all happened here, on this bed. They run through me like raindrops through tree leaves. A quiet thundering on the roof of my world.

Memories eventually lose their sharp edges and stop drawing blood. They quit cutting you and start stirring you. That's what my memories of my family have become, and I'm pretty happy about that. There was a time when a thought of Matt or Alexa would double me over in pain. Now I can remember and smile.

Progress, babe, progress.

Matt still talks to me from time to time. He was my best friend; I'm not ready to stop hearing his voice in my head.

I close my eyes and remember moving this bed into this room, after Matt and I bought it at some mom-and-pop furniture store. This was our first home, purchased by cleaning out our bank accounts for a down payment and praying for an understanding lender. We bought a home in an up-and-coming area of Pasadena, a newer two-story (no way could we afford one of the hundred-year-old Craftsman homes, though we eyed them wistfully). It wasn't so close to work, but neither of us wanted to live in LA proper. We wanted a family. Pasadena was safer. The house looked like every other one around it, yes, it lacked identity, true--but it was ours.

"This is a home," Matt had said to me in the front yard, hugging me from behind as we both looked up at the house. "We're going to make a life here. I think a new bed fits that. It's symbolic."

It was silly and sappy, of course. And I agreed, of course. So we bought the bed, and struggled it up the stairs ourselves. We broke a happy sweat assembling the headboard and frame and baseboard, grunted getting the box spring and mattress on. We sat on the floor of the bedroom, panting.

Matt had looked over at me and smiled. He'd bobbed his eyebrows up and down. "Whatcha say we slap some sheets on the bed and engage in some horizontal mambo?"

I had giggled at his crudity. "You sure know how to charm a girl."

His face had grown mock-serious. He'd placed a hand on his heart, while raising the other. "My father taught me the rules of bedding a wench. I promise, as always, to live by them."

"What are they again?"

"Never wear your socks during sex. Know the location of the clitoris. Cuddle her to sleep before falling asleep yourself. No farting in bed."

I nod, solemn. "Your father was a wise man. I agree to your terms."

We mamboed all afternoon, and into the dusk.

I look down at the bed. Feeling it more than seeing it. Alexa was conceived on this bed, in some sweaty, tender moment, or maybe during something rougher and more acrobatic, who knows. Matt and I came together two and parted three. A successive joy, divine addition. I spent sleepless nights on this bed while I was pregnant. Ankles swollen, back aching. I blamed Matt for everything. Blamed him with a bitterness you can only achieve at three in the morning and 210 days. I loved Matt for everything too. A depthless love that was a mixture of real joy and hormones gone berserk. Most people start out, really, too selfish for marriage. A pregnancy will beat that right out of you.

The day after we brought her home, Matt and I set Alexa down in the middle of this bed. We lay on either side of her, and wondered at the fact of her.

Alexa was made here. She cried here sometimes. She laughed here, she was angry here, I think she even vomited here once after Matt let her eat too much ice cream. I cleaned up the bed, Matt slept on the couch.

I have learned lessons in this bed. Once, Matt and I were making love. Not having sex-- making love. It had been preceded by wine and candles. We had the perfect CD playing at the perfect volume--loud enough to create an atmosphere, low enough not to distract. The moon was lush and the night breeze was temperate. We had just enough sweat going to keep us slippery in a sexy, non-sticky way. It was sensuous defined.

And then, I farted.

It was a ladylike toot, sure--but a fart nonetheless. We both froze. Everything seemed to hang in a long, agonizing, embarrassed moment.

And then, the giggling started. Followed by laughter. Followed by howls that we smothered with pillows, until we remembered Alexa was staying at a friend's. Followed later by a different kind of sex. It was no longer storybook, but it was more tender and more true. You can have pride, and you can have love, but you can't always have both. In this bed I learned that love was better. It wasn't all farts and laughter. Matt and I fought in this bed too. God, did we have some good fights. That's how we referred to them-- "good fights." We were convinced that a successful marriage required a healthy knockdown, drag-out every now and then. We took great pride in some of our "better efforts"--retrospective pride, of course. I was raped in this bed, and I watched Matt die while I was tied to this bed. Bad stuff.

I breathe in, breathe out. The raindrops fall through the tree leaves, soft but inexorable. The basic truth: You get wet when it rains, no way around it.

I consider the bed and think about the future. About all the good things that could still happen here, should I decide to stay. I didn't have Matt, and I didn't have Alexa, but I did have Bonnie, and I did have me.

Life as it used to be, that was the milk. But life in general, was pure chocolate donut, and the donut trumps the milk.

"So this is where all the magic happens."

Callie's voice startles me from my reverie. She's standing in the doorway, her gaze speculative.

"Hey," I say. "Thanks for coming. For helping me do this."

She walks into the room, her eyes roving. "Well, it was this or reruns of Charlie's Angels. Besides, Bonnie feeds me."

I grin. "How to catch a wild Callie: chocolate donuts and a really big mousetrap."

She comes over, plops down on the bed. Bounces up and down on it a few times. "Very nice," she judges.

"I have a lot of good memories here."

"I've always wondered . . ." She hesitates.

"What?"

"Why did you keep it? This is the same bed, isn't it? Where it happened?"

"The one and only." I run a hand over the comforter. "I thought about getting rid of it. I couldn't sleep in it for the first few weeks after I came home. I slept on the couch. When I got up the courage to try, I couldn't bear sleeping anywhere else. One terrible thing happened here. That shouldn't outweigh all of the good times. I loved people here. My people. I'm not letting Sands take that away from me."

I can't decipher the look in her eyes. Sadness. Guilt. A little bit of longing?

"See now? That's the difference between us, Smoky. I have a single bad moment in my teens, sleep with the wrong boy, get pregnant, and give up my child. I make damn sure forever-after that I never have another committed relationship. You get raped in this bed, but its strongest memories for you are the moments you shared with Matt and Alexa. I admire your optimism, I really do." Her smile is just short of melancholy. Her lips curve in self-mockery. "As for me? My cup runneth under."

I don't reply, because I know my friend. She's sharing this with me, but that's all she's capable of. Words of comfort would be embarrassing, almost a betrayal. I'm here so she can say these things and know someone heard her, nothing more.

She smiles. "Know what I miss?" she asks. "Matt's tacos."

I look at her in surprise. Then I smile too.

"They were great, weren't they?"

"I dream about them sometimes," she replies, melodramatic longing in her eyes. I couldn't cook with a gun to my head. I could burn water, as the saying goes. Matt, as always, as in all things, was the whole package. He bought cookbooks and tried things and nine times out of ten the results were amazing.

He'd learned how to make tacos by hand from someone, I don't know who. Not the kind with the icky store-bought shells, but the kind where you begin with a supple tortilla and transform it on the spot into a stiff yet chewy half-moon of deliciousness. He added some kind of spice to the meat that literally made my mouth water. Callie too, it seems. She loved food, and invited herself to dinner three or four times a month. I can see her in my mind, scarfing down tacos, chewing her food while talking out of the side of her mouth. Saying something that made Alexa giggle till her milk went the wrong way and spewed out of her nose. Which was, of course, the height of hilarity, the apex of thigh-slappers for Alexa.

"Thank you," I say.

She knows what I mean. Thank you for that memory, that forgotten bit of bittersweet, that punch in the gut that hurts and feels wonderful all at once. This is Callie, spinning in close to hug my soul, spinning back out to regain her haughty distance.

She gets up from the bed and heads for the door. She looks back at me and smiles, a mischievous smile.

"Oh, and so you know? You don't need a mousetrap. Just drug the donuts. I'll always eat the donuts."

5

"HOW ARE YOU DOING, SMOKY?"

Elaina is asking me this. She showed up about twenty minutes ago, and after going through the requisite hugs with Bonnie, she'd maneuvered me off so that we were sitting alone in my living room. Her gaze is frankness and kindness and klieg lights. She faces me head-on, piercing me with those brown eyes. "No bullshit allowed,"

that look says.

"Mostly good, some bad," I say without hesitation. Being less than honest with Elaina never occurs to me. She is one of those rare people, the ones who are kind and strong at the same time. She softens her gaze. "Tell me about the bad."

I stare back at her, trying to find words for my new demon, the devil that romps through my mind while I sleep. I used to dream about Joseph Sands, he chuckled and chortled and raped me again and again, killed my family with a wink and a smile. Sands has faded; the nightmares now center around Bonnie. I see her sitting on a madman's lap, a knife at her throat. I see her lying on a white rug, a bullet hole through her forehead, a crimson-angel spreading beneath her.

"Fear. It's the fear."

"What about?"

"Bonnie."

Her forehead clears. "Ah. You're afraid something's going to happen to her."

"More like terrified. That she's never going to talk and end up nuts. That I'm not going to be there when she needs me."

"And?" Elaina asks, nudging me. Pushing me to put the real terror, the guy at the bottom of that dark barrel, into words.

"That she's going to die, okay?" It comes out sounding snappish. I regret it. "Sorry."

She smiles to show me it's fine. "All things considered, I think your fear makes sense, Smoky. You lost a child. You know it can happen. For goodness' sake, Bonnie almost died in front of you." A gentle touch, her hand on mine. "Your fear makes sense."

"But it makes me feel weak," I reply, miserable. "Fear is weakness. Bonnie needs me to be strong."

I sleep with a loaded gun in my nightstand. The house is alarmed up the wazoo. The dead bolt on the front door would take an intruder an hour to drill through. All of it helps, but none of it dispels. Elaina gives me a sharp look and shakes her head once. "No. Bonnie needs you to be present. She needs you to love her. She needs a mother, not a superhero. Real people are messy and complicated and generally inconvenient, but at least they are there, Smoky."

Elaina is the wife of one of my team members, Alan. She's a beautiful Latin woman, all gentle curves and poet's eyes. Her true beauty comes from her heart; she has a fierce gentleness to her that says

"Mom" and "Safe" and "Love." Not in some silly, Pollyanna way--

Elaina's goodness is not sappy-sweet. It's inexorable and undeniable and full of certainty.

Last year she was diagnosed with stage-two colon cancer. She'd had surgery to remove the tumor, followed by radiation and chemotherapy. She's doing well, but she's lost the hair that had always been so thick and unstoppable. She wears this indignity the way I've learned to wear my scars: uncovered and on display. Her head is shaved bald and isn't hidden by a hat or bandanna. I wonder if the pain of this loss hits her out of the blue sometimes, the way the absence of Matt and Alexa used to hit me. Probably not. For Elaina, hair-loss would take a backseat to the joy of being alive; that kind of straightforwardness of purpose is a part of her power.

Elaina came to see me after Sands took away my family. She barreled into my hospital room, shoved the nurse aside, and swooped down on me with her arms wide. Those arms captured and enfolded me like an angel's wings. I shattered inside them, weeping rivers against her chest for what seemed like forever. She was my mother in that moment; I will always love her for it.

She squeezes my hand. "The way you feel makes sense, Smoky. The only way you could be free of fear altogether would be to not love Bonnie the way you do, and I think it's too late for that."

My throat tightens up. My eyes burn. Elaina has a way of getting to simple truths, the kind that are helpful and provide freedom, but carry a price: You can't unlearn them. This Truth is ugly and beautiful and inescapable: I'm stuck with my fear because I love Bonnie. All I have to do to be stress-free is un-love her.

Not gonna happen.

"But will it stop being so bad?" I ask. I heave a frustrated sigh. "I don't want to screw her up."

She takes both my hands, gives me that unswerving look. "Did you know I was an orphan, Smoky?"

I stare, surprised.

"No, I didn't."

She nods. "Well, I was. Me and my brother, Manuel. After Mom and Dad died in a car accident, we ended up being raised by my abuela--my grandmother. A great woman. I mean that as in 'greatness.' She never complained. Not once." Her smile is wistful. "And Manuel--oh, he was such a wonderful boy, Smoky. Bighearted. Kind. But he was frail. Nothing specific to point to, but he was always the first to catch anything going around and the last to get over it. One summer day my abuela took us to Santa Monica beach. Manuel got caught by the undertow. He died."

The words are simple, and spoken plainly, but I can feel the pain behind them. Quiet sorrow. She continues.

"I lost my parents for no reason at all. I lost my brother on a beautiful day, and his only sin was that he couldn't kick hard enough to get back to shore." She gives me a shrug. "My point, Smoky, is that I know that fear. The terror of losing someone you love." She pulls her hand away, smiles. "So what do I do? I go and fall in love with a wonderful man who does a dangerous job, and yes, I've lain awake at night, afraid, afraid, afraid. There have been some times that I took it out on Alan. Unjustly."

"Really?" I am having trouble reconciling this with the pedestal I have Elaina perched on; I can't imagine her as less than a perfect person.

"Really. Sometimes years pass without a ripple. I don't even think about losing him, and I sleep fine. But it always comes back. To answer your question: No, for me, it never goes away for good, but yes, I'd still rather love Alan, fear and all."

"Elaina, why didn't you ever tell me any of this? About you being an orphan, about your brother?"

The shrug is perfect, almost profound.

"I don't know. I suppose I spent so much time not letting it define me that I forgot to tell the story when I should have. I did think of it once, when you were in the hospital, but I decided against telling you then."

"Why?"

"You love me, Smoky. It would have added to your pain more than it would have helped."

She's right, I realize.

Elaina smiles, a smile of many colors. The smile of a wife who knows she's lucky to have a husband she actually loves, of a mother who never had a child of her own, of a bald Rapunzel who's happy to be alive.

Callie appears with Bonnie at her side. They're both appraising me. Looking for the cracks, I imagine.

"Are we ready to get this show on the road?" Callie asks. I force a smile. "Ready as I'll ever be."

"Explain what it is we're doing," Elaina says.

I gather myself up into an imaginary fist and will it to hold on to the slippery, quivery parts of me. "It's been a year since Matt and Alexa died. A lot has happened since then." I look at Bonnie, smile. "Not just for me. I still miss them, and I know I always will. But . . ." I use the same phrase I gave to Bonnie earlier today. "They don't live here anymore. I'm not talking about erasing their memories. I'm keeping every picture, every home movie. I'm talking about the practical things that don't have use anymore. Clothes. Aftershave. Golf clubs. The things that would only get used if they were here."

Bonnie gazes at me without hesitation or reserve. I smile at her, and put my hand over hers.

"We're here to help," Elaina says. "Just tell us what to do. Do you want to split up the rooms? Or do you want everyone to go from room to room together?"

"Together, I think."

"Good." She pauses. "Which room should we start in?"

I feel glued to the couch. I think Elaina senses this. So she's prodding. She's making me move, telling me to stand up, to get into motion. I find it irritating and then feel guilty for being irritated, because I've never been irritated with Elaina before and she doesn't deserve it now.

I stand in a single motion. Like jumping off the high board without thinking about it first. "Let's start in my bedroom."

We put a bunch of boxes together, a startling cacophony of ripping tape and scraping cardboard. Now it's silent again. Matt and I each had our own closet in the master bedroom. I'm looking at the door to his closet and the air is getting heavy.

"Oh for God's sake," Callie says. "It is just too damn serious in here."

She stalks over to the windows and yanks open the plantation shutters on one, then another, then the last. Sunlight comes rushing into the room, a flood of gold. She opens the windows in decisive, almost savage, motions. It takes a moment before a cool breeze begins to eddy, followed by the sounds of the out there.

"Wait here," she growls, heading toward the door of the bedroom. Elaina raises an eyebrow at me. I shrug. We hear Callie tromp down the stairs, followed by some sounds from the kitchen, and now she's tromping back up to the bedroom. She enters holding a small boom box and a CD. She plugs in the boom box, puts in the CD, and hits play. A driving drumbeat begins, mixing with an electric guitar riff that is catchy and a little familiar. This is one of those songs: I can't name it, I've heard it a thousand times, it always gets my foot tapping.

"Hits of the Seventies, Eighties, and Nineties," she says. "It won't deliver on substance, but it'll deliver on fun. "

Callie has transformed the room in the space of three minutes. It has gone from shadowed and somber to bright and frivolous. Just another bedroom on a beautiful day. I think about what she said earlier, about her inability to commit, and realize that avoiding the serious in her personal life has had at least one good side effect: She knows how to have fun at the drop of a hat.

I look down at Bonnie, raise my eyebrows. "Think we can boogie our way through this, babe?" I ask.

She grins at me and nods.

"Yeah," I reply back. I take a breath, walk over to the closet, and open the door.

6

THE MUSIC AND SUNLIGHT WORKED, AT LEAST IN MY BEDROOM. We went through Matt's closet without me feeling too sad. We packed away his shirts and slacks, his sweaters and shoes. The smell of him was everywhere, and the ghost of him. It seemed like I had a memory for every piece of clothing. He'd smiled wearing this tie. He'd cried at his grandfather's funeral in this suit. Alexa had left a jam handprint on this shirt. These memories seemed less painful than I had expected. More rich than depressing.

Doing good, babe, I'd heard Matt say in my head. I didn't reply, but I had smiled to myself.

I thought about Quantico and that possibility too. Maybe it would be good to leave this place behind.

If I do, it needs to be about choice, not retreat. I need to embrace my ghosts and lay them down, because they'll follow me wherever I go. That's what ghosts do.

We got through the closet and the bedroom and then the bathroom, and I floated through it all, the pain there but tolerable. Bitter- sweet, waitress, heavy on the sweet.

We filed down the stairway together with the boxes, moved into the garage, then up into the attic above the garage, dropping them off and pushing them back into corners where I knew they'd sit in the dark and gather dust.

Sorry, Matt, I thought.

They're just things, babe, he replied. The heart doesn't get dusty. I guess.

By the way, Matt says, out of nowhere, what about 1for-two-me?

I don't answer. I stand on the ladder, in the attic from the waist up.

"Smoky?" Callie calls from the doorway of the garage.

"Be there in a sec."

Yes, I think. What about 1for-two-me? What's the plan there?

I had learned, doing what I do, that good men and women can still have secrets. Good wives and husbands can still cheat on each other, or have secret vices, or turn out not to have been so good after all. And, I had learned, it all comes out once you die, because once you're dead, others are free to root through your life at their leisure and you can't do a darn thing about it.

Which brings me to 1for-two-me. It's a password. Matt had explained the concept of picking secure passwords to me once after a family e-mail account had been compromised.

"You want to include numbers with letters. The longer the better, obviously, but you want to pick something you can memorize and not have to write down. Something that'll be mnemonic. Like . . ." He'd snapped his fingers. "One for you, two for me. That's a phrase that sticks in my mind. So I change it a little and add some numbers and come up with 1for-two-me. Silly, but I'll remember it, and it'll be hard for someone to guess by accident."

He'd been right. It was like gum on your shoe. 1for-two-me. I'd never have to write it down. It would always be accessible. A few months after Matt died, I'd been sitting at his computer. We had a home office, and we each had our own PC. I was feeling numb and looking for something to awaken an emotion inside of me. I scrolled through his e-mail, dug through his files. I came upon a directory on the computer labeled Private. When I went to open the directory, I found that it was password protected. 1for-two-me, there it was, trotted out before I had to really think about it. My fingers had moved to the keyboard. I was about to type it out. I stopped.

Froze.

What if ? I'd thought. What if private really does mean private?

Like, private from me?

The thought had been appalling. And terrifying. My imagination went into overdrive.

A mistress? Porn? He loved someone else?

Following these thoughts, the guilt.

How could you think that? It's Matt. Your Matt.

I'd left the room, tucked away Mr. 1for-two-me, and tried not to think about it.

He popped up every now and then. Like now.

Well? Truth or denial?

"Smoky?" Callie calls again.

"Coming," I reply and clamber down the ladder.

I still feel Matt.

Waiting.

1for-two-me.

Packing away the past, it occurs to me, is messy stuff. We're standing in the doorway of Alexa's room. I can feel discomfort looming in the not-far-off. Pain is a little sharper here, though still tolerable.

"Pretty room," Elaina murmurs.

"Alexa liked the girly-girl stuff," I say, smiling. It is a little girl's dream room. The bed is queen-sized, with a canopy, and it's covered with purples of every possible hue. The comforter and pillows are thick and lush and inviting. "Lie down and drown in us," they say.

One quarter of the floor is covered in Alexa's stuffed animal collection. They range from small to big to huge, and the species run the gamut from the identifiable to the fantastic.

"Lions and tigers and heffalumps, oh my," Matt used to joke. I take it all in, and a thought comes to me. I wonder at the fact that it never occurred to me before.

Bonnie has slept with me since the day I brought her home. I don't think she's ever entered this bedroom.

Be accurate, I chide myself. You never brought her in here, that's the truth. Never asked her if she might want a king's ransom of stuffed animals, or a purple explosion of bedsheets and blankets. Time to fix that, I think. I kneel down next to Bonnie. "Do you want anything in here, sweetheart?" I ask her. She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. "You're welcome to whatever you want." I squeeze her hand. "Really. You can have the whole room."

She shakes her head. No, thank you, she's saying. I've put away childish things, that look says.

"Okay, babe," I murmur, standing up.

"How do you want to handle this room, Smoky?" Elaina's gentle voice startles me.

I run a hand through Bonnie's hair as I look around the room.

"Well," I start to say--and then my cell phone rings. Callie rolls her eyes. "Here we go."

"Barrett," I answer.

Sorry, I mouth to them.

A deep voice rumbles. "Smoky. It's Alan. Sorry to bother you today, but we got a situation."

Alan is overseeing the unit while I'm on vacation. He's more than competent; the fact that he's felt the need to call me raises my antennae.

"What is it?"

"I'm in Canoga Park, standing in front of a house. Scene of a triple homicide. Bad scene. Twist is, there's a sixteen-year-old girl inside. She's got a gun to her head and says she'll only talk to you."

"She asked for me by name?"

"Yep."

I'm silent, processing.

"Really sorry about this, Smoky."

"Don't worry about it. We were just about to take a break, anyway. Give me the address and Callie and I will meet you there soonest."

I jot down the address and hang up.

The man had gotten it wrong: Death doesn't take a holiday, apparently. Par for the course. As always, I am living my life on multiple levels: Make this a home, decide if I am going to leave this home and go to Quantico, go stop a young woman from blowing her brains out. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, hurrah for me. I look at Bonnie. "Sweetheart--" I begin, but stop as she nods her head. It's okay, go, she is saying.

I look at Elaina. "Elaina--"

"I'll watch Bonnie."

Relief and gratitude, that's what I feel.

"Callie--"

"I'll drive," she says.

I crouch down, facing Bonnie. "Do me a favor, sweetheart?"

She gives me a quizzical look.

"See if you can figure out what we should do with all those stuffed animals."

She grins. Nods.

"Cool." I straighten up, turn to Callie. "Let's go."

Bad things are waiting. I don't want them to get impatient.

7

"ALL TUCKED AWAY," CALLIE MUSES AS WE PULL ONTO THE SUB- urban street in Canoga Park.

She's talking to herself more than to me, but as I look around, I understand the observation. Canoga Park is a part of Los Angeles County. Los Angeles doesn't provide a lot of distance between the suburbs and the city proper. You can be on a street lined with businesses, drive two blocks, and find yourself in a residential neighborhood. It was a casual transformation; traffic lights gave way to stop signs and things just got more quiet. The city hustled nearby, never stopping, always there, while the homes were here, "tucked away."

The street we'd turned onto was in one of those neighborhoods, but it has lost that quiet feeling. I spot at least five cop cars, along with a SWAT van and two or three unmarked vehicles. The obligatory helicopter is circling above.

"Thank God we still have daylight," Callie remarks, looking up at the helicopter. "I can't stand those blinding spotlights."

People are everywhere. The braver ones are standing on their lawns, while the more timid peek out from behind window curtains. It's funny, I think. People talk about crime in urban areas, but all the best murders happen in the suburbs.

Callie parks the car on the side of the street.

"Ready?" I ask her.

"Born ready, bring it on, pick your cliche," she says. As we exit the car, I see Callie grimace. She places a hand on the roof of the car to steady herself.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

She waves away my concern. "Residual pain from getting shot, nothing I can't handle." She reaches into a jacket pocket and pulls out a prescription bottle. "Vicodin, today's mother's little helper." She pops the top and palms a tablet. Downs it. Smiles. "Yummy."

Callie had been shot six months ago. The bullet had nicked her spine. For one very tense week we weren't sure she was going to walk again. I thought she'd recovered fully.

Guess I was wrong.

Wrong? She carries her Vicodin around with her like a box of Tic Tacs!

"Let's see what all the shouting is about, shall we?" she asks.

"Yep," I reply.

But don't think I'm going to let this go, Callie. We head over to the perimeter. A twentysomething patrolman stops us. He's a good-looking kid. I can sense his excitement at being a part of this law-enforcement cacophony. I like him right away; he sees the scars on my face and almost doesn't flinch.

"Sorry, ma'am," he says. "I can't let anyone in right now."

I fish out my FBI ID and show it to him. "Special Agent Barrett," I say. Callie does the same.

"Sorry, ma'am," he says again. "And, ma'am," he says to Callie.

"Don't sweat it," Callie replies.

I spot Alan standing in a cluster of suits and uniforms. He towers above them all, an imposing edifice of a human being. Alan is in his mid-forties, an African-American man who can only be described as gargantuan. He's not obese--just big. His scowl can make an interrogation room seem like a small and dangerous place for a guilty man. Life loves irony, and Alan is no exception. For all his size, he is a thoughtful man-mountain, a brilliant mind in a linebacker's body. He combines meticulous precision with near-infinite patience. His attention to detail is legendary. One of the best testaments to his character is the fact that Elaina is his wife, and she adores him. Alan is the third member of my four-person team, the oldest and most grounded. He told me when Elaina had been diagnosed with cancer that he was considering leaving the FBI so that he could spend more time with her. He hasn't brought it up since, and I haven't pushed him on it, but I am never really unaware of it. Callie popping pills, Alan thinking of retiring--maybe I should leave. Let them rebuild the team from scratch.

"There she is," I hear Alan say.

I start to catalogue the various reactions to my face and then let it go. Take it or leave it, boys.

One of the men steps forward, putting a hand out to shake mine. The other hand, I note, grips an MP5 submachine gun. He's dressed in full SWAT regalia--body armor, helmet, boots. "Luke Dawes," he says.

"SWAT commander. Thanks for coming."

"No problem," I reply. I point to Alan. "Do you mind if I have my guy fill me in? No offense intended."

"None taken."

I turn to Alan and push aside all my own internal chatter, letting the simplicity of action and command take over. "Hit me," I say.

"A call came into 911 about an hour and a half ago from the next door neighbor. Widower by the name of Jenkins. Jenkins says that the girl--Sarah Kingsley--had stumbled into his front yard, dressed in a nightgown, covered in blood."

"How did he know she was in the front yard?"

"His living room is in the front of the house and he keeps his drapes open until he goes to bed. He was watching TV, saw her out of the corner of his eye."

"Go on."

"He's shook, but he musters up enough courage to go out and see what the problem is. Said she was unfocused--his word--and mumbling something about her family being murdered. He tries to get her to come into his house, but she screams and runs off, reenters her own home."

"I take it he was wise enough not to follow her?"

"Yeah, the heroics only went as far as his own front yard. He ran back inside, made the call. A patrol car happens to be nearby, so they come over to check it out. The officers"--he checks his notepad again--"Sims and Butler, arrive, poke their heads in the front door--which was wide open--and try to get her to come back out. She's unresponsive. After talking it over, they decide to go in and get her. Dangerous maybe, but neither of them are rookies, and they're worried about the girl."

"Understandable," I murmur. "Are Sims and Butler still here?"

"Yep."

"Go on."

"They enter the home and it's a fucking bloodbath from the get-go."

"Have you been inside?" I interrupt.

"No. No one's been in there since she got hold of a weapon. So they go in, and it's obvious that something bad happened, and that it happened recently. Lucky for us, Sims and Butler have dealt with murder scenes before, so they don't lose their heads. They give anything that looks like evidence a wide berth."

"Good," I say.

"Yeah. They hear noise on the second floor, and call out for the girl. No answer. They proceed up the stairs, and find her in the master bedroom, along with three dead bodies. She's got a gun." He consults his notes. "A nine mm of some kind, per the officers. Things change fast at that point. Now they're nervous. They're thinking maybe she's responsible for whatever happened here, and they point their weapons at her, tell her to drop the gun, etc., etc. That's when she puts it to her own head."

"And things change again."

"Right. She's crying, and starts screaming at them. Saying, quote,

'I want to talk to Smoky Barrett or I'll kill myself!' End quote. They try to talk her down, but give it up after she points the gun at them a few times. They call it in and"--he opens his arms to indicate the overwhelming presence of law enforcement around us--"here we are." He nods his head toward the SWAT commander. "Lieutenant Dawes knew your name and got someone to get ahold of me. I came here, checked things out, called you."

I turn to Dawes, study him. I see a fit, alert, hard-eyed professional policeman with calm hands and brunet hair in a crew cut. He's on the short side, about five-nine, but he's lean and coiled and ready. He radiates calm confidence. He's a SWAT stereotype, something I always find comforting whenever I encounter it. "What do you think, Lieutenant?"

He studies me for a few seconds. Then shrugs. "She's sixteen, ma'am. A gun's a gun, but . . ." He shrugs again. "She's sixteen."

She's too young to die, he's saying. Definitely too young for me to kill with- out it ruining my day.

"Do you have a negotiator on-site?" I ask.

I'm asking about a hostage negotiator. Someone trained in talking to unbalanced people carrying guns. Negotiator is a bit of a misnomer, actually; they usually operate in three-man teams.

"Nope," Dawes replies. "We currently have three negotiating teams in LA. Some guy decided today was the day he was going to jump off the top of the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood--that's one. There's a dad about to lose custody of his kids who decided to put a shotgun to his head--that's two. The last team got T-boned in an intersection this morning on their way to a training seminar, if you can believe that."

He shakes his head in disgust. "It was a truck that hit them. They'll live, but they're all in the hospital. We're on our own." He pauses. "I could handle this all kinds of ways, Agent Barrett. Tear gas, nonlethal ammo. But tear gas is going to fuck up what sounds like a murder scene. And nonlethal ammo, well . . . she could still shoot herself even after getting hit with a beanbag." He smiles without humor. "Seems like the best plan involves you going in there and talking to a crazy teenager holding a gun."

I give him my best sucking-lemons sour-face. "Thanks."

He gets serious. "You gotta wear body armor and have your weapon out and ready to fire." He cocks his head at me, interest sparking in his gray eyes. "You're some kind of super shooter, right?"

"Annie Oakley," I reply.

He looks doubtful.

"She can put out candle flames and shoot holes through quarters, honey-love," Callie says to him. "I've seen her do it."

"Me too," Alan growls.

I'm not trying to brag, and this is not bravado. I have a unique relationship with handguns. I really can shoot out candle flames, and I really have shot holes through quarters thrown into the air. I don't know where this gift came from--no one in my family even liked guns. Dad was gentle and easygoing. Mom had an Irish temper, but she still covered her eyes during the violent parts of movies. When I was seven, a friend of my father's took me and my dad to a shooting range. I was able to hit what I wanted with minimal instruction, even then. I'd been in love with guns ever since.

"Okay, I believe you," Dawes says, raising his unencumbered hand in a gesture of surrender. His face grows serious. His eyes get a little distant. "Targets are one thing. Have you ever shot a person?"

I'm not offended by him asking this. Since I have shot and killed another human being, I understand why he asks, and know that he's right to ask. It is different, and you can't know just how different until you've done it.

"Yes," I respond.

I think the fact that I don't offer any further details convinces him most. He's killed too, and knows it's not something you feel like bragging about. Or talking about. Or thinking about if you can help it.

"Right. So . . . body armor on, gun out, and if it comes down to a choice between you and her, do what you gotta do. Hopefully, you can talk her down."

"Hopefully." I turn to Alan. "Do we have any idea--at all--why she's asked for me?"

He shakes his head. "Nope."

"What about her--any details on who she is?"

"Not much. People here are into the 'good fences make good neighbors' philosophy. The old guy, Jenkins, did say that she was adopted."

"Really?"

"Yeah. About a year ago. He's not close with the family, but he and the dad talked to each other from their driveways every now and then. That's how he knew who the girl was."

"Interesting. She could be the doer."

"It's possible. No one else had anything substantial to offer. The Kingsleys were good neighbors, meaning they were quiet and minded their own business."

I sigh and look toward the house. What had started out as a beautiful day was turning into a bad one fast. I turn to Dawes.

"If I'm acting as negotiator, that means I have command for now. Any problems with that?"

"No, ma'am."

"I don't want anyone getting trigger-happy, Dawes. No matter how long it takes. Don't go behind my back and start rappelling from the roof or anything cute."

Dawes smiles at me. He's not offended. This is standard fare. "I've been to a few of these, Agent Barrett. Contrary to popular belief, my guys aren't itching to shoot someone."

"I've worked with our own SWAT, Lieutenant. I know all about getting pumped up for a call."

"Even so."

I study him. Believe him. Nod.

"In that case--do you have some body armor I can borrow?"

"You don't have your own?"

"I did, but it was recalled. Mine and four hundred others in the same lot--faulty composition resulting in them being overly brittle, or something like that. I'm waiting for a replacement."

"Ouch. Good catch on their part then, I guess."

"Except that I had reason to wear it three times before they figured out that it might not actually stop a bullet."

He shrugs. "Vest won't protect you from a head shot, anyway. It's all a roll of the dice."

With that encouraging observation, Dawes goes off to get my Kevlar.

"He seems calm enough," Alan observes.

"Keep an eye on things anyway."

"They'll have to go through both of us," Callie says. "I'll flash them a little leg, Alan will terrify them, end of problem."

"Just worry about what to do once you're inside," Alan says. "You ever done any negotiation?"

"I've taken the class. But no, I've never dealt with a 'situation.' "

"Key is to listen. No lies unless you're sure you can get away with them. It's about rapport, so lies are a deal breaker. Watch for emotional triggers and give them a nice, wide berth."

"Sure, simple."

"Oh yeah, and don't die."

"Very funny."

Dawes reappears with a vest. "I got this off a female detective." He holds it up, looks at me, frowns. "It's going to be big."

"They all are unless I get them custom."

He grins. "No height requirement, I take it, Agent Barrett?"

I grab the vest from him with a scowl. "That's Special Agent Barrett to you, Dawes."

The grin fades. "Well, be careful in there, Special Agent Barrett."

"If I was going to be careful, I wouldn't go in there at all."

"Even so."

Even so, I think. What a great turn of phrase. Short and sweet, but fraught (another great word) with meaning.

You could die in there.

Even so.

8

I'M STANDING IN FRONT OF THE HOME'S OPEN FRONT DOOR. I'M sweating and scratchy in the ill-fitting body armor I've thrown over my shirt. I have my Glock out and ready. The day is moving toward dusk, shadows are starting to stretch, and my heart is pounding like a drummer on speed.

I glance back at the law-enforcement presence behind me. Barricades have been erected in front of the home, starting at the street. I count four patrol cars and the SWAT van. The uniforms are standing guard at the barricades, ready to speak one phrase, and one phrase only: "Go away." The SWAT team waits inside the perimeter, a deadly group of six, black helmets gleaming. The lights on the patrol cars are all on, and they're trained on the house. On me.

Law enforcement is a dirty job. It's about body fluids, decay, and people at their worst. It's about life and death decisions made with too little information. The most trained cop or agent is still never trained enough to deal with everything. When crisis comes (and it always comes), it's often solved the way we're solving it now: an agent with a two-week class in hostage negotiation, called away from her vacation, wearing a loose-fitting Kevlar vest, doubting her ability to do what she's about to do. In other words, we do our best with what we have.

I shut it all out and peer through the door.

A few drops of sweat pop out on my forehead. Salty pearls. It's a newer home for this area, a two-story with a stucco and wood exterior, topped by a clay-tile roof. Classic Southern California. It looks well cared for, possibly repainted in the last few years. Not huge, the owners weren't rich, but nice enough. A middle-class family home not trying to be anything else.

"Sarah?" I call in. "It's Smoky Barrett, honey. You asked to see me, and I'm here."

No answer.

"I'm going to come in to see you, Sarah. I just want to talk to you. To find out what's going on." I pause. "I know you have a gun, honey. I need you to know that I have one too, and that I'm going to have it out. Don't be scared when you see it. I'm not going to shoot you."

I wait, and again, there's no answer.

I sigh and curse and try to think of a reason to keep from walking into this house. Nothing comes to mind. Some part of me doesn't want anything to come to mind. This is a not-so-secret truth of law enforcement: These moments are terrifying, but they are also when you feel most alive. I feel it now, adrenaline and endorphins, fear and euphoria. Wonderful and awful and addictive.

"I'm coming in now, Sarah. Don't shoot me or yourself, okay?" I'm going for light humor, I come off sounding nervous. Which I am. I squeeze the gun butt, take a deep breath, and walk through the front door.

The first thing I smell is murder.

A writer asked me once what murder smells like. He was looking for material for a book he was writing, some authenticity.

"It's the blood," I'd said. "Death stinks, but when you smell blood more than anything else, you're usually smelling murder."

He'd asked me then to describe the smell of blood.

"It's like having a mouthful of pennies that you can't get rid of."

I smell it now, that cloying copper tang. It excites me at some level. A killer was here. I hunt killers.

I keep walking. The entryway floor is red hardwood over concrete, quiet, polished, squeak-free. To my right is a spacious living room with medium-thick beige carpet, a fireplace, and vaulted ceilings. A two-section matching beige couch is arranged in an L-shape facing the fireplace. Large double-paned windows look out onto the lawn. Everything I can see is clean and nice but unimaginative. The owners were trying to impress by blending in, not by standing out. The living room continues on the right toward the back of the house, meeting the dining room seamlessly. The beige carpet follows. A honey-colored wooden dining table sits under a light hanging from a long black chain attached to the high ceiling. A single white French door beyond the table leads into the kitchen. Again, all very unsurprising. Pleasing, not passionate. Ahead of me is a stairway, zigging right to a landing, then zagging left to take you to its destination, the second floor. It's covered with the same beige carpet. The walls on the way up the stairs are filled with framed photographs. I see a man and a woman standing together, smiling and young. The same man and woman, a little older now, holding a baby. The baby, I assume, grown into a teenage boy, handsome. Dark hair on all of them. I scan the photos and note no pictures of a girl.

To the left of the stairs is what I assume to be a family room. I can see thick sliding glass doors leading from that room into the nowshadowy backyard. I smell blood, blood, and more blood. Even with every light in the house blazing the atmosphere is heavy and jagged. Harm happened here. Terror filled the air here. People died violently here, and the feel of it all is stifling. My heart rate continues to rat-a-tat-tat. The fear is still there, sharp and strong. The euphoria too.

"Sarah?" I call out.

No answer.

I move forward, toward the stairs. The smell of blood gets stronger. Now that I can see into the family room, I understand why. This room also has a couch, which faces a large-screen television. The carpet is soaked in crimson. Blood came out here by the pints, more than the pile or fabric could absorb. I can see puddles of it, dark, thick, and congealing. Whoever bled that much there, died there. No bodies, though.

Means they were moved, I think.

I look, but I don't see any blood trails, any evidence of bodies being dragged. All the blood is pooled, self-contained, except for the large, jagged patch nearest to me.

Maybe they were picked up.

That would mean someone strong. A human adult body, at deadweight, is a formidable thing to lift, much less carry. Any fireman or paramedic will tell you this. Without the leverage a helpful and conscious person provides, carrying a grown man's body can be like carrying a six-foot bag of bowling balls. Unless the blood came from a child, in which case the lift and carry would not have been as difficult. Wonderful thought.

"Sarah?" I call out. "I'm coming up the stairs." My voice sounds overloud to me, cautious.

I'm still sweating. Air-conditioning is off, I realize. Why? I'm noting a thousand things at once. Fear and euphoria, euphoria and fear. I grip my gun with both hands and start to move up the stairs. I reach the first landing, and turn left. The smell of blood is even stronger now. I smell new scents. Familiar odors. Urine and feces. Other, wetter things. Guts, they have an aroma all their own. I can hear something now. A faint sound. I cock my head and strain my ears.

Sarah is singing.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My stomach does a single loop-de-loop as the adrenaline overwhelms the endorphins and fills me with the clangy-jitters.

Because this is not a happy sound. It's a horror sound. It's the kind of song you'd expect to hear coming out of the earth in a graveyard, at night, or maybe from the shadowy corner of a cell in a mental institution. It's a single word and a single note, sung in a monotone.

"Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa."

Over and over, that single word, that single note, in a voice just above a whisper.

I start to worry in a way I hadn't before, because this is the sound of insanity.

I move up the last flight of stairs in quick strides, passing all those smiling faces in the photographs. Their teeth seem to glitter in the light.

Look at that, I think when I reach the top, more beige carpet. I'm standing in a short hallway. A bathroom is at the end of the hall. Its lights are on, its door flung wide. I can see (surprise!) a beige tile floor, more evidence of the uninspired tastefulness I've come to expect from this home.

The hallway turns to the right at the bathroom, and I surmise that a bedroom door is just beyond that turn.

More beige, I'll bet.

My heartbeat hammers, and God am I sweating. To my immediate right is a set of white double doors. The entrance, I'm sure, to someplace terrible. The smells have all become stronger. Sarah's horrible singing tickles my skin. I reach out a hand to open the right door. It pauses just above the brass handle and trembles.

Girl with a gun on the other side of that. Girl with a gun, covered in blood, in a house that smells like death, singing like a crazy person. Go on, I think. The worst thing she can do is shoot me. No, moron. The worst thing she can do is look right at me and then blow her brains out or smile and blow her brains out or--

Enough, I command.

Silence inside. My soul goes quiet.

My hand stops trembling.

A new voice comes, one familiar to soldiers and cops and victims. It doesn't offer comfort. It offers certainty. It speaks the hardest words and it never, ever lies. The patron saint of impossible choices. Save her if you can. But kill her if you must.

My hand drops and I open the door.

9

THE ROOM IS DECORATED IN DEATH.

It's an extra-large master bedroom. The king-sized bed has a large wooden hutch and a mirror behind it, and still takes up less than a third of the floor space. There is a plasma TV mounted on the wall. A ceiling fan hangs, turned off, its silence anointing all the other stillness in this room. The beige carpet is present, almost comforting under the circumstances. Because blood is everywhere. Splashed on the ceiling, smeared on the off-yellow walls, beaded on the ceiling fan. The smell is overpowering; my mouth fills with still more pennies and I swallow my own saliva.

I count three bodies. A man, a woman, and what looks like a teenage boy. I recognize them all from the photographs on the stairway walls. They are all naked, all lying on their backs in the bed. The bed itself has been stripped bare. The blankets and sheets lie on the floor, wadded and blood-soaked.

The man and woman are on either side, with the boy in the middle. The two adults have been disemboweled, in the worst sense of the word. Someone cut them from throat to crotch and then reached into them and pulled. They have been turned inside out. The throats of all three have been slit like hogs, sopping grins from ear to ear.

"Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa. Laaaa."

My eyes go to the girl. She's sitting on the windowsill, looking out into the night and what I can only guess is the backyard. I can see the dim silhouettes of other rooftops in the distance. It's a twilight world, caught between the dying sun and the awakening streetlamps. Apropos.

The girl has a gun in her hand, and she's pressing the barrel against her right temple. She hadn't turned around at the sound of the door opening.

I can't blame her. I wouldn't want to turn around either. Even as my heart hammers, the clinical part of me takes notes. The blood on the walls was put there by the killer. I know this because I can see patterns. Slashes, swirls, and curlicues. He played here. Used their blood like finger paint to make patterns. To say something. I look over at Sarah. She continues to gaze out the window, unaware of me. She's not the perpetrator. Not enough blood on her, and the corpses are all too big. She'd never have gotten any of them up the stairs by herself.

I move forward into the room, trying not to step on evidence. I give up; I'd have to levitate.

Too much blood, but none of it in the right places. Where's the murder scene?

Every bit of blood evidence I could see was purposeful. None of this was the result of a throat being slit.

Focus.

The investigator in me is a detached creature. It can view the worst of the worst with dispassion. But detachment isn't what I need right now. I need empathy. I force myself to stop examining the scene, to stop calculating, and focus all of my attention on the girl.

"Sarah?" I keep my voice soft, unthreatening.

No response. She continues to sing in that awful monotone whisper.

"Sarah." A little louder now.

Still no reaction. The gun stays at her temple. She keeps on singing.

"Sarah! It's Smoky. Smoky Barrett!" My voice booms, louder than I'd intended. I startle myself.

Startle her too. The singing stops.

Quieter: "You asked for me, honey. I'm here. Look at me."

This sudden silence is as bad in its own way as the singing had been. She's still looking out the window. The gun hasn't moved from her temple.

Sarah begins turning toward me. It's a montage of slow, jerky motions, an old door opening on rusted hinges. The first thing I notice is her beauty, because of its contrast with the horror around her. She is ethereal, something from another world. She has dark, shimmering hair, the impossible hair you see on models in shampoo commercials. She's Caucasian, with an exoticness about her that speaks of European roots. French, perhaps. Her features have that ideal symmetry that most women dream of having, and too many living in Los Angeles go under the knife to get.

Her face is the mirror opposite of mine, a counterpoint of perfection to my flaws. She has blood splattered on her arms and face, and soaked into the short-sleeved long white nightgown she's wearing. She has full, cupid-lips, and while I'm sure they're normally a beautiful pink, right now they are the pale white of a fish belly.

I wonder about that nightgown. Why had she been wearing it in the afternoon?

Her eyes are a rich blue, heart-stopping. The look of defeat I find in them is so profound, it makes me queasy.

Pressed to all that beauty, the barrel of what I can now tell is a nine-mm Browning. This is no weak twenty-two. If she pulls the trigger, she'll die.

"Sarah? Can you hear me now?"

She continues to look at me with those defeated, blue-flame eyes.

"Honey, it's me. Smoky Barrett. They said you asked for me, and I got here as fast as I could. Can you talk to me?"

She sighs. It's a full-body sigh, straight from the pit of her stomach. A sigh that says, I want to lie down now, I want to lie down and die. No other reply, but at least she keeps looking at me. I want this. I don't want those eyes to start roaming, to remember the bodies on the bed.

"Sarah? I have an idea. Why don't we walk out into the hallway?

We don't have to go anywhere else--we can sit at the top of the stairs, if you want. You can keep that gun pointed right where it is. We'll just sit down, and I'll wait until you're ready to talk." I lick my lips. "How about it, sweetheart?"

She cocks her head at me, a casual motion that becomes horrifying because she keeps the gun barrel against her temple as she does it. It makes her seem hollow. Puppet-like.

Another deep sigh, even more ragged sounding. Her face is expressionless. Only the sighs and the eyes show me what's going on inside her. Located somewhere in hell, I'd say.

A long moment passes, and then she nods.

I am almost thankful, at this moment, for Bonnie's muteness. It's made me comfortable with nonverbal communication, able to understand nuanced meaning regardless of words. Okay, that nod says. But the gun stays, and I'll probably still use it. Just get her out of this room, I think. That's the first step.

"Great, Sarah," I reply, nodding back to her. "I'm going to put away my gun." Her eyes follow my hands as I do this. "Now, I'm going to back out of the room. I want you to follow me. I want you to keep your eyes on mine. That's important, Sarah. Only on me. Don't look right or left or up or down. Look at me."

I start to move backward, going in a straight line. I keep my eyes locked on hers, willing her to do the same. I stop when I'm standing in the doorway.

"Come on, honey. I'm right here. Walk to me."

A hesitation, and then she slides off the windowsill. Kind of pours off it, like water. The gun is still at her head. Her eyes stay on mine as she moves toward the doorway. They never stray to the bed, not once. Good, I think. Nothing like looking at that mess to make you want to kill yourself.

Now that she's standing, I can tell that she's about five foot two inches. In spite of her shock, her movements are graceful and precise. She glides.

She looks small surrounded by the murdered dead. Her bare feet are splashed with blood; she either doesn't notice, or doesn't care. I walk back to let her move through the doorway. She plods past me, keeping her eyes on my hands. A watchful zombie.

"I'm going to reach over and close the door. Okay, honey?"

She nods. I don't care, the nod says. About living or dying or anything at all.

I close the door and allow myself a moment of relief. I wipe sweat from my forehead with a trembling hand.

I take a deep breath and turn to Sarah. Now let's see if I can get her to give me that gun.

"You know what? I'm going to sit down."

I take a seat so the bedroom doors are at my back. I do this without breaking eye contact. I'm here, I see you, you have all my attention, I'm saying.

"It's a little hard to talk while you're up there and I'm down here,"

I say, squinting up at her. I indicate the space in front of me. "Why don't you take a seat?" I examine her face. "You look tired, sweetheart."

That eerie head-cocking gesture again. I lean forward and pat the carpet.

"Come on, Sarah. It's just you and me. No one is going to come in here until I tell them to. No one's going to hurt you while I'm here. You wanted to see me." I pat the carpet again, still maintaining eye contact. "Sit down and relax. I'll shut up and we'll wait here until you're ready to tell me whatever it is you wanted to tell me."

She moves without warning, stepping backward and then lowering herself to the floor. It's done with the same pouring-of-water grace that she displayed as she slid off the windowsill. I wonder idly if she's a dancer, or perhaps a gymnast.

I give her a reassuring smile. "Good, honey," I say. "Very good."

Her eyes stay on mine. The gun is still glued to her right temple. As I consider my next move, I remember one of the key lessons my negotiations instructor gave:

"Speaking when you want, not speaking when you want, it's all about control," he'd observed. "When you're dealing with someone who's refusing to speak, and you don't know what buttons to push--

don't know much about them personally, in other words--you need to shut up. Your instinct will be to fill that silence. Resist it. It's like letting a phone ring--it makes you crazy, but it'll stop ringing sooner or later. Same thing here. Wait them out, and they'll fill that silence for you."

I keep my face calm, my eyes on hers, and I stay silent. Sarah's face is a superlative of stillness, and absence of motion, formed from wax. The corners of her mouth don't twitch. I feel like I'm having a staring contest with a mannequin that blinks. Her blue eyes are the most "alive" part of her, and even they seem glassy and unreal.

I examine the blood on her as I wait.

The spatter on the right side of her face looks like a collection of sideways teardrops. Elongated, as though each drop hit her skin with force and then was stretched by inertia.

Flung there, maybe? By fingertips soaked in blood?

Her nightgown is a mess. The front is soaked. I see spots at the knees.

As if she knelt. Maybe she was trying to revive someone?

My train of thought derails when she blinks, sighs, and then looks away.

"Are you really Smoky Barrett?" she asks. It's a tired voice, filled with defeat and doubt.

Hearing her speak is both elating and surreal. Her voice is dusky and subdued, older than she is, a hint of the woman she'll become.

"Yep," I reply. I point to my scars. "Can't fake these."

She keeps the gun to her head, but as she looks at my scars, sorrow replaces some of the deadness in her face.

"I'm sorry," she says. "For what happened to you. I read about it. It made me cry."

"Thank you."

Wait for her. Don't press.

She looks down. Sighs. Looks back up at me.

"I know what it's like," she says.

"What, honey?" I ask in a soft voice. "You know what what's like?"

I watch the pain rise in her eyes, like two moons being filled up with blood.

"I know what it's like to lose everything you love," she says, her voice cracking, then dropping to a whisper. "I've been losing things since I was six."

"Is that why you wanted to see me? To tell me about what happened then?"

"When I was six," she says, continuing as though I hadn't said anything, "he started it all by murdering my mother and my father."

"Who is 'he,' Sarah?"

She locks eyes with me, something in them flares up for a moment before dying back down.

What was that? I wonder. Sorrow? Anger?

It was something huge, that's for sure. That was no minnow that had swum to the surface before diving back down into deeper waters, it was a soul-leviathan.

"He," she says, her voice flat. "The Stranger. The one who killed my parents. The one who kills anything I love. The . . . artist." The way she says "artist," she could be saying "child molester" or "shit on a hot sidewalk." The revulsion is strong and pure and palpable.

"Did The Stranger do this, Sarah? Was he here, in this house?"

Her sorrow and fear are swept away by a look of cynicism that rocks me. It's far, far too terrible and cunning for a sixteen-year-old girl. If that dusky voice belongs to a twenty-five-year-old woman, this look belongs to a world-worn hag.

"Don't humor me!" she cries, her voice high-pitched and derisive. "I know you're only listening to me because of "--she wiggles the gun--

"this. You don't really believe me!"

What just happened here?

The quiet air between us starts to hum.

You're losing her, I realize. Fear thrills through me. Do something!

I gaze into those rage-filled eyes. I remember what Alan said. Don't lie, I think. Truth. Only truth. She'll smell a lie from a thousand yards away right now and then it's game over. My words come from somewhere effortless, almost extemporaneous. "I'll tell you what I care about right now, Sarah," I say, my voice strong. "I care about you. I know you didn't do what happened here. I know that you're very close to killing yourself. I know you asked for me, and that means that maybe I have something to give you, something to tell you, that will keep you from pulling that trigger." I lean forward. "Honey, I don't know enough about anything going on here to humor you, I promise. All I'm trying to do is understand. Help me understand. Please. You asked for me. Why? Why did you ask for me, Sarah?" I wish I could reach out and shake her. I plead instead. "Please tell me."

Don't die, I think. Not here, not like this.

"Please, Sarah. Talk to me. Make me understand."

The words work: The anger leaves her eyes. Her trigger finger relaxes and she looks away. Thank God, I think, fighting down a bubble of semi-hysteria, a bout of the clangy-jitters

When she looks back, anguish has replaced the rage.

"You're my last hope," she says. Her voice is small and hollow.

"I'm listening, Sarah," I urge her. "Tell me. Last hope for what?"

"Last hope . . ." She sighs, and it rattles in her throat. "Of finding someone that'll believe I'm not just bad luck," she whispers. "That'll believe The Stranger is real."

I stare at her, incredulous.

"Believe you?" I blurt. I yank a thumb behind me, indicating the bedroom and what's inside. "Sarah, I know something happened here that you didn't have anything to do with. And I'm willing to listen to whatever you have to say."

I think she's caught off guard by the fact that my response comes as such a reflex action and that I seem so genuinely astonished at the idea of not taking her seriously. Hope lights up her eyes and wars with that terrible cynicism. Her face twists, her mouth wrenches. She looks like a fish drowning in the air.

"Really?" she asks in an agonized whisper.

"Really." I pause. "Sarah, I don't understand what's happened to you up to this point. But from what I've seen so far, the person responsible for this had to be strong. Stronger than you. Or me, for that matter."

A kind of fearful wonder runs through her eyes. "Did he . . ." Her lower lip trembles. "Do you mean that you can tell he was here?"

"Yep."

Is that so?

But there's another possibility, yes? Maybe she made the father do all the heavy lifting at gunpoint. She could still be the one. I dismiss the thought with an imaginary wave of my hand. Too advanced, too dark. She's too young to have honed her tastes to that degree.

"Maybe," Sarah whispers, more to herself than me. "Maybe he screwed up this time."

Her face crumples, then smoothes back out, crumples, then smoothes back out. Hope and despair battle for the steering wheel. She drops the gun. She brings her hands to her face. A moment later, that raw, naked anguish again. It bursts from her, piercing, primal, terrible, pure. The sound of a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. I grab the gun from the carpet, say "Thank God" to myself once, safety it, and stuff it into the waist of my jeans. I grab Sarah as she shrieks, and stuff her into the space between my arms and my chest. Her grief is a hurricane. It pounds against me.

I hold her tight, and we ride out the storm.

I rock and croon and say wordless things and feel helpless and miserable and yet relieved.

Better crying than dead.

When it's over, I'm soaked with tears. Sarah clings to me, semiboneless. She's exhausted. In spite of this, she struggles and pushes away from me. Her face is swollen from crying, and pale.

"Smoky?" she says. Her voice is faint.

"Yes, Sarah?"

She looks at me, and I'm surprised at the strength I see, swimming up through the exhaustion that's pulling her down.

"I need you to promise me you'll do something."

"What?"

She points down the hall. "My bedroom is back there. In a drawer by the bed is my diary. Everything is in it, everything about The Stranger." She grips my arms. "Promise me you'll read it. You--not someone else." Her voice is fierce. "Promise me."

"I promise," I say without hesitation.

At this point, you couldn't keep me from it.

"Thanks," she whispers.

Her eyes roll up into her head and she passes out in my arms. I shiver once, an after-reaction. I unclip the radio from my belt and turn it on.

"All clear in here," I say into it, my voice steadier than I feel. "Send in a medic for the girl."

10

NIGHT HAS OFFICIALLY FALLEN IN CANOGA PARK. THE HOUSE IS lit up by patrol cars and streetlamps, but SWAT is getting ready to leave and the helicopter has gone. The neighborhood is quiet again, though I can hear the sounds of the city just a few blocks away. Windows are lit up along the street, families are inside, every curtain is drawn. I imagine if I checked them, I'd find every door locked too.

"Good work," Dawes said to me as we watched the EMTs load an unconscious Sarah into the back of an ambulance. They were moving fast; she'd started to turn gray and her teeth were chattering. Signs of shock.

"Thanks."

"I mean it, Agent Barrett. This could have turned out a lot worse."

He pauses. "We had a hostage situation six months ago. A meth-freak dad with a gun. He'd beat up his wife, but what really worried us was the fact that he was waving that gun around with one hand while he cradled his five-month-old daughter in his free arm."

"Bad," I say.

"Real bad. Add to it that he was high, I mean flying. You ever see a meth-freak when they're wigging out? It's a combination of hallucinations and paranoia. Not much for a hostage negotiator to work with."

"So what happened?"

Dawes looks away for a moment, but not before I catch a glimpse of the grief in his eyes.

"He shot the wife. Without warning. He was jabbering away and then he just stopped talking mid-sentence, pointed the gun at her, and . . . blew . . . her . . . away." He shakes his head. "You could have heard a pin drop in the command van. Suffice to say, it forced our hand."

"If he could shoot the wife without preamble . . ."

Dawes nods. "Then he could do the same with the baby. Our sniper already had a shot lined up, and he got the green light and he took it. It was righteously accurate, dead in the forehead, no fuss, no muss. Perfect." He sighs. "Problem is, Dad dropped the baby girl and she landed on her head and died. That sniper shot himself a week later." His look is more piercing this time. "So, like I said, it could have turned out a lot worse here, Agent Barrett."

"Call me Smoky."

He smiles. "All right, I will. Do you believe in God, Smoky?"

The question startles me. I give him my most honest answer.

"I don't know."

"Yeah. Me neither."

He shakes my hand, gives me a sad smile and a slight nod, and he's gone. His story remains behind, echoing inside me, a tale of impossible choices. Thanks for sharing, Dawes.

I sit down on the curb in front of the house and try to gather myself. Callie and Alan are both on their cell phones. Callie finishes and comes over, plopping down next to me.

"Good news, honey-love. I called Barry Franklin, and he agreed, after much grumbling, to ask for this case. He'll be here shortly."

"Thanks," I say.

Homicides, with some exceptions, are not federal crimes. I'm not allowed to walk into a jurisdiction and take over a murder just because I feel like it. Everything we do involves and requires liaison with the locals to be on the up-and-up. Like most agents (and local cops) I prefer to engineer my "liaison relationships." This is where Barry comes in. Barry is a homicide detective for the LAPD, one of the elite few to reach the rank of Detective First Grade. If he wants a case, it's his.

I met him on the very first case I had as a unit head in Los Angeles. A crazy young man was torching homeless people and taking their feet for trophies. Barry had asked the Bureau to help with a profile. Neither of us had cared about politics or credit. We just wanted to catch the bad guy and we did.

The pragmatic end of things: He's an excellent investigator, he won't deny me access to the crime scene, and if I ask him nicely, he'll utter the magic words, request for assistance. Those words open the door to full and unfettered involvement on our part. Until then, we are legally no more than observers.

"How are you doing, honey-love?" Callie asks.

I rub my face with my hands. "I'm supposed to be on vacation, Callie. The whole thing in there . . ." I shake my head. "It was surreal. And fucked up. The day started out great. Now I feel crappy and . . . yuck. Too many messy cases in a row."

People think every murder is a bad one, and while they're technically right, horror comes in degrees. The gutting of an entire family is a jolt.

"You need a dog," she says.

"I need a good laugh," I reply, forlorn.

"Just one?"

I give her a wry smile. "Nope. I need something on a trend. A series of good laughs. I need to wake up and smile, and then I need to do it again the next day, and again the day after that. Then I can have a shitty day, and it won't feel so bad."

"True," she muses. " 'Into every life a little rain,' and all that--but you've taken it to a new level." She pats my hand. "Get a dog."

I laugh, as she'd intended.

Quantico, Quantico, a voice sings inside my head. No Sarahs, no up close and personal, no clangy-jitters there.

Alan heads toward us, still talking on his cell phone. When he gets to us, he holds the phone away from his ear. "Elaina wants to know the outlook on tonight. As far as Bonnie goes."

I think it through. I need Barry to arrive. I need him to get his Crime Scene Unit onto processing the house. I need to go through the home and soak in the scene.

It isn't officially ours yet, but I'm not willing to just walk away. I sigh.

"It's going to be a late one. Can you ask her if she minds taking Bonnie for the night?"

"No problem."

"Tell Elaina I'll be in touch tomorrow."

He puts the phone to his ear and walks away, delivering the news.

"What about me?" Callie asks.

I give her a tired grin. "You get to work on your vacation, just like me. We're going to meet Barry, check things out . . ." I shrug. "And then we'll see. Maybe it will be back to vacation-time, maybe not."

She sighs, an overdramatic, long-suffering sigh. "Slave driver," she mutters. "I want a raise."

"I want world peace," I reply. "Disappointment abounds. Get used to it."

"Bonnie's covered," Alan says as he returns. "So what's the plan of action here?"

Time to take command.

This is my primary function, above all others. I run a group, really, of luminaries. Everyone has an area they shine in. Callie is a star when it comes to forensics. Alan is a legend in the interrogation room, and he's the best there is when it comes to beating feet and canvassing an area. He's tireless and he misses nothing. You don't get people like that to follow you because they like you. They have to respect you. It requires just a touch of arrogance. You have to be willing to acknowledge your own strengths, to be a star in your own area and know it. Where I excel is in the understanding of those we hunt. In seeing a scene, not just looking at it. Anyone can walk through a murder site and observe a body. All the skill is in the reverse-engineering. Why that body? Why here? What does that say about the killer? Some are skilled at it. Some are very skilled. I'm gifted, and just arrogant enough to acknowledge it. My personal talent in my chosen field is my ability to understand the darkness that makes up the men I hunt.

Lots of people think they understand the mind of serial killers. They read their true-crime books, perhaps they steel themselves and give a series of gory crime photos an unblinking eye. They talk about predators, the psychosexuality of it all, and they feel enlightened. All of that is fine, there's nothing wrong with it--but they miss the boat by a mile.

I tried to explain this once in a lecture. Quantico was doing their version of career day, and various guest speakers were giving command performances to rooms full of bright young trainees. My turn came and I stared out at them, at their youth and hope, and tried to explain what I was talking about.

I told them about a famous case in New Mexico. A man and his girlfriend had spent years hunting and capturing women. They would bring the abductees into a specially equipped room, filled with restraints and instruments of torture. They'd spend days and weeks raping and torturing their victims. They videotaped most of what they did. One of their favorite implements was a cattle prod.

"There is video," I'd said, "where you can see smoke pouring out of a young woman's vagina because they used a cattle prod to penetrate her."

Just this, this tiny bit of information, far from the worst available, silences the room and turns some of those young faces white.

"One of our agents, a woman, had the job of making a series of detailed drawings of all the whips and chains and saws and sex toys and other perversities that this couple had used on the women they'd brought into that room. She did her job. She spent four days doing it. I've seen the drawings and they were good. They were used in court, actually. Her superior praised her and told her to take a few days off. To go home, see her family, clear her head." I had paused, letting my eyes roam over all those young faces. "She went home and spent the day with her husband and her little girl. That night, while they were asleep, she crept downstairs, got her service pistol out of the gun safe, and shot herself in the head."

There had been a few gasps. There had been a lot of silence. I had shrugged. "It would be easy to take that strong young woman and classify her and not think anything more about it. We could call her weak, or say that she must have already been depressed, or decide that something else was going on in her life that no one knew about. And you're welcome to do that. All I can tell you is that she'd been an agent for eight years. She'd had a spotless record and had no history of mental illness." I'd shaken my head. "I think she looked too much, went out too far, and got lost. Like a boat on the ocean with the shore nowhere in sight. I think this agent found herself floating on that boat and couldn't figure out a way to get back." I had leaned forward on the podium. "And that's what I do, what my team does: We look. We look and we don't turn away, and we hope that we can deal with that."

The administrator running the program hadn't been all that happy with my talk. I hadn't cared. It was the truth. I wasn't mystified by the act of that female agent. It wasn't the seeing that was the problem, not really. The problem was the un-seeing and the stop seeing. You had to be able to go home and turn off the images that wanted to giggle through your mind, all sly feet and whispers. This agent hadn't been able to do that. She'd put a bullet in her head so she could. I empathized.

I guess that's what I was trying to tell those fresh-scrubbed faces: This isn't fun. It's not titillating, or challenging, or a roller-coaster scare.

It's something that must be done.

It's my gift, or my curse, to understand the desires of serial killers. To know why they feel the way they do. To feel them feeling it, just a little, or just a lot. It's something that happens inside me, something based in part on training and observation, based in greater part on a willingness to become intimate with them. They sing to themselves, a song only they can hear, and you have to listen the way they listen if you want to hear the tune. The tune's important; it dictates the dance. The most important component is thus the most unnatural act: I don't turn away. I lean in for a closer look. I sniff them to catch their scent. I touch them with the tip of my tongue to catch their flavor. It has helped me capture a number of evil men. It's also given me nightmares and moments where I wondered at my own hungers: Were they mine? Or had I just understood too much?

"Barry is coming," I tell Alan. "It's his scene. It may not become ours, but let's proceed as if it's going to be. Callie, I want you to walk the scene with me. I need your forensic eyes. Alan, I want you to recanvass the neighborhood. Barry won't have a problem with that. Let's find out what the neighbors know."

"You got it," he replies, pulling out a small notepad from his inside jacket pocket. "Ned and I will dig in."

Alan has always called his notepad "Ned." He told me his original mentor said the notepad was a detective's best friend, and that a friend should have a name. He'd demanded that Alan come up with one, and thus Ned was born. The mentor was long gone, the name was forever. I think it's a form of superstition, Alan's version of a baseball player's lucky socks.

Callie squints at a black Buick that has just been let past the cordon lines. "Is that Barry?" she asks. I stand up, and recognize Barry's heavy, bespectacled face through the windshield. I feel a kind of relief run through me. Now I could do something.

"I'd give you a hard time about the date you pulled me away from,"

Barry says as we approach, "but you look like you're having a shitty night yourself."

Barry is in his early forties. He's heavy without being fat, he's bald, he wears glasses, and he has one of the more homely faces I've seen--the kind of homely that becomes cute in the right light. In spite of these handicaps, he's always dating pretty, younger women. Alan calls it the "Barry phenomenon." Supreme confidence, without being arrogant. He's funny, smart, and larger than life. Alan thinks a lot of women find that combination of self-assurance and a big heart irresistible. I think that's just a part of it. There's a hint of unyielding strength in Barry that rolls through all that amiability like thunder in the distance. He's seen it all, he knows that evil is a real thing. Barry is a hunter of men, and at some level, right or wrong, that's always going to be sexy in an animal-scent kind of way.

I know his grumbling is all for show; we've lost track of who really owes a favor to whom, and in truth, neither of us really cares.

"Anyway," he says, pulling out a notepad, his own Ned, ready now to get down to business. "What have you got for me?"

"Ritual slaughter. Evisceration. An ocean of blood. The usual,"

I say.

I fill him in on what I know. It isn't much, but it begins the backand-forth rapport that works so well for us. We'll walk the scene and talk as we go, bouncing observations off each other, honing our conclusions. It might seem aimless to an observer, but it's method, not madness.

"Three dead?" he asks.

"Three that I saw, and I'm pretty sure that's it. Patrol cleared the house, and they didn't mention any other bodies."

He nods, tapping his pen on the notepad. "You're sure the girl didn't do it?"

"No way," I say, emphatic. "She didn't have enough blood on her. You'll see what I mean when we go inside. It's . . . messy. I'm also fairly certain that one of them was killed downstairs and then carried into the bedroom. Carried, not dragged. She doesn't have the strength for that."

He looks toward the house, thinking. He shrugs. "Doesn't really play for me, anyway," he says. "The girl doing it. What you described sounds like advanced killing. Not to say that sixteen-year-olds aren't doing some bad things these days, but . . ." He shrugs again.

"I sent Alan off to interview the neighbors. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Nope. He's the man when it comes to that stuff."

"So when can we go in?" I ask.

I'm anxious now, reenergized. I want to start looking at this killer. He glances at his watch. "I expect the Crime Scene Unit here any minute--another favor you owe me. Then we can slip on our paper booties and get to work."

I start outside the house. Barry and Callie wait, patient, listening. I examine the front of the home. I look up and down the street, at the homes on either side. I try to imagine what it would have been like in the daytime.

"This is a family neighborhood," I say. "Crowded. Active. It was Saturday, so people would have been at home. Coming here, today, was a bold move. He's either overconfident or very competent. Not likely a first-timer. I'm guessing he's killed before."

I walk forward, moving up the walkway and toward the front door. I imagine him, moving up this same path. He could have been doing it while I was shopping with Bonnie, or perhaps while I was clearing out Matt's master-bedroom closet. Life and death, side by side, each one unaware of the other.

I pause before walking through the front door. I try to imagine him here. Was he excited? Was he calm? Was he insane? I come up blank. I don't know enough about him yet.

I enter the home. Barry and Callie follow.

The house still smells like murder. Worse now, as time has passed, and the odors have begun to deepen.

We move to the family room. I stare down at the blood-soaked carpet. The CSU photographer is busy taking pictures of it all.

"That's a hell of a lot of blood," Barry observes.

"He cut their throats," I say. "Ear to ear."

"That'd do it." He looks around. "Like you said. No blood trails."

"Right. But all of this tells us things about him."

"Such as?" Barry asks.

"He likes what he does. Using a blade is personal. It's an act of anger, sure, but on another level, it's an act of joy. The way you kill a lover. The only thing more intimate is using your bare hands. It can also be the way you kill a stranger that you love. A sign of respect, a thank-you for the death they're giving you." I indicate the bloody room with a sweep of my hand. "Bloodletting can be intimate or impersonal. Blood is life. You cut the stranger you love so you can be close to the blood when it starts flowing. Blood is also a path to death. You drain pigs of blood pretty much the same way. Which way did he see them? As pigs, or lovers? Were they nothing, or everything?"

"Which do you think?"

"Don't know yet. The point is, however he viewed them, there wasn't any doubt. You don't kill with a knife if you're conflicted. It's an act of certainty. A gun gives you distance, but a knife? A knife has to be used up close. A knife is also evidence that the manner of death is as important to him as the death itself."

"How's that?"

I shrug. "A gun is quicker."

Callie is walking around the room, looking at the blood and shaking her head.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She indicates a dark puddle near her feet. "This is wrong." She points at another pool off to the left. "That's wrong."

"Why, Red?" Barry asks.

"Blood-spatter analysis is a mix of physics, biology, chemistry, and mathematics. No time for a detailed course here, but suffice to say that physics, blood viscosity, and the carpet material itself tell me these two puddles are likely here by design." She walks closer to us, points to the much larger blood patch near the entrance to the family room. "Note the lines here." She leans forward, indicating a line of blood that widens as it moves away from us, ending in a somewhat rounded head with jagged edges. "See how it almost looks like a giant tadpole?"

"Yes," I reply.

"You see this all the time on a smaller scale. Castoff spatter produces a long, narrow stain with a defined, discernible head. The sharper end of the stain, or the 'tail,' always points back to the origin point. This is simply a larger version of that, and fits with someone getting their throat cut." She points. "You see it here, and here. And note the blood on the wall nearby?"

I look. I see more tadpoles, only smaller, along with a number of drops, big and little. "Yes."

"Think of blood in the body as contents under pressure. Poke a hole in the container and it flows out. Blood spatter is caused by the force of the flow outward, which determines speed and distance. Cutting an artery produces a lot of force. Smashing a hammer into a head creates a lot of force. However you slice it--pun intended--blood leaves the body, moves outward with greater or lesser force, until it impacts a surface, at which point it transfers that motion and energy to the surface, thereby creating a pattern against it. The results are your tadpoles, your droplets with scalloped edges, and so on, blah-deblah." She points again to the carpet and nearby wall. "You can see evidence of arterial spray near the baseboard, and in the lines of blood on the carpet. Spontaneous motion, with directionality created by force. This is murder. Those other two are not. If I had to guess, I'd say that blood was poured onto both those spots. From a container of some kind. They are pools, not castoff or spatter. The directionality would have come from above, and the size of the pools, as well as the lack of spatter near their edges, indicate a leisurely pour. Very little force."

Now that she's pointed it out, I can see it. The puddles in question are too orderly, too aesthetically proper, too round. Like syrup onto pancakes.

"So . . . he kills someone down here," Barry says, "and then . . . what? He decides he didn't get the room bloody enough?"

Callie shrugs. "I can't tell you why he did it. I can tell you that those two spots came last. They're wetter than the kill-spot and more congealed."

"Huh." He looks at me. "What do you think? The victim killed down here was the last to die? Or the first?"

"I think the last," I say. "When I arrived, the blood here was still fresh, while the blood on the walls upstairs looked dry."

Something about the sliding glass door has caught my eye. I walk toward it.

"Barry," I say. "Look at this."

I point at the latch. It's unlocked, and the door is open a crack. Hard to see unless you are right on it as we are now.

"That's probably the point of entry," Callie muses.

"Get some shots of this before I open the door," Barry says to the CSU photographer.

The CSU--a studious-looking guy I know as Dan--snaps pictures of the latch area and the door.

"That should do it," Dan says.

"Thanks," Callie says, smiling.

Dan turns red and looks down at the carpet, smiling but tonguetied. I realize that he's been made speechless by a combination of his own natural shyness and Callie's formidable beauty.

"You're welcome," he manages, before trotting off.

"Cute," Callie says to Barry.

"Uh-huh." He's distracted by his examination of the latch. "Looks broken," he muses. "Definitely forced by something. I can see tool marks."

He straightens back up and uses his gloved hands to open the door. It moves from right to left as we're facing it now. From the outside, coming in, it would be left to right. A right-handed killer would probably have opened it with his left hand, as his right would have been filled with . . . what? A knife? A backpack?

We step through the door into the backyard. It's dark, but I can tell the yard is large, and I can see the shadowy outlines of a squareshaped swimming pool. A single medium-sized palm tree to the far left reaches for the night sky.

"Is there a light back here?" Barry wonders.

Callie fumbles around on the wall near the sliding glass door in the family room, looking for a switch. When she finds it and flips it, all the banter we've been using to distance ourselves from this tableau dissipates.

The switch had been set to turn on not just the yard lights, but the pool lights, as well.

"Jesus," Barry mutters.

The light blue bottom of the pool combines with the underwater lights to create an island of shimmering brightness in the dark. The blood in the water stands out against this brightness, a suspended crimson cloud. It floats on the top, in places a mix of clots, pink foam, smooth oil.

I walk over to the side of the pool and peer into the water.

"No weapon or clothing in here," I say.

"Lot of blood though," Barry notes. "Can't even see the bottom from some angles."

I look around the yard. It's walled on every side by actual six-foothigh concrete and brick, a rarity in suburban Los Angeles. Ivy grows along the top and combines with tall bushes in this and adjoining yards to create tremendous privacy. The house itself may have been built to let the light in, but the backyard was all about keeping out prying eyes.

I think about the room upstairs, splashed with blood. He took his time up there, I think. Playing and painting and having a ball. That would have been messy work.

"The killer used the pool," I say.

Callie raises her eyebrows. Barry gives me a quizzical look. I realize that I'm a step ahead; I've seen the bedroom, they haven't.

"Look, he's doing this midday. It's a Saturday, so people in this neighborhood are home. Even more significant: It's a beautiful, sunny Saturday. People are out in their yards, riding their bikes, enjoying the weather." I point toward the master-bedroom window. "He played in the bedroom. Blood's everywhere on the ceiling and walls--but it's not spatter from the killings. It's there because he put it there. He would have been covered in blood. He'd have to wash it off somehow, and he wanted to do it here. Liked doing it here."

"Why not use the bathroom inside?" Callie asks. "Quite a risk, coming into the yard, don't you think? Privacy or not--he has to leave the house proper. Someone could come knocking while he's out here, or come home, and he'd never know it."

"For one thing, it's smarter," Barry says. "He probably knows that we'll be checking the drain traps in the bathrooms. It's going to be a lot harder to find anything that belongs to him in the pool filtration system. And chlorine isn't exactly investigation friendly."

I examine the pool. It's about twenty feet long and appears to be a uniform depth all the way across. A single set of steps leads down into the water. Glossy clay tiles surround it and form a deck.

"Tile is wet in places," I observe.

"We need to get out of here," Callie says, her voice sharp.

"Right now."

Barry and I look over at her, surprised.

"Why is it wet?" she asks.

I get it. "Because he walked around out here, probably naked, probably barefoot, and probably left footprints. That we'll probably destroy if we keep tramping around."

"Right," Barry says. "Oops."

"They're going to have to go over this entire area with an ultraviolet light," Callie says. "Inch by agonizing inch. Thank goodness that's someone else's job tonight."

Trace evidence, including latent prints, semen, and blood, can fluoresce under ultraviolet light. Callie is right. If he was nude out here and walking around with impunity, this is a potential hot spot for evidence. We move back through the sliding glass door, but continue gazing out into the yard.

"You said you think the pool was about more than washing away evidence?" Barry asks.

"I think . . ." My voice trails off. It comes to me the way it always does: swimming from out of some dark place, fully formed. "I think he liked the fact that he could do something dark out in the open. He killed this family in the middle of the day, he all but bathed in their blood, and then he stripped down and took a nice, long swim while their bodies began to bake in an unventilated home. In the meantime, the people in this neighborhood held their kids' birthday parties and clipped their hedges and barbecued their steaks, not knowing that he was here, enjoying the day in his own way." I look at Barry. "The feeling of triumph must have been overwhelming. Like a vampire walking around in the daylight. This scene is about power and ownership. Confidence in coming here during the day, confidence in his use of knife as the murder weapon. It fits."

"Sick fuck," Barry says, shaking his head. He sighs. "So, he does a few laps in the pool, maybe lies around listening to the neighbors while he pats himself on the back. The question though is sequences. You say the scene downstairs was fresh. I'll buy that, but how does it play? He kills two vics upstairs, creates a little abstract art with their blood, comes and swims, then kills the third victim? And what's Sarah doing while all this is happening?"

I shrug. "We don't know yet."

"I hate when they make me work for it." He sighs. "Hey, Thompson!" he bellows, startling me. As if by magic, the twentysomething uniform who had tried to prevent our entrance earlier today appears.

"Yes, sir?" he asks.

"Don't let anyone into the backyard unless the head of CSU says so."

"Yes, sir." He takes his place by the sliding glass door. He's too young. Still excited about getting to be here.

"Ready to see the bedroom?" Barry asks us.

It's a rhetorical question. We're sniffing the trail, making things happen, putting the picture together in our heads. Get it while it's hot.

We leave the family room and head up the stairs, Barry taking the lead, Callie behind me. We reach the top. Barry peers into the room.

"Is it necessary for both of you to come in?" a critical voice asks.

"To tramp all over everything?"

This sourness belongs to John Simmons, head of this shift's LAPD Crime Scene Unit. He's crabby, crusty, and absolutely untrusting of anyone but himself when it comes to handling the evidentiary part of a homicide. These traits are forgivable; he's one of the best.

"Three, actually," Callie says, moving forward so that he can see her too.

Simmons is not a young man. He's been doing this for a very long time, he's in his late fifties, and it shows. Smiles, for him, are like diamonds: rare, and only worn on the right occasions. Callie, it appears, merits one.

"Calpurnia!" he cries, grinning from ear to ear. He moves toward us, shoving Barry and me out of the way to embrace her. Callie smiles and hugs him back while Barry looks on, bemused. I have seen this behavior before, and know its source. Barry does not.

"I did an internship under Johnny while I was getting my degree in forensics," Callie explains to Barry.

"Very gifted," Simmons says, fondly. "Calpurnia was one of my few successes. Someone who truly appreciates the science."

Simmons looks over at me now. His study of my scars is frank, but it doesn't bother me. I know the basis of his interest is judgment-free curiosity.

"Agent Barrett," he says, nodding.

"Hello, sir."

I've always called John Simmons "sir." He's always seemed like a "sir" to me, and he's never disabused me of the fact. Callie is the only person I know of who calls him "Johnny," just as he's the only person I can imagine getting away with calling her "Calpurnia," the given name she hates with such ferocity.

"So, Calpurnia," he says, turning back to Callie, "I trust you'll watch over my crime scene? Ensure nothing gets trampled or touched that shouldn't?"

Callie raises her right hand, puts her left one on her heart. "I promise. And, Johnny?"

She tells him about the backyard. He favors her with another fond smile.

"I'll get someone onto that directly." He gives Barry and me a last, suspicious look before stepping aside.

We enter the room. Simmons heads downstairs to crack the whip, leaving us alone. For all his grumbling, he understands this part of it--the need to soak it in. He's always given me the space I need to do this, never crowding me or peering over my shoulder. Now that I don't have my attention fixed on Sarah, I stop and really look.

Mr. and Mrs. Dean and Laurel Kingsley, as I now know them to be, fall easily into the "fit-forties" niche. They are tanned, with goodlooking faces, muscular legs, and a certain polish about them, a vitality I can still sense, even in these circumstances.

"God, he was confident," I say. "Not just in coming here on the weekend and in the daytime. He subdued two fit, healthy parents and two teenage children."

Dean's eyes are wide and turning into the eyes of the dead, gray and filmy, like soap scum in a bathtub. Laurel's eyes are closed. Both of them have their lips pulled back, reminding me of a snarling dog, or someone being forced to smile at gunpoint. Dean's tongue protrudes, while Laurel's teeth are clenched together. Forever now, I think. She'll never pull her teeth apart. Something tells me that this carefully cared for woman would have hated that.

"He would have used a weapon to intimidate them, and it wouldn't have been just a knife," I say. "Not threatening enough for so many victims. It would have been a gun. Something big and scary looking."

From the collarbone down, it's as if they each swallowed a hand grenade.

"A single long slice on each of them," Barry says. "He used something sharp."

"Probably a scalpel," I murmur. "Not clean, though. I see signs of hesitation in the wounds. Note the ragged spots?"

"Yep."

He cut them open with a halting, trembling hand. Then he reached into them, grabbed hold of whatever he touched, and pulled, like a fisherman cleaning a fish. Standing over Mrs. Kingsley now, I'm able to make out the middle third of her spine; key organs aren't there to block my view of it.

"Hesitation cuts are odd," I murmur.

"Why?" Barry asks.

"Because in every other way he was confident." I lean forward for a closer look, examining the throats this time. "When he cut their throats, it was clean, no hesitation." I stand up. "Maybe they weren't hesitation marks. Maybe the cuts were uneven because he was excited. He might have come to orgasm slicing them open."

"Lovely," Callie says.

In contrast to Dean and Laurel, the boy--Michael--is untouched. He's white from blood loss, but he was spared the indignity of being gutted.

"Why'd he leave the boy alone?" Barry wonders.

"He either wasn't as important--or he was the most important one of all," I say.

Callie walks around the bed at a slow pace, examining the bodies. She casts looks around the floor, squints at the blood on the walls.

"What do you see?" I ask.

"The jugular veins of all three victims have been severed. Based on the color of the skin, they were bled dry. This was done prior to the disembowelment."

"How can you tell that?" Barry asks.

"Not enough blood pooled in the abdominal cavities or visible on the exposed organs. Which is the general problem: Where's the rest of the blood? I can account for place of death for one of the victims--the family room downstairs. What about the other two?" She gestures around the room. "The blood in here is primarily on the walls. There are some blotches on the carpet, but it's not enough. The sheets and blankets from the bed are bloody, true, but the amount seems superficial." She shakes her head. "No one had their throat cut in this room."

"I noticed the same thing earlier," I say. "They were bled out somewhere else. Where?"

A moment passes before we all gaze down the short hallway that leads from the master bedroom to the master bathroom. I move without speaking; Barry and Callie follow. Everything becomes clear as we enter.

"Well," Barry says, grim, "that explains it, all right."

The bathtub is a large one, made for lazing around in, built with languor in mind. It's a little over one-quarter full of congealing blood.

"He bled them out in the tub," I murmur. I point to two large rusty blotches on the carpet. "Pulled them out when he was done and laid them there, next to each other."

My mind is moving, my perception of the connectedness of things picking up speed. I turn without speaking and walk back into the bedroom. I examine the wrists and ankles of Dean and Laurel Kingsley. Callie and Barry have followed and look at me with their eyebrows raised.

I point at the bodies. "No marks on their wrists or their ankles. You have two adults. You get them to strip naked, you put them into a tub, one at a time, you slit their throats, one at a time, bleed them out, one at a time--does that make any sense?"

"I see what you mean," Barry says. "They would have been fighting back. How does he get it done? I don't think saying 'Take a number, I'll kill you next' would've cut it."

"Occam's razor," I reply. "The simplest answer: They weren't fighting back."

Barry frowns, perplexed, and then his face clears and he nods.

"Right," he says. "They were out cold. Maybe drugged." He makes another note on his pad. "I'll have them look for that during autopsy."

"You know," I say, shaking my head, "if that's true, then that makes three bodies he had to carry, including one he'd had to have moved up the stairs." I look at Barry. "How tall would you say Mr. Kingsley is? Six feet?"

"Six or six-one." He nods. "Probably weighs one-ninety."

I whistle. "He'd have to muscle Kingsley into the tub, drugged . . ."

I shake my head. "He's either tall or strong or both."

"Helps." Barry nods. "We're not looking for a little guy."

"Of course, there could have been two of them," Callie says, glancing at me. "We know about tag teams, don't we?"

She's right. Partnerships in murder are not uncommon. My team and I have chased more than one twisted coffee klatch.

"No visible evidence of sexual violation," Barry notes, "but that doesn't mean much. We won't know for sure until the medical examiner gets a good look at the bodies."

"Have them check the boy first," I say.

Barry raises a single eyebrow at me.

"He wasn't gutted." I point to Michael's body. "And he's clean. I think the killer washed him, postmortem. It looks like he combed his hair. It might not have been sexual--but there was something going on there. Less anger at Michael, for whatever reason."

"Gotcha," Barry says, jotting in his notepad.

I gaze around the room, at the streaks of blood on the walls and ceilings. In some places it seems splashed, like an artist had tossed a can of paint onto a blank canvas. But there are intricacies as well. Curls and symbols. Streaks. The most obvious thing about it is that it is everywhere.

"The blood is key to him," I murmur. "And the disembowelment. There's no evidence of torture on any of the victims, and they were bled out prior to being cut open. Their pain wasn't important to him. He wanted what was inside. Especially the blood."

"Why?" Barry asks.

"I can't say. There's too many possible paradigms when it comes to blood. Blood is life, you can drink blood, you can use blood to tell the future--take your pick. But it's important." I shake my head.

"Strange."

"What?"

"Everything I've seen so far points to a disorganized offender. The mutilation, the blood painting. Disorganized offenders are chaotic. They have trouble planning and they get caught up in the moment. They lose control."

"So?"

"So how is it that the boy wasn't gutted and Sarah is still alive? It doesn't fit."

Barry gives me a considering look. Shrugs.

"Let's go see her room," he says. "Maybe there'll be some answers there."

11

"WOW," CALLIE REMARKS.

The reason for this soft exclamation is twofold.

First, and most obvious, the words written on the blank wall next to the bed.

"Is that blood?" Barry asks.

"Yes," Callie confirms.

The letters are large. The slashes that form them are angry, each one a mark of hate and rage.

THIS PLACE = PAIN

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Barry gripes.

"I don't know," I reply. "But it was important to him."

Just like the blood and the disembowelment.

"Interesting that he wrote it in Sarah's bedroom, don't you think?"

Callie asks.

"Yeah, yeah, puzzle puzzle cauldron bubble," Barry grumbles.

"Why can't they ever write anything useful. Like: 'Hi, my name is John Smith, you can find me at 222 Oak Street. I confess.' "

The second reason for Callie's "wow" can be found in the decor. The memory of standing in Alexa's room earlier today comes to me by comparison. Sarah's room is about as far from froufrou girly-girl as you can get.

The carpet is black. The drapes on the windows are black and they're pulled shut. The bed, a queen-sized four-poster, isn't black--

but the pillowcases, sheets, and comforter on it are. It all contrasts with the white of the walls.

The room itself is a good-sized room for a child. It's about half as big as the standard-sized "kids' room" in most homes, perhaps ten by fifteen. Even with the large bed, a dresser, a small computer desk, a bookshelf, and an end table with drawers next to the bed, space remains in the center of the room to move around in. The extra space doesn't help. The room feels stark and isolated.

"I'm no expert," Barry says, "but it looks to me like this kid has problems. And I'm not just talking about a bunch of dead people in her house."

I examine the wooden end table next to the bed. It's about the height and width of a barstool. A black alarm clock sits on top of it. Its three small drawers are what interest me the most.

"Can we get someone in here to fingerprint this?" I ask Barry.

"Now, I mean?"

He shrugs. "I guess. Why?"

I relate the end of my conversation with Sarah. When I finish, Barry looks uncomfortable.

"You shouldn't have made that promise, Smoky," he says. "I can't let you take the diary. Period. You know that."

I look at him, startled. He's right, I do know it. It goes against the chain of evidence, and at least a dozen other forensic rules, the violation of which would probably send John Simmons into some kind of apoplectic seizure.

"Let's get Johnny up here," Callie says. "I have an idea on how to handle this."

Simmons looks around Sarah Kingsley's bedroom. "So, Calpurnia. Explain to me what it is you're trying to accomplish here."

"Obviously, Johnny, Smoky can't take the diary. My idea was to make a copy via photographs of each page."

"You want my photographer to spend time--now--taking a picture of every page in the girl's diary?"

"Yes."

"Why should I give this a particular priority?"

"Because you can, honey-love, and because it's necessary."

"Fine, then," he says, turning away and heading toward the door.

"I'll send Dan up."

I stare after him, bemused at his instantaneous and complete capitulation.

"How was that so easy?" Barry asks.

"The magic word was 'necessary,' " Callie says. "Johnny won't tolerate wasted motion on his crime scene. But if something is needed from his team to clear a case, he'll work them for days." She gives us a wry smile. "I speak from experience."

The diary is black, of course. Smooth black leather and small. It's not masculine or feminine. It's functional.

Blushing Dan the Photographer Man is here, camera ready.

"What we want is an image of each page, in sequence, large enough to be printed out on letter-sized paper and read."

Dan nods. "You want to photocopy the diary with the camera."

"Exactly right," Callie says.

Dan blushes, again. He coughs. This proximity to Callie seems to be overwhelming him. "No--uh--problem," he manages to stammer out. "I have a spare one gigabyte memory card I can use and let you take with you."

"All we need then, is someone to prop it open." She holds up her hands, showing the surgical gloves she's already slipped on. "That would be me."

Dan calms down once he's back and safe behind his camera lens. Barry and I watch as he shoots. The room is quiet, punctuated by the sound of the camera firing and by Dan murmuring for Callie to turn the pages when needed.

I glimpse Sarah's handwriting and at last see a hint of femininity. It's precise without being prissy. A smooth, exacting cursive, written in-- surprise--black ink.

There's a lot of it. Page after page after page. I find myself wondering what a girl who surrounds herself with the color black writes about. I find myself wondering if I want to know.

This is a lifelong battle for me: the struggle to "unknow" things. I am aware of the beauty of life, when it exists. But I'm also never un- aware of how terrible life can become, or how monstrous. Happiness, in my estimate, would be an easier state to achieve if I didn't have to reconcile these opposing forces, if I never had to ask the question:

"How can I be happy when I know, right now, at this very moment, that someone else is experiencing something terrible?"

I remember flying into Los Angeles at night with Matt and Alexa. We were coming home from a vacation. Alexa had the window seat and as we'd come down through the clouds, she'd gasped.

"Look, Mommy!"

I'd leaned over and looked through the window. I'd seen Los Angeles below, outlined in a sea of lights that stretched from horizon to horizon.

"Isn't it pretty?" Alexa had exclaimed.

I'd smiled. "It sure is, honey."

It had been pretty. But it was also terrifying. I knew right then, at that very moment, that sharks were swimming down there in that sea of lights. I knew that as Alexa smiled and goggled, women were getting raped down there, children were being molested, someone was screaming as they died too soon.

My dad once told me, "Given a choice, the average man would rather smile than hear the truth."

I had found that to be true, in victims, and in myself. It was all just wishful thinking, that hope of "unknowing." I would read the diary and I'd let that black cursive writing take me wherever it wanted to take me, and then I'd know whatever it wanted me to know.

The sound of the camera fills the room, startling me each time it goes off, like gunfire.

It's not quite nine o'clock when I head downstairs. John Simmons sees Barry and me and motions us over. He's holding a digital camera in his hand.

"I thought you'd be pleased to know," he says, "that we were able to lift a set of latent footprints from the tile. Very clean."

"That's great," I reply.

"Too bad there's no database to run it against," Barry remarks.

"Even so, the prints are noteworthy."

Barry frowns. "How's that?"

Simmons hands over the camera. "See for yourself."

It's a digital 35mm SLR camera, with an LCD screen on the back so that you can preview the photos taken. The resolution on these cameras is significant enough these days that they are the primary tool used to record raised prints. The photo on the screen is small, but we can see what John is referring to.

"Are those scars?" I ask.

"I believe so."

The sole of the foot is covered with them. They are all long and thin and horizontal, going from one side of the foot to the next, none of them lengthwise.

Barry hands the camera back to Simmons. "You seen anything like that before?"

"I have, in fact. I've done volunteer work for Amnesty International on three occasions, assisting in postmortem examinations of possible torture victims as well as evidence collection from suspected torture sites. These scars resemble the kind created when the soles of the feet are caned or switched."

I wince. "I take it that's painful?"

"Excruciating. Done inexpertly--or expertly depending on your goal, I suppose--it can be crippling, but it is generally done to punish, not to maim."

"These on both feet?" Barry asks.

"Both."

We're silent, considering this turn of events. The possibility that our perpetrator had been tortured sometime in his life was germane to his profile, if nothing else.

"It fits with the picture of him as a disorganized offender," I remark.

Even if other things don't.

"Caning of the feet is rare here," Simmons says. "Its use is predominant in South America and parts of the Middle East, as well as Singapore, Malaysia, and the Philippines."

"Anything else we should know about?" Barry asks.

"Not as yet. We'll be capturing the contents of the filtration system, of course, so we'll have to wait and see."

Forensic handling of a crime scene is a process of identification and individualization. Individualization occurs when a piece of evidence comes from a unique source. Fingerprints are individualized to a single person. Bullets can, in most cases, be individualized to a specific weapon. DNA is the ultimate in individualization. The vast majority of evidence can only be identified. Identification is the process of classifying evidence as coming from a common--but not unique--source. Metal shavings are found in the crushed skull of a victim. The shavings are examined and identified as a metal commonly used in making hammers. Identification. The paths can cross. We have a suspect. We check to see if the suspect owns a hammer. He does. Marks on the victim's skull match the claw of the suspect's hammer and further investigation finds the victim's DNA on the edges of the claw. We fingerprint the handle and find only the suspect's prints on it. Identification and individualization, back and forth, conspiring to seal his fate. It's a laborious process, one that requires not just technical expertise, but the ability to apply logic and connect the dots. I had observed the visible, the blood in the pool water, and surmised that our suspect took a swim. Callie processed this information, saw the wet tile, and led us to an invisible footprint.

The precision of Sherlock Holmes is a nice fantasy. The reality is that we are thinking vacuums. We suck up everything and then we parse it and hope we'll understand what we find.

I'm standing on the lawn with Barry, waiting for Callie to wrap up with Photographer Dan. It's been a long day, and the thinking vacuums are in there sucking away. Alan should be wrapping up soon. I ache to leave.

Barry pulls a pack of Marlboros from his front shirt pocket. My old brand, I think, wistful.

"You want one?" he asks, offering the pack to me. I fight the omnipresent urge to accept. "No, thanks."

"You quit?"

"I'll have to live vicariously through you."

"Hey," he says, magnanimous, as he strikes a match. "I'll even blow some smoke into your face, if you ask me nice."

He brings the flame close, gets his cherry tip, and takes a deep, satisfying drag. I watch him blow the smoke out. It forms a huge cloud that hangs in front of us, no breeze available to move it along. My nostrils flare. The sweet smell of addiction, yum, yum, yum.

"I'm gonna go see the girl in the morning," Barry says. "Be helpful if you came along."

"Call me early on my cell."

"You got it." He puffs again, indicates the house with a nod. "How do you see it so far?"

"A lot of it is confusing. The one thing that's clear is that there's a message behind his actions. The question is: Is it a message for us, or just for himself ? Does he want us to understand what all that blood means, is that why he left the words on the wall? Was that a calculated act? Or was he doing it because voices in his head told him to?" I turn so I'm facing the house. "We do know he's confident and bold and competent. We don't know if he's an organized or disorganized offender. We don't know what he fears, yet."

Barry frowns. "Fears? What do you mean?"

"Serial killers are narcissists. They lack empathy. They don't choose their method of death or torture based on what they think their victims will fear. That would require empathy. They choose their methods and their victims based on what they fear. A man who fears rejection from beautiful blond women kidnaps and tortures them with lit cigarettes until they tell him they love him, because beautiful blond Mommy burnt his penis with her menthols. That's oversimplified, but it's the basic truth. Method and victim are everything. The question I still need to answer is: Who was the victim here? Sarah or the Kingsleys or both? The answer to that will lead us to everything."

Barry stares at me. "You got some dark shit going on in that mind of yours, Barrett."

I'm about to reply when my cell phone rings.

"Is this Agent Barrett?" A man's voice, vaguely familiar to me.

"Who's this?"

"Al Hoffman, ma'am. I'm on the hotline."

The "hotline" is what we call the LA FBI's 24-7 version of an answering service. They have the contact numbers for everyone from the Assistant Director on down. If someone from Quantico wants to talk to someone here, for example, and it's after hours, they call the hotline.

"What's up, Al?"

"I just got a weird anonymous call for you."

My hackles go up.

"Male or female?"

"Male. Voice was muffled, like he was holding something over the mouthpiece."

"What did he say?"

"He said, quote: 'Tell the bitch with the scars that there's been another killing, and that this place equals justice.' He gave me an address in Granada Hills."

I'm silent.

"Agent Barrett?"

"Did you get a trace on the number, Al?"

This question is a formality. The hotline had automatic tracing installed post 9/11, but that's supposed to be classified information.

"It's a cell phone. Probably cloned, stolen, or untraceable disposable."

"Give me the number anyway. And the address, please."

He reads off the address. I thank him and hang up.

"What's going on?"

I tell Barry about the call.

He stares at me for a moment. "Fuck and shit and all the rest!" he exclaims. "You kidding me? You think it's for real?"

" 'This place equals justice'? That's too close, too coincidental. It's for real."

"This nut really knows how to ruin a Saturday night," he mutters. He tosses his cigarette into the street. "Lemme tell Simmons I'm leaving. You grab Red and I guess we'll go and see what the difference between pain and justice is for this guy."

Alan is still nowhere to be seen. I call him on his cell phone.

"I'm three doors down eating cookies with Mrs. Monaghan," he says. "A very nice lady who also volunteers with the neighborhood watch."

Alan is inhumanly patient when it comes to witness interviews. Unfazeable. His "nice lady who volunteers with the neighborhood watch" probably translates to "cranky, nosy woman who watches everybody with a sharp eye and talks about them with an even sharper tongue."

I fill him in on the phone call from the hotline.

"Want me to come with?" he asks.

"No, you and Ned eat your cookies and finish the canvass."

"We will, but call me and let me know what happened. And be careful."

I consider using the same "If I was going to be careful, I wouldn't be going" quip I'd given Dawes but decide against it. Alan's voice sounds too serious.

"I will be," I reply instead.

12

WE'VE TAKEN THE 118 FREEWAY HEADING EAST. THE ROAD IS half-packed, neither busy nor deserted, the constant state of freeways in Los Angeles.

I feel tense and crabby and dark. This day continues to fall farther and farther down the rabbit hole.

"Why you?" Callie asks, startling me from my self-pity party.

"Why me what?"

"Why did Mr. Bad Man call you?"

I consider this.

"It could have been planned, I suppose, but I don't think so. I think he was there."

"Come again?"

"I think he was there. Watching. He saw us arrive and he recognized me."

It's a staple of profiling and criminal investigation that perpetrators will return to the scene of a crime. The reasons are myriad. To find out how the investigation is going. To relive the experience. To feel powerful.

"I think he always planned to tell us about the second crime scene. He decided to hang around, see what happened, and call it in. It just happened to be us."

"So he recognized you."

"Unfortunately." I sigh.

"Barry's signaling to exit."

Barry knows the area we're going to, an apartment complex.

"Not a total shit hole, but not a great place either," he'd said. "I caught a suicide there about four years ago."

I follow and we turn right onto Sepulveda Boulevard. Things become busier here than on the freeway. It's Saturday night, and people have places to go, things to do, the hamster wheel of life.

"I wonder if this scene will be fresher than the last one," she says.

"Do you think he's going on a tear? Making a night of it?"

"I really don't know, Callie. This guy is puzzling. He guts a family, but he leaves the boy alone and Sarah gets to live. He paints the room with their blood, but he plans well enough to drug them. On the one hand he seems psychotic and disorganized, on the other he's purposeful and controlled. It's weird."

She nods in agreement. "Swimming in the pool was impulsive."

Killers are human, and humans are complex. But over the years, we've learned that there are patterns to look for. All serial killers are driven by the compulsion to kill. The how and why of it can be worlds apart.

Organized killers, the Ted Bundys of the world, tend to follow a plan. They are the icemen, the ones with clarity. They're careful and cold-blooded until the moment of the act itself. They don't necessarily have a need to depersonalize their victims, and they can be consummate actors, blending in with the rest of us, their sickness undetectable.

Disorganized killers are different. They are the Jeffrey Dahmers, the Son of Sams. They have difficulty assimilating with others. They often trouble their neighbors or coworkers with odd behavior. It's hard for them to control their compulsions and they thus find it difficult to stick to any long-term plan. In the methodology of the disorganized killer you find victims of opportunity and over-the-top mutilations. This is the realm of on-site cannibalism, of women with their breasts or genitals ripped away.

Of a husband and a wife, gutted like deer.

Full-blown disembowelment represents a frenzy. It would be very unusual for a killer in that state to be able to make the choice to keep Sarah alive. And yet he did.

"He seems to have a plan," Callie says. "Perhaps things aren't as they seem."

"What Sarah said would seem to indicate that she was his intended victim. So why so much violence to the others? Things don't add up."

"They will."

Callie is right. They will, they always do. Serial killers may not always get caught, but they are never--ever--original, not when you get down to the basics of what makes them tick. They might be cleverer than we're used to, or more horrifying, but in the end, they are all driven by compulsion. A pattern is inevitable. This is an absolute and they can't escape it, no matter how sane or smart they are.

"I know. So what's up with the pain and the pain pills?" I ask, blurting it out before really thinking about it.

Callie glances at me, eyebrow raised. "There's an abrupt change of subject." I make a right turn, following Barry. "The doctors think it's a result of some minor nerve damage. They say it could heal, but they're not as hopeful as they had been. It's been almost six months, after all."

"How bad is the pain?"

"It has sharp moments. That's not the real problem. It's the constancy of it. Low-key pain that never goes away is worse, in my humble opinion, than occasional agony."

"And the Vicodin helps?"

I see her smile in profile. "Smoky, we're friends for many reasons. One of them is that we only speak the truth to each other. Ask what you really want to ask."

I sigh. "You're right. I'm worried about the addiction end of things, obviously. Worried for you."

"Understandable. So here's the truth: Addiction is inevitable. I imagine if I stopped taking them now, it would be difficult. In another three months, it'll probably be worse. The truth is, if this never resolves, I'll be on some form of pain medication forever, which will mean the end of my career. So, Smoky my friend, you're right to be worried, and you're not alone in worrying. I give you permission to ask me about it once a month, and I promise to be honest about where things stand so you can make the right decisions. Beyond that, I don't want to discuss it, agreed?"

"Jesus, Callie. Are you doing everything the docs are telling you to?"

"Of course I am." She sounds tired. "Physical therapy is the main thing. I want to lick this, Smoky. I have five things in my life: my job, my friends, my daughter, my grandson, and my frequent, very satisfying sexual encounters. I'm fairly happy with that. Losing this job?"

She shakes her head. "That would leave a rather large hole. And that's about as much 'me talk' as I can stand for now."

I stare at her, sigh. "Fair enough."

I let it go, but file it under "urgent." Just another thing that'll never be far from my mind. I should report her and put her on desk duty, but I won't and she knows it. Callie is as ruthless with herself as she is with the truth of evidence. If she feels she's become a liability, I won't have to sideline her. She'll do it herself.

Of course, if I go to Quantico, the professional end of it won't be my problem. . . .

Barry turns left onto another one of those quieter, residential streets. I follow him for a block, we turn left at a stop sign, and make an immediate right into an apartment parking lot.

"I see what he means about this place," Callie remarks, looking through the windshield.

This is an old apartment complex of a type raised in the seventies, a two-story built around a courtyard with perhaps forty units. It's trimmed in brown wood, and the stucco over the concrete is dirty and cracking. The pavement in the parking lot is cracked, and there are no paint-lines to delineate the boundaries of the parking spaces. Two large blue trash Dumpsters are pushed up against the building. Both are close to overflowing.

We get out of the car and meet Barry.

"Nice, huh?" he says, indicating things.

"I've seen worse," I reply, "but I wouldn't want to live here."

"Yeah, well, the courtyard used to be okay. What's the apartment number?"

"Twenty."

"Second floor. Let's go."

Barry's right; the courtyard is okay. Not great, but better than the exterior. It has a centerpiece of trees and grass, well kept up. All of the apartment doors face into the courtyard, two floors of them, forming one big square. You can hear the city here, but there's a degree of insulation. It was meant to be an oasis of privacy, but it was designed on too small and too cloistered a scale. It feels like a trap now, or a cage. Wagons circled against the coming, inevitable siege of the city.

"Apartment twenty is on the upper left corner," Barry says.

"Take the lead," I reply.

We un-holster our weapons and make our way up the stairs. I can see lights on in most windows. Everyone keeps their drapes drawn here; there's no other way to achieve any privacy. We reach the top of the stairs. The door to apartment twenty is two doors to our right. Barry hugs the wall as he makes his way to the door, moving fast. We follow. He reaches out with his free hand and knocks, loud. Copknocking.

"LAPD. Open the door please."

Silence.

Silence, in fact, all the way around. TVs had been on, radios had been playing. Now everything has gone quiet. I can sense the other residents, listening. Circling those wagons. Barry knocks again, louder.

"Open up, please. This is the Los Angeles Police Department. If you don't open the door, we'll be forced to enter the premises."

We wait.

Again, no response.

"Phone call gives us probable cause." He shrugs. "Let's see if the door is unlocked. If not, we'll have to dig up the manager."

"Go ahead," I tell him.

He reaches over and tries the knob. It turns in his hand. He looks back at us.

"Ready?"

We nod.

He flings the door wide with a single motion, moving to the right of it as he does so. His gun comes up in a two-handed grip. I fill the space on the left and do the same.

We're looking into a living room butted up next to a kitchen. The carpet is a medium weave, old and dirty, an unattractive brown. A black leather sofa sits against a wall in the small space, facing a cheap entertainment center housing a thirty-inch television. The TV is on, the volume down. An infomercial for some kind of business opportunity murmurs.

"Hello?" Barry calls.

No reply.

A cheap and battered wooden coffee table sits in front of the leather couch. I see various adult magazines spread across it, and what appears to be a jar of Vaseline. An ashtray, overflowing with butts, sits to the right.

"Smells like feet and ass in here," Barry mutters. He moves into the apartment, gun still at the ready. I follow. Callie comes in behind me. We see nothing in the kitchen as we approach it other than a ceramic-lined sink full of dirty dishes. An old-fashioned split-level refrigerator hums.

"Bedrooms are in the back," Barry says.

It's a very short walk through a very small hallway to get to the bedrooms. We pass a single bathroom on the right. I see white tile, a white tub. It's small and dirty and smells of urine. Nothing to speak of on the counter around the sink. The mirror is specked and unclean. The bedrooms are situated next to each other. The door to the one on the right is open and I see what appears to be some kind of a home office. There's a computer on an old metal desk, a nineteen-inch flat screen monitor, and a bunch of shelves made from cinder blocks and one-by-six boards. The shelves are almost empty, filled with a few paperback books and adult videotapes. A bong sits on the top of one, a quarter-full of murky pot-water.

It occurs to me that this is a sad, strange place. The only things of value I've seen have been the couch, the television, and the computer system. Everything else is cheap and salvaged and timeworn, with a layered hint of seedy degradation.

"I'm smelling something now," Barry murmurs, nodding toward the door to the other bedroom, which is closed.

I move closer and there it is: that cloying tang, pennies in my mouth.

"I'm going to open it," Barry says.

"Go ahead," I reply, gripping my weapon. My heart hammers away. Barry and Callie look as tense as I feel. I probably look as tense as I feel. He grips the knob, hesitates for a moment and throws it wide. He raises his weapon in a single motion.

The smell of blood rushes out to greet us, along with the odors of sweat, feces, and urine. I see the promised words, on the wall above the bed:

THIS PLACE = JUSTICE

They seem proud and bold, almost joyous to me.

Below the words, something that used to be a man. Next to the man lies a girl, her skin an unnatural alabaster. We all lower our weapons. The threat was here, but it has come and gone.

This bedroom continues the apartment's motif, small and sad. Dirty clothes lie on a floor in the corner. The bed is a double, consisting of just a mattress on a box spring on a metal frame. No headboard or baseboard. No chest of drawers.

On the bed is a naked man with his insides torn out. He's Hispanic. He's a small man; I put him at approximately five foot seven inches, and he's skinny--too skinny. He's probably the smoker. His dark hair is flecked with gray and I'm guessing his age to be somewhere between fifty and fifty-five.

The girl is Caucasian, and looks to be in her early to mid-teens. She has a pretty enough face, with dirty-blond hair. Small, pert breasts. Freckles on her shoulders. Her pubic area has been shaved. Other than the slash across her throat, she's uninjured. I note that her eyes, like those of Laurel Kingsley, are closed. She doesn't look like she'd be related to the man, and I wonder about her presence here, in this sad place with this older man and his coffee table decorations of girlie mags and Vaseline.

I wonder about something else, a more subtle similarity between this scene and the Kingsleys': The fact that he left both the children intact, while all the adults have been disemboweled. He kills the kids but he doesn't mutilate them. Why?

"This area is too small," Callie says. "I don't recommend entering the room prior to CSU."

"Roger that," Barry says, holstering his gun. "Definitely the same guy, Smoky, wouldn't you say?"

"Without a doubt."

The man's face is frozen in a shout, or maybe a scream. The girl's face is calm, passive, which I find a lot creepier and a little more depressing.

"Well, Smoky, I'm officially overburdened now, and I'm officially requesting assistance."

I force myself to turn away from the dead girl's too-bland features.

"You know what that means," I say to Callie.

She sighs, a puff of the cheeks. "I'll wake up Gene and we'll get going on this."

Gene Sykes is the head of the LA FBI's Crime Lab. He and Callie have worked together in the past. They'll work together now to handle this scene, and I know they'll find anything that's there to find.

"Wait," I say as a thought comes to me. "What timeline do you see between this and the Kingsley murders?"

"Based on the state of the corpses, I would guess this scene is approximately a day old," she says.

"So he killed here first, and then went right to doing the Kingsleys. Strange."

"How's that?" Barry asks.

"Ritual serial homicide follows a cycle. Murder is the peak of the cycle. Depression follows the act. We're not talking about feeling a little down, we're talking deep, debilitating depression. And yet our perp killed here, woke up the next day, and murdered the Kingsleys. It's not impossible, but it's unusual."

"Everything about this sucks," Barry observes.

As Callie contacts Gene, I get a call from Alan.

"I'm done here. Everything go okay?" he asks.

"That depends on your definition of 'okay.' " I fill him in on the second scene.

"He did us the big favor."

"The big favor" is our way of saying that the perpetrator gave us a second scene without us having to think about it first. Many times, the first scene we get simply doesn't provide enough evidence to lead us to a perp. In those cases, all we can do is wait for him to strike again, and hope he's more careless the second time around. Or the third. Or the fourth. It's disheartening and guilt-creating. "The big favor" is sarcastic--and yet it's not. He's provided us with a second scene and we don't have to feel guilty about it because it happened before it was our responsibility. Everything from this point forward is on us.

"Yep. What did you find out?"

"Nothing. No one noted anything unusual. No strange vehicles, no strange people. But this is one of those neighborhoods. Middle of the middle."

Alan is referring to a study he forwarded to me recently. It was an application of sociology to criminal investigation. It made a note of how changes in technology and perception of rising crime, coupled with economic factors, conspired to make our jobs harder. Neighborhoods used to tend toward community. People as a rule knew their neighbors. The result, in terms of non-forensic investigation, was a more observant witness pool and an environment where the outsider stuck out as such.

Time marched on, things changed. Women went to work. The access to information about crime and criminals expanded as the reach of television grew. People began to realize that a neighbor could be a child molester, the high school quarterback could be a date rapist, and in general they began to circle the wagons.

These days, the study found, most middle-class neighborhoods--

the "middle of the middle"--lack that old sense of community. The vast majority of residents know the names of the neighbors on either side, but that's it.

Poorer neighborhoods, in contrast, tend to be more tight-knit. Wealthy neighborhoods tend to be more security conscious and watchful. The study concluded that the best place for a criminal to work was in the "middle of the middle," where every home was an island, and that in those neighborhoods, forensics were more likely to solve a crime than witnesses.

"Even so," Alan continues, "there was a birthday party just three houses down. Lots of kids and parents around."

"Which tells us he doesn't stick out." I consider this. "He might have worn a uniform."

"I don't think so. I asked, no one remembered seeing anyone from the gas, electric, or phone companies. On a weekend, that wouldn't have been the smartest move anyway."

"It would stand out more than it would blend in."

"Right."

"He's so damn bold, Alan. During the day, when everyone would be home. Why?"

"You think it means something."

"I know it. You don't take a risk like that without a reason. He likes messages and he was sending one by coming for them when he did."

"What?"

I sigh. "I don't know yet."

"You'll figure it out. What's the game plan?"

"Barry asked for our help, so we're on it--but go ahead and go home. We'll pick this up again tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I'm going to do the same myself. I have too much information and not enough answers. I need space to think and forensics needs time to work."

"Call me tomorrow."

I exit the apartment. Barry is outside, leaning up against the railing. The sky is clear tonight; I can see more stars than usual. The beauty escapes me.

What's that smell? Oh, yeah--it's me. I smell of death.

"Made any sense of this yet?" Barry asks.

"No answers, just more questions."

"Such as?"

"Connections. How do the Kingsleys tie in with the two corpses in there? What is it about the children, why doesn't he disfigure them?

Why does he only close the eyes of the females? Why did he leave Sarah alive, and what's her connection to this scene? Is there one?" I throw up my hands, frustrated.

"Yeah. So how do you want to proceed?"

"Callie and Gene and company will process things here. You have Simmons at the Kingsleys'. We have Sarah to interview tomorrow, and we have the diary." I stop, turn to him. "I'm going home."

He arches his eyebrows, surprised. "Really?"

"Yes, really. My head's spinning, I kept a teenage girl from blowing her brains out and I've seen five too many dead people. My head's packed with information about our perpetrator, most of it contradictory. I need a shower and some coffee and then I'll take another look at it."

He holds his hands up in a "don't shoot" gesture. "I come in peace."

I chuckle against my will. Barry is almost as good at that as Callie is. Almost. "Sorry. Can you do me one last favor tonight?"

"Sure."

"Find out who they are. The man and the girl. Maybe it will help me figure some things out."

"No problem. I'll call you on your cell. I'll also get some uniforms over here to assist with whatever."

"Thanks."

Callie comes out of the apartment.

"Gene and team are on their way, sleepy-eyed and grumpy."

I fill her in on the conversation between Barry and me.

"Vacation-time is over, I suppose?"

"Long gone."

13

HOW MUCH LIFE CAN YOU LIVE IN A SINGLE DAY?

I'm at home now, alone. Bonnie is spending the night with Elaina and Alan. It would have been cruel to wake her just so she could keep me company. I'm freshly showered and I'm sitting on my couch, facing a TV that's not on, my feet on the coffee table, staring at nothing.

I'm having trouble putting the day away.

It's a trick I had to force myself to learn early: how to leave a scene behind when I came home. How do you separate these two worlds, the dead and the living? How do you keep them from bleeding over into each other? These are questions every cop or agent has to answer for themselves. I wasn't always successful, but I managed. It usually began with forcing myself to smile. If I could smile, I could keep smiling. If I could keep smiling, I could laugh. If I could laugh, I could leave the dead where they lay.

My cell phone rings. Barry.

"Hey," I answer.

"I have some information for you on the vics in the apartment. I don't know how it ties in with anything else, but it's interesting."

I grab a notepad and pen from the coffee table.

"Tell me."

"Male's name is Jose Vargas. He's fifty-eight years old and hails from sunny Argentina. He's not a solid citizen. He's done time for burglary, assault, attempted rape, and statutory rape."

"Nice guy."

"Yeah. He's been suspected but not convicted of pimping, pandering, child molestation, and animal abuse."

"Animal abuse?"

"Of a sexual nature, apparently."

"Oh. Yuck."

"There was suspicion in the late seventies that he might be involved in human trafficking, but nothing ever came of it. That's what I know about Mr. Vargas so far. He won't be missed."

"The girl?"

"Nothing on her yet. No ID in the apartment. I did see a tattoo on her left arm that had some Cyrillic lettering on it, for what that's worth."

"Russian?"

"Seems so. Though it doesn't mean she is Russian. One other thing. She's got scarring on the bottom of her feet. Same type we saw at the Kingsleys'. Newer, though."

A brief surge of adrenaline shoots through me.

"This is important, Barry. The scars are key."

"Yep. I agree. That's all I've got, for now, though. Callie and Sykes are going to town here. I'm heading back over to the Kingsleys'. I'll call you in the morning."

"Bye."

I lean my head back and gaze at the ceiling. It's covered with that acoustic "popcorn" that was so normal at one time and is so despised today. Matt and I had planned to get rid of it but had never gotten around to it.

Scars, I think. Scars and children. These things are important. How?

Without an eyewitness or a confession or a video of the perpetrator committing the crime, we are left with one avenue: Collect everything, collect it as fast as humanly possible, and then examine it, align it, and attempt to understand it. Investigative arcs shouldn't go wider and wider, they should become smaller and smaller. I slide down so that I am sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table rather than on the couch. I rip pages from the notepad and lay them out horizontally.

It's time to organize my thoughts on this. I need to write everything down, put it there in front of me so I can actually see the connections in this case.

Across the top of one page I write: PERPETRATOR

I chew on the pen, thinking. I begin to write:

METHODOLOGY: HE CUTS THE THROATS OF HIS VICTIMS. THIS IS AN

INTIMATE ACT. DRAINS THEM OF BLOOD, AND BLOOD IS IMPORTANT

TO HIM, REPRESENTATIVE. HE DISEMBOWELS THE BODIES OF THE

ADULTS POSTMORTEM. POSSIBLY DRUGS THEM FIRST TO CONTROL

THEM.

BEHAVIORS: DOESN'T MUTILATE THE CHILDREN, ONLY THE

ADULTS. WHY?

LESS ANGER AT FEMALES THAN MALES, AS EVIDENCED BY THE

FACT THAT HE CLOSES THEIR EYES. HE WANTS THE MEN TO SEE IT

ALL, BUT NOT THE WOMEN. WHY?

IS HE GAY?

I think about this one. It's far too early and we have too few facts for me to make a decisive determination. But the mere fact that he goes easier on the women than the men is telling. Ritual serial murder almost always includes a sexual component, and the gender of the victims generally follows the sexual orientation of the killer. Dahmer was gay, so he killed gay men. Straight men kill women. And so on.

"You murder those who enrage and frustrate you," an instructor once noted. "Who better to incite rage and frustration than the object of your desire? Or," he continued, "to put it more crudely: When he closes his eyes and masturbates, what sex does he see--a man or a woman? The answer will be the gender of his victims."

I nod. Something to think about. I continue with my notes. PERP ATTACKED DURING THE DAY. WHY TAKE THE RISK? THERE'S A REASON FOR THIS.

PERP LEFT SARAH ALIVE.

COMMUNICATES WITH LAW ENFORCEMENT. A PLANNER.

HE HAS SOMETHING TO SAY.

MESSAGE LEFT AT THE KINGSLEY SCENE IN SARAH'S BEDROOM: THIS PLACE = PAIN. MESSAGE LEFT AT THE VARGAS SCENE: THIS

PLACE = JUSTICE.

(Note to self: Why "pain" for Sarah, and "justice" for Vargas? This is significant.)

APPEARS DISORGANIZED.

I look at this line. Tap the pen against my teeth. I make a decision. I add some emphasis and two words:

APPEARS DISORGANIZED--BUT ISN'T.

(Theory: The disembowelment in this case is not indicative of a loss of control. It's a part of his overall message, as is the blood and the daytime attack.) CONCLUSION: PERPETRATOR = ORGANIZED. COMPONENTS THAT

APPEAR DISORGANIZED ARE SIMPLY A PART OF HIS MESSAGE. Occam's razor strikes again. An organized killer can appear disorganized at times. The reverse will not be true. He held himself to a script, demonstrated planning and control and resolve. Organized.

KNOWN CHARACTERISTICS: SOLES OF HIS FEET ARE SCARRED. POSSIBLY A RESULT OF TORTURE (CANING), WHICH IS INDIGENOUS

TO SOUTH AMERICA, THE MIDDLE EAST, SINGAPORE, MALAYSIA, PHILIPPINES.

(Note: Vargas is from Argentina. Coincidence?)

Oh, yeah, I think, sarcastic. Coincidence. You bet. (Note: Unidentified teenage female at Vargas scene had similar scars on her feet. What's the connection here?)

I remember something else from the Kingsley scene. I move back up to where I had written METHODOLOGY and add:

EVIDENCE OF HESITATION CUTS ON MR. AND MRS. KINGSLEY. RESULT OF SEXUAL EXCITEMENT?

Uncertainty is the sign of a novice, a hunter who hasn't calmed down yet or found his stride. This doesn't fit the man I'm seeing in my mind. I don't think he hesitated; I think his hand shook because he was too aroused to control it.

HE PROTECTS THE WOMEN BY CLOSING THEIR EYES, EVEN THOUGH

HE STILL KILLS THEM AND DISEMBOWELS THEM. HE KILLS THE

CHILDREN BUT HE DOESN'T CLOSE THEIR EYES OR DISEMBOWEL

THEM.

I read this paragraph again. And again. Something is tapping on the door of my mind, something that wants to be let in. I am familiar with this feeling and know I need to be quiet and let it come. Why the gradations? Men are worse than women but women are worse than children.

The knocking stops as the door swings wide.

HE HAS BEEN HURT BY MEN. HE HAS NOT BEEN DIRECTLY HARMED BY

WOMEN, BUT LEFT UNPROTECTED BY THEM. BOTH OF THESE THINGS

HAPPENED TO HIM WHEN HE WAS A CHILD.

There is no proof of these conclusions, nothing to put under a microscope or up on a screen, but I know they are correct. I feel it. I feel him.

Men are the object of his fear and his rage. He leaves their eyes open so they can see everything that happens to them. Women die, and deserve it, but there's a nod to tenderness there in the closing of the eyes.

A mother, maybe? Who didn't protect him from an abusive father?

If she was abused by the father as well, the killer would hate her and empathize with her at the same time.

The children aren't mutilated but their eyes are left open so they can see.

See what I did to him, see what the world does to us. The girl at Vargas's apartment was a mix of the two, eyes closed but not disemboweled. Was this a reflection of her age? Almost a woman, still mostly a child? Did this confuse him?

What's it all about? Two sets of murders on back-to-back days. Hatred of men, anger at women, empathy for children. This place = pain. This place = justice . . .

A revelation appears, a rush of wind in my head. I blink at the realization. I write it down.

THIS IS ABOUT REVENGE. REVENGE FOR ACTUAL WRONGS, NOT

IMAGINED ABUSE.

Pain for some, justice for others. Both add up to vengeance. It fits with his victims and methodology.

I consider this, excited.

THIS IS WHY HE COMES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. HE'S SAYING TO

HIS VICTIMS, TO THE OBJECTS OF HIS VENGEANCE, "YOU'RE NOT

SAFE ANYWHERE. I CAN BRING JUSTICE TO YOU EVEN WHEN THE SUN

IS OUT, EVEN IN A HOME SURROUNDED BY STRANGERS."

Because justice is righteous, and the righteous are invincible. He may or may not be gay, but the sexual component isn't in the present, it's in the past. He's getting revenge for abuse that was almost certainly sexual in nature.

Abuse by men.

My building excitement derails as it hits the unexplained. What about Sarah? Why leave her alive and in pain as opposed to killing her? More relevant: Revenge is personal. What is Sarah's connection to him?

I accept that I have no answer for these questions. The rest still feels right.

Vengeance. This is his motivation, this is the reason behind his choice of victim and his method of murder. Sarah is just a puzzle piece I haven't found the fit for yet.

I think some more, decide there's nothing else I can add to this page for now.

Examine his victims.

I grab another page and write across the top:

VICTIM JOSE VARGAS:

FIFTY-EIGHT, ORIGINALLY FROM ARGENTINA.

(Note: Find out how long he's been in the US and how he got here.) BEHAVIORS: EX-CON. VIOLENT OFFENDER, INCLUDING CRIMES

AGAINST CHILDREN.

I consider the obvious connection here. Had Vargas abused the perpetrator?

SUSPECTED OF HUMAN TRAFFICKING SOMETIME IN THE SEVENTIES. MANNER OF DEATH: THROAT WAS CUT. HE WAS DISEMBOWELED

POSTMORTEM.

QUESTION: WAS VARGAS CONNECTED TO EITHER SARAH OR THE

KINGSLEYS IN SOME WAY? OR WAS VARGAS CONNECTED ONLY TO

THE KILLER?

A lack of connection between the two sets of victims would indicate that the killer was finally starting on something he'd been planning for a while and hitting it fast. Making a list, checking it twice . . .

VARGAS APPEARS TO HAVE CONTINUED TO ABUSE MINORS. (FOUND

WITH AN UNIDENTIFIED FEMALE COMPANION WHO WAS NOT OF

AGE.)

I consider the page, set it aside. I grab another and across the top I write:

SARAH KINGSLEY:

ADOPTED DAUGHTER OF DEAN AND LAUREL KINGSLEY (SO WHAT'S

HER REAL LAST NAME?).

SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.

LEFT ALIVE BY THE PERPETRATOR. (WHY?)

SAYS HER BIRTH PARENTS WERE MURDERED. (VERIFY)

ADDENDUM: SAYS HER BIRTH PARENTS WERE MURDERED BY THIS

PERPETRATOR.

ODDITY: CLAIMS THE PERP HAS BEEN STALKING HER FOR YEARS.

I turn my gaze back to the ceiling. Sarah's importance is glaring and obvious. She's the only living witness, and she claims to have knowledge of the perp. She also represents a significant anomaly in the perp's behavior: He didn't kill her. He left her alive as part of his vengeance plan. If what Sarah says is true, he's been at this for a good long while. He's not delusional, he's capable of differentiation of desires, and he's very, very smart. All bad for us. Planned vengeance killers are harder to catch than sexual sadists or ritual murderers. They aren't crazy enough. But why the intimacy?