Someone's Watching
by
Judith Kelman

James was starving and cold and so impatient he could almost hear his
insides rattle. He wanted to eat a hundred chocolate chip cookie
sandwiches. He wanted to tell his mom about how he'd been chosen for
the power kids group with a real reader and a spelling book ...
Maybe if he did his trick. When James desperately wanted something to
happen, he coaxed the benevolent spirits by closing his eyes, holding
them shut for precisely five seconds, and opening them very, very
slowly.

He forced his lids together. Determined to make no mistakes, he took a
deep breath and counted the seconds aloud: "One, Mississippi  ...
two, Mississippi.. ."

"Five." On the final beat, he released his
cramped lids.

Had it worked? He struggled to focus. Peered across the undulating
blacktop. Wished.

Yes! He spotted her walking toward him. Plodding over the farmhouse
lawn. Coming closer. Indistinct in the glare, but definitely her. He
could tell by the puff of curly brown hair, the blue coat.

She stopped. Worked her hand in an arc toward her body. Waving for
him to cross.

Why didn't she come closer? Hesitant, James took a quick look up and
down Mill Road. No cars he could see, but the street disappeared
around a curve no more than half a block away in each direction. He
checked back. Yes, she was still gesturing, urging him to hurry.

"Okay," he said. "Ready or not, here I come!"

Breath held, he descended the grassy rise and started across the
street. He felt a swell of jubilation at the thought of all that
waited over that ribbon of blacktop: lunch, hugs, TV, chocolate chip
cookies.

But then his ear caught a breath of danger. Suddenly, it was hot on his
neck. Searing. He tried to run, to back away. No use. He was stone.
Scared stiff. It was on him in an instant. All over him in a white, hot,
shrieking wave.

And then nothing.

Cinnie Merritt jotted a final note in the chart and tucked it into the
file drawer marked "inactive." Satisfied, she replaced the testing
materials in the supply closet nearest the door and shrugged into her
coat.

Her office at the Fairview Hospital was on the sixth floor in the
freshly renovated rehabilitation wing. The space was generous and
cheerful with its sleek furnishings, primary accents, and warm lighting.
Most often, it was a perfect foil for Cinnie's optimistic nature. She
had inherited her mother's flair for divining scraps of light in the
bleakest circumstances and her father's gift for smoothing LIFE's ruts
with humor.

The combination had helped her through a recent string of difficult
years including her mother's, slow, cruel death from Lou Gehrig's
disease, her father's precipitous remarriage, and most recently, the
difficulties with Paul.

Cinnie couldn't deny that their marriage, product of a romance launched
in junior-high-school homeroom, was falling apart. Fraying and
unraveling in ways they both seemed powerless to define or arrest.

Lately, he'd taken to sleeping most nights in the cottage behind the
farmhouse, which he'd spent years and a fortune converting into a
state-of-the-art recording studio.

Paul's moving out seemed oddly anticlimactic. He'd been gone, in a
palpable way, for months. But Cinnie could still sense the resonating
hum of his presence in her bones. And she still ached for the remembered
connection between them that had once been as easy and natural as a
breath.

But none of that was the cause of her present unease. Something she
could not identify had been prickling at her all day, nagging like an
invisible burr. It was one of those inexplicable feelings she had from
time to time. A splinter of the world out of place. A beat missing.

Annoying as a crooked picture on a crooked wall. And as impossible to
set right.

She paused at the broad, plate window and spotted Dal and Teejay walking
out of the hospital and across the parking lot. They were holding hands,
their matching caps of cropped ginger hair ruffled by the wind. Teejay's
little legs worked like a windmill as he tried to keep up with his
mother's exuberant stride. Dal was gesticulating with her free hand and
talking nonstop. Everything back to normal.

Dal, Cinnie's closest friend, had called earlier in a panic, certain
Teejay had developed a serious problem. She'd declined to describe the
symptoms over the phone. "You have to see for yourself, Cin. And as soon
as possible. It's awful."

Cinnie had told Dal to bring him in at noon, right after her last
scheduled morning patient. Hanging up, she'd felt a hard tug of anxiety.
After all of Dal's breathless false alarms about her little boy, maybe
this time the crisis was real. Maybe that was the source of Cinnie's
crooked picture.

She'd decided it made sense to see them at the hospital. If whatever it
was proved to. be out of her field, she knew she could find the right
specialist at Fairview for a quick consultation. Dr. Ferris, the
pediatrician they both used for their children's routine ailments and
inspections, had no skill in managing Dal's hysteria. He would simply
tell her not to worry, which was about as effective as ordering someone
not to think of an elephant.

Cinnie had called Paul in the studio and asked him to meet James at the
bus stop at twelve. He'd sounded distracted. Distant. But that was
standard for the new model Paul. The stranger.. The sky was glazed with
sunlight and a shimmer of frost. Shading her eyes with cupped fingers,
Cinnie watched as Dal unlocked her gray jeep and strapped Teejay into
his car seat.

Terrific little boy. Bright and eager with the perfect pinch of
silliness. He had caught his father's passion for football, and now
refused to leave the house without rolled-sock shoulder pads and a
plastic helmet. From six stories up, he resembled a travel-sized can of
spray deodorant. Adorable kid. And perfectly fine.

If only Dal could relax and enjoy him. Cinnie felt a twinge of guilt.

She knew that living in Tyler's Grove was at the root of Dal's problem.

The neighborhood was a rich breeding ground for maternal insecurities.

There was an unhealthy, unforgiving spotlight on the children. Which was
best, brightest, biggest? The kids were scrutinized like fruit in a
grocery bin. Only perfect would do.

Soon after she and Paul moved in, Cinnie had been buffeted by the
undertow of jealous comparisons. Casual talks between the mothers tended
to turn mean and ugly. That one's daughter couldn't make friends. This
one's son was doing terribly in school. Had she noticed that the other
one's little girl was getting fat?

Cinnie had tried to pass it all off as petty nonsense, but on some
level, she knew it was more than that. There was a desperate edge to the
nastiness here. It hung like a poison vapor in the neighborhood's
tranquil air.

Still, when Dal and Rick had talked about buying a house in the area,
Cinnie had done everything in her power to sell them on Tyler's Grove.

She'd wanted so badly to have Dal nearby, she hadn't allowed herself to
consider how the venom of envy might affect her friend. After all, she
rationalized, Tyler's Grove was no better or worse than any other family
neighborhood.

Certainly they hadn't cornered the market on bitchy, insecure women who
polished their children, and set them out on display.

Cinnie knew you didn't have to let it affect you. She'd managed to find
her way around the minefield of jealousy. When the women were at their
worst, she could tune them out like radio static. Simple.

All she had to do was focus on that luscious little boy of hers. No
contest.

But honest, vulnerable Dal was a frequent victim. This morning's mock
emergency had to do with Teejay's repeating an occasional word or
syllable. Dal had convinced herself that the little boy was doomed to a
life of severe stuttering, struggling to communicate, each word a
physical and emotional ordeal.

As usual, Lydia Holroyd, a neighbor of Dal's and Cinnie's, had planted
the bomb. Lydia took obscene pleasure in preying on dal's apprehensions.
Nothing that hideous woman enjoyed more than studying Teejay and
commenting on his imaginary deficits in her overblown British accent.
She sounded as if she'd been born with a whalebone tongue and nostrils
sewn shut like the pockets of a new suit.

"Stuttering, my, my," she'd told Dal, shaking her head in mock sympathy.
"por thing must be suffering from dreadful stress and tension. Perhaps
you put too much pressure on the boy, Dahlia."

It had taken Cinnie about thirty seconds to confirm that the
"stuttering" was an innocent, common phase in language development that
would disappear on its own in a month or two. For good measure, she'd
put Teejay through an abbreviated battery of speech and language
tests.. No doubt Dal could use tangible reassurances like high scores
and enviable percentile rankings. It was the first time in ten years on
the job that Cinnie had conducted an evaluation on a child wearing a
Giants' helmet complete with chin strap and face cage.

Afterward,- she'd settled Teejay on the waiting room floor with a heap
of toys and tried to put her friend at ease.

Dal was pitched forward in the visitor's chair like an expectant
pinball. "It's serious, isn't it, Cin? Be honest with me."

"Very serious. Poor kid has a crazy mother."

"But Lydia said ..." Cinnie puffed her disgust. "First, it was the
bedwetting, then the invisible rash, then his brain was going to turn to
tapioca from watching cartoons and he was going to perish because you
don't hand-grind his peanut butter. When are you going to stop listening
to that woman?"

Dal dipped her opal eyes like a chastened puppy. "You're right.

I know you are. But she gets to me."

"So don't let her. When she starts in, think about that wonderful kid of
yours. The truth is Lydia would give anything if Todd could be two
percent as normal and delightful as Teejay.

Todd Holroyd, Lydia's only child, was a pale, nervous, bookish boy, a
year older than James. Already, the neighborhood kids had taken to
calling him Odd Todd. They shunned him in the way children instinctively
revile anyone or anything too difficult to understand.

Unfortunately, no amount of hand-ground peanut butter or television
avoidance was going to remedy Todd's predicament. "You're sure, Cin?

He's really okay?"

"He's better than okay."

Dal drooped with relief. "I don't know how to thank you. Promise you'll
send me a bill."

"Teejay already paid me. Two hugs and a helmet kiss."

"Come on. This is business."

"All right. My standard consultation fee is either fifty thousand
dollars or a lunch for two at the Pancake House."

"Lunch it is. How about right now? We can stop for James. I'll call the
office and tell them they'll have to muddle along without me for another
hour or two.

Give them a chance to realize how indispensable I am."

"Today's not good."

"Today's wonderful, Cin. I'm scheduled to run a focus group on a peanut
butter substitute made out of tofu. Does that sound like a must miss or
what?"

"Sorry I can't bail you out, kid. Tofu and jelly?

Yuck."

"Yuck is right. And since you won't save me from it, I'm going to punish
you with a sample."

Cinnie watched the Cherokee drift out of the hospital parking lot and
urn onto Prescott Street. Long after the car had disappeared, she stood
staring. Searching for something.

She was startled by a rap on the door. Without waiting for an answer,
Oliver London twisted the knob and propelled his wheelchair into the
doorway. Cinnie smiled. "Hi, Mr. London. What's up? I was just on my way
out."

London growled and smacked a fist on the padded arm of his chair.

He was a sallow, square-jawed man whose face had been parted down the
middle by a recent stroke. One side was normal and fluid, the other
frozen in a permanent grimace. The paralysis extended to his right arm
and leg, which he held at odd angles. Also warped by the stroke were his
language abilities. London was afflicted with expressive aphasia.

He could understand everything he -heard but could not put his thoughts
into words. At least, not yet. He cast his good eye at Cinnie and bashed
the armrest again.

Cinnie checked her watch. "Sorry, friend. I really have to go now.

We have our usual appointment tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. I'll be
glad to hear all about it then."

A playful grin tipped the working side of his mouth, and he folded his
operative arm over the one affixed to his chest like a latched shutter.

Cinnie suppressed a smile. "Come on now. Don't tell me we're going to
play hostage again. You know I have to get home to my little boy."

London checked the brake locks holding his chair in place and recrossed
his arm. He was in the center of the doorway, leaving no more than a
couple of spare inches on either side. The man was obviously accustomed
to getting his way, whatever it took.

Cinnie sighed and settled against the edge of her desk. "All right.

You win. What's the gripe this time?"

London looked smug. He rapped the chair arm twice and issued a guttural
grunt. "The food again?" Since London had gotten well enough to propel
himself around the ward corridors, he'd appointed Cinnie as his personal
complaint department. She was able to understand him when no one else
could. In certain ways, she found London as articulate as anybody else.
Maybe more so.

He hitched his eyebrow and made a noise like cat nails raking a screen
door.

Cinnie sighed. "You want me to bring you another pastrami on rye?

Look, you know you're on a low-salt, low-fat diet. I could get fired for
sneaking in contraband deli. I could lose my livelihood. Tell me how I'm
supposed to feed my young son then, Mr. London. How am I supposed to
save for his college?"

London's grin broadened and his voice rose to a mischievous squeak.

"How about a compromise? What would you say to a nice, big turkey on rye
with Russian dressing and a side of cole slaw?" Three raps and an
indignant growl. "A turkey club then? Think of it  ... crisp lettuce,
red ripe tomato-oozing juice, a luscious slice of bacon ..." She rubbed
her stomach and slurped. "Mmmmm.

A mute, murderous look. Cinnie lost the stare-down and conceded with a
studied frown. "All right. Pastrami it is. But only on the condition
that this is absolutely the last time. And I'm ordering extra lean.

And positively no sour pickle."

A pounded fist. ct ' *. Half sour, and that's my final offer.

Take it or leave it."

London nodded, clearly pleased with himself, and backed out of the
doorway. He made a chivalrous sweep with his arm, inviting Cinnie to
pass.

She shook her head at him and made a face. The whole point of the game
was letting him feel in control. The dietician and London's doctor had
both agreed that the psychic benefits far outweighed any potential harm
from an occasional pastrami lapse.

Three months earlier, when London was first brought in after his stroke,
he'd been a blown eggshell of a man hollow, fragile, dark eyes glazed
with fear and defeat. There had been no trace of the legendary
forty-year veteran of the Stamford police force. From what Cinnie had
heard, he'd been a fiery curmudgeon with a short fuse and a long memory
who'd kept entire generations of community children on the right side of
the ledger. London had been known as a cop's cop. Never one to bend or
back away, even when his own leathery hide was on the line.

Cinnie was delighted to witness the gradual return of the original
bullheaded London, even though he was fast becoming the textbook
impossible patient.

Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing where or when his forward
motion would stop, or whether there might be a serious backslide.

These things were so unpredictable. So much hinged on attitude, the
marvels of motivation, luck. In the past year alone, two patients as
severely afflicted as London had made near-complete recoveries. And then
each had suffered another stroke. One fatal.

Cinnie shuddered. More doom and gloom. What was wrong with her today?

She was unaccustomed to the sour taste of her own attitude, but the
nagging sense of impending disaster trailed her onto the elevator and
out the door.

Slipping into her ancient blue Volvo wagon, she was cheered by the sight
of James's Hulk Hogan doll propped in the passenger seat between the
child's weekly complement of library books and a solitary Spiderman
mitten. The other one was probably warming his pocket, she thought.

James was already at the age where warmth and comfort-took a second seat
to image. Overalls had gone first, then hats, now mittens. Soon, she
thought, with a flicker of wistful, amusement, he'd refuse to be seen in
public with anything as mortifying as a mother.

Driving north on High Ridge Road, she tuned the radio to a light-rock
station and sang along with a chorus of "Celebration." Next was a
Beatles medley. Cinnie felt the gloom lifting, veil by veil.

By the time she turned onto North Stamford Road and began the winding
course of country lanes toward Tyler's Grove, her standard good humor
had been restored. After lunch, she would let James talk her into a hot
game of Old Maid. Or maybe they'd do some baking. Her two o'clock
appointment had canceled, which meant a bonus of extra time with her
little boy before Cinnie began seeing her private afternoon clients in
the office over the garage.

Nothing James liked better than helping her concoct his favorite toll
house cookies. She could imagine him floured and streaked with
chocolate, wearing the intent expression of a miniature mad scientist.

Delicious kid. The boys from Liverpool were singing "I Wanna Hold Your
Hand." Cinnie turned up the volume and felt the rhythm of the music
thumping in her veins, the words propelling her through time and place
to the junior high gym in Rockville Centre, Long Island. She could see
Paul gyrating opposite her. Feel the explosive enthusiasm of a hundred
flushed, sweaty teenagers trampling out the invisible fires on the
polished floor. "I wanna hold your ha-a-a-a-and. I wanna ho-wold your
hand."

The song ended as Cinnie approached the juncture of Cascade and Mill
roads. Slowing as she neared the stop sign, she flipped off the radio.

There was a breath of silence. And then the calm was pierced by terrible
sounds: wailing sirens, the strident squawk of police band radios, a
cacophony of shocked voices.

A snake line of cars was stalled along Mill Road. Up the street near the
entrance to Tyler's Grove, Cinnie spotted a pair of uniformed cops
standing in front of a makeshift barricade. They were deflecting traffic
from the scene. Beyond them was a tangle of flame-capped emergency
vehicles: fire, police, ambulance, EMS.

Cars were retreating from the logjam. Cautiously circling on the narrow,
grassy banks on the side of the winding street, they were heading up the
road toward the neighboring hamlet of New Canaan.

Cinnie checked behind her. All clear. She could back down Cascade to the
nearest driveway and turn around. There was another approach to Tyler's
Grove from further north on High Ridge.

But as she was about to execute the maneuver, she noticed that the clot
of cars in front of her was breaking up. A van edged forward, leaving a
hole in the traffic line, and impulsively Cinnie turned onto Mill Road.
She'd explain to the police that she had to get through.

She could see the farmhouse from here, still and inviting.

Three cars from the barricade now. Two attendants were lifting the
victim into the back of the ambulance. Cinnie saw the stretcher frame, a
form swaddled in sheets.

She looked around. Strange. No mangled cars. No wrecker. What kind of an
accident? She thought of the others, and her throat closed.

Not another kid,: Please not another kid.

Only one car from the barricade. Cinnie gazed through the broken pillars
at the scatter of familiar houses. She was eager to get home, aching to
give James a long, loud, serious hug.

The car in front of her mounted the grassy shoulder and executed an
awkward pirouette. "Cinnie inched forward and stopped at the wooden
barrier. One of the policemen sauntered over to the driver's side window
and hitched his thumbs in his belt. "Sorry, ma'am. Been a bad accident
here. You'll have to go around."

"I understand, Officer.

But I live right over there, and my little boy's waiting for me. Can't I
please go through?"

I He frowned and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. "Name?"

"Merritt. Cinnie Merritt."

He kept his eyes averted, and his craggy face registered a pinch of
pain. "Better come with me, Mrs.. Merritt. I'm afraid it's bad news."

Brittle with fear, Cinnie sat beside James on a stiff bench in the rear
of the ambulance. Behind her, the doors were slammed shut from the
street, locking out the world.

Inside, a burly black attendant presided over a row of bleeping
monitors. Every few minutes, -he depressed a red button over the squawk
box and spoke to -the driver or the hospital in clipped tones.

"Boy's stable now. Ready four pints 0 positive and a neuro consult.

We're coming in." The driver was a disembodied voice beyond a stainless
steel divider. Seconds after the attendant gave him the go-ahead, the
engine coughed and came alive. Turning sharply, they sped away. Lights
flashing. Siren piercing the stillness like a scream.

James was strapped to the stretcher frame by broad bands of woven green
nylon, his head was bound in place by a leather strap. His lips were
dusky, his face as white as the sheets bandaging him to the chin.

The only visible damage was a clean bull's-eye bruise on his left
temple.

A worm of tubing connected him to an IV rigging that dripped a steady
beat of clear fluid. His heart sounds were registered on a narrow strip
of paper that spewed from one end of a clacking monitor and settled in a
wire tray. Another electronic device recorded the rest in skittish green
digits: pulse, blood pressure, respirations.

"James?" Cinnie said in a whisper. "I love you, baby. Don't be scared."

She ran a fingertip over his pallid cheek. Cool velvet..Too cool.

"You'll be okay, sweetheart. Everything will be okay."

The attendant stepped between them, set a pair of half glasses on his
nose, and checked the child's lines and tethers. Finished, he caught
Cinnie's eye and nodded. "You can hold on to him, Mother. No sign of any
fractures this side." He loosened the sheets and extracted a boneless
arm.

Cinnie cradled James's small hand in hers. It was a dead bird, limp and
weightless. She stroked his cupped fingers. "James? Can you hear me?"

She detected a hopeful breath of change, a tightening in his forehead,
his lips tensed. "James?" There was a hint of movement in his fingers.
"That's it, sweetheart. Wake up."

He grimaced, and there was a flutter under his lids. "That's good.

That's my boy. Can you say something?" . i His chest filled, held a
moment, then collapsed like a pierced balloon. Snap, and he was gone.

Cinnie swallowed back a lump of panic, then smoothed the band of his
forehead visible beneath the strap.

She caged James's hand between hers and stared out the window.

They were speeding down High Ridge Road now. Passing familiar strips of
shops and office buildings. The high school. The library. All of it
streaming together in a dizzy whirl.

Again, she replayed what the officers had told her, trying to make some
sense of the nightmare. Whoever hit James had taken off. No witnesses
yet, but they were hoping someone would come forward soon with useful
information. Or the perpetrator might reconsider after the initial panic
and turn himself in.

Unfortunately, James had been knocked to the shoulder, and a number of
cars had gone by before someone spotted him and called nine-eleven.

Any helpful skid marks or tire prints had been obliterated by the time
the police arrived. No broken glass or metal fragments they'd been able
to find.. Of course, a team from forensics was on the way up, and if
there were -any clues left at all, they'd be uncovered. The officer
shook his head as he spoke, obviously convinced the search would be
fruitless.

Cinnie grappled with several, nagging questions. How could this have
happened? She knew her son. Knew he was not the kind of child who
violated prohibitions like the one about crossing Mill Road alone.
Especially not after what happened to the little Druce girl.

James had prattled on about Laurel's broken leg for weeks, still
mentioned it from time to time in reverent tones. "That street's a
menace," he would remark, mimicking the somber adults who'd gathered
months ago in the Merritts' living room to work at petitioning the town
for a traffic light. The effort had fizzled after a few unsuccessful
attempts, the urgency of the street's hazards dimmed by time and fresher
outrages.

Still, she was certain James would never have ventured across that
street alone.

And where in the hell was Paul? He'd promised to be at the bus stop.

Cinnie discarded the impossible notion that he'd simply forgotten.

There had to be some reasonable explanation.

Could something have happened to him too? Cinnie's heart squirmed like a
beached fish, and there was a vicious hammering in her head.

She closed her eyes. Please let my baby be all right. Please let him
wake up and be fine.

A sound. Cinnie's eyes shot open, and she stared at James. His lips were
working. There was a breathy rattle in his throat. She bent closer.
"What, puss? Tell me."

His eyes forced half open and his face tensed. "mommy?"

"Yes, sweetheart. Everything's going to be fine."

He winced. "Hurts, Mommy. Burns."

"I'm sorry, baby. You hold on a minute, and they'll give you some
medicine to make you feel better."

"So sleepy, Mom."

"I know. But try to stay awake. Okay?"

His face was full of struggle. "The shadow man ... Blue ... coat lady.

Have to pee, Mommy."

His voice was fading, falling to dust." ...  Saw you wave ... . But the
man came. pop the weasel. Flying green tunnel. All gone."

"James?"

He smacked his lips and tasted the air. "Don't forget, Mommy.

Three kisses and no more ... Vinton."

"Don't you worry, James. Mommy won't let anyone hurt you."

"Stay, Vinton! Get back. Make him go way, Mommy. Make him stop.

Stop him!" His voice rose to a desperate wail, clawing at the air.

His hand fisted, body clenched in spasm, arched against the restraints.

And then he went limp. The cardiac monitor shrieked its terrible alarm
and, as Cinnie watched in helpless horror, the darting needle slowed and
settled in a flat, dead line.

Malcolm Cobb could feel the mute progress of time. The steady thrust of
the universe resonated in his pins and fibers. Moved metronomically with
the rhythm of his firm internal tides. Undulated like the hips of an
erotic dancer: seductive, mesmerizing.

Soon. Often, the coming of the moment filled him with an acid dread.

But today he was eager to begin. Brimming with confidence.

Reveling in the heat of his own infusing strength. His cheeks were
fevered. Limbs tingling. Heart thumping with the virile insistence of a
tropical drum.

Almost time. Knowing, it was unthinkable to start early, he paced the
square front room of his cabin. The floor was harsh beneath his bare
soles. Cinders. Ash. Vile residue. He must remember to sweep it clean
before her visit.

And to bathe and change into suitable costume, he thought, making a
mental list. His blue coat and club tie perhaps. Or the dark silk
smoking jacket and silver flannel trousers. He mustn't forget to polish
his black tasseled slippers. Everything had to be precise, perfect.
Nothing to spark her displeasure.

He paused and filled his lungs. The air smelled of pine and tallow.

There was an unpleasant taint of spent matter. A tinge of rotting
leaves. Dust. But not a trace of the charred, repugnant scent. Not a
hint of the bitter blue vapor.

Wonderful! The enemy had been thwarted. Permanently, he was sure.

There would be no threat to distract him when she arrived. He would be
free to savor her presence, bask in her affection and approval.

Slather her honeyed words on his soul and surface like a balm.

He could feel the tingle of anticipation, taste its sweetness.

Soon she would be here beside him, redolent of sweet sunshine. He
imagined the rustle of her black taffeta dress, the airy tapping of her
heeled sandals, the coy wink of tiny diamonds in her ears. His mind
filled in the satin slick of her dark hair, the laughter in her gray
eyes. The porcelain skin-soft as a sigh.

A gleeful twitter escaped him. He felt the electric swell of excitement.
But when she arrived, he would not yield to it. He resolved to maintain
a calculated pace. Not a breath of hurry. All would proceed in due
course. They would enjoy a slow, easy greeting.

And then would come the smooth flow of idle chatter. Any incidental gaps
in their conversation would be filled with a gentle, spreading warmth. A
natural rejoining of their fates.

He would wait for the perfect moment to show her what he had written.

Offer it as a delicious surprise. How she would exult! How she would
celebrate his sweet liberation. His gift winged and soaring again at
long last. It was for this that he had been created. Not for the vile
enterprise that was his daily labor-his wretched work.

Reverently, he scanned the row of framed treasures on the rough-hewn
wall opposite the window. Tributes. Stellar reviews.

"Clever," they gushed. "Sparkling."

"A fresh voice."

His heart ballooned with the adulation. He craved more, the yearning
riper than lust. And now, it would be satisfied. At last he had
commenced a flow of perfect words. An endless beginning. An unstoppable
start. How pleased she would be!

- Perhaps he should warm some brandy.

There was, after all, much to celebrate. He plucked one of a dozen,
identical, slim volumes from the center of the crammed bookshelf over
the sooty stove. With enormous care, he caressed the crackling binding,
ran his calloused palm over the dust jacket.- It was soiled, worn dull.
His name all but obliterated, his picture on the flyleaf stained the
color of smokers' teeth.

He stared at his own younger image: a boy slender as thread with pale,
frightened eyes and a mouth that failed at defiance. A stern nose, elfin
ears. Skin the tone and texture of paste. The shirt was over-starched
and too short in the cuff, so his pale arms extruded like gobs of caulk
from which his hands hung, limp and apologetic. The shoulders were
angled and uncertain. The hair a dull tangle.

But what Malcolm Cobb saw was magnificence. Triumph! Beautiful,
brilliant boy, he thought, his heart overflowing. He remembered her
approbation when the book was born, the glow of pride and pleasure in
her eyes. Those eyes, a gleaming mirror for his soul. Her words a
treasure. His throat went taut with feeling, and he issued a wrenching
sigh.

Brandy it would be. Before she came, he must remember to wash the
crystal snifters and polish them dry. He must ready the silver tray and
rummage through the storage bin for Mother's crocheted doily-So much to
do. But he would not allow it to distract him.

The time was nearer. Nearer still. He. shivered with anticipation.

Absently, he stripped off his white coat and blue chambray shirt and ran
his fingers in a teasing tickle along the tops of his naked arms.

Long snakes of hairless flesh. He could feel the ripple of lithe muscle
underneath.

Shivering, he drizzled. his fingers through his hair. Ribbons streaming
to his shoulders, spilling over. The chill trickled down his neck like
rivulets of spring water.

Raising his hands to his hairline, he traced the ridge of his brow, the
velvet lids, the taut seam of his lips. The chin.

The chin had once been his nemesis, girlish and given to emotional
display. But it felt firmer now, filling to a suitable square.

Exactly as he wished it. As he'd planned. And plan he could. For he was
to be the product of his own deliberate design. A dark moon, round and
fulsome. Radiating brilliance.

just as she'd predicted, as she'd promised. A smile claimed his face,
spreading like a stain.

Slowly, he tickled down his chest and abdomen. Dipped his hand below his
belt and pleasured himself with light, deliberate strokes.

In a ragged whisper, he commanded his own visceral obedience ... . Eyes
closed. Body gripped in total absorptive concentration.

Control! * * * Cerebral sector disengaged by lever of will.

Somatic sector climbing the crest of controlled dominance. Rising. At
the precipitous peak. Beyond. Facing the dark drop to blind oblivion.

Mustn't cross. Danger!

Abruptly, he stopped. Wrenched away his fingers, and constricted them
into claws. Fisted his limbs in deliberate spasm until the pain consumed
him. Held fast until his muscles screeched and surrendered, falling away
in dead, rubber strips.

Cerebral sector restored. Somatic sector disengaged by lever of will
...

Control. He was still. Satisfied. And she would be as well. He must
remember to defrost her favorite pastries and wrap them in a fine linen
cloth. Spoon the peach preserves into a porcelain dish. Settle the
filigreed jam spoon in the crook.

So much to do. But all of it would be pure delight. As soon as he
completed his exercises, he would ready things for her visit. He
conjured her light floral scent. The silken weight of her hand on his,
telling him all was forgiven. Right again. Healed.

It was more than a week now since that dreadful scene between them. He
could still see her face, flushed scarlet and twisted with rage. Still
feel- the pounding of her words and the blade of her voice. Calling him
useless, a mockery. Telling him she wanted nothing more to do with him.
That he was dead to her. Forgotten.

The memory ignited a fury in him. The sparks leaping.

Threatening. He had done exactly as she'd asked. Everything. And still
she'd been cold, dissatisfied. Still, she'd shut him out.

Reviled him! A mockery. Sentenced to dark oblivion for a crime of her
own invention. Impossible.

How he'd suffered. He'd stood at her door, keening, debased, begging her
to let him back inside. He'd pounded on the cruel wood frame until his
precious hands were broken and bloody. His cries rent the black silence.
Useless. Still he'd pleaded and whaled until he felt the acid etch at his
throat. And tasted the bitterness of his
own despair.

But she'd been deaf to him. Refused to acknowledge his pleas.

Cruel, unfeeling ... Tonight, he had to make her see what she'd done. It
was imperative that she understand. Repent if necessary.

Yes, repent absolutely. She owed him apology and more. Warmth.

Concern. She owed him, and the debt would be repaid. Malcolm's chin
quavered with the need. The outrage.

Stop! Must retain control. Lever of will engaged. Cobb measured his
breaths. Ordered his pulse to a steady, sympathetic beat. He would not
think of her now.

Now he must focus. Absorb himself in the task at hand. The moment was
here. And today, he would achieve perfection.

He collected his things from the narrow maple cabinet beside the door
and arranged them on the round oak table.

Perched on a ladder-back chair, the raffia seat harsh against his
thighs, he slipped a finger into the nearest volume and stared at the
open page for precisely thirty seconds. Slamming it shut, he positioned
the leather bound tablet in front of him, uncapped his pen, and squeezed
the rubber shaft until the rub bled a fine bead of ebony dew.

Ready, he opened the tablet and began writing. Oedipus the King: Chorus
Sweet-voiced daughter of Zeus from thy gold-paved Pythian shrine. I
Wafted to Thebes divine, What dost thou bring me? My soul is racked and
shivers with fear ... He wrote without pause, pen flying.

Mind a vibrant reel.

Lord of the death-winged dart! Your threefold aid I crave ... When he
reached the bottom of the right-hand page, he crossed to the left and
wrote right to left, bottom up, backward, recreating the original Greek.

Soaring. Unstoppable! He was slick with sweat. Hair matted to his neck.
Cheeks aflame.

But not yet finished. He felt the rumbling restlessness of powers yet
untapped.

Turning the tablet to a fresh page, he selected two other volumes at
random. Gardner's Fundamentals of Neurology and The Cacti of Arizona by
Lyman Benson. He perused each for precisely sixty seconds.

Flipping pages so quickly the print jiggled, and he raised a breeze.

His breath was coarse and shallow, pulse racing. Stop!

He closed both volumes, opened a second pen, and tested its ink supply.

Beside the leather tablet, he positioned a spiral binder filled with
lined paper. Setting his internal timer to five minutes, he drew several
deliberate breaths. Three hundred seconds precisely.

Starting ... Now! With his right hand, he wrote an essay on the leather
bound tablet on the microanatomy of the nervous system detailing the
neuroglia, ependyma, and neurilemma. He discussed the distinction
between true fibrous astrocytes and their pretenders, which could be
found in the pituicytes of the neurohypophysis. Structure and function,
purpose and pathology, embryological precursors. Analysis and synthesis.
Contrast and comparison.

At the same time, his left hand filled the spiral binder with page after
page of data on the new taxa and nomenclatural recombinations of cacti
including the general opuntia, cereus, echinocereus, mammillaria,
epithelantha ... He included graphs and charts on geographic
distribution by species and a brief treatise on the species composition
and geologic history of floras in the nine American regions of natural
vegetation.

Time ... up! Panting, dripping sweat, he sat back. His neck ached, head
throbbed. His fingers still clutched the pens in steel spasm.

Closing his eyes, he edged into a gentle descent. Emptied his mind and
filled the void with feathery wisps. The low sputter of white noise.

A light bath of neutral ions.

Five minutes precisely. Cobb yawned. His ears popped. He rubbed his eyes
and sought his place in a world washed clean. Gleaming.

Lovely.

He drew himself upright and surveyed his work Perfect.

Magnificent! He was restored. How pleased she would be!

He ached to let her know, to contact her. But that was not the way.

She had rebuked him. Cast him aside. Refused to answer his pleading
letters, avoided his calls. She had to make the first overture.

Nothing to do but wait. He stood at the window, peering out at the
woods. His breath fogged the glass as he stared down the long, slender
footpath toward the road. Occasionally, a car passed. Cobb could sense
the tug of air, the drawn cloud of disturbed molecules in the distance.

Where was she? Restless, he paced the room, stopping at-intervals to
straighten a picture or plump a pillow.

After seven circuits of the small space, he forced himself to sit in the
rocker near the door. He passed a moment flipping through the binder and
the tablet, perusing his exercises again. Flawless. Then there had been
no doubt.

Perfect exercises, the manifestation of his renewal. Proof that he had
done her bidding. He had sent her a note, telling her that it would be
today. He'd explained his plan for taking the child-elegant in its
simplicity, perfectly executed. But still there was no sign of her.

Panic nipped at the border of his mind. What if she did not feel the
healing aura? What if she never came?

But no, that could not be. He had done everything. All she'd asked and
more. By now, she must know. She must have heard! With trembling
fingers, he crossed and retrieved the local newspaper from a jumbled
heap of reading matter in the corner of the room. Yes, it was there. He
exulted at the oversized headline and the prime position of the story on
the front page. It had been the day's most critical event. The focus of
the entire community. Center of the eye of the world. So she must know.

Dusk consumed the silent sky and cast snips of shadow on the cabin
floor. With his keen inner ear, Cobb listened to the muted thunder of
his heart, the lapping tides of his circulating blood, the sizzle of his
mounting fear.

He ached for the distant flicker of her approaching headlights, the
sight of her looming shadow crossing the stone patio. But with a growing
weight of anguish, he realized it was not to be. Not today.

What was that? A sword of heat slashed the base of his neck. He felt the
inexorable draw of the bitter blue vapor. Draining him.

No! He strained against it, but he could feel his power seeping away.

Impossible. It was too soon. Getting worse.

He struggled to maintain his control. There was a way out, he soothed
himself. Salvation. He would take what he needed from the child.

The child was his.

Cinnie stared through the frosted glass panel separating James's bed
from the nurses' station on Fairview's pediatric intensive care unit.

She was mesmerized by the wavering silhouettes and darting shadows.

Something distant and comforting in the scene. Like gazing through the
window of a diving bell at a hushed, liquid universe.

Nothing to do with her. She was numb with exhaustion. Insulated.

In the five days since the accident she'd become one with the deadening
rhythms of the ward. Another piece of machinery.

James was stable. A hopeless term for interminable waiting. No change.
cardiac arrest. With a shudder she recalled the three times the first
day when the green line on the cardiac monitor had gone flat, and he'd
needed resuscitation.

Her heart had stopped with his while the massive needles were jabbed
into his chest, the paddles positioned. She could still feel the
sympathetic jolt as the current passed through him. And she relived the
terrible moment before the flat line wavered and danced again on the
black screen.

Dr. Ferris had stopped by and tried to explain the episodes in his cool,
clinical way. No brain damage was evident, but there might have been
some insult to the brain stem. Only temporary, he'd said.

They would watch James closely, but Ferris was confident that the
cardiac crisis was over. Cinnie had clung to the doctor's assurances as
if to a life preserver. They were all she felt she could trust in a
world turned on its head and jumbled beyond recognition.

Stable was far from the worst thing, Cinnie thought. Be grateful.

Her breathing was tuned to the steady beeps and hums of James's
mechanical aids and monitors. The sounds were an itch at the far edge of
her consciousness, irritating and yet oddly comforting like an
intractable drip from a familiar faucet.

From time to time she forced herself to look at her little boy.

With shock-induced detachment she noted the steel pin anchoring his
fractured leg to a traction rig, the medley of tubes and fluid sacs
suspended from a metal pole that provided him with nourishment and
medications.

Every so often, she stood to pace the stingy span between the cubicle's
walls. Three steps over and three back to the single straight-backed
chair.

Only parents were permitted to visit on the unit, and only for five
minutes each hour. While she waited outside, the time seemed impossibly
inadequate. But once she'd stepped back into the cubicle, taken her
first anxious look at James, and confirmed that things were exactly the
same, she was left with nothing to do but pace or sit staring through
the glass divider.

When her five minutes were up, she would drift out to the waiting room,
an airless, overlit square filled with anxious people and prehistoric
magazines. There, other parents asked solicitous questions in tender
tones. She answered with as much accuracy as she could muster. "Hit by a
car," she'd say. "No, they're not sure about anything yet. We'll have to
wait and see." They would nod in reply, their eyes filled with knowing
sorrow. And then they would tell her about their own impossible
circumstances in voices frosted with disbelief.

She could sense the instant closeness between the huddled knots of
strangers in that awful room. It was a feeling she missed. She couldn't
seem to remember the way to connect with anyone. Even her bond with
James seemed fragile, a brittle filament where once there had been a
massive steel cable.. Friends and relatives came, stayed for an anxious
while, and disappeared. Paul couldn't bear the place for more than a few
minutes at a time, and Cinnie found it easier not to have him around.

The accident lay between them like a gaping wound. She could neither
blame him nor forgive him. The sight of him, once enough to melt her
bones, now left her chilled and empty. She was startled by the changes
in him, changes she hadn't noticed before. There was a rough, wary edge
to his once-boyish features, and much of the magnetic glint in his hazel
eyes had been webbed over and dulled like a long neglected room.

Cinnie found herself irritated by the habits she used to find endearing:
the way he fiddled with his sandy hair while he talked on the phone, the
tilt to his head when he was listening, his distracted humming when he
wasn't.

She kept going over the first impossible conversation they'd had a
couple of hours after the accident, when he'd finally showed up in the
emergency room. Cinnie recognized the signs of recording studio
overdose. His eyes were ringed with exhaustion, his face smudged with
whisker stubble, and he trailed a stale scent of used air and tobacco.

"What happened, Cin? Is he all right?"

"I don't know yet. They're still working on him ... Where the hell were
you, Nul? Why didn't you meet the bus?"

"The studio clock was an hour off. There must've been a power outage
during the night. I didn't realize until  ..."

"You didn't realize-" A mob of angry questions were pressing at her. How
could he make such a mistake? Why hadn't he checked his watch? How could
he be so careless? James could have been killed. Still might not make
it.

She clenched her fists and felt the furious words jam in her throat like
stones They were too unthinkable to let out. Too dangerous.

For once, she was glad to see Lydia Holroyd, who came barging into the
waiting room like a sudden storm. Her hair was pulled back in a taut
chignon that sharpened her already stern features. "You poor, poor
dears. I came as soon as I heard. She clacked her tongue. "You look
dreadful, the two of you. Well, not to worry. I'm going to ring up my
friend Walter Kampmann in administration and make sure James is being
seen to properly. Walter adores me."

Cinnie and Paul watched Lydia's performance on the pay phone in the
corner of the waiting room. She spoke in a grand, theatrical aside.

"Yes, Walter, dear. That's lovely to hear. I knew I could count on you,
darling. Certainly, I'll tell them."

Lydia hung up with a flourish. "All taken care of Walter will see to it
that James has the best of everything. He said you should ring him right
up if there are any difficulties at all. Now ..." She started pulling
things out of the large black canvas tote she carried: plastic stacking
toys, pop beads, a busy box. "It occurred to me that James might enjoy
some of Todd's old things while he's here."

Baby toys. Leave it to Lydia. Woman had an uncanny talent for
insensitivity. But Cinnie was too numb to be hurt by Lydia or anyone
else. Too terrified.

For Cinnie, most of the other visitors blended in a blur of vague
impressions. There was Dal's pillowy hug. Paul's parents leaning
together in a human tepee. Cinnie's father and his new wife, Madeline,
holding hands. There were endless doctors armed with studied expressions
and legally correct remarks. A parade of brusque, efficient nurses
referred to James as the hit-run in three. A reporter from the local
paper stopped by to tell Cinnie that a number of local groups had posted
a sizable reward for information about the hit-and-run driver. He
proudly displayed his paper's cover story about James's accident. The
headline had hit Cinnie like a blow: "Fresh Tragedy Strikes Tyler's
Grove."

One of the few who stuck out in her mind was Charles Allston, deputy
chief of detectives from the Stamford police force. Allston had been put
in charge of investigating the hit-run, but he seemed far more eager to
have the case done with than solved.

Cinnie had disliked him on sight, with his arrogant carriage and
bloodless aristocratic face. And he'd confirmed her negative impression
immediately. The creep was convinced that James was responsible for his
own injuries. "Let's face it, Mrs. Merritt," Allston had said.
"Five-year-old boys are impulsive. He probably ran into the street
without realizing a car was coming."

"James would never do that. You don't know him."

Indulgent chuckle. "My wife is the same way. Never thinks those kids of
ours can do any wrong. Women."

Allston had so irritated Cinnie that she'd called Chief Carmody to ask
if someone else could be put in charge of the case. Carmody had done a
tap dance. Cinnie was left with the clear impression that this
particular assignment was beyond his control. Apparently, Deputy Chief
Allston had friends in very high places.

politics. Even in intensive care, you couldn't escape them.

Two precious minutes remained before she'd be asked to leave the I.C.U.
for this hour. She checked her watch for the thousandth time and made a
fresh resolution. James would wake up by this time tomorrow.

No later than five P.m. sharp. He would rub his eyes and tell Cinnie he
was starved. Then he would ask her if it was time for his favorite show:
reruns of Little House on the Prairie. They would watch together while
he ate. It would be a happy episode, she decided, definitely not the one
when Mary went blind or the time the baby died in a fire.

She wondered if they'd start him on a liquid diet. She considered that
he might be too weak to feed himself and she would have to find a way to
help him that didn't bruise his fragile sense of big-boy dignity.

Those were the worst possibilities she allowed herself to entertain.

The charge nurse, a perky cheerleader type named Amy Lyttle, poked her
head in and told Cinnie it was time to leave. Dal was in the waiting
room. Even now, Cinnie was cheered by the sight of her friend's flashing
blue eyes and puckish expression. Everything about Dal was generous:
heart, smile, shape, affections. "How's it going?" Dal said. "It's not."

"Did you have it out with him?"

Cinnie met Dal's firm gaze and looked away. "Paul, you mean? No.

What's the point?"

Dal 'sighed. "The point is to get the whole awful business off your
chest before it suffocates you. Telling me how you feel isn't enough,
Cin. If Rick pulled a stunt like not meeting Teejay's bus on time, I'd
kill him. I'd poke his eyes out and kick his butt around the block and
tell his mother all his secrets. And that would be for starters.

Cinnie's eyes welled up, "It's different with us."

"Different, shmifferent. Paul screwed up, and James got hurt. Yell at
him, Cin.

Let him have it, and you'll feel better. You'll both feel better."

"It's not that easy. Anyway, that's not what's bugging me. I just keep
thinking about all the kids who've been hurt in the Grove. All in the
last year and -a half. It's so crazy, Dal. How can there be so many?"

Dal's face went grave. "Look, you need a break, Cin. You're getting
paranoid. Go home for a while. Take a nap, Soak in the tub.

Get a decent dinner. I'll stay here."

"I can't."

"Yes you can. It so happens I can pace and worry every bit as well as
you can. Better, in fact."

Cinnie's lip quivered. "I know. It's just .. Dal wrapped her in a hug
and rubbed soothing circles on her back. "I know, Cin. It's impossible."

The dammed anguish swelled and spilled over. For the first time since
learning of James's accident, Cinnie gave in to her grief. She stood in
the warm circle of her friend's arms until the sobs had gentled to a
syncopated pulse. "Thanks, I needed that." She plucked a tissue from the
box at the reception desk and blew her nose with a honk.

Dal's eyes crinkled. "Now that's the Cinnie I know and love. All class.
Go on now. Take a break. You won't be any use to James if you get
yourself sick."

Cinnie was stuck in place. She'd been sleeping on one of the waiting
room's stone couches, showering in the cramped patient bathroom. She was
terrified to leave James alone in this place, Afraid the feeble link
between them would snap to nothing if she did. "I'll be right here," Dal
said. "I promise."

Cinnie nodded. Dal was the only one who seemed to understand.

James had to be protected. "Okay, I'll get some air and be back in a
couple of minutes."

"Two hours-minimum. If Paul's not here, I'll sneak in for the
five-minute visits."

"A half hour, Dal. Be reasonable."

"Don't be a wiseass, Cin. I'm bigger. Now scram."

She ran into Dr. Ferris at the elevators. As always, the pediatrician
was perfectly groomed and immaculate.

According to his receptionist, Ferris spent the first twenty minutes of
each day locked in the office restroom, scrubbing as if for surgery.

It fit with the man's unimpeachable image of calm, professional control.
"Mrs. Merritt," he said with a crisp nod. "On your way home?"

"No. just taking a break."

He nodded, his expression inscrutable. "I've seen James's latest blood
values. Everything's coming along nicely."

"That's good."

"He's doing fine, Mrs. Merritt. I would tell you if he weren't."

Cinnie felt relieved. Ferris was not one to offer empty praise or
encouragement. Cinnie had an urge to hug him, but she imagined he'd turn
to salt if anyone tried to slip inside his flawless professional shell.
She remembered trying to explain her loyalty to Dr. Ferris when she'd
recommended him to Dal. "He's a terrific doctor, but not exactly the
warm, fuzzy type."

"Then why see him?"

"I told you, he's superb at what he does. Solid, thorough,
up-to-the-minute. You want Teejay healthy, you go to Ferris. You want
cuddly and affectionate, you call your mother in Florida."

Standing under the concrete awning at the hospital's main entrance,
Cinnie drew her blue coat tighter around her and turtled into the
upturned collar. She was cold. Sore. Overwhelmed by the vibrancy and
volume of this alien world. The air was thick as cream. The wind a
shriek. Someone had turned the streetlights up so high the glare made
her eyes water.

With no particular plan or expectation, she began walking. Down the
long, circular driveway. Past Prescott Street and over toward Summer.

As she crossed the fourlane street, cars materialized out of the earth,
twice missing her so narrowly she could feel the angry heat of their
exhaust. Horns blew. And a disembodied voice was hurled like a brick
from a car that screeched to a stop half a block away, "Crazy broad, you
trying to get yourself killed?"

She passed the Ridgeway Center strip mall, where the lot was jammed and
a steady stream of early holiday shoppers passed like a current from
store to store. Lights gleamed from a triple strand of condominiums.

A truck clattered out of the delivery drive for the Tara Hotel.

She turned onto High Ridge Road, one of a pair of meandering arteries
that linked sleepy North Stamford to its distant urban core.

Paul liked to say that Stamford was the best of all possible places to
live. Where else could one find all the crime and punishment of a big
city combined with all the parochialism and inconvenience of a small
town?

Still, neither of them had ever been inclined to move. They liked the
city's multiple personalities. Enjoyed the rambling patchwork of
neighborhoods. They'd picked Tyler's Grove for the farmhouse with its
endearing eccentricities and affordable price. And they'd convinced
themselves that the neighborhood was no better or worse than any other.

But increasingly, Cinnie was forced to consider that the tranquil
enclave of dappled lawns and coddled houses masked an inexplicable dark
side. The newspaper headline had picked up the thread. "Fresh tragedy ..

There had been so many. In the past eighteen months, one neighbor child
had fallen through thin ice on the community pond and suffered brain
damage. Another had lost two fingers and an eye when a firecracker he'd
found exploded in his hand. An eight-year-old on Strawberry Patch Lane
had disappeared on his way home from school, sparking a massive search
and rumors of a madman on the loose. The boy had been found a week
later, dazed and filthy, wandering in the-Arboretum a mile away. From
what Cinnie had heard, he'd been unharmed physically. But he rarely
spoke anymore, had to be schooled at home, and suffered hellish
nightmares. Late nights, in her half sleep, she sometimes thought she
heard his screams. The crazed keening of a trapped animal.

And now, this string of traffic accidents. A boy killed. Little Laurel
Druce, who still walked with a rolling limp and a gleam of pain in her
eyes.

James. Cinnie's mind filled with his giggles, the curious tilt of his
head, his unbounded enthusiasms. She could see him kicking a soccer
ball, hair flapping, tongue burrowing in his cheek. She pictured him
doing his Bruce Springsteen imitation in a T-shirt and tight jeans.

She could see him wielding the toilet paper tube he used as a
microphone, wiggling a little backside shaped like twin parker house
rolls, doing a squint-eyed lip sync to "Born in the USA."

She was not about to lose that priceless child * Not without a
gargantuan struggle. With a fresh charge of determination, Cinnie turned
and headed back toward the hospital.

It had never been her way to go gently. For the first time since the
accident, she felt a sense of purpose. She had to find a way to get
through to her little boy.

First, she would go back to where it had happened. Stand in his place.

Feel what he felt.

The Volvo sat in the center of the hospital lot where Paul had parked it
for her three days ago. The old bomb was cranky with the cold and
neglect, but Cinnie pumped and prodded until it came reluctantly alive.

She drove north on High Ridge and maneuvered through the maze of narrow
streets toward the Grove. She deflected the terrible memory of the last
time she'd made the trip. The police, the shock. Living it again wasn't
going to get her anywhere. She angled through the broken pillars and
parked the car.

Across Mill Road she stood at the exact spot where James's bus driver
always pulled over to let him off. She peered at their farmhouse, second
building past the pillars on the right, looming cold and still as
drifted snow.

Knowing it was what James would have done, she mounted the grassy rise
opposite the stone columns. She spotted the trail of rake marks the
evidence squad had made in the frigid soil. Her feet crunched in the
mounds of dead leaves. A twig snapped. The chill climbed her legs like a
platoon of frozen spiders and settled at the base of her spine.

There was an icy stillness. Cinnie imagined what James must have
thought. Nobody there. No one coming to get him. What had he felt?

Hunger? Cold? A twinge of worry?

From High Ridge Road over two miles away came the steady whoosh of
passing cars. Not a hint of anything approaching closer to where she
stood.

She stared at the stone pillars. Slipped into James's skin.

Looked with his eyes. At the time the bus had dropped him off, no one
had been around. Likely all he had had for company was the Pavan's rangy
pair of Afghan hounds loping back and forth on their run and the
Goldblatt's lazy calico snoozing on the left stone pedestal he had
claimed as his own. James must have waited for what seemed to him an
eternity. Still nobody coming to meet him. So he'd decided he had no
choice but to cross on his own.

Cinnie could almost hear him thinking it through. Can't stand here
forever. Have to get home one way or another. Maybe they forgot.

Or maybe something is wrong at home. Someone sick ... She could picture
him drawing a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and lifting his chin.
I'm a big boy. I can do it, he'd say, working hard to convince himself
I'll just be very, very careful.

And then he'd take a deliberate look in both directions the way Cinnie
had instructed him a thousand times. She could see him clearly, cocking
his head to listen, checking a final time to make sure there wasn't a
hint of crouching danger he'd overlooked.

All clear. Gal She imagined him moving into the street. One step, two.
And then from nowhere ... Cinnie could hear the scream of brakes. Feel
the jolt of terror.

The paralyzing shock. No!

She waited for her pulse to subside, the roaring in her head muted to a
distant rumble. She imagined James lying in a crumpled heap on the
frozen ground, ringed, by a halo of spattered blood. She pictured the
driver fleeing in a mindless panic, leaving James hurt and alone.

What if he hadn't been seen by a passerby? What kind of a monster could
have abandoned her hurt baby like that? Her gut roiled with murderous
rage. She desperately wanted the driver caught and punished.

But all the police had come up with so far was one sketchy witness
account.

The bus always delivered James at twelve sharp. On the day of the
accident, Lydia Holroyd had driven by a few minutes past noon on her way
to pick up Todd at school for a dentist appointment. Approaching the
corner of Mill Road, Lydia had heard a car stop short, and then she'd
seen a maroon sedan speeding toward Cascade. Nosy Lydia had noticed that
the car had New York plates. A youngish man with blond hair was at the
wheel. If only she'd known at the time that James was lying injured on
the road bank. If only she'd paid better attention.

Cinnie stared at the somber sky. Dense clouds denied the faintest gleam
of starlight. No amount of fevered hoping would speed the end of this
nightmare, Cinnie realized. All she could do was be there for her son.

Cinnie went through the farmhouse, collecting James's most critical
possessions in a pair of shopping bags. She tried to ignore the musty
scent of the place, the creepy stillness. She hadn't been back since the
accident, and the house had taken on an alien, uneasy feeling.

Paul had left things in a shambles: crumpled napkins, soiled plates,
glasses puddled with milk. Cinnie ignored a spark of anger.

This was far from the worst mess he'd made.

Methodically, she packed a pile of story books, part of James's stuffed
bear collection, a battered GI Joe doll, Snoopy pajamas, Yankee
slippers, a Walkman, Speak & Spell, Gobots, wrestling posters of Andre
the Giant and Randy "Macho Man" Savage, and a Lego space station kit.

There were a number of things she couldn't find: James's favorite
T-shirt from the Los Angeles Hard Rock We, the superhero cape she'd
bought him for Halloween. In vain she searched for his precious
backpack. She made a mental note to ask the police if it had been found
at the scene and claimed for evidence.

On the way to the hospital she stopped to pick up a few other things for
James. She wanted to surround him with everything he loved.

Half an hour later, she entered the I.C.U. waiting room burdened with a
medley of paper bags. Dal took one look at her and left happy.

Clearly Cinnie was on the brink of returning to her normal exacting
standard of lunacy.

When it was time for the next five-minute visit, Cinnie arranged the
bears at the foot of James's bed, stowed the books and toys on the carts
supporting the monitors, taped the wrestling posters over the glass
partition, and blew up a cluster of Mylar balloons. Satisfied, she sat
on the bed beside him and took his hand. "No more of this tuned-out lazy
business, James Lucas Merritt. It's time for you to wake up and get
ready for some serious playing."

She stared at him. Searched for a hint of response. But aside from the
occasional tic or grimace, he was stone. "Come on, Jimbo.

I've got big plans for us. First we'll play sumo, wrestlers. You get to
throw the salt in the ring and sell tickets to the invisible crowd.

I'll run the imaginary popcorn stand and do the announcing and declare
you champion of the universe. What do you say?"

Nothing. But she couldn't bring herself to give up. "How about a blind
cookie tasting then? I picked up a half pound of assorted from Mrs.
Fields and a half pound of mixed macadarma, pecan, and double chunk from
David's. I'll smuggle in some root beer for a palate cleaner, and we can
really go to hell with ourselves."

His head was lolling off center. Gently, she repositioned it and
smoothed a ripple of tension from his forehead. "Tell you what. You wake
up right now, and I'll throw in a bedtime moratorium. Think of it, you
can stay up forever if you want. We can watch Arsenio Hall or Letterman,
and then we'll find a couple of old flicks to take us right into Sunrise
Semester. I bet you've never seen a single thing starring Lionel
Barrymore or Jimmy Stewart."

She watched him, willing a response. A sign.

"This is a limited-time-only offer, James Merritt. Better hurry on
down."

There was the rasp of a throat clearing behind her. Paul. He looked
weary and rumpled. His face was pale, his eyes shot with veins and
sunken with exhaustion. The wind had tossed his sandy hair and left a
stray wave lolling over his forehead. She felt a swell of affection that
was quickly displaced by anger. "How's he doing?"

Furious words leapt to her tongue, but she bit them back. "Coming
along."

"I ran into Dr. Silver in the lobby, Cin. I asked him to tell me what we
can expect-honestly ... He wasn't encouraging."

"Silver's a troll," Cinnie said and 'turned back to James. "Tell you
what, Jimbo. You wake up right now, and I'll throw in a weekend at
Hershey Park this summer and a whole week at Disney World over next
Christmas vacation. Every man has his price, right, sweetheart?"

Paul touched her shoulder. She stiffened until he took the hand away.

"We have to be realistic, Cin. Silver said the longer he stays in a
coma, the less chance he has for a full recovery. Silver said at this
point we'd better prepare ourselves for the worst. He may not come
around at all. And if he does, chances are he'll be brain damaged."

"No. James is going to be fine." james. She noticed Paul couldn't bring
himself to use their child's name. Always saying "he." Was he feeling so
guilty he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge this wounded little boy
as his son? Or maybe he thought a damaged child was like a troubled
marriage -or an imperfect recording-something to be thrown away and
forgotten. "What if he isn't? What if he can't walk or talk anymore,
Cin? What if he's severely retarded? God, Cinnie-"

"Stop it.

He doesn't need to hear things like that." Tears puddled 'in his eyes
and a drop trailed the hollow of his cheek. His lip trembled. "I wish..

." She stroked James's forehead. Her voice was trembling with rage.

"Tell your daddy that Dr. Silver is a board-certified jackass who
specializes in overcharging him, that even the best doctors don't know
everything. Tell him how you intend to show all those Dr. Butt brains
that you are the one and only James Lucas Merritt-man of steel."

"Please, Cin ..

Cinnie swung around, eyes blazing. "Please what, Paul? Please act like
he's a hopeless case because you say so? Please give up?

Well, I'm not giving up on James. If that's what you want to do, go do
it someplace else. The last thing he needs right now is someone to drag
him down ... Now, Jimbo, let's get down to business here. Books or
radio? Okay, then, which book would you like me to read first?"

She heard Paul hesitate behind her. She couldn't look at him.

Couldn't find any more words. The silence was so enormous, she feared it
would swallow her whole if she moved or took a breath. She was stuck in
place until he left.

Cinnie picked a book out of the pile, Alexander and the Terrible,
Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Perfect.

By the time she turned the final page, her five precious minutes were
up. The charge nurse passed from cubicle to cubicle, inviting visitors
to leave. Cinnie found Paul waiting in the lobby. He had the same
whipped puppy expression that claimed James's face when he knew he'd
done something naughty.

James had always been so much like Paul: looks, temperament. In a way,
both of them were little boys trying too hard to play tough and
independent. Couldn't be an easy act to keep up. Cinnie could see the
toll it had taken on Paul. Sympathy blunted the remains of her anger.

"Don't listen to Silver. He's just covering his behind. He's afraid
we'll sue him if he commits the mortal sin of optimism."

"I hope you're right, Cin."

"I am. I have to be."

Their eyes locked. She felt an impossible mix -of emotions: love, hurt,
sorrow, terrible loneliness. "Think you can spare a hug for the
hug-starved, mister?"

Funny what a perfect fit they were, even now. Everything solid, warm,
and achingly familiar. Her cheek settled in the hollow of his shoulder,
his cheek pressed against her hair. She wished she could sink in the
feeling and disappear. But nothing was ever that simple.

Visiting hours ended at nine. After Paul left, Cinnie curled up on the
blue couch in the corner of the waiting, room and drifted into an uneasy
sleep. She dreamed James was playing basketball, charging up and down a
polished court.

Crowds of feet trampling. A tangle of straining arms.
James stretched tall and lanky. Face beaming.

Little-boy face on a lithe body. Nothing he can't do. Go, James!

"Mrs. Merritt? Mrs. Merritt? Wake up."

Cinnie started. A plump, growl-faced nurse with a halo of kinky gray
hair was standing over her. Her mouth went dry. A vicious pulse rose in
her temples, and she tensed for the worst. "What's wrong? Is it James?

Is he ... ?"

A grin softened the woman's harsh features. "James is fine, Mrs.
Merritt. In fact, he's asking for you."

When the phone rang, Jeremiah Drum had Booker two pawns down and was
closing in on a critical rook. Booker shot him a look of tepid curiosity
and resumed studying his position. His elbows were planted on the dining
room table, palms cradling his jaw.

Another ring. "Ain't for me," Booker said with a hitch of his slim
shoulders. "Isn't for you, hotshot. "Like I said."

Drum took his sweet time sauntering across the room. Two more rings.

Probably someone trying to sell him carpet cleaning or get him to
contribute to the Committee to Save the Onion Bagel.

Damned phone had been ringing all night. Nothing but robots or robot
imitators on the other end. Everyone wanting something. And Drum was in
no mood for distractions. Chess required total attention.

So did a kid. He stood with a hand on the receiver, stalling.

Booker's chocolate skin was freckled with pins of light from the crystal
chandelier. His onyx eyes gleamed like a mirror in the dark.

There was a hard set to, his mouth.

Same look he'd sported when he'd tried to sell Drum the hot Rolex.

Hard to believe that was almost a year ago already.

At the time, Drum had been working undercover on a sting operation.

Fat real-estate scam. An enterprising syndicate of local greediest.

cases had been peddling shares in a giant mall project.

Would've been fine except for a little flaw in their arithmetic. The
sold portions already added up to two hundred and sixty percent, and the
principals were still looking to lure more pigeons into the deal.

Shares were going in the half-million range, minimum, so Drum knew he
had to pass for a high roller. Chief Carmody had squawked plenty, but
Drum had managed to squeeze him for the custom cashmere suit, Ferragamo
wing tips, and silk accessories that were, as Drum had patiently
explained, bare necessities. Carmody had also blown for the
hundred-dollar haircut and the rented Mercedes 560 Drum was lounging
against when the kid sidled up out of nowhere hawking the watch.

Kid had big eyes. Cold as buckshot. Drum knew the look and the feeling
behind it. "Only three bills, mister. No tax. Big bargain."

Drum had taken a long, hard look. The Rolex was real: real gold, real
diamonds, real hot, as in grand larceny. The kid was something else:
lean, quick, and cagey. Junkyard pup. Couldn't have been more than eight
or nine from the look of him, though Drum could also tell from the look
of him that they'd been eight or nine hard ones.

Drum had done the only thing possible under the circumstances. He
clamped a hand on the kid's scrawny wrist and flashed his shield.

"Jackpot, junior. You're under arrest."

Kid didn't flinch. "Okay, okay. Make it two-fifty then. Special cop
discount."

The little crook had balls. But those weren't near his best assets.

Drum had pegged him right away as redeemable. Not like certain dead-eyed
punks who tried to pass themselves off as children in the worst of lousy
neighborhoods. Some of them were way beyond saving by this kid's age.
But this one was still in the play. Spunky. And plenty smart. Which,
Drum knew, could work for or against him, depending.

For a couple of nights, the county had put the kid up in a pip-squeak
detention center. Not a good place, but probably way better than Booker
was used to. At least there he got hot meals, clean sheets, a talking-to
when he needed one. Drum had dropped by a couple of times to see how it
was going, and even with the parade of strangers and the uncertainty,
the boy's pluck showed no signs of wilting. Drum admired that in a kid.
In anyone.

When social services finally came in with the background report, there
were no surprises. Poor little gutter rat had a jailed druggie mother
and no known father, which, Drum figured, was why he chose to go by
first name only. He'd been living with a grandmother who'd died after a
brutal mugging a couple of years back.

As Booker had explained it to the social worker, the punks weren't
satisfied with the couple of bucks the old lady was carrying when they
grabbed her purse. So they'd expressed their disappointment with the
business end of a Louisville Slugger.

Next morning, Booker had found what was left of her outside the door of
their apartment,. She'd managed to make it that far before she
collapsed. The kid had called nine-one-one, though he could see there
was no more emergency. In that neighborhood, you got to know what dead
was at a tender age.

Soon, the tenement had been crawling with uniforms. Booker had taken
advantage of the confusion and disappeared. Last thing he wanted was to
go "on the state." Which was a sentiment Drum could more than
appreciate.

Since then, the kid had been scraping by on his own. Living here and
there. Running errands. Doing odd jobs. No bad stuff, as Booker was
quick to assert in his own defense. The worst he ran were betting slips,
he said with an expression that reeked of innocence. The direct sales
business was a sideline. He only brokered what fell his way, and he only
dealt in life's wholesome necessities: gold chains, fancy watches,
exotic leather goods.

Bottom line was he handed most of his earnings over to a two-legged,
half-ton reptile predictably known as Tiny. In exchange, Tiny had
allowed Booker to keep on breathing his minimum daily requirement of
air.

The rest was predictable. Medical neglect, malnutrition. Chronic
truancy. And those were the high points. Drum had read the sad story
cover to cover and decided to hold on to the kid himself until someone
managed to arrange a decent, permanent home.

Otherwise, he knew Booker would be tossed like an undersized fish into
the foster care system. He'd 'be shunted from place to place until he
aged out or ran away or some of both. Drum knew the script by heart, and
it was nobody's idea of a comedy.

Stella had pretended to be furious when Drum showed up with the kid in
tow. "Jeer, Jerry," she said. "Not another one of your strays."

But Drum could see she was melting behind the frown. Her eyes smiled as
she inspected Booker's nails, checked behind his ears, and ordered the
kid to take a long, hot bath. "Don't be stingy with the soap, mister.
And then we're going shopping for some new clothes. And you look like
you need a cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake badly."

Stella was Mother Earth. Thick-hipped and steady. Bosom you could get
lost in for days. Watching her with Booker, Drum regretted that they
hadn't been able to have any kids of their own. Woman -was made for a
houseful of noisy kids.

Booker had responded to Stella's mothering with his baby pimp swagger
and a burst of hip, angry muttering under his breath. Kid obviously
wasn't used to being treated like a kid. But Drum could see it was going
to be okay. Stella had a knack for bringing out the best in people.
Woman could find the single sugar cube in a truckload of horse shit.
She'd even managed to see something worth salvaging in Drum. And that
had to have taken a pile of imagination.

Anyway, Booker would only be with them for a little while. Drum kept
telling himself the kid would be placed in a real home in a week or two.

So it hadn't turned out to be as easy as Drum had expected. So what was?

Booker moved his threatened rook and crossed his arms. "That's check,
Mr. Drum." The kid's face lit up like a Roman candle. "I got you in mate
in three moves. Resign?"

"Like hell you do. Don't you touch that board. Put those sneaky little
paws of yours where I can watch them." The phone had, quit for an
instant and started up again.

Drum gave in and answered. "Drum? Dan Carmody here. Hope I'm not
interrupting anything."

"Dan Carm- ody? Sorry, the only Dan Carmody I know is the chief of the
Stamford police department. And no way that sonavabitch would be calling
an excommunicated useless scumbag such as myself." He winked at Booker.
Kid rolled his eyes. "Okay, Jerry.

Have. it your way. I got something for you. But if you're not interested
..."

Drum hesitated. But not for long. He'd been on unpaid suspension from
the force for three months. Three more to go, and already the unpaid
bills had taken on a life and unpleasant personality of their own. "I
might be. Depends what it is."

A chuckle. "Something right up your alley. Trust me." "Said the snake."

"All right, mouth. You want to be mad at me for putting you on ice for a
while? That's your privilege. I did what I had to do."

"So did I, Carmody."

"You knew the rules, Jerry. You don't go around busting people up, no
matter how hard they're begging for it. You especially don't bust up
people named Dibiasi. Half the town was breathing down my neck after you
trashed those punks. Screaming about police brutality like those boys
were fresh from the altar at St. Leo's. I had no choice about the
suspension, and you know it."

Drum smoldered in silence awhile. Pissed him off when Carmody was right.
He knew he should have been content to simply collar those two turds
when he caught them working a crack franchise in one of the elementary
schools, but his fists had gotten in the way of his judgment. Old story.
"I know, Carmody. You suspended me for my own good. And I'm grateful,
really."

"That's nice, Drum. So you interested in a little work or not?"

"I said depends. What's the gig?"

"Not now. Never met a phone I could trust. I'll meet you at the place
where we nailed the thin man. You know where I'm talking about?"

"Yeah, okay. Half hour?"

"Check."

That word again. Drum winced as he hung up and locked eyes with Booker.
"What'd you pull, you little weasel? You scamming me?"

"No way, man You left yourself wide open. You figured on going with a
Sicilian defense, I'm playing by the book, right? Last thing you figured
was a two-pawn sacrifice. You ask me, you wasn't paying good attention."

Drum examined the board for a few minutes, shook his head, and tossed a
buck on the table. "You know you could throw a game my way once in a
while, hotshot. I'm an old man."

"You ain't that old."

Drum patted the kid's head and pinched his cheek." Filling out nicely
now that Stella was stuffing him like he was a turkey two weeks before
Thanksgiving. "Okay then, I'll roast your rump fair and square tomorrow.
Right now, I gotta go out for a while."

"Where you going, Mr. Drum? How 'bout I go with you?" Drum hesitated.
The kid's eyes were full of pleading. Runt knew how to make a case.
"Stella wouldn't like that, Book. You know how she feels about you
turning in early on school nights. How about I call that foxy Mary Ellen
from next door? Bet she'll come over and tuck you in and give you a fat
smooch good night, you lucky creep."

Booker wasn't buying. "Mrs. Drum's out singing at that lounge place in
Norwalk tonight. Bet she'll be there singing 'til way, way after we get
back."

"Can't count on that, kid. And even if she is, you can't get a damned
thing past that woman. Believe me, I've tried."

Booker had on his blue down jacket already. He zipped it halfway up and
flopped on the hood. "I'll take my chances. I'm going with you."

"You'll be grounded. We'll both be grounded. Probably for life."

"I ain't afraid. You?"

Drum grabbed the kid by the scruff and led him out to the garage.

Booker was fizzing over like a fresh-tapped keg. "Who we after, Mr.
Drum? Whose bad ass we gonna fry?"

"Ours, kid. I told you. Stella finds out I let you come along with me,
she'll shoot first and ask questions later. You don't want to cross that
woman, Book. She gets fierce like you can't imagine."

"How 'bout we stop on the way back at the A and P and get Mrs. Drum some
of those real nice pink flowers she likes so much?"

Drum laughed. "Good idea, hotshot. You're buying."

"You gonna let me start the car, Mr. Drum? You gonna let me work the
radio? I'm your deputy, right?"

"Right. Only when I talk to the chief, you gotta make yourself real
scarce, okay? Invisible. He wants this thing kept strictly under wraps.
Top, top secret, you dig?" , "Yeah, I ain't no big mouth.

What you think he's got cooking, Mr. Drum? You think maybe his wife's
fooling around on him and he wants you to go nail the guy?"

They drove down High Ridge Road, across Washington Boulevard, and out
through Booker's old neighborhood. Drum stole a peek at the kid,
wondering if he felt lonely for any of it.

Plenty of local color. They passed hookers in bayonet heels and spandex
skirts the size of Band-Aids, a bustling open-air drug market, packs of
fidgety kids idling on street corners. There was a body: dead, drunk, or
both, lying facedown on the sidewalk in a puddle of something Drum chose
not to consider. The broad plate window fronting an appliance shop had
been smashed. Third store tossed on the block this week according to the
local rag, and it was only Monday. No place like home.

If Booker felt nostalgic, it didn't show. He was glued to the
third-grade spelling list. Mouthing the words, closing his eyes and
playing them back in his mind. Kid was determined to win the upcoming
city wide bee. Now that he'd had a taste of winning, hotshot wanted to
do it all the time. Weird how, he could read in the dark.

They drove under the Connecticut Turnpike and through a maze of side
streets toward the slice of the city nestled along the shore of the Long
Island Sound. Strips of factories and warehouses yielded to condo
complexes, restaurants with ferns, and trendy surfside boutiques.

Drum could remember when this was miles and miles of all the nothing you
could ever want. Anyone could own it then. Or think they did.

Drum wanted to warn Booker about thoughts like that. Kid didn't have to
make the same mistakes Drum had. Seemed only right he should get the
chance to make new ones of his own.

Drum killed the lights as. he aimed the Mustang through the broad gap in
the wire fence at Intell Industries, a think tank serving several of
Fairfield County's fat-cat corporations. As Drum understood it,
companies paid hefty fees to rent Intell's resident brains so they
didn't have to put a strain on their own.

And people accused him of scamming. He swerved the car around to the
back of the main building, a soaring cement box overlooking the frothy
gray surface of the Sound. Tomb with a view.

The last time he'd come to this place, it was to pick up a load of trash
named Drew Whittaker, a tall character so emaciated you could read his
veins like a road map and count his ribs through his overcoat.

During the investigation, the cops had taken to calling him the "thin
man." Joke around the station was that Whittaker was nothing but three
hundred bones and a boner.

The thin man had been one of Intell's top minds. Turned out that when he
wasn't cooking up ideas for his client corporations, his thoughts turned
to the little girls he abducted at knife point and brought to Intell's
parking lot after hours.

Chief Carmody's unmarked was idling in a dark delivery bay, spitting fat
lines of exhaust. Drum edged into the sliver of remaining space in the
bay and flung open the Mustang's door so it kissed Carmody's Town Car
hard on the cheek. There was the sharp crunch of metal biting metal.

Carmody yelped. "Shit, Jerry. What the hell was that about?"

Drum stepped out and inspected the driver's side of his black beauty,
vintage 1969, low mileage, original engine. Despite his scrupulous care,
he'd noticed lately that the finish was fading and showing a few tiny
moles of rust. With the suspension, he had no bucks for bodywork.

He hadn't been able to figure how he was going to get his sweetheart
fixed up, until now. "Tsk, tsk, Danny boy. Looks like the department's
going to have to spring for a little paint job on my buggy here. No hard
feelings, but next time be more careful how you park that pig of yours,
will you?"

Carmody lumbered out of his car. The wind caught the ribbons of khaki
hair he used to mask his bald spot and sent them flapping over a florid
ear. As he moved, his jowls wobbled and his gut shimmied so he reminded
Drum of a walking Jell-O mold. No surprise considering old Dan was the
type who considered cheesecake a yellow vegetable.

Carmody glumly surveyed the damage on both cars. "You're really pushing
it, Drum. You want to get back in good standing, you're going to have to
keep more than that temper in gear. We've talked more than once about
how you play fast and loose with your expenses. And what the hell's
that?" He pointed a fat finger at the glistening eyes sunk low in the
Mustang's front seat. "Stray cat. Don't worry. Her hearing's not so hot,
and she only speaks French."

Carmody squinted and frowned. "Hey, it's a kid. Where in hell did you
get a kid?"

"Going out of business sale. Look, Dan, I'm a busy man. You got
something for me or what?"

Carmody sniffed and smoothed back his hair. "I told you, Jerry.

This has to be between you and me. Strictest confidence or forget it.

This gets out, I'm going to have a lot of embarrassing explaining to
do."

"Okay, fine. I understand perfectly. You take care, Chief.

Pray regular and all that." He stuffed his hands in his pockets and
started toward the Mustang. "Wait, Drum. Take it easy."

Drum kept walking.

"Come on now, Jerry. Don't be that way. I hate it when you get like
that."

Drum's hand was on the door. Fingers squeezing the handle. Drum had
known Carmody most of his life. The chief had been in the same rookie
class as Drum's old man. Most of the time, Drum knew how to play the guy
with his eyes closed.

Carmody sighed. "Okay. You made your point. No more games.

This is no joke. I'm up to my ass in this hit-run thing and sinking
fast. There have been six kids hurt or killed in Tyler's Grove in the
last eighteen months. Not only are the neighbors after scalp, and mine
will do nicely, but Charlie Allston is hell-bent on using this mess to
sweep me out the door."

"So why'd you put that nazi on the case, Carmody? You don't seem like
the suicidal type."

The chief held up his palms. Empty. "No choice. You know Allston's got
Mayor Schippani in his pocket. Those two go back practically to the womb
together. "Soon as this case hit the fan, Schippani himself called and
asked me to put his buddy Charles Allston in charge, which gives Allston
exactly the opportunity he's been looking for."

"I don't get it," Drum said.

Carmody sighed. "It's easy, once you've got Allston's playbook, Drum.

My bet is he'll scuttle the investigation and blame the failure on poor
management from me. Then he'll plant a bug in Mayor Schippani's ear
about how I've failed to deliver on several other explosive cases,
especially the one where that Wilder kid disappeared from the Grove last
year. Kid was missing six days, then turned up with his brains
scrambled. I put half the force on it, but still no suspects. Not
exactly the kind of results you write home about."

"So where do I fit in?"

"You've always had a way of getting to the bottom of lost causes like
this, Jerry. I don't know how you do it, and I have a feeling I don't
want to know. But I need that driver found. I want this thing to go away
quickly. And I think you're the Houdini who can make it disappear."

Drum took the compliment. Banked it. "So reinstate me." The chief
sniffed. "You know I can't do that. And I can't put you back on it
officially, but I'm willing to deal if you are. So what'll it be?

Drum turned, grinning. "You just said the magic words, Dan old boy.

Now tell me what you've got in mind, and I'll tell you what I want.

And I bet at least one of us is gonna leave here real happy."

Carmody pulled away first. His Town Car lurched over Intell's rutted
drive and angled out onto the four-lane road. Drum held the Mustang
back. Black beauty had a way of straining at the lead, especially when
she was in a real good mood.

After Carmody's taillights evaporated in the distance, Drum eased his
car through the gate, shifted to third gear, and let the Mustang have
her head on the ghost strip of deserted roadway. The speed shot through
him like an electric charge, jolting him alive.

Booker grabbed the door handle and whooped his approval. Drum squeezed
on the brakes and eased back to the speed limit. For a second, he'd
forgotten the kid was around. Took a load of getting used to, having a
kid. "A car's no toy, Book.. You got that?"

"Got it, Mr. Drum."

"Say it. The whole thing. You know."

"A car's no toy.

A vehicle is a powerful tool and a big responsibility. Anyone goes
around speeding and acting like a cowboy behind the wheel's a major
fool."

"Right, hotshot. Exactly right."

They drove awhile in a silence diced by the syncopated tick of the
dashboard clock. Drum tuned to the steady rush of wind and the hum of
the pampered engine. Nice.

Then, passing under the turnpike, he was assailed by the clatter of cars
and trucks traversing the metal span overhead. The noise jarred him.
Drum was full of rotten associations. Noise equaled trouble.

Trouble had a heavy foot.

Through the underpass, he saw that the action was escalating in Booker's
old neighborhood. While they stood idling at a red light, there was a
pop of gunfire. Drum spotted the shooter, a ferret-faced young Hispanic,
charging toward an abandoned elementary school. He was brandishing a
semiautomatic with a visible halo of heat.

The guy vaulted the chicken wire fence-girdling the school and started
weaving in a frantic dance through the littered playground.

With the car window cracked open, Drum could hear the crunch of broken
glass under the shooter's feet. Jerk was in a big hurry to get where he
was going, which was exactly no place. There was the wail of approaching
sirens.

Drum remembered how it felt to run like that, trying to escape your own
terminal stupidity. Muscles on fire, lungs screaming, heart a pumped
balloon on the brink of rupture. Running on nothing but poison fumes of
fear. Nowhere to go. No way out.

He resisted an urge to stop the car and help bring the shooter in.

Carmody had warned him he'd better lie low until all, the bad blood
about his little run-in with the Dibiasi boys had a good chance to cool
off and get forgotten. Lie low or be kept on iceberg watch indefinitely.
Easy choice. He drove on.

Booker was silent until they passed the dark hulk of Bloomingdale's-the
great divide. "You gonna catch him, Mr. Drum? You gonna fry that badass
creep who trashed the little kid and took off?"

"What's it to you?" Drum hid his amusement. Booker must've read
Carmody's lips. Some trick since the chief had stood with his back to
the Mustang and whispered so the kid wouldn't be able to hear. No use.

Boy was like Stella. Nothing got by him. The runt was going to go far,
Drum thought, in whatever direction. "Little kid's from my school,"
Booker said. "He's in Mrs. Biondi's kindergarten. I see him in the E L.
program." E. L. stood for extraordinary learner. Booker had been at
Davenport Ridge Elementary School for about five minutes when they'd
realized the kid had extra large brains. Ever since, he'd been up to his
eyeballs in advantages. Special programs, computers, field trips. "Good
kid?" Drum said. "Yeah. He's cool. You find the creep who hit him and
took off. You haul that guy's chicken ass over to the deep fry and drop
it right in, Mr. Drum. Anyone can do it, you can. You're the best cop in
the business."

Drum ruffled Booker's hair. He could remember feeling that way about his
old man. Only difference was his old man had been worth it.

Matthew Drum had the presence of Everest. Big, powerful. When Drum was a
kid, he'd stand in his old man's shadow and feel as if he were under a
steel bubble of pyotection. Nothing bad could lay a finger on him with
Matt Drum around. Nothing would dare.

A couple of times, the old man had taken Drum out with him on night
patrol. Drum was maybe Booker's age at the time, maybe younger.

But he could still feel the cold leather seat of the old Plymouth
cruiser, still see his father's keen eyes blazing like emeralds in the
darkness, aimed to catch the slightest hint of trouble.

Drum had dreamed of growing up like his father. Being a good cop.
Respected, steady. Never occurred to him how flammable dreams were.

One stray spark and they were reduced to a stinking hill of ashes.

At least the old man had gone to his grave without knowing the worst of
it. Drum flushed with shame, remembering.

Business, Drum. Get your mind on business. Carmody would see to it that
Drum got the twenty-thousand dollar reward local groups had posted if he
brought in the driver. If he delivered quickly, the chief had promised
to scrape a five-grand bonus from the bottom of the department budget.
But if Drum came up empty, all he could count on was expenses and a
lousy little per them.

Not exactly the terms Drum had wanted, but the best he was able to swing
under the circumstances. Way better than nothing, he kept telling
himself. Though the truth was it could come to about nothing unless
things broke his way. And Drum knew what the odds were after five days.
Trail was probably cold enough to skate on by now, especially if Allston
was deliberately trying to trash the investigation.

Drum ached for a smoke. Something to ease the fist tightening in his
gut. Yeah, he'd given up the weeds months ago. Doctor's orders plus
Stella nagging him to set a good example for the kid. Fine in theory.

Problem was, the weeds hadn't given him up. He took a deep drag on the
air and let it out in a slim, lazy stream. Better. "You okay, Mr. Drum?"

"Yeah, hotshot. I'm great. The greatest."

He flipped on the radio and fiddled for a station. Kid liked jazz.

Dizzy Gillespie, the Duke, Bill Evans. Even Clark Terry on horn and
Kenny Burrell's guitar. Amazing how they liked the same things: chess,
jazz music, box kites, Three Stooges movies, anything pistachio walnut.
Except pizza. Both of them drew the line right there.

They even looked alike, Drum thought. Only difference was that Drum's
black was on the inside. Outside, he looked every inch the mongrel he
was. Bottle-green eyes like his Irish old man; whipped waves of dark,
dense hair and olive skin from his Italian mother. The rest was his own
contribution: the jagged scar that ran from his right temple to the edge
of his mouth, the right eyelid that drooped like a hammock so he tended
to look either shifty or half asleep. Time and doubt had chiseled deep
furrows in his forehead, and his hair was graying in a skunk stripe.
When it came to ugly, Drum was no lightweight.

What the hell did Stella see in him anyhow? Bad question. One he hoped
she'd never think to ask.

Concentrate, Drum. His mind was racing around like the shooter, getting
no place.

He aimed the Mustang north on High Ridge Road. Night had settled on the
city like a shroud. Most of the stores were dark and caged.

The parking lots were near empty. Traffic had slowed to a drip'.

When Drum looked over, he saw the kid's head lolling like a flower on a
broken stem. Fast asleep. Shadows played across his polished skin.

Hotshot looked like a Christmas pageant angel with a tan. Drum wrestled
off his topcoat and tossed it over Booker's chest.

Drum hesitated as they approached the turnoff for their house, then
decided to keep going. It would only take a few minutes to get a
preliminary read on the hit-run site. Drum always played his cases the
way his old man had, from the inside out. He could almost hear Big
Matt's soothing bass. "Cop work takes a system, son. Trick is never to
skip a step. Never take anything on faith or promise. Only thing worth
believing is what you know for yourself." ' He revved the beauty and let
her out full on the dim ribbon of road north of the Merritt Parkway. Zip
through a string of red lights. Racing the wind.

Winning.

Turning east on North Stamford Road, Drum eased up long enough to dig in
his pocket for the directions. Carmody had pressed them into Drum's palm
at the close of their negotiation along with a giant pile of case
reports and a few choice words: "Gotta be quick and clean, Jerry.

And invisible. I hear any talk about Jeremiah Drum nosing around this
case, all bets are off."

Drum didn't need to hear the stakes. He knew what it would cost him to
lose this one. Drum hated losing. Hated it even though losing came so
easy.

He memorized the rest of the route, crumpled Carmody's memo, and kicked
down hard on the accelerator. The narrow road angled, dipped, and veered
suddenly in unexpected directions. Drum eased into his stunt mode,
clutching the wheel, unblinking, taking the curves at top speed.

The Mustang responded to every nudge and nuance. Cream smooth.

Sweet baby! A rush of exhilaration hit him like a bucket of ice water.

He turned up Cascade and whipped past a pristine New England church
haloed in spotlight. Past the straightaway, he barreled through a series
of S-curves and whipped around a demon bend nestled in the tight
cleavage between two plump mounds of sloping earth. Then he hustled to
the stop sign like he was racing another streak of wheeled lightning to
the finish line.

Past the invisible flag, he eased on the brake, not wanting to jar
Booker. Kid's eyes were working under his lids. Dreaming. Candy dream,
Drum hoped.

At the corner of Cascade and Mill, Drum brought the beauty to a full
stop. Time to go to work.

He turned onto Mill and eased the Mustang toward the accident site that
Carmody had described on his instruction sheet. Drum absorbed the
surroundings. Gnarled, naked tree branches hovered over the pavement.

There was a scatter of sleeping houses. He parked on the rocky berne
abutting one of a pair of broken stone pillars and took a walk around.

The wind was fanged and howling. Drum shoved his hands in his trouser
pockets, hiked his shoulders, and tucked his chin against the cold.

He strode across the furrowed pavement, memorizing the ruts and
potholes. On the other side, a steady stream of runoff from the angled
bank trickled along the edge of the road and tracked the short route to
where the blacktop veered out of sight around a curve. Drum crouched,
dipped his fingers in the icy stream, and touched them to his lips.

Big Matt had taught him to take nothing for granted, to trust nothing
but his own instincts and senses. Hard experience had taught him that
slow and steady could be the fastest way to the truth.

Mounting the embankment, his feet crunched in mounds of fallen leaves.

Lifting the edge of one pile he eyed the damp, -rotting underside. A
reptilian creature skittered away, too quick for Drum to catch his name.

He worked the sloping ground in a systematic sweep, walking in broad
chevrons that he intersected with tight Vs in the opposite direction.

He picked up a muddy scrap of something he couldn't identify and stuffed
it in his pocket.

Finished, he looked across the street and took in part of the sprawling
community known as Tyler's Grove. He picked out the white farmhouse, two
doors down on the right, where the hurt kid's family lived. In the rear
was the recording studio Carmody had mentioned.

Drum had the feeling he'd heard about that studio and the kid's father
from Stella. If memory served, the guy was some hotshot record producer.
, He eyed the neighboring houses. Spread out, prosperous and
peaceful-looking. Hard to imagine bad things happening in places like
that, he thought; though Drum had firsthand knowledge that they did.
Rotten things. Narrowing his eyes, he filtered a certain haunting scene
through the filthy mesh of his memory.

He sniffed in a rough chestful of air. There was a stale trace of
wood-stove smoke, a shot of frost, and a sour blast of engine fumes.

Smelled like the beauty needed an oil change. Drum wondered how he could
work charging it to Carmody.

He stared at the deserted road, imagining. The chief had reported what
few scraps Allston's bumbling investigators had managed to patch
together about the accident. Drum ran it through his mind. Got a picture
of the victim lying at the side of the road. Drum could see the kid's
face. Only it was Booker's face. Frozen in terror.

Drum rubbed his eyes to erase the image. This was as far as he could go
in the dark. Slowly, he turned and trudged back toward the Mustang He
craved a stiff shot of booze, a hot shower, and a little one-round
wrestling match with Stella. Didn't matter who pinned who, they'd both
win. Then he'd let one of the late-night mouthpieces talk him to sleep.

Booker blinked open his eyes as Drum slipped into the driver's seat and
shut the door. Kid smacked his lips and let them settle in a dopey grin.
"I was just dreaming how you was gonna nail that badass creep, Mr. Drum.
I was thinking how I'd tell all the kids at school it was you did it,
and they'd be blown clear away."

"Come on, Book, what did I tell you?"

Booker's look went quizzical, then faded in a sheepish frown.

"Okay, I know, Mr. Drum. Sorry."

"Say it then."

"Man don't have to brag about what he does."

"The whole thing, Book. Say it."

Booker yawned." ...  Man don't have to brag about what he does.

Only point of bragging is when you ain't done nothing. Then bragging's
all you got. Right, Mr. Drum?"

Drum planted a hand on the kid's. It warmed him like a dose of Stella's
chicken soup with matzoh balls. Warmed him nearly like a dose of Stella
herself ""That's right, hotshot. Exactly right."

"To the Jameser," Paul said and hefted his flowered Dixie cup.

ho "Long may he reign," Cinnie said. She tapped Paul's cup with her own
and invoked James's own variation on the standard toast.

"Chairs."

The champagne tickled her nose and made her eyes water. Paul had gone
all out for the celebration of James's improved condition: Dam Perignon,
smoked oysters, a wedge of runny Camembert, and, in the patient's honor,
iced shrimp with cocktail sauce. When James was three or four, he'd
thought a shrimp cocktail was a mixed drink for small people. Cinnie
remembered the time he'd ordered one and the look on his face when the
thing was delivered without so much as a paper umbrella.

Paul sighed. "It feels like a reprieve, don't you think, Cin? I mean, I
was beginning to think we were going nowhere." She managed a
noncommittal nod and a near smile. This was heartening progress, but it
didn't change what had happened. James was still in a light coma,
floating in and out of consciousness.

Still, she realized there was much to celebrate. No more intensive care.
James had been moved to a sunny room on the pediatrics floor.

Dr. Ferris had pulled strings to get him into one of the few private
rooms on the unit. Usually, those were reserved for kids with contagious
illnesses, but somehow Ferris had convinced the powers that be that
James would be better off by himself.

Most of the pediatric patients were packed into fourbed mini-zoos with
four competing televisions and a steady procession of boisterous
visitors. Headache central. In a rare attempt at humor, Dr. Ferris had
quipped to Cinnie that the pediatrics floor was specially designed to
drum up business for the psych department.

There were no more monitors. And the fractured leg had healed
sufficiently to be set in a cast. So, aside from the IV rigging and the
hospital pallor, James looked like his regular self.

Paul was trying so hard. Despite herself, Cinnie smiled as he made a
great show of tuning his air guitar and launched into a medley of the
songs he'd written years ago to mark certain milestones in James's
development. There was "Moving to a Big-Boy-Bed Blues,"

"He's Not Gonna Hit the Bottle No More," and Cinnie's personal favorite,
"Don't Mess With James, He's Potty Trained."

She loved Paul's voice and the way the music took him over. He sang with
his eyes half closed, his expression rapt and edged with serenity.

He'd always been happiest when he was writing or playing his own songs,
even the playful, private ones. So what that he'd had to scramble for
work and they'd been forced to subsist for months at a time on macaroni
and chunk light tuna? Those things tasted every bit as good as shrimp
and smoked oysters when they were spiced with a few teaspoons of
contentment.

Then he'd hooked up with a young band during an amateur night at a local
club. He'd helped them put together a demo tape, and they'd hit it big.
So Paul had developed an instant reputation as a hot record producer.
And he'd been offered the contracts and fees to match.

At first, he'd claimed he was too busy to keep up with his own music.

Later, he'd devoted every spare second to planning and developing the
recording studio. Having his own studio meant more work and fatter fees.
He'd bought bigger, shinier toys including a tomato-red Porsche 911. But
Cinnie knew that no car was going to get Paul where he wanted to be.

She'd tried to convince him to get back in touch with the work he really
loved. But eventually, she'd given up. Discussing certain topics with
Paul was entirely too much like getting stuck in a revolving door.

"Mom?"

"Hey, puss. How's my boy?"

"Mom? Flying green tunnel.

Pop the weasel." His eyes were glazed. Cinnie kissed his forehead and
patted his hand. "Love you, Jimbo. You feeling better?"

"Big train.

Cookie, Mom."

"That's good, baby. You're trying."

"He sounds great," Paul said. "Clear as a bell."

Cinnie knew better. James's speech was on automatic pilot. The language
department of his brain was a tangle of crossed wires and fractured
circuits. She imagined a huge corporate switchboard scuttled by an angry
employee.

Still the odds were decent that he'd recover. Three areas of the brain
controlled language functions, and even if one or two were damaged, the
remaining parts could be trained to take over, especially in a young
child. But Cinnie knew that they were in for a long siege and a lot of
tough, frustrating work.

What troubled her more was the nagging sense that James wasn't fighting
to stay engaged. She watched him now, drifting off. Fading.

lames?" He was sinking into sleep. His face went limp, and his fingers
fell open like the petals of a fading bloom.

There was no catch of effort. Not a pinch of strain. It was as if he
craved the cover of sleep, as if he were hiding.

Sounded crazy, Cinnie knew. But that had always been James's way of
reacting to stress. When he was little and a new babysitter or an
intimidating stranger showed up at the house, he'd plant himself behind
Cinnie's knees. During the first traumatic week of nursery school, he'd
spent the majority of his time hiding in the school's Indian tepee. It
had taken a birthday party with chocolate cupcakes to coax him out. And
until he'd made peace with his closet monster Cinnie had found him on
several occasions, sleeping under the bed or burrowed under the
blankets.

Hiding. "Jimbo?" He was gone again. Lost. "More champagne?" Paul said.
"No, thanks. I'm about celebrated out. Tired, I guess."

His eyes narrowed. "What is it, Cin? Something's bothering you."

"Hard to explain. I just have the feeling he's not trying."

"Okay, I'm ready. What's the punch line?"

"It's no joke, Paul. I don't know why, but I can tell he's not fighting
to tune in. Maybe he can't face the memory of the accident."

"That's ridiculous. He's coming along fine. Better than expected in
fact." He sniffed and shook his head.

"And you talk about me dragging him down."

"Look at him. He's not our scrappy little boy. Can't you see?"

"He looks terrific. Give the kid a chance. Isn't that what you told me?"

She bit her lip. Arguing wasn't going to solve this. She simply had to
help him past the fear, talk him through it. But she was missing too
many of the pieces. If she had all the details of the accident, she
could go over the episode with James until the story lost its teeth.
That had always worked with him in the past. "Guess I'll take off," Paul
said. "You coming home?"

"No ... I think I should stay here. First night in the new room and all.
He'd probably like some company."

"You sure? I could use a little company myself."

She hesitated. It would be nice to spend the night in a warm pair of
arms. Cinnie knew she could use a little hiding herself. But there was
still a slick, dangerous space between them that she wasn't ready to
risk crossing. "I'm sure. just until he gets used to the change."

He shrugged. "Up to you. "Night, jameser. See you tomorrow."

He kissed James on the cheek, blew a perfunctory kiss in her direction,
and left.

Suddenly weary, Cinnie tossed the party remains in a trash can down the
hall. Back in James's room, she found Dr. Ferris. He had a stethoscope
pressed to James's chest and a pensive look on his face.

The man so rarely displayed any emotion, but still he was handsome by
anyone's dictionary definition. Tall with a lean, athletic body,
sensitive features, and pale, serious eyes. Cinnie was especially drawn
to his hands, with their long, tapered fingers and caring touch.

Artist's hands, robot's heart, Cinnie thought. Strange mix.

When he finished examining James, he faced Cinnie with his customary
reserve. "He's doing nicely, Mrs. Merritt. Why don't you go home and get
a decent night's rest."

"I want to make sure he's used to the new room."

"Of course it's up to you. But you needn't worry.

He'd be well taken care of"

"I'm sure he would. I know it's probably silly."

"You must take care of yourself. James will need you to be strong and
healthy."

Cinnie smiled. "Good point. Thanks for caring. And thanks again for
wangling the private room. It means a lot."

Ferris allowed a self-conpcious nod. "It was nothing."

Cinnie yawned. "Excuse me. I'm afraid it's all catching up with me."

"That's understandable. I'll be going now. You go get a good night's
rest, Mrs. Merritt. It's important." . Ferris left with the starched,
regulated gait of a military drill. Funny how other women fell in love
with their kids' pediatricians. Having a crush on John Ferris would be
like lusting after a snowball. But ironically, the man's cool
professionalism was what made him so reassuring. If Ferris said anything
positive, she knew he meant it.

Cinnie felt someone watching. Looking out in the corridor, she
spotted Henry Moller, one of the volunteers. Hanky, as everyone called
him, was a dark young man with a lupine face and a long mop of greasy
brown hair. Quickly, he averted his eyes and made a great show of
looking for something on the tile floor.

Guy gave Cinnie the creeps. Always hanging around, staring.

During the day, he went from room to room pushing a cart full of books,
games, toys, and craft supplies for the children who were well enough to
need amusement. The first few times he'd come to James's room, she'd
offered a polite refusal. But Hanky wasn't easy to dismiss. He kept
coming back with simpler books and new unwelcome ideas for things James
might enjoy doing. Finally, she'd taken to shutting the door when she
saw him approaching. But she wasn't always quick enough, Hanky tended to
pop up when you least expected or wanted him around.

Made her want to scream.

Her bias against the guy wasn't fair, Cinnie knew. But she'd decided
that she was entitled to be a little unreasonable under the
circumstances.

For a couple of minutes, she debated about going home for the night.

Ferris was right about her needing sleep. She even went so far as to put
on one sleeve of her coat before she decided that no one had ever
accused her of being sensible. Why start now?

She closed the door and settled in on the cot. Tomorrow, James was
scheduled to begin an intensive rehabilitation program that would keep
him busy for most of the day. Cinnie had decided to begin seeing
patients again, but she wasn't resuming her full schedule for a couple
of days. She'd only work with her regular clients and leave the
outpatient evaluations and new admissions to one of the other
therapists. She was too exhausted to be more ambitious.

Sleep was elusive. For a long time, she watched the shadows gather and
stretch across James's slumbering form. Her mind was running in place,
stuck on those same questions. Why so many hurt children? Why so many in
one neighborhood? Was it only a bizarre coincidence, or could it be
something else? She kept seeing that awful headline, "Fresh Tragedy
Strikes . Was there something about the Grove?

She had to know. She pictured all the wounded ones: limping, maimed,
stuck in a web of recurrent terror. Laurel, Ricky, Michael, Billy,
Jason, James. So many children.

Finally, she slipped over into a hard, black well of unconsciousness.

So lost, she didn't hear the door ease open. And she was oblivious to
the stalking figure as he made his silent way into the room.

Malcolm Cobb slipped into the room and eased the door shut behind him.

Blinking away the darkness, he trained his gaze on the slumbering child.
He was drawn, seduced, his need building like a malignant fever.

He padded in catlike silence toward the metal-slatted bed. His mind was
ice clear, flesh tingling. So intense was his focus, he was nearly upon
the boy before the ragged breathing sounds alerted him to the presence
of the sleeping woman. She was huddled on a cot in the corner. A
shapeless hill of dormant flesh. Hulking slab of interference.

Enraged, Cobb spat a curse. She was not expected. Foul thorn!

She whimpered. Her face warped with fear and tensed like a drawn
bowstring. Suddenly, she was tossed by a nightmare, caught in a black
maelstrom of imagined dread.

Cobb held his breath. What if she should startle suddenly awake?

She would likely exclaim at the unexpected sight of him. She might even
scream. He shuddered at the bleak prospect of a meddlesome swarm of
people rushing in to investigate. There would be questions.

Suspicions gathering like noxious clouds.

True, he could fabricate some passable justification for his presence in
the room, but none guaranteed to keep him beyond the taint of distrust.
He could not afford to raise a prickle of doubt. That would be an
unthinkable deviation from his master course.

Damn her! She stood as an obstacle to his sacred mission. She was the
vilest breed of enemy. A dangerous, malicious impediment.

Despite the threat, Cobb found himself drawn again to the boy.

Precious thing was breathing in soft, lovely rhythm. There was a flush
of sleep on his velvet cheeks. A glint of perspiration on his brow.

Cobb inhaled his scent and felt a craving akin to starvation-.

Frozen with indecision, Cobb stood with his back pressed against the
wall. If only the loathsome woman would cease her damnable moaning and
tossing, he could risk approaching the boy.

By his calculations, the night nurses would still be sipping coffee in
the unit lounge. Stealing past that room on his way to the child, Cobb
had seen the lot of them through a crack in the door. He'd caught
morsels of their petty conversation. Foolish hens were so engrossed in
their gossip they'd failed to observe him altogether. Not a head had
been raised. Not a blink of notice.

But soon they would commence their scheduled rounds. All patients' vital
signs were monitored on the alternate hour, Cobb knew.

He'd taken careful note of such details during his preparatory phase.

There were only a few secure moments remaining. The danger was gathering
force. Building. If he were detected, future visits would be ever more
perilous.

Foul, intrusive woman. Mewling like an animal. Time was passing.

Slipping away. Be quiet, fool woman, he thought. Hush!

As if his thoughts were a magical incantation, she turned on her side
and fell silent. Cobb was jubilant. He bit his lip to keep from blessing
his good fortune aloud. Now he could take what he needed. At last.

From his breast pocket, he extracted the hypodermic needle and a package
of plastic tubing that he'd pilfered from the supply closet.

Slowly, soundlessly, he approached the boy.

Almost here now. He dared not move too quickly, could not risk waking
the woman. Cobb fitted the tubing to the blunt end of the needle,
plucked the rubber cap from the point, and strode closer.

Beautiful thing. Vessel of power and health.

The boy's eyes opened a crack, and his face lightened in a curious grin.
"Hello, James," Cobb whispered. "Hello, my child."

"Shadow man." The boy's voice was a wisp. "Pop the weasel. Mrs. Wheel."

"You are mine, you know," Cobb whispered. "You belong to me now, child
of my salvation. Wellspring of health and healing. Sweet servant of the
dark moon."

"Green tunnel. Mom? Mom!"

Cobb pressed a palm hard over the child's mouth. "Sssh! You must be
still." The boy's eyes widened. Cobb felt the struggle of flesh and
sinew beneath his palm. Marvelous strength! Power of untapped humours.
Power that would be his. He trembled with awe and longing.

"You must listen to me," he rasped. "You must do as I say. He had to
hurry. He attempted to pin the boy's arm and position the needle with
his free hand. Too awkward. But he could not chance releasing the
child's mouth. The woman might hear his summons. "Be quiet," he said as
the small body squirmed in his grasp. "You mustn't move."

Cobb heard a chirpy voice and the slap of footsteps as a nurse entered
the adjacent room. "Now why is it you're not sleeping, Abby Lee?

How am I supposed to come in here and wake you up if you're not
sleeping?"

She might take several minutes with the girl, but Cobb could not linger
and chance discovery. He would have to leave at once. Furious, he
slipped the needle and tubing back into his pocket, peered out into the
hall, and hastened toward the staircase at the center of the long
corridor. As soon as he opened the fire door and ducked inside, he heard
the nurse stepping into the hall and approaching the boy's room.

There was the sound of the door opening and the playful rise of her
voice. "James Merritt, don't tell me you're up too, child. What's going
on around here anyway? Wait. Let me guess. I bet you guys are planning a
party, am I right? How'd you know my birthday was coming up?"

"Shadow man," Cobb heard James say. "Shadow man. Shadow bed.

Pop. Mrs. Wheel."

"Yeah right, honey," said the nurse in a soothing voice. "You go on and
tell me all about it."

During breakfast, Drum had offered to drop Booker off at school on his
way to work. One mention of the case and the kid's mouth revved up to
warp speed. He forgot all about eating, and Stella gave Drum a look
rough enough to derail a locomotive.

Drum did his best to reverse the damage. "Eat your oatmeal, hotshot.

That's good investigator food you got there."

"Ain't hungry, Mr. Drum. I'm ready to roll soon as you are."

"There's no rush," Stella said. "Takeyour time and eat." "Tank's full
up, Mrs. Drum. Got no place for more oatmeal."

"Juice then."

"I'm all juiced up too. Honest."

"That I can see," Stella said. "Eat anyway."

As soon as they'd climbed into the beauty, Booker started firing
questions. "You gonna talk to the little kid's neighbors, Mr. Drum?

You gonna go see the bus driver? You got anybody working with you on
this thing? Besides me, I mean."

After a couple of blocks, Drum had been forced to swing over to the Mr.
Donut on Strawberry Hill Avenue and stuff Booker's mouth with a
blueberry-filled in selfdefense. Got himself a couple of frosted
crullers to keep the kid company. Sweet plan, but it didn't work.

Booker was running at the mouth again before they were even out of the
parking lot, raining powdered sugar all over the beauty's upholstery.

"So who you think did it, Mr. Drum? Some guy from around here, you
think? You know I was figuring it could've been some dumb jerk kid gone
out joyriding and hit James and too scared to admit it."

"Could be, Book. How about I see what's what and let you know?"

"Yeah.

That's cool. Hey, you think maybe it's some hotshot celebrity hiding out
'cause he doesn't want anybody to know he hit a kid? Like maybe Peewee
Herman or someone?"

"Could be, Book. Anything's possible."

He chuckled. "Peewee Herman. Now that'd be something else."

Drum pulled into the meandering drive leading to the Davenport Ridge
Elementary School and stopped at the broad carpet of concrete squares
fronting the main entrance. "Catch you later, hotshot. Don't forget to
use those big brains of yours."

Booker hopped out, grabbed his knapsack, and flashed a high sign.

"You too, Mr. Drum. Watch your back, man." He raced off to join a clump
of gangly kids on their way into the building. Drum watched them slap
hands and toss some jive at each other. Pip squeaks took each other real
serious.

Drum pulled out of the school and back into the snarled traffic on
Newfield Avenue. The day felt stale already. A nasty headache had
burrowed in behind his right eye and set up housekeeping.

One of those nights. After a couple of hours of tossing around like
clothes in a dryer, he'd decided to get up and use the time to better
advantage.

Stella was down for the count, snoring gently. One side of her hair was
still tugged back in a jeweled comb, face flushed and streaked with
makeup. Looked like she'd come in from her gig too tired to do anything
but dive for the pillow.

Not surprising. On stage, Stella gave it everything, she had, which was
more than plenty. He pictured her framed by a bubble of light, spilling
her guts into the microphone. Woman knew how to play an audience.

Drum loved to watch her set the suckers up and reel them in. Took him
back to the first time she'd done it to him. One night after a day well
worth forgetting, he'd gone to Tramps, a local club, for a couple of
beers. Stella was in the middle of a set when he walked in, and Drum had
caught her bait before his butt ever hit the barstool. Never was able to
figure how to spit the hook. Not that he'd done much trying.

Now he settled a light kiss on her neck and caught the musty scent of
yesterday's cologne. Not wanting to wake her, he dressed in the closet
and tiptoed out carrying his shoes.

Downstairs, he brewed a pot of strong coffee and spent the rest of the
night in the den reviewing the copies of the police reports Carmody had
laid on him last night. Aggravating as all hell. So aggravating, he'd
smoked maybe a pack of imaginary cigarettes already, and it wasn't even
nine yet.

Nothing but loose threads. Dead ends. Blind alleys. If Charlie Allston
was trying to botch the case, he was doing a terrific job of it. First,
he'd commandeered the department dregs for his special Major Accident
Investigation Squad. Drum knew the players too well: Lazy, Dopey,
Grumpy, Dumpy, and Sloshed. Next, the deputy chief had made sure that
nothing would be followed up or nailed by rotating assignments within
the special squad so that none of the jerks was ever left walking in a
straight line.

As a result, there had been no systematic house-to house sweep of the
neighborhood to ferret out reluctant or unwitting witnesses. The one
witness who'd managed to make herself known, a neighbor named Lydia
Holroyd, had been interviewed three times. Hat trick. Perfect way to
waste the men's -time and energy. Allston wasn't taking any chances that
his clod squad might screw up and stumble onto the driver. Last thing
the deputy chief wanted was to let Dan Carmody look good or even
competent.

Charles Allston the fourth. Drum had never cared for the guy.

Looked like Hitler youth and never seemed to shift too far out of park.

But the character had a talent for making the right connections, and he
was tight as spandex with the mayor. You had that, you didn't need much
else. Truth was, it wasn't all that surprising to Drum that Allston was
angling to dump Carmody and take over his job. The only surprising thing
was that the mutiny hadn't gone down years ago.

When Drum finished his preliminary read-through, he scribbled some notes
to himself. By the time he heard the creak of floorboards and the rush
of running water overhead, he'd gotten his day planned and packed the
beauty's trunk with everything he figured he'd need.

First things first. He-knew from the reports that the kid was still in a
light coma, but he wanted to take a look at the little guy.

Get what he could from the parents. Exactly the way his old man would
play it. He'd start at the center and move out until the circle was wide
enough to hold all the possibilities. Then he'd draw the ring tighter
-and smaller until he was back in the middle holding the prize.

Reminded Drum of that old kid's game, The Farmer in the Dell.

Only in this version the cheese got the rat, and the rat got the cage.

The visitors' lot at Fairview Hospital was jammed with delivery trucks
and the cars of patients with early clinic appointments. Drum plucked a
plain plastic chit out of the collection of tools and incidentals in his
glove compartment and used it to trigger the automatic wooden arm
blocking the staff lot.

He parked the beauty between a pair of physicians' standard-issue
Mercedes, popped the trunk, and spent a few minutes scrutinizing his
emergency supplies.

He shrugged on a shapeless tweed sport coat over his convertible shirt
and stuffed a battered briefcase with files, forms, and a costume
change. Ten years of undercover work had given Drum a taste for
masquerades. Lucky thing, given Carmody's insistence that Drum remain
invisible.

One side of the reversible shirt was black and had a ? clerical collar.
The other side was business white with a starched neckline and built-in
club tie. It was a souvenir of a custom-auto-theft operation Drum had
managed to crack a couple of years ago.

The thieves had shown the bad taste -to nab the mayor's wife's Cadillac
while she was having her weekly lube and tune-up at Her Majesty's Hair
Salon. Turned out that two of Carmody's boys had been eating lunch at
the Szechuan place next door at the time of the heist, but neither of
them had seen a thing. Three martinis and a couple of brews a piece could
be hell on the eyesight.

Drum had made some discreet inquiries that led him to a baseball-card
broker who dealt in hot cars on the side. Posing as a priest after an
antique car to raffle in a parish auction, Drum had put in a bid for a
black sixty-nine Mustang with leather interior. As expected ' the card
dealer had put out a hit on Drum's own beauty.

When the thugs showed up to make the snatch, Carmody's welcoming
committee was waiting.

Using the rearview mirror, he applied a dense layer of custom-blended
Cover mark to the scar on his cheek and hiked up his droopy lid with a
clear thread of tape that went invisible behind a pair of thick
horn-rimmed glasses. He passed a comb through his skunk stripe, and it
disappeared. Industrial strength touch-up. Hell on the pillowcase when
Drum forgot to wash it out. Made Stella mad enough to spank him, which
was in no way Drum's idea of a punishment.

He took a final look at himself. Pitiful. Even with the camouflage that
puss was enough to kill a real healthy appetite.

Not that he was after the Miss Connecticut title. Problem with his mug
was it was too damned distinctive. And way too suspicious looking.

Drum had the kind of face central casting would- think of immediately if
the call was for a serial murderer.

As soon as he'd finally finagled a place for himself on the force, Drum
had begged Carmody to let him work undercover on the detective squad.

But the chief had balked. Claimed the scars left him too easy to make
and remember.

Drum had thought his juvenile record would be the biggest obstacle to
his cop career. But Oliver London had convinced the chief to give Drum a
chance. Because of his age at the time of his bust, Drum's record had
been sealed. Supposedly, that wiped the scum ring from his life and left
him baby clean. But it hadn't been so easy to wipe away his ugliness.

The splintered glass had forged a craggy road through the flesh on his
cheek; the flames had charred the seeping wound and thinned its margins
to the glistening translucence of fish scales. Spreading the edges, he
studied the line of lumpy tissue in the depression. It echoed the knobby
cord bisecting his eyelid.

He'd spent hours at Stella's vanity table, experimenting with the jumble
of pots, tubes, and jars in her makeup case. After a number of laughable
failures, he figured out how to build up layers of pigment until the
scars began to fade. To make them disappear, he'd need a perfect color
match.

Feeling more than a little foolish, Drum had hit the cosmetics counters
at Lord & Taylor and Bloomies. When nothing in either place worked to
his satisfaction, he got a referral to a makeup artist with a studio
down on West Main Street.

Drum had handed her a line about planning to make television commercials
for his aluminum siding business, and she'd done a complete make over on
him. Woman was a genius, so good, Drum found it hard to believe the face
in the mirror was his. He'd left with a pink shopping bag full of
camouflage and the videotape she'd made of the transformation so he
could reproduce the results at home.

For weeks, he'd practiced until he could disguise himself in seconds.

The scar, the lid, the tint in his hair, and he was remade.

A stranger.

To complete the picture Drum had practiced new ways to hold his face and
body: jaw jutted forward, mouth tipped up at the edges, forehead
tightened, shoulders hitched so half his neck disappeared.

The moves felt funny at first, but he kept at it until he could slap on
the fresh expressions at will.

For insurance, he'd tested a few alternative voices. His quickest study
was the weatherman on an all-news radio station. Drum broke it down to
Philadelphia vowels, prep school consonants, and a problem with chronic
constipation. Anything was easy if you went at it hard enough.

Then he made an appointment through the chief's secretary, and a couple
of weeks later, he showed up in Carmody's office posing as a recruit.

Drum was armed with a phony degree from John Jay College of Criminal
Justice, a fistful of glowing forged references from midlevel Manhattan
pals, and a practiced spiel about how he was itching to do his bit for
truth, justice, and country. Almost an hour interview, and the chief had
no clue that the earnest kid with the Yankee Doodle complex was Drum
himself So Drum had gotten his undercover assignment.

And his cover had never been cracked. Turned out his looks were the
least of his problems on the job. If only he could find a way to
camouflage his incendiary temper and flush this little problem he had
with expense account abuse.

Not that he wasn't trying to reform. At Carmody's insistence, Drum had
even spent a few hours with the department shrink, trying to evict his
demons. It had taken only a couple of minutes for the doc and Drum to
size each other up and decide they weren't made for each other.

Guy had claimed Drum's runaway spending was an attempt to substitute
material things for the love he'd lost when his parents died. Doc had
chalked up the temper to something he called "displaced aggression." The
man said Drum was really mad at his folks for having the nerve to die
and leave him in the care of his sonavabitch uncle.

Right there was where the doc had lost him permanently. Drum knew there
was nothing in the least bit displaced about connecting his fist with
Randy Dibiasi's fat nose. Kid asked for it, got it. Simple arithmetic.
From the stack of fake IDS in his glove compartment, Drum selected a
business card that identified him as an account rep for Continental
Mutual Insurance Company. Drum was the founder, president, and chief
executive officer. His kind of operation.

Visiting hours were not until one, and clinic patients had to be checked
in on a master list and issued a pass. There was confusion in the lobby,
but not enough to get lost in. Through the glass wall flanking the main
entrance, Drum spotted two burly guards armed with flashlights and
walkie-talkies. Hospital security had a direct line to police
headquarters, he knew. No point asking for trouble.

Instead, he took a quick hike around to the rear emergency entrance.

There, the waiting room was swarming with coughers, bleeders, and
squalling redfaced babies. One harried receptionist was
trying to handle the flood by sticking her finger in a computer
keyboard.

Drum threaded his way through the crowd, tripped the button on the doors
to the treatment area, and, following the "authorized personnel only"
signs, found the back way out onto a surgical floor. He strode down the
long polished corridor and passed through a glasswalled bridge to the
rear elevators.

Pediatrics was on five. Drum remembered that from when Booker had his
fake appendicitis attack during the summer, and they'd kept him at
Fairview overnight for observation. Turned out to be an overdose of Ben
and Jerry's White Russian ice cream with chocolate fudge.

The pediatrics unit was crawling with wilted staff. Drum surveyed the
sea of puffy eyes, wrinkled lab coats, stethoscopes drooping like old
flesh. The air was thick with coffee fumes and stale antiseptics.

A beagle-faced nurse was planted at the front desk, studying medication
orders. Drum made her as the type who only crossed at the green.

Suited him just right under the circumstances.

He spent a couple of seconds slipping into character. Ready, he stopped
at the desk and cleared his throat. "James Merritt's in what room,
miss?"

She came up wearing a loaded expression. But a glance at Drum and her
face softened like cheese in a microwave. "He's in five-fourteen,
father. Second door on the right. You can go right in."

Drum made a steeple with his fingers and hit her with his best Irish
brogue. "Thank you. James is a lucky lad to have kind, compassionate
souls such as yourself caring for him."

A strawberry flush scaled her neck. "Thanks. We do our best.

Have a nice visit now."

He smiled. "Bless you, my child." The priest bit worked every time.

On his way down the hall, he opened the Velcro fasteners on the
shoulders of his magic shirt and turned the black side with the clerical
collar out of sight in the back. The shirt had no sleeves, the cuffs
were sewn onto the jacket arms.

He knocked at room five-fourteen, and the kids mother opened the door.

Pretty, honest face. Nice fluff of curly dark hair. Soft eyes.

Still had a twmikle of good humor in them, despite all this. Looked like
a kid herself.

Drum introduced himself as Arthur Kettle, one of his several
drum-related aliases, and flashed his business card. He explained that
his insurance firm represented the school bus company. Since they'd
delivered James to the accident site, Drum had been asked to file a
preliminary report. He extracted a form from his briefcase and planted
it on a clipboard.. She went along, answering what she could of Drum's
questions about the hit-run. She told him there was no read yet on the
identity of the driver. So far, the little boy hadn't been able to
provide any useful information. He was still in a light coma, she
explained. The prognosis was optimistic but uncertain. In the best case,
he'd need months of intensive rehabilitation to get back to where he'd
been. Drum didn't ask about the worst case. That he could see.

The day of the accident had been routine except for a friend's request
for an emergency evaluation of her son's speech. Turned out to be
nothing, the mother said. A flicker of pain crossed her face. Drum could
imagine what she was thinking. Turned out to be nothing for the other
kid. For her little guy, it was a whole different story.

While he listened and scribbled the gist of her story on his report
form, Drum took a look around.

The room was cluttered with the kid's things: toys, games, stuffed
animals, a giant stack of books. Several bunches of balloons were
suspended from the rings holding the privacy curtain. The bulletin board
opposite the bed was plastered with get-well cards. Several were
handlettered and illustrated in crayon. A cot was set up in the corner.

"Shadow man, shadow!"

"Sssh, sweetie," the woman said and walked over to stroke the little
guy's forehead. "pop the weasel. Flying green tunnel."

She caught Drum's puzzled expression. "It doesn't mean anything.

A lot of gibberish."

Drum nodded. Cute little guy; Dennis the Menace face. No visible
injuries except for the fat, blue bull's-eye over one temple and the leg
that was tented in a plaster cast. Kid like that should be out climbing
trees and playing mud-magnet. "Mrs. Wheel. pop the weasel.

Blue coat lady."

"It's okay, Jimbo. Ssh." She turned to Drum. "I wish they'd find the
driver."

It was the opening he'd been waiting for. "Can't blame you, Mrs.
Merritt. You'd think the police would have managed to track him down by
now."

She looked back at the little boy's pale face. "Yes. And I can't help
but think it'll make a difference to James, to all of us, when we know
who did this. Chief Carmody keeps assuring me that the department is
doing everything it can. But I keep thinking there's got to be some way
to hurry things along."

"Actually, there is."

"Meaning?"

"Well, it's supposed to be top secret, but if I -can count on you not to
say anything  ..."

"Of course you can. Please. I could use a little encouragement right
about now."

Drum told her that his insurance company was conducting an independent
investigation. He described the firm's extensive background in accident
analysis, the crack staff of field workers, the computer linkages
Continental Mutual maintained with national and international crime data
banks, their network of top investigators and informants.

Drum was impressing the hell out of himself. "But as I said, Mrs.
Merritt, this must be kept strictly confidential. The police brass would
be furious if they found out we were on the case.

And frankly, my company can't afford to alienate the police."

"Not a word to anybody. I promise. All I want is to see that driver
found.

I don't care who does it."

"Couldn't agree with you more."

Drum gave her a diplomatic load of manure about how the police were
overworked and understaffed * Naturally, his company's resources were
not so badly taxed. So if she heard of any new evidence or thought of
anything that might help the investigation, she should be sure to call
him immediately. And if she could find the time, he'd appreciate it if
she would write a detailed account of everything about that day she
could remember up to the time of the accident. "You never know what
important detail the police may be missing."

"How will it help you to know what I was doing? I was miles away when
James was hit."

"Probably won't directly. But we'll want to reconstruct the accident as
best we can as part of our investigation. By taking yourself back
through that day, step by step, you'll be in the best possible position
to help us do that." Cinnie shrugged. "Sure, if you think it'll be
useful."

"Shadow man. Mrs. Wheel." Funny that the kid kept saying those same
things over and over again. Drum wondered aloud if any of it could
possibly have any meaning. "I doubt it. I'd know if it did."

Drum wasn't convinced. Never paid to take anything for granted.

He scribbled the odd phrases in the margin of his form. The woman's eyes
were on him when he looked up again. "Anything else you need, Mr.
Kettle?"

"No. Guess that's it for now."

"If you'll excuse us then," she said. "James has been very agitated and
up half the night. I think he ought to rest."

"Sure. And please, Mrs. Merritt, keep in mind that if anything comes up
that you think we should know, or if there's anything we can do to help
you, give me a call. Anytime."

Drum had arranged for his number to be patched through to Failsafe
Security, a burglar alarm operation with a twenty-four-hour central
station. When he didn't pick up the phone, his old friend Louis Packham,
Failsafe's owner and full-time operator, took his messages.

In return, Drum kept Louis supplied with bootlegged video cassettes of
first-run movies. Turned out Drum had another old friend who'd made it
big in the film pirating business. Plenty of the kids Drum had known
from juvenile hall had turned out to be success stories like that.

The Merritt kid's chest heaved, his face went tight and bothered.

"Blue coat lady. Flying green tunnel, Mom. Mrs. Wheel. Pop!"

"Ssh, baby. Good-bye now, Mr. Kettle. And good luck with the
investigation."

"Thanks, Mrs. Merritt," Drum said."

"Bye, James.

Feel better, son. Everyone's rooting for you."

"Flying green tunnel.

Mrs. Wheel ..." Drum closed the door behind him and headed down the
hall. Halfway to -the elevator, he crossed paths with a lean,
good-looking guy. Had to be the kid's father. Same face, only a lot more
miles on it.

Drum stopped the guy and introduced himself. "Arthur Kettle, Continental
Mutual. We're involved in the investigation of your son's accident, Mr.
Merritt."

Guy was antsy as hell, his eyes bouncing around like he was referee in a
Ping-pong match. Drum didn't get much out of him but an uneasy feeling.
You'd think Dad would be more interested in someone who was trying to
get a handle on the hit-run. You'd think Dad would at least pretend to
give a damn. But all the guy wanted was to cut loose. Drum watched as he
ducked into the boy's room. Five-minute visit maximum, Drum predicted.
Made a person wonder.

The kid's voice pierced his thoughts. "pop the weasel. No more green
tunnel!" Poor kid, poor mama. Sometimes Drum wished he could make the
list of the people who deserved, to have such things happen to them.

He knew exactly who he'd put at the top.

Walking down the hall, Drum was glad to see that pooch-puss was away
from the desk. He could have pulled his next bit of business off as a
priest, but it would have been trickier.

Pressed out of sight in the alcove that housed the fire extinguishers,
he traded his tweed jacket for the lab coat in his briefcase and tucked
a dummy stethoscope into his pocket. He'd lifted the thing from Booker's
doctor kit. Runt hadn't shown a bit of interest in medicine.

Patient files were suspended in a skeletal frame at one end of the
nurses' station. He fished out the one marked "Merritt, James." With the
chart tucked under his white coat, he turned into the utility room at
the end of the hall and cleared a work space between the batches of
mops, cleansers, and slop buckets. Using a portable copier the size of a
cigarette pack, he reproduced the doctors' reports and lab findings,
column by column.

Finished, he tucked the duplicates into his briefcase, went back to his
priest mode, and headed out.

Dog-face was back guarding the desk. He asked if he could trouble her
for a drink of water, and when she left to fetch it, he returned the
records to their proper slot. She watched him slug down the water.

Her face was mushy with reverence. "Thanks so much for stopping by,
father," she said, and rose to see him to the elevators. "Sit, my dear,"
Drum said and raised his palms in a gesture of benediction before
turning to leave. "Sit, beagle-puss," he muttered under his breath as he
stepped into the middle car. "Roll over. Play dead."

Drum rode to the lobby, reconsidered, and pressed three. On the way up,
he took a couple of deep breaths and tried to prepare himself.

He hadn't seen the old man in over a month. The last time, the poor
slob had been drooling out of one side of his mouth, and one of his eyes
kept skidding around like a car on an ice patch. Drum had left with his
gut tied in slipknots. Took three stiff ones to blunt the image and a
week of rocky nights before his dreams were emptied of the poison.

Ever since, he'd been arguing with himself on a regular basis about
coming back again. Making excuses that sounded lamer and lamer, even to
his own ear. So it was time to cut the crap. Pretty picture or no, Drum
owed the old coot way better than good intentions.

The room was empty. Drum tracked London to the patient lounge at the end
of the hall, where the old man sat listing slightly to starboard in his
wheelchair, staring at a quiz show. Drum watched him awhile and felt a
rough combination of sorrow, pity, and affection.

He still remembered London from the- old days, starting forty years ago,
when he'd rode as Matt Drum's partner. Some pair those two had made.
"Beat 'em" Drum had been the handsome dandy of the duo. Big Matt had
elegant manners and that kind of intense magnetic appeal that drove
women to acts of extreme foolishness. Not that Drum's father so much as
noticed. He'd married his childhood sweetheart right after high school
and settled down like a deep-rooted tree.

London, still a bachelor, had been more than willing to catch Big Matt's
copious rejects. But One-ton, as he'd been called, a lumbering bear of a
man with a wet-cement complexion and features that drooped like soggy
clothes on a line, had never been a general hit with the ladies.

Fortunately, their ties were too strong to be frayed by petty
jealousies. Both men had the work in their veins. Both had steel heads
and balls to match when it came to the job. And both had plenty of
smarts and the bonus of good instincts. Together, they'd scraped through
numerous tight spaces and managed to come out whole. It would have gone
on that way until they both hung it up together if Big Matt hadn't hit
that one deadly, patch of rotten luck.

Drum's mother had succumbed to breast cancer three years before Big Matt
caught a belly full of lead during what should have been a routine
traffic bust. Turned out the speeder had a trunk full of heroin and a
loaded .45.

Until then, London had been part of Drum's family. But now there was no
family. Only the pathetic pair of them were left: London and Drum.

Drum's mouth parched. "Hey, Uncle Oliver. How's it going?"

London blinked and wheeled the chair around to face Drum. It took a few
minutes for him to see- through Drum's disguise. Then he sniffed, and
one corner of his mouth peaked in disgust. "Look. I'm sorry. I know it's
been a while. Where does the time go?"

London's color deepened as he struggled to speak. "Shuh  ..."

"Take it easy, pal. Don't strain yourself" London's eyes bulged with
effort. Shuh-shithead."

"Sonavabitch. You can talk."

"Shithead," London said with a firm nod. "Bluch."

Drum turned up his. palms. "Okay, you're right. What can I say?"

London sniffed and wheeled back toward the television. "Come on.

I'm sorry. What'll make it up to you? Name it."

The old man's expression went blank. He'd made Drum disappear.

Poof "You're right. I'm a no-good, useless load of crap. But I want to
make it right. Please."

London swatted his hand in dismissal. Drum shrugged and turned to leave.
London made a sharp rapping sound that caught him at the door.

"Yeah?"

London had wheeled around again, a grudging look on his face.

"Boy?"

"Booker?" Drum's grin was automatic. "Kid's real good. Smart like you
can't imagine. Scary almost."

London nodded approval and struggled to ask something else. "Beh  ...
huh  ..." Drum felt himself tensing in sympathy.

The word finally popped out like a champagne cork. "Bumps." Drum
couldn't figure it and didn't want to ask. "Bumps," London said again
and pounded the armrest. "Butiumnimps."

Drum shook his head and shrugged. The old guy frowned. Then he cupped a
palm and positioned it at about a D-cup distance in front of his chest.
"Bumps?"

Drum laughed. "Stella, you mean? Stella's great. The best.

She's been singing at a club in South Norwalk. Packing the house every
night. And she's nuts for Booker. Woman can't stop feeding and
inspecting and bragging about that kid."

London almost forgot himself -and let a smile leak out. He clamped his
teeth and forced a scowl. "Bluh ... blimp?"

"Carmody?"

Drum was getting the hang of it now. Blimp had to be the chief.

London had heard all about Drum's suspension right before his stroke,
but the memory must have gotten lost in the rubble. Drum couldn't see a
reason to remind him. It would only upset the guy.

The old man had been Drum's biggest advocate on the force. London had
twisted Dan Carmody's arm to hire Drum in the first place. The chief had
been more than a little reluctant to take on anyone with Drum's history.
Understandable. But London had chipped away on Drum's behalf until the
chief relented. "Things are okay," Drum said.

"Carmody's got me on a smash-and-dash case at the moment. The kid who
was hit is upstairs in fact. Sonavabitch who ran him down took off like
his butt was on fire. You hear about it?"

London's good hand balled in a fist. "Get ... shithead.

"Yeah. I'm working on it."

Go!" London ordered. "Get shithead. Get ... go "Yeah, Unci gotta tell
you you're making yourself perfectly clear."

Outside, a chill wind was hustling wisps of cloud across the polished
steel sky. Drum paused at the beauty's trunk and retrieved the necessary
gear for his next stop. He wanted to get the feel of the kid's
neighborhood, and he needed to cover himself in case anyone questioned
his prowling around.

He wrestled on a gray crewneck sweater and armed himself with a steno
pad, a tape recorder, and a set of fresh credentials. From the glove
compartment, he retrieved a press pass and a hokey business card with a
quill pen logo that identified him as a free-lance writer, member of the
American Society of journalists and Authors, and recipient of the
coveted Golden Pen Award. Seemed only fair he'd won that one, Drum
reasoned, given he was the one who'd made it up.

He drove north through the clotted midday traffic on High Ridge.

At the intersection before a strip mall called Fashion Plaza were two
accordion-pleated cars surrounded by a halo of slivered glass. The
drivers were squared off, screaming at each other on the litter-strewn
shoulder.

Three wailing cruisers and an EMS van were on the scene. Drum turned his
head away as he inched through the jam of cars and passed a couple of
detectives he knew way too well.

All it would take was one mention of his name in Chief Carmody's
hearing, and Drum would be back to full time thumb-twiddling. The
suspension was hard on Drum in more ways than he cared to admit. He was
a cop, or he was less than nothing. Drum would never forget the dead
feeling he'd had when he thought he'd blown his chance to work on the
force forever.

He sucked in a breath and held it until he was safely through the
traffic tangle and breezing along the back roads toward Tyler's Grove.

Certain things cost so much, you never stopped paying. He'd have to tell
Booker that one too. Kid was never too young to start memorizing the
price list.

He left the beauty running and crossed Mill Road to take a look around.

By daylight, it was easy to spot where the kid had been found.

The evidence techs had swept the ground clean for ten feet in each
direction. He saw the fine ridges and hollows left by their tools. At
intervals were his own plodding footsteps from last night. Drum knelt
and sifted several handfuls of dirt through his fingers. Looked like the
techs had done a decent job as far as they went, He found nothing to add
to the filthy scrap of fabric in his coat pocket. Thing had probably
blown onto the site after the sweep, but Drum intended to have it
analyzed by his friendly private lab, just in case.

He was about to cross the road when a speeding red Porsche careened
around the blind curve and whizzed by close enough to ruffle his
eyelashes. Stunned, Drum stumbled back onto the grassy rise.

Damned street was a death trap.

Back in the beauty, he drove through the broken stone pillars and took a
meandering cruise around the neighborhood. Grove Street ran like a
wiggly scar through the area's midsection. Half a dozen stunted roads
led off Grove to nowhere.

The houses were set at long arm's length and projected an air of
well-tended serenity. He took in the pristine paint jobs and trimmed
hedges. Flower beds napped under dense blankets of winter mulch, and the
latest crop of fall-planted saplings had been swaddled in burlap.

Plenty of status cars and canvas-covered boats languished in the
driveways. The sprawling yards boasted pricey wooden swing sets and
in-ground pools dressed in foul weather gear. Toys for all ages.

Nearly all the homes looked deserted. No lights. Shades still drawn.

Drum figured most of the inhabitants had hustled off to work or school
before sunrise. Then this was the kind of neighborhood where everyone
was in a fat hurry to get more of what they had way too much of already.

The clouds had dissipated, and a strident sun was completing its ascent
to the sky's summit. Taking it in, Drum nodded his grudging approval.

Day was made to order.

Still an hour to kill. Doubling back toward Mill Road, he stopped at the
farmhouse where the kid lived. It was a low, white clapboard building
with forest green shutters and a red door. He noticed some obvious signs
of recent neglect. Clumps of dead mums poked up from the pair of wooden
window boxes flanking the front door. A crude paper jack-o'-lantern was
still taped to one of the windows. A litter of rolled papers lay around
the overstuffed mailbox. The handlebars of an overturned two-wheeler
jutted from the base of a privet hedge. Drum spotted the training
wheels. It occurred to him that now the kid might never be able to
learn.

The house was dead still. He let the doorbell ring a dozen times and,
when he was certain no one was home, used his favorite set of picks to
let himself in.

Place had a nice feel to it. Drum sniffed the distinctive, homey scent.
Wood and warmth. He took in the broad, plank floors and the rustic cedar
paneling. In the living room, a stone fireplace was piled with kindling
and logs and fronted by a deep pile rug. A plump crocheted afghan was
folded at one end of the down-filled sofa. There were cozy antiques: a
vintage jukebox and an old wind-up Victrola complete with signature
plastic dog. The coffee table was strewn with magazines. Drum detected
the awkward messy feel of someone trying, but not succeeding, to keep
things up. But it was Drum's kind of disorder.

Snug. Made him want to curl up and catch a couple of outs.

At the end of a long hallway, he found the kid's room. It reminded Drum
of Booker's. The space was crammed with dubious treasures: posters,
pennants, books, ticket stubs, baseball cards, a cigar box full of
carefully labeled pebbles, a vacant hamster cage, a couple of stuffed
bears. Drum poked through the closets, shelves, and drawers and made a
quick inventory of the rest: construction sets, more books, electronic
games, puzzles, a collection of wind-up animals, a piggy bank, neat
stacks of jeans, sweatshirts, underwear, sweaters, and socks.

Everything but the kid to enjoy it. He took a slow survey of the rest of
the house. His practiced eye caught the places where rooms had been
added and enlarged. Drum had served some time as a carpenter's
apprentice on a commercial construction operation. He'd done plenty of
restless roving before he was able to do the work that was in his
blood.. Finished, he locked the door behind him and went back to the
car. Twenty-five minutes until noon. Enough time left to do a little
more digging.

He followed Mill to where it intersected Cascade Road and continued up
the steep, winding course to the adjacent town of New Canaan. His eyes
worked over the pavement like a minesweeper.

Nearly a mile from Tyler's Grove, he spotted exactly what he'd hoped to
find. Slick patches of fresh blacktop dotted the street near the top of
the hill. About a month old by his expert estimate. Having logged some
time as a tar-slinger on a municipal pothole patrol, Drum knew how to
read the fine print on a road surface. He climbed out and took a closer
look at several of the molelike blotches. Perfect. Not a trace of tire
burn on any of them. No speeder had peeled out in this direction since
the pothole repair.

The neighbor, Lydia Holroyd, had seen a maroon sedan with New York
plates speeding away from the scene in this direction at about the time
of the accident. Definitely in this direction. She'd been interviewed by
three separate detectives from Allston's Major Ineptitude Squad.

Told the same story every time.

She'd been on her way to pick up her kid, a boy named Todd, for a
dentist appointment when she spotted a young, blond guy speeding across
Mill Road toward New Canaan.

She'd been stopped in front of the first house on the left inside the
stone pillars when she made the sighting. Unaware that James Merritt had
been hit moments earlier, she'd only taken notice of the car because it
was going so fast. Doing at least fifty, she thought, which was more
than considerable on the narrow, winding road.

Drum could see that the maroon sedan had slowed down before reaching the
tar patches, which meant the driver had shown incredible cool and
restraint. Interesting.

What kind of a character could hit a kid, start speeding away, and
manage to get himself back in control in under a minute? Drum thought
about the steel nerve professions: stuntman, test pilot, microsurgeon.

Then again it could be a garden-variety psychopath. No shortage of those
in anyone's neighborhood.

Drum turned the beauty around and followed the weave of roads to
downtown New Canaan. Far enough for a first shot.

Heading back toward the entrance to the Grove, he cranked open his
window and flipped the radio up to full volume. The beauty had a fine
set of lungs: top quality Blaupunkt amp with four custom speakers
courtesy of Carmody, who'd paid for the installation during a case where
Drum was posing as a drummer in a rock band. The chief was one generous
sonavabitch. More generous than Drum hoped he'd ever begin to realize.

The music gave Drum's headache long extra legs, but he knew it was the
quickest way to get what he wanted. Cruising along, he made a mental
list of the three houses where curious faces suddenly materialized at
the windows to check out the commotion. All possible witnesses.

He continued back onto Cascade, adding another house to his list, and
kept the radio blasting until he came to a stop across from the stone
pillars. A porky -cat was curled up sleeping on one of the broken
pedestals. Behind the nearest house, a pair of rangy dogs were barking
furiously and straining to bust loose from their run. One bared his
teeth and snarled in Drum's direction. Drum snarled back.

Mad dog was one language he spoke fluently.

Staring at the opposite side of the road, he could picture the little
Merritt kid stepping down from the school bus, climbing the grassy rise,
and looking around for his mother. He could feel the kid's apprehension.
A hot pincer of fear clamped his gut and started squeezing.

It was the same feeling he'd had that day. He was twelve years old again
and back in the two-family house on Cove Road. It was late afternoon,
and he was waiting for his old man's shift to end. Drum was cooking
dinner, planning to surprise Big Matt and have everything ready when the
old man walked in.

Drum was getting a major boot out of the idea. Usually,. his father took
care of the chow when he got home. But that day, Drum had fished one of
his mother's recipes out of the wooden file box on the windowsill. He'd
pulled some squashed bills out of his bank and walked to the small
market near the town beach two blocks away for the things he needed.

He'd decided to make his old man's favorite: beef stew With vegetables.

Standing at the sink, Drum had peeled the spuds and carrots, sliced the
onions into neat canoes, and plunked in a can of chopped tomatoes and
the necessary pips and dashes of spice. Fragrant steam tinged the air as
the pot simmered and the fresh loaf of Italian bread from Tony's
Convenience warmed in the oven.

The smell reminded him of better times, when his mother would be waiting
for him after school, and the three of them would sit down to dinner
together.

So where was the old man? As Drum waited, the prickle of worry turned to
dread. His father always walked in on the minute or gave him a call.
"Jeremiah?" he'd say. "Looks like I'll be running late, son."

Drum stared at the phone, willing it to ring. He imagined his father's
gentle, resonant voice. But nothing broke the oily silence The sky went
still, black as death. Drum kept a dry-eyed vigil out the window. Kept
looking half the night until the doorbell finally rang, and he was faced
with the sick heaviness in Uncle Oliver's eyes.

London couldn't get the words out, but words weren't necessary. Drum
already knew.

Now he shook off the memory and checked his watch. Still too early to
make his move. He dug into his briefcase and killed five minutes
skimming the medical reports he'd filched from the hospital.

The jargon was hip deep, but he managed to get a decent fix on the
kid's innjuries.

Twenty-five pages of high-priced jabbering. Came down to a broken leg, a
variety of minor cuts and bruises, and a skull fracture. At first, the
kid's vitals had gone screwy, but they'd managed to stabilize him within
the first day. Now he was in a persistent, light coma.

Improving, but slowly.

Something about all, of it didn't add up, Drum thought as he put the
sheets aside, but it wouldn't come to him. For now, the puzzle would
have to wait. Time to roll.

Squinting through the haze, Drum tuned his mind to the day of the
accident. Identical sky. He'd wait for the same time. The kid's
scheduled bus stop was noon sharp. Drum had factored in a five-minute
wait before the little guy would have given up and crossed on his own.

Three minutes after twelve now. He used up one minute driving back to
the, intersection of Cascade and sat there waiting for another round of
seconds to pass.

The minute hand closed in on five past twelve. Closer .. now!

He squeezed the accelerator, and the beauty kicked into gear. Gaining
speed. Screaming. He shot around the blind curve and bore down harder on
the gas. As he neared the pillars, the accident replayed in his head in
garish stills. He felt the shock-hard impact of metal on flesh. Saw the
spray of spattered gore on the windshield. Heard the strangled scream.

Drum lurched the beauty to a stop across from the entrance to Tyler's
Grove. His heart thundered in the electric silence. He could see the
huddled form on the side of the road. The little boy lay still and
broken, his shattered leg dangling at an impossible angle. The little
mouth was drawn in a grimace, trailing a trickle of blood.

Drum was sinking, slithering like a greased snake into the driver's
skin. He'd hit the kid. Killed him. Damned kid was dead Panic gripped
his throat and squeezed. Sparks of terror singed his mind.

His gut was a bug swarm of guilty horror. Had to get away.

His toe found the accelerator, and the beauty leapt into action.

Mill Road dissolved in a blur. Suddenly, he was on Cascade speeding.

Faster. Racing mindlessly away.

He'd intended to slow down before the road patches, but the feeling took
him over.

Further, faster. No way to stop. Couldn't let the horror catch up with
him. Had to get away.

His breathing was low and ragged, heart stuttering. There was a sick
rumble in his bowels. He was nearly to the center of town on Elm before
he was caught behind a dawdling truck hauling a wide load of lumber. A
solid stream of traffic was coming at him in the other lane, and he was
forced to hit the brake.

Drum veered onto the edge of the road and parked the car. He resisted
the inhuman draw of his own terror. "It wasn't me. Wasn't real. None of
it's real. just a frigging case."

The panic began edging away. Easing a tortured inch at a time.

He felt sore, wasted. Stepping out, he gave the beauty an affectionate
pat on the snout. Poor old girl sputtered and coughed a shot of sour
exhaust.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Drum took a walk around to work out
his fisted muscles. The sun'baked the back of his neck. He felt clammy,
his head pounding like a sledge.

Slowly, he sucked in a stream of cool air. Steady. Releasing it in an
invisible curt, he felt himself easing up. Letting go. Better.

Looking around the street, he half expected the hit-run driver to crawl
out of hiding and throw himself on Drum's mercy. Creep had to be near
empty by now.

Running took a giant load of fuel, Drum knew. No one could ever guess
how big unless they'd been there. And Drum had been there. He'd learned
the hard way how you could break your butt running and wind up exactly
where you didn't want to be in the first place.

He dragged on an invisible smoke and walked back to the beauty.

Flipping on a soft jazz station, he gunned the engine and aimed toward
home. He was sorely in need of a little recharging. Maybe a nice matinee
if Stella was home. There was a quickening in his groin. He could almost
taste the creamy mounds of her flesh, feel himself sinking in her sweet,
moist, secret spots. Best places in the world to get lost.

And getting lost for a while was exactly what he needed. Climbing into
the sewer was getting easier all the time. Too easy. The hard part was
hauling his butt back out and trying to shed the stench.

Drum rubbed his eyes and worked a kink out of his neck. It all goes with
the territory, Jerry, old kid, he chided himself. All in a day's work,
pal. So quit whining.

A giant yawn rode over him like a wave. His mind was socked in a fog.

The beauty was flying on automatic pilot, and so was Drum. But a
persistent notion kept teasing at the edge of his brain. A whisper on
the wind.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Whole thing made no sense.

Drum tuned back to the image of the kid at the edge of the road.

Scared, hesitating. Then screwing up his courage. Stepping into the
street. And from nowhere ... A whisper on the wind. Crazy idea, Drum
thought, trying to kick it out of his head. But it kept inching back.
Teasing.

That was another one he'd have to remember to tell Booker. You need
answers, keep your mind wide open, hotshot. It's what you learn after
you know it all that counts.

Drum imagined the kid's bright, trusting eyes and the respect in them as
he recited Drum's canned advice. And he felt a bitter catch of sorrow.
Sooner or later, Booker was bound to learn the truth about his two-bit,
tarnished hero.

Drum hoped it would be later. Later would be more than soon enough.

James had been jabbering in staccato bursts since the insurance man
left. "pop the weasel. Shadow man'. Green man tunnel! Mrs. Wheel."

Paul, who'd made a quick visit between appointments at the studio, was
convinced that the gibberish was a positive sign. Cinnie was too worn
out to argue. Anyway, there were far more critical things for them to
battle over, if she could ever find the nerve and energy.

Dr. Ferris and Dr. Silver had stopped by on separate morning rounds and
caught snatches of the rambling. Neither one had any idea of what might
be causing it or how to get James to relax.

Cinnie tried to calm him with strokes and pats. She tried playing soft
music on the Walkman. Finally, in desperation, she started singing one
of his favorite silly songs, "There Was an Old Woman Who Swallowed a
Fly." He was out cold by the second chorus.

Cinnie kissed his cheek and smoothed the covers over his chest.

"Works every time, Jimbo. My singing is enough to make anyone
unconscious."

Convinced that he would sleep soundly for a while, she trudged down the
hall to the patient bath for a shower. Afterward, she dressed in the
clothes she'd asked Paul to bring from home: a navy skirt, red sweater.

She shoved her reluctant feet into stockings and pumps, and smudged on a
little makeup.

After a week of incarceration in this joint, she felt like she was in
awkward disguise and about to stage a daring jailbreak in broad
daylight. Looked as if this getting back to normal business was going to
be a major adjustment.

Leaving the patient bath, she almost tripped over Hanky Moller, the
creepy, omnipresent volunteer, pushing his cart. He looked her over as
if she were an offering on a buffet table and he hadn't eaten in days.

"Nice outfit," he said. "Going somewhere?"

"To work."

"Oh.

When'll you be back then? I'll stop by and see if your boy needs
anything."

"Thanks -anyway. I told you, James is all set."' He shook his head and
chuckled. "Never know. I'll check later. Got some new stuff you might
like."

Exasperating creep. An angry flush scaled her neck as she walked back to
James's room. She couldn't say why the man got to her, but she didn't
like having him anywhere near James. Or near her, for that matter.

Dr. Ferris was at James's bedside. He looked up and appraised her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Merritt. Is everything all right?"

"Yes.

Just a question. What's the story with that guy, Henry Moller?"

"Hanky, you mean? He's one of our most loyal volunteers. Logged
something like a thousand hours already. "I'm sure he means well. But is
it normal for him to spend so much time on pediatrics? I see him here
nights, mornings. Doesn't he ever leave?"

Ferris shrugged. "Happens with some of our most dedicated volunteers,
Mrs. Merritt. They get very attached to the place. Want to spend all
their time at Fairview. No harm in it. I can see."

"I guess." Cinnie felt foolish. There was no real reason for her
animosity toward the man. She kept telling herself he was harmless.

"Big day for James today."

He allowed a minuscule nod. "I'm sure he'll do nicely."

"I hope so."

"Not to worry. He's ready for this next phase of treatment. No doubt
we'll see positive changes."

When he left, Cinnie took a deep breath. The man didn't allow a trace of
emotion, but if he said James would make good progress, she was more
than willing to believe him. She had to believe him.

James was scheduled for physical therapy at ten, speech at eleven, and
then an hour of occupational therapy, which in his case would amount to
attempts to stimulate him to fuller consciousness. After a break for
lunch, he'd spend an hour in the rec room with the other kids on the
unit, and then he was on for a battery of follow-up tests.

Cinnie had been able to handpick his therapists, so she knew he was
getting the best. Still she was nervous about the whole business.

Had James really recovered enough to handle all this? And even more
questionable, had she?

On the theory that keeping busy was the best defense, she'd booked
herself solid with patients during the morning. Her father had called to
say he'd be stopping by at lunchtime with Madeline to see James, so
Cinnie was determined to be elsewhere.

There was nothing wrong with her stepmother. In fact, the woman was
warm, sweet, and singularly well intentioned. Cinnie also knew that
having a new wife was good for her father, the best thing. Madeline had
hauled him up out of the bleak well of resignation he'd fallen into
during her mother's long illness, especially at the end.

But knowing all that didn't make it any easier for Cinnie to ward off
the sudden swipes of resentment, the bitter feelings. It was all her
problem, she knew. The strident child in her couldn't stand seeing
another person in her mother's place. Easy to analyze. And she intended
to get past it as quickly as she could. But in the meantime, she knew it
was best to keep her distance.

There were plenty of ways for her to fill the rest of the day, so she'd
have no time to worry. Much. She was getting James ready to go when
Karen Sands from physical therapy breezed in pushing an empty
wheelchair. "Is there a Mr. James Merritt in this room?" Karen said with
an impish wink. "I have a large hug delivery for a Mr. James Merritt in
five-fourteen."

James shot her a goofy grin. Karen had always been a favorite of his.

She was tall and rangy with a salted bob of straight brown'hair, a ready
smile, and infinite patience. Karen would know how to distract James
when the exercises got painful, Cinnie thought. It was critical to keep
his muscles loose and to maintain the normal range of motion in his
limbs.

So it would hurt. So stop thinking about it, and let Karen do her job.

At least James had calmed down.

Cinnie finished dressing him in his striped robe and Yankee slippers,
passed a comb through his hair, and rubbed blots of color in his cheeks.
"You be a good boy for Karen, Jimbo. See you later.

Okay?" ("Mom?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Cookie, Mom."

"Chocolate chips on the brain, huh?" Cinnie said. "You must be feeling
better." She wrapped him in a careful hug, breathing in his scent, then
forced herself to let him go. She waited until Karen had wheeled him off
to the rehabilitation wing before leaving pediatrics for her first
appointment.

She found a basket of fresh flowers on her desk and a welcome-back sign
taped to the bulletin board. The files for her morning sessions were
waiting in a neat pile. She reviewed the top chart and buzzed Sandy at
reception to send in the first patient.

He was dressed in a gray suit and a starched, white shirt. His paisley
tie was knotted clumsily and tugged off center. A slick of pomade formed
a crooked road down the center of his head. She caught the scent of Old
Spice. "Good morning, Mr. London. Aren't you looking spiffy today?"

He made a grunting noise and reached his good arm slowly behind him.

From the utility bag, he extracted a lumpy package. "Buh," he said and
frowned. "Buh ... boy! " Cinnie's eyes widened. "Did I hear you say
'boy'? Again, Mr. L. Say it again."

"Buh ... Booooy," he said. A triumphant grin claimed his face.

She restrained herself, not wanting to get him over excited. "You got
something for James? Aren't you a sweetheart." . "Boy," he said and
scowled. "Gug He reddened, struggling to form another word, but he
couldn't get it out. In frustration, he pounded the armrest.

Cinnie put a hand on his. "It'll come, Mr. London. Wait it out.

Don't push so hard."

He took a few deep breaths, and his lips started working again.

"Gug  ..." He chewed the air and coughed hard. "Gug ... get.

Get!"

"Great, that's it. Take your time now. Easy."

"Get. Bigger. Boy ... gug ... bigger?"

He was beaming. Cinnie smiled. "Good job, Mr. L. You want to know if
James is better?"

"Bigger, yup." Typical, path to recovery.

Many aphasic patients went through a period of substituting similar,
opposite, or associated words for the ones they wanted to say: "Chair"
for "table ... up" for "down,"

"bake" for "oven."

"James is much better, thanks. And so are you, I see.

I want the truth now. Have you been seeing another therapist behind my
back?"

He looked indignant. "Nab! "Okay, I'll take your word for it.

How about we get down to business? Something tells me you're going to
turn out to be my star prisoner."

For the rest of the hour, they practiced the names of common objects and
recited the key words and phrases London would find most useful.

"Hello,"

"Good-bye,"

"The food stinks."

"Food ... bluch," was the closest he came. "Good enough. No question
you'll get your point across with that," Cinnie assured him.

She asked him to supply the missing words in stock sayings and had him
identify pictures of common objects. The work was slow and difficult.

London's color deepened as he fought to find each word, and his body
tensed with the effort to make the sounds fit the fractured thought
patterns. Often, his attempts failed, but he kept at it.

Cinnie watched for signs of serious fatigue but spotted none. Stubborn
old mule looked like he might outlast her. "Well, that's it for today,"
she said finally. "You were terrific."

"Boy?" he said.

She tapped the package. "I'll see that. he gets the present.

I'm sure he'll love it."

"Boy." He smacked his armrest and worked an imaginary steering wheel
with his good hand. "The driver, you mean?"

Affirmative nod. "No luck yet, but the police are working on it."

London cocked his head and looked quizzical. Cinnie couldn't guess what
he was after until he tapped his lapel where his shield would have been
and molded his fingers into a mock pistol. "You want to know which cops
are on the case? Good question. The guy in charge is Deputy Chief
Charles Allston, but, to be honest, I'm not convinced anyone's really on
the case. Allston's what you'd call the high profile, low performance
type."

London's face went smug. "What's that look about, Mr. L? You know
something I don't?"

Half his mouth curled in a contented smirk. "C'mon. Give."

London held up a chiding finger and swiped it back and forth. "All
right. Chief Carmody keeps telling me the same thing, to keep the faith.
So I'm doing my best to stay out of it. But it's not easy."

He smiled his crooked smile. "Tell you what. I know you never got that
pastrami sandwich I promised you. So in honor of your tremendous work
and fabulous progress, how about I get you a pass and take you to
Deliworld for lunch tomorrow?"

He squeaked and pounded the armrest. "Buggup. Booooy."

"That's sweet. But James isn't well enough to join us. Maybe next time."

He smacked the rest three times and shook his head. "Not about James?

What then?" He pinched his nose. "Bluch ... World. "You trying to tell
me Deliworld stinks?" He nodded vigorously and smiled.

"Boooy."

"Boy's name? ... Al's you mean? You want me to take you to Al's Deli?"

London saluted. "Al's it is, Mr. L. Anything you say." The rest of the
morning went quickly. At noon, Cinnie left the office and forced herself
to keep walking out of the rehab suite. She was sorely tempted to stop
by and check on James. But she knew he'd adjust better to the therapy
routines without her. And according to her legion of spies, consulted
frequently during his earlier sessions, James was doing fine.

Far better than she was, Cinnie knew.

Then maybe it was time for some serious therapy of her own.

SHE left the hospital planning to drop in ondal at work and persuade her
to go out for one of their infamous lunches. In third grade, when Dal
had moved to Rockville Centre from exotic Houston, the two had
discovered a shared passion for rich desserts and serious
philosophizing. More than two decades and thousands of empty calories
later, they'd managed to resolve the majority of the world's major
issues and were in the process of tackling some of the stickier small
ones. A fresh favorite, before James's accident, had been the cosmic
significance of Dal's perennial struggle with an extra five pounds.

What Cinnie needed today was the comic relief of watching her friend
stare with longing at a piece of chocolate mousse pie on the dessert
cart as she wondered aloud: "You know, sometimes I think that with my
luck, I'll finally lose the damned five pounds and they'll turn out to
be my best ones. I mean, who's to say they won't be five pounds of wit
or sex appeal or raw intelligence."

Cinnie would tell her she agreed. No reason to risk such a tragic
consequence. And Dal would order the pie with a double scoop of whipped
cream for insurance. Dal had a way of helping Cinnie keep things
slightly askew of normal perspective.

Exactly where she needed to be at the moment.

But a stronger need drove her past the entrance to Dal's market research
firm, and she headed north on High Ridge toward the Grove. On the way,
she stopped at the Cheese Shop and Vic's Liquors for supplies.

There was another old friendship that needed attention at the moment.

And emergency resuscitation if necessary. It was time to put the useless
anger and recriminations behind them. At least, it was worth a try.

By the time she turned through the stone pillars, Cinnie had outlined a
detailed plan of attack. She pictured a crackling fire.
Soft blanket spread out over the plush rug. Nothing cozier than an
indoor picnic: crusty chunks of French bread slathered with butter and
cheese, slices of a perfect apple, all chased back with a chilled glass
of Chardonnay. Paul for dessert.

The house was bristling still. Cinnie set a match to the trio of logs in
the fireplace and left her bundles in the kitchen.

Trampling over the frozen lawn to the studio, she rebuked herself for
not doing something like this sooner.

As long as they got to a better place, what did it matter who did the
pushing?

She noticed a trio of cars and a battered pickup in the lot behind the
studio. With a sinking sense of disappointment, she cracked open the
door and peered inside. Paul was at the sound board wearing a serious
set of earphones. His fingers skittered over the keys and levers as he
tracked the winking lights and made adjustments. A group was performing
behind the soundproof glass partition. There was no hint of the restless
inattention that signaled an impending break.

She waited a few minutes, hoping Paul would nonce her and read her lewd
intentions. No such luck.

Retreating, she skirted the house and headed toward Grove Street She
followed the road as it snaked its lazy way through the neighborhood.

Her feet crunched in the small mounds of dead twigs and leaves left over
from the municipal cleanup. Had it only been two weeks ago that James
spent half a Saturday tracking the giant, yellow vacuum trucks as they
lumbered from house to house, sucking up the mountains of autumn debris
that had been raked or blown onto the pavement?

He'd come home flame-cheeked and chilled, redolent of earth and engine
fumes. Papery leaf fragments were twined in his thick, copper hair and
matted on his sweater. With a triumphant smile, he'd presented Cinnie
with a bouquet of desiccated maple leaves. She wondered if they were
still in the empty peanut butter jar on the kitchen sill.

Halfway down the street, she spotted Todd Holroyd coming toward her on a
Big Wheel. He moved with the plodding resignation of an inchworm.

"Hi, Todd. No school this afternoon?"

"Teacher conferences, so we got off. How's James doing?"

"Okay. I'll tell him you asked."

He gave her a dull, quizzical look. "You'll tell him?"

"Yes."

"But my mom said he can't ...  The boy bit his lower lip, dropped his
eyes, and pressed on.

Cinnie swallowed a bitter lump of envy. Even Odd Todd could do so many
things James no longer could. Things James might never do again.

Walking on, she spied a quartet of neighbor women huddled beside the
Derosas' gazebo: Lydia Holroyd, Ellen podhoretz Lucy Pavan, and Vivian
Goldblatt. From half a block away, she could read their intent
expressions and the protective tilt of their bodies as they talked.

Obviously, it was a deep discussion. They stood with folded arms and
hitched shoulders, their eyes bound and serious.

Lucy Pavan noticed Cinnie and motioned for her to join them.

Cinnie hesitated, but after an awkward beat, she traversed the distance.
"How's it going?" Lucy said. She was a tiny woman with a Dutch boy
hairdo and the large, curious eyes of a deer. "Coming along."

"Oh? Is James more alert, then?" Lydia said. She smoothed her pleated
skirt and pulled up the collar of her starched white blouse.

"A little."

Lydia ticked her tongue. "Must be so terribly difficult for you, Cinnie
dear. James was such a clever child."

Was. Cinnie couldn't find the words or the stamina to answer the bitch.
Why bother? "You'll have to excuse me," she said. "I've got to get back
to the hospital."

On her retreat toward the farmhouse, she remembered being on the other
side, part of the smug circle whose earnest discussions had been
strained by the awkward appearance of one of the unfortunate ones.

There was no graceful way to deal with the impossible pain, no right
thing to say.

She remembered running into Marion Druce soon after Laurel's accident.

Cinnie had wanted to be comforting and supportive, but her tongue was
tied in hopeless knots. Nothing came out the way she intended. After
that uneasy meeting, Cinnie had felt so ashamed, so inadequate.

So now it was her turn to be shut out. She was positive the women had
been talking about James, Paul, and her. She could all but hear the
words: "Such a pity. Poor James. Poorfamily. Can't imagine how they're
managing to deal with it all." Cinnie also knew the guilty subtext
beneath the veneer of studied concern. The women were thinking: Better
them than me. They were wondering what Cinnie and Paul had done to
deserve the tragedy, certain on some level that it had to be deserved.
They were recoiling from the threat of contagion.

An occasional car drove by. Otherwise, the street was idle.

Midday, and the neighborhood symphony was muted to a hum: dim voices on
a distant television, a barking dog, an engine idling in a closed
garage.

Cinnie's ear filled with the tides of her own breathing and the crackle
of her footfalls. Shivering, she noticed that the blazing sun was
strangely lacking in warmth. She closed the top button on her coat and
tipped up the collar.

Nothing had changed, but everything was different. It was as if the
place had -been gutted, the exterior a cruel joke. She imagined giant
hands slapping the walls of this hollow world together, nothing to lose
but a loud rush of emptiness.

James's imprint was on every tree and hillock. Cinnie could see him up
at the makeshift plate in a neighborhood stickball. game, plastic
bludgeon poised on his shoulder, tongue boring in his cheek.

She imagined him catching frogs in the shallow pond behind Mrs.
Zielinski's and then straggling with a crew of other small ones to
"secret" headquarters, the moldy weatherbeaten packing crate that had
been dumped behind the Pavans' screened porch and forgotten.

When she and Paul first came to see the farmhouse, the realtor had
prattled on and on about the virtues of the Grove. "Plenty of kids for
your little boy to play with. And you couldn't ask for a safer place."

She found herself turning onto the Druces' flagstone walk. The house was
an asymmetrical cedar contemporary with broad spans of twinkling glass
and patios that jutted off the main house at unexpected angles.

Marion Druce was a free-lance graphic artist who worked, out of the
sunny attic loft.. The doorbell echoed in the cavernous interior.

Cinnie heard footsteps descending the circular staircase and caught a
flash of Monster, the Druces' golden retriever, bounding toward the
door.

Marion held the dog firmly by the collar while she flipped the locks.

"Put a lid on it, Monster," she said. "Cinnie? What a nice surprise.

Come in."

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything. I stopped at home to pick up a few
things, and I had a question. Got a minute?"

"Sure. Coffee? You have lunch yet?"

"No, but I'm fine. Don't bother."

"It's no bother." Marion led her into a square, sunny kitchen with a
gleaming wood floor and Mexican tile counters. "Tuna fish or turkey?"

"Whatever you're having's fine."

She led Cinnie to a bentwood chair at the oak table and fixed the
sandwiches. "Dal tells me James is coming along fine."

"Getting better. It's slow."

"And not easy, I know. It's good that you're able to get away for a
while. I remember how those hospital walls had a way of closing in on
me."

She brought the sandwiches and two mugs of instant coffee to the table
and sat opposite Cinnie. Monster plunked down his giant muzzle in the
vacant span between them. His licorice eyes were solemn and filled with
pleading, his nose twitched. "Down, Monster," Marion said.

"This lunch isn't worth begging for, believe me." I The beast sighed and
withdrew to the floor in front of the stove. His tail wagged with the
steady insistence of a windshield wiper.

Marion had aged, Cinnie noticed. Before Laurel's accident, Dal, Cinnie,
and Marion had made it a point to get together once a week or so with
the kids. Marion had been the resident parenting expert, most years
logged on the job.

Cinnie and Dal had always prized her logic and practicality.

Marion had helped Dal through several of her more critical crises with
Teejay including the time Teej wanted a doll carriage and Lydia Holroyd
had warned that it was a sure symptom of gender confusion. Marion's
response was to lend Teejay Laurel's carriage, which he'd promptly
upended and used as a fort.

Now there was a slackening in Marion's firm features and some of her
ruddy color had leached away. Not surprising. In the eleven months since
the accident, Laurel had been through five operations on her injured
leg, rounds of intensive therapy, and a number of harrowing medical
crises. Twice, there had been talk of amputation. The child still
suffered chronic pain. "You had a question?" Marion said.

"Yes. I wanted to know if you ever wonder about all the accidents?"

Cinnie pleated her skirt between her fingers. "Laurel's and the others?"

"Sure I do. I wonder why any of this had to happen to any of us ... But
that's not what you're getting at, is it?"

"I'm not sure exactly what I'm getting at. I just keep thinking that
there must be some explanation, rational or otherwise.

Marion shrugged. "Accidents, Cin. You said it yourself. The world is
full of accidents and weird coincidences. Unfortunately, we've had a run
of rotten ones in the Grove. Nothing anyone can do about that but hope
the streak is over."

"Maybe so. But what if it's more than simple coincidence? What if
there's some reason all these horrible things are happening here?"

Marion sipped her coffee. "Like?"

"Who knows? A curse, a jinx.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can't shake the feeling that there's
more to all this than coincidence, Marion. There has to be."

Marion stared into her coffee cup and traced a slow circle along the
rim. "Look, I'll be honest with you, Cinnie. I've had thoughts like
that. But where do they get you besides crazy? What's the point of
beating it to death? It won't change anything for Laurel or James.

"

"The point is to try to understand why all these terrible things are
happening here."

"No. The point is to get past it. Believe me, it's the only way."

As Cinnie left the house, the words reverberated in her mind.

Marion was right. It was best to put the doubts and questions behind
her. Best, but impossible. She couldn't shake the conviction that there
was some explanation for all the terrible accidents.

Her logical side told her all the wondering was futile. Even if she
could prove there was some malevolent force behind the tragedies, what
could anyone do about it? Move away? Have the Grove condemned and,
evacuated like a spook-infested Love Canal?

She started toward the farmhouse. It would only take her a few minutes
to pack up the things she wanted to get for James and some fresh
clothing for herself. That would get her back to the hospital in plenty
of time to sit and wait for James to finish the scheduled afternoon
tests. Sit and wait and worry her fool head off.

Or, she could hang around the farmhouse and dwell on all the haunting if
only she'd asked to see Teejay at home on the day of the
accident. If only Paul hadn't been so careless, had bothered to check
his wristwatch against the studio clock. If only the school bus had been
early or late or someone from the neighborhood had happened by to help
James across the street ... Enough. She kept going back to why. Logical
or not, there had to be a reason for what had happened. And she was
convinced that once she found it, she could somehow use, the knowledge
to help James recover.

Passing the Sanders' house, she noticed Lois's Chrysler in the driveway.
On impulse, she rang the bell. Lois was a physics professor at Columbia,
a stony, intellectual pragmatist. Not at all the type to take well to
Cinnie's groundless feelings and suspicions.

Or so she thought. Lois answered the door and ushered Cinnie inside.

The woman's eyes were full of unspoken feelings. She was more than ready
to talk.

The stairwell was dim and musty. A single caged bulb cast a wavering
puddle of light over the stained cement walls and garish metal railings.
Four steps below the pediatrics floor, Malcolm Cobb sat hunched on a
grainy, gray riser and listened. His keen ear caught an occasional
flurry of footsteps. There was the piteous mewling of a frightened
child. A hacking cough.

The nurse was several rooms past the boy's by Cobb's calculations.

He had tracked her foot strikes and her grating voice as it pierced the
solitude. He imagined the blinding jolt as she snapped the lights on and
doused them again with jarring suddenness. In this place of cruel
indignity, it was routine for sleep to be rudely rent and left gaping
like a wound.

Foulvenue. Foul woman! Save for her unwarranted presence, he could be
satisfied and long departed by now. A live wire of fury sizzled in his
gut. And an angry tic worked his cheek like nervous fingers snapping an
elastic.

He forced his attention back to the sounds. There was the ebb and flow
of steam in-a mist tent, the stertorous exertions of a ventilator.

A scream. More footfalls. Retching.

At last, a silence formed and solidified. Cobb held his breath as he
climbed to the fifth-floor landing and opened the door.

No one about. Cautiously, he made his way back to the child's room.

Steps echoed down a remote corridor. A door slammed. All at a safe
distance. Nothing to hamper his approach.

The boy's door was agape. Cobb edged into the room. No sound emanated
from the woman. Excellent. He settled his gaze on the object of his
yearning, and his heart swelled.

The child's eyes blazed in the darkness. Cobb felt their heat.

"Be still, my treasure," he whispered. "All is well."

He took a step toward the slatted bed. Another. "Gooood boy," he
crooned. "Nothing will harm you. Not to worry."

Plucking the needle and tubing from his pocket, he approached the foot
of the bed. The child's eyes stretched and sparkled with fear.

"That's marvelous, James. Perfect. Stay as you are. Be still."

Cobb was even with the child's arm now. All he had to do was lower the
covers to expose the harvest site. That done, he slipped his fingers
around the boy's wrist and clamped down. "No. No green tunnel. No, Mrs.
Wheel. Mommy. mom-my!"

The woman grimaced and moaned. Cobb ducked out of sight at the foot of
the bed. His heart stammered in the sharp report of automatic fire.

Slowly all settled in stillness again and the tension dissolved.

Cobb tuned his breaths to the rhythm of the woman's. Deeper.

Softer.

The metronome of Morpheus. Sweet serenity. Silence divine.

He was preparing to rise when there was a sudden creak of bedsprings and
the soft concussion of the woman's bare feet on the harsh linoleum.

She approached the bed and leaned over the boy. "You okay, sweetie?"

"Mrs. Wheel. Wheel, Mom."

"Ssh. It's okay, Jimbo.

Just a bad dream. Try to get some sleep now. Okay?" She tugged up the
blankets and prodded the ends under the mattress. "There. All tucked in
tight and cozy. Better?"

Cobb heard three kissing sounds and then padding steps retreating across
the room. There followed the weary rush of her breath and the squeal of
bedsprings as she settled heavily on the cot. "Sleep tight, baby. See
you in the morning."

Slowly, a fresh shroud of silence settled and held. Cobb waited a
prudent interval before emerging from the shadows. His legs were
cramped, back knotted. As he stood, his knees crackled like dried twigs.
Rubbing away the soreness, he looked at the child.

Impudent thing was staring at him again. Eyes glistening, defiant.

Evil, feline eyes. A blatant challenge, a threat.

Cobb squelched a murderous rage. He forced himself to consider the
painstaking weeks of preparation, the moment of assumption so aptly
planned and executed. All that remained was the milking. The precious
yield. Only a fool would jeopardize his just reward when it was so
close. A breath away.

He had to wait, to let the specimen steep and mellow. A while longer.

Control. "There there, James," he rasped. "I shall be going now, and you
must rest. Rest and heal, my child. Salve of my soul.

Wellspring of my salvation. Good night, James. Good night, my
child."

He felt the eyes following him as he crossed the room and peered out to
check the corridor.

Safe.

Head ducked, Cobb dashed past the row of darkened patient rooms and
turned down the narrow hallway at the far end. Beyond the storage and
utility areas was an unmarked black door. He paused and rummaged through
his pockets. He needed, to think, to plan a fresh, bold, infallible
strategy his fingers found the stolen key, and he quickly worked the
lock. Checking again to make certain he was wholly unobserved,'he let
himself into the sanctum.

By the flickering spire of a wooden match, Cobb scrutinized the narrow
chamber. Everything was precisely as he'd left it. In the center of the
floor, the blue thread remained coiled in the serpentine symbol that was
Cobb's designated sentry. The slightest movement would have deformed the
gossamer shape. His refuge remained unviolated.

He sniffed, flaring his nostrils. There was a pleasant trace of mint
from the essence he'd dabbed on the radiator to counter the musty pall
of disuse. Crossing to the far end of the room, he found the pull cord
that turned on a pink bulb of spare wattage. Gentle, serene.

She would approve, he thought and felt a shiver of pride. He imagined
how she would purse her lips and press her graceful hands together as
she assessed the fruits of his toil. He pictured her languid nod of
affirmation.

Finding a safe haven had been critical to Cobb. On his last mission, he
had suffered mightily for the lack of one.

The memory of that hideous experience throbbed like a festering sore.

He had been on his way to the specimen's room when there was a fluffy of
approaching motion around a near corner. Lacking a suitable alternative,
Cobb had shut himself in the tiny supply closet to avoid detection.

An unusual volume of activity on the floor had held him imprisoned in
that stifling tomb. Trapped.

After a gelid mass of time, the walls had begun to quiver. Near the
ceiling, a row of eyeball jets had materialized and slithered open to
permit the leak of blue, noxious fumes. As his meager air supply was
exhausted, Cobb had felt a dizzy wash of fear, felt himself yielding to
the black descent.

Sinking through time. He was a child again, locked in the broom closet.
The two of them were standing outside in the pantry, tittering. Cobb
could hear the rise of excitement in their voices as they plotted his
humiliation. The reptilian darkness looped around his neck and began to
squeeze. "Let me out! Please let me out!"

"Malcolm? Stop that insipid whimpering this instant. You act lazy and
stupid, you know the consequences. You asked for this, Malcolm. You
brought it upon yourself."

"Let me out!" Fists pounding. Bones, splintering. The blood of his
desperation splattering, the walls."

"Please! Please! Let me out. I can't breathe! Have to go to the
bathroom. Can't hold it much longer. Please."

Always the same. The two of them would wait for his silence.

Wait until the darkness had grown to a multitentacled beast and begun to
consume him organ by organ. Nothing he could do but cower in mute,
paralytic despair.

Cobb could hear the tearing teeth of the darkness, feel the grinding
dissolution of his flesh and sinew. Piece by piece he was swallowed.

Foot, leg, knee. Hand, arm, shoulder. Nearing the end.

Soon.

And then the door would swing open, unleashing a cruel avalanche of
blinding light. When his sight was restored, they would be poised, one
on each side. Flushed with pleasure, giggling in gleeful anticipation.

Heedless of his mutilation, they would shove him outside and force him
to sit on the tall punishment stool in full view of the busy street
beyond. They would slip the elastic holding the muzzle around his neck,
shove on the cruel band with the floppy paper mule ears. And then they'd
drape the tail around him, drooping from a length of cord around his
waist so it pointed accusingly at the dark stain spreading across his
lap.

And then they would set out the sign -on the large wooden easel and ring
the bell of shame. Only the rear of the placard was visible to him. But
the words were etched in his mind. "Come one, come all and see Malcolm
Cobb, the world's stupidest ass."

Hiding in the supply closet that time had brought it all back.

Cobb struggled to squelch the razor scream rising in his throat. Bit
hard on his tongue. Tasted the sweet metal of his own blood.

Beyond the door, he could hear the staff and patients milling about.

Like giggling women in a pantry, plotting against him.

Delighting in his mortification. Savoring his inner death. No! No more!

The scream was slithering through his clenched teeth, pressing at his
lips. Stop!

He had come perilously close to giving himself away. Too close.

After that, he'd vowed to anticipate, to warrant against all
contingencies. If the need for a refuge arose again, or if such a place
eased his enterprise in any fashion, he would have a proper one
prepared. He remained vigilant, haunting the silent halls, examining the
hospital structure for abandoned or forgotten spaces he might claim as
his own.

Then, on one of his preparatory visits before the taking of this latest
specimen, he'd noticed the slim, unmarked, black door at the terminus of
the narrow corridor beyond pediatrics. That night, when the guard had
abandoned his post to indulge in a smoke in the cafeteria, Cobb had
snatched the hospital's master key and had it duplicated at an all-night
locksmith downtown.

Opening the black door, Cobb had discovered a small room cluttered with
dusty supplies. From the basic furnishings, he divined that it had once
served as a lounge where on-duty staff could sleep between calls.

There were several like it scattered throughout the hospital, though the
rest, Cobb noted, were far more commodious.

He recalled that Fairview had severed its relationship with a medical
teaching facility some years earlier. Likely, this space with its
spartan furnishings and paltry ventilation had been deemed suitable for
the lowly interns and medical students but held laughingly inadequate
for licensed staff.

Fortunate snobbery, Cobb thought. To him, it was the perfect sanctum.

Close to the child. A breath away. And entirely his.

Over the course of weeks, Cobb had emptied the room of its superfluous
debris, depositing useless items in various trash receptacles around the
hospital. And then he'd set about fashioning the space to his liking
with items he'd brought from the cabin or commandeered from hospital
supply.

He'd mounted a small, framed mirror over the sink, placed a spare pen
and tablet for his exercises on a stool beside the bed, and settled
Mother's ancient rag rug in the center of the floor.

He had dressed the cot with fresh linen and left three soft blue
blankets rolled at the foot of the mattress. In the slim metal locker
beside the door, he'd stored a shoe box filled with a spare set of
toiletries. The uniforms he'd pilfered from the hospital laundry hung in
a reassuring row'. lab coats, green surgical scrubs complete with masks
and shoe covers, the yellow gown and mask ensemble used for dealing with
contagious patients.

In the corner under the window was a carton filled with his emergency
survival supplies: extra candles and thread; soda crackers in plastic
packets; a water jug; a shrink-wrapped patient bundle containing a
plastic urinal, bedpan, soap dish, and pitcher; bandages and antiseptic,
reading matter including his own precious Volume. In a metal trough were
several single-use syringes containing a variety of essential drugs.

All in readiness. Any number of times during the preparatory phase he'd
elected to spend the night in the sanctum. In the morning, he'd donned
one or the other of the several staff uniforms he'd managed to procure
without effort and strode boldly about the hospital corridors.

Not once had his appearance been challenged.

Fool drones. But since the assumption of the specimen, he'd endeavored
to remain as inconspicuous as he could. More difficult, to be certain.

But far more judicious as well.

Weary, he settled on the lean mattress and pondered alternative
approaches to the harvest.

It would all be so simple save for the vile obstacle the woman.

She stood as a menacing impediment to his very survival.

Which left him with only one sound alternative. His dear one had warned
him that the woman should be eliminated. But he had not divined a way to
dispose of her without casting suspicion on his primary enterprise.
Puzzle of grand perplexity, its solution teasing beyond his reach.

But he would not think of that now. It would come. Her reckoning, his
resurrection. Bound together in a seamless, gratifying whole.

A pleasant warmth invaded his limbs as he imagined her disposal.

His mind soared on a gossamer bubble. Flesh tingled.

Lovely. He slipped his hand beneath his belt and insinuated his fingers
in the tangle of velvety down and hardness.

He was unbound. Rising. Riding the exhilarating crest. Soaring beyond!

Cobb ignored the leaping flame of warning. Silenced the strident caw of
admonition. In a glorious rush, he reached the perilous peak and sank in
a blessed gel of oblivion.

Cobb awoke with a start. Tentacles of dawn had slipped through the
narrow window and were oozing across the sanctum walls. He detected the
escalating activity that presaged a shift change.

Footsteps, a percolator pulsing, voices. "Morning, Gladys. Hope you're
ready for the postappendectomy in twelve. Kid's hell on wheels."

"Bad as that foulmouthed little double-hernia in three?"

"Close."

Wretched dolts were absorbed by their petty enterprises. How could they
bear the burden of their mundane obligations with such brainless
obedience? A swell of contempt filled him, centering his energies and
mobilizing him to confront the day.

Better. He could not make another safe attempt at the milking until
tonight. Tonight, he would take what was rightfully his and be renewed.
Meanwhile, he would have to utilize his reserves and find the will to
play out the cruel charade of his normal existence. He must avoid
suspicion at all costs. Now more than ever.

Cobb donned his vile uniform and forced himself to report to his job.

Fortunately, he was not confronted with any significant challenges.

Nothing but routine mechanical inspections. Minor repairs and
adjustments. The standard assembly line of fouled, repugnant parts he
was mandated to test and restore to good condition.

He avoided all but the necessary contacts with his fellow workers and
the customers, kept his movements spare and controlled. Still, by the
time he was able to sign out and slip away, he was numb with exhaustion.

All because of that wretched woman. She had stood in his path,
endangered him. Now his powers were dimmed to a vapor trace. Cobb caught
a whiff of the repugnant scent. Vile residue of his own demise.

After work, he drove toward the cabin, hoping to find a message from his
dear one. By now, she must be ready to patch their rift, to apologize.
Perhaps she would be there when he arrived, waiting to surprise him. He
imagined her seated on the rocking chair, her visage humble as a
penitent's. The possibility buoyed him, but only briefly.

As he drove, the muscle fibers in his left arm, shoulder to fingertips,
went suddenly slack and insensate. Desperate, he groped for a way to
battle the weakness and restore the waxen limb. Mental recentering,
biofeedback. All useless.

Then, he happened upon a comforting incantation. Over and over, he
recited the roster of treasonous elements: clavicle, scapula, humerus,
scaphoid, trapezoid, pisi form, hamate, triangular, metacarpals,
phalanges. It was an entreaty. A prayer.

Pectoralis major, latissimus dorsi, trapezius, pectoralis minor,
deltoideus, teres major, biceps, coracobrachialis, brachialis, triceps.

Each a separate urging.

Control! The words blunted his terror, but there was no real redemption.
Nothing but further, relentless decline. He should never have yielded to
the Flesh. How many times had she warned him? They had both warned him,
Mother and her. Punished him lest he forget and be damaged further. The
Flesh was a deadly demon, a seductive trap.

He had always endeavored to resist temptation, and to follow their wise
counsel, but every so often the Flesh would manipulate him, lure him
like a painted harlot.

Later he would suffer the dark spells, his thoughts fluttering in and
out of reach like capricious insects, his brilliance dimmed to the
paltry sizzle of a spent bulb.

It was then that he would make the unforgivable errors, suffer the
failures. Unthinkable grades. The ignominious descent from his proper
position at the intellectual apex. Desperation would force him to commit
the heinous acts. Then would come their revulsion and reprisals.
"Malcolm Cobb, stupid ass. Come see the world's stupidest ass."

As he drove down the ribbon of country road toward home, a sudden
paralysis claimed the right side of his face, leaving him partially blind and
dribbling like an imbecile. A mockery. A grotesque!

Stumbling into the cabin, he caught sight of his monstrous visage in the
mirror over the maple chest. In a storm of rage, he smashed the glass
with one of Mother's bronze lion's head bookends until the battered
frame yawned empty and impotent and a ring of glinting slivers lay at
his feet.

Better. He felt himself rising by meager degrees. Gaining. He would not
be ruled by the fear. Somehow, he would find the energy to complete the
harvest and be healed. Next time he approached the child there would be
no heinous impediment.

Patience. Until the weakness subsided, he decided to seek distraction in
the fifth-phase exercises. He believed ardently in the regimen of his
group. The exercises outlined in their procedure manual had sustained
him through years of relentless assault by the blue vapor. Peak mental
conditioning required daily review of the sequential challenges leading
to the tenth phase. Some never achieved that pinnacle of intellectual
excellence, Cobb knew. But when he'd first joined the circle of
brilliance, he'd been ready to commence with the fourth phase and
quickly passed to the ninth and tenth.

For him, the fifth phase was almost soothing in its simplicity.

So basic. Simple memory and recitation in two or more antiquated or
exotic tongues. From his vast store of mastered idioms, Cobb decided on
the classical Latin forms first. Then Middle English. Virgil.

Chaucer. All as familiar as his palm. But he kept stumbling. Losing his
place and concentration.

Cobb shuddered. To have sunk so far. So quickly. For once he was pleased
that she had not come to heal the breach between them. Not tonight. She
must never see him in such a state. He shivered, knowing how her face
would warp with revulsion and loathing.

What if she suddenly arrived? The thought sent him into a reefing panic.

And then he remembered the treasures. Trembling with need, he pressed
his weight against the bedstead, and it yielded the necessary distance.

Displacing the loose board section in the floor, he pressed his
unafflicted hand into the cool darkness and emerged with one of the
precious remnants. A portion of the child's shirt. Tattered and soiled.
But to him a thing of wonder. Incomparably beautiful.

Priceless.

He pressed his lips to the rigid mass in the center of the fabric.

His tongue worked over the healing humor. Softening and drawing forth
the balm.

Instantly, Cobb felt the infiltrating charge of vigor. The warm wash of
sweet deliverance.

Mere moments and he was restored. Robust. His muscles thrummed with
vibrant renewal, face reveled in its own elastic symmetry.

Magnificence!

Lord of the moment! Dark moon rising. But his relief was fleeting.

Soon, too soon, the vapor would begin to enfeeble him again.

He needed grand stores of the pure healing reserves. Needed to begin
milking the specimen. Nothing would stand in his way.

Drum awakened to the sound of the front door slamming and Booker's voice
trailing up the stairs. "Hey. Anybody home?" The position of the sun
said somewhere around threethirty. Spokes of light leaked through the
angled blinds spotlighting Stella's face.

Still fast asleep.

Drum loved to look at her. Woman had a great puss. Strong bones.

Generous, sexy features. Solid frame with terrific springs and
incredible upholstery. Whole picture made Drum hungry all over again.

But the kid was home, so he'd have to behave himself. He pulled 'the
sheets up over her shoulders, nuzzled the downy triangle at the back of
her neck, and was tugging on his pants when the knock came. "You in
there, Mr. Drum? Mrs. Drum?"

"Yeah, Book," Drum whispered through the door. "We were taking a nap.

Stella's still zonked. I'll be right down."

He found the kid at the kitchen table studying his spelling list over
a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. "So, how's it going, hotshot?

Have a good day?"

"I ain't complaining." He looked up from the list, and his lips spread
in an impish grin. "A nap, huh? You expect me to believe that, Mr.
Drum?"

"Yeah. I do."

"You was getting it on, wasn't you?"

Drum frowned. "That kind of thing is between me and Stella."

BOOKER rolled his eyes. "It's cool, Mr. Drum. You could tell me.

Ain't no big deal."

"Let it go, Book. You heard me. You're out of line."

"Everybody does it, Mr. Drum. It's normal. Ain't nothing to be ashamed
of."

"I said can it!"

Booker's face went dark, and he nibbled a hangnail. "Don't have to treat
me like some little kid."

"Yeah I do. You are a little kid."

"Ain't no baby though." His mouth was set, eyes sparkling mad. "Tell you
that much."

Drum knew the act. Booker still had his shell of defenses from the bad,
old days. Slipped back on real easy. "No, Book. You're no baby."

"Well you treat me like one, man. Treat me like a damned baby.

Pisses the hell out of me." Booker shot to his feet, knocking the chair
over. Crumpled his spelling list and flung it on the floor.

Then he stomped across the room and out the swinging kitchen door.

"Don't have to take none of this shit, no way. I'm out of here, man.

I'm gone."

Drum heard the kid clumping up the stairs and the sound of drawers
smacking. Waiting for the storm to blow over, he leafed through the
local paper and downed a couple of Oreos dunked in the remains of
Booker's milk.

News of the unsolved hit-run had been demoted to a quarter column on
page five. The Elks had added five thousand to the reward offered for
information leading to the driver's arrest. Brought the pot up to
twenty-five grand. Nice round number, especially adding the bonus five
from Carmody. If things fell his way, Drum would ask old Danny boy to
deliver the take in tens. Chief could definitely use the exercise.

There was a quote from Mayor Schippani trashing Carmody for the
department's failure to crack the case. According to Schippani, the
chief was guilty of mismanagement, lack of direction, poor use of the
force's resources, tensions in the Middle East, and the hole in the
ozone layer. Obviously, the blast was a direct feed from that snake
Charlie Allston. Drum figured the guy was already having himself fitted
to fill Carmody's shoes.

The kid came shuffling back into the kitchen when Drum was skimming
through the classifieds. Hard habit to break after so many years of
looking for something. Booker made a listless pass around the kitchen,
slammed a couple of cabinet doors, and stood with folded arms and a
tight expression. "Sorry I blew off like that."

"No big thing."

"Shot my fool mouth off. Lost my fool temper."

"Happens," Drum said.

"Forget it."

Booker's face was full of feelings Drum understood too well.

Shriveled, old feelings. Tough and bitter, "I'll try to keep a lid on
it, Mr. Drum. But I ain't promising. Sometimes I just blow off.

just my way."

"So that means you're staying?"

"Guess I will, if it's cool with you."

"Yeah, it's fine. Tell you the truth, Book, I'm kind of used to having
you around."

"Guess I'm kind of used to you too, Mr. Drum. You ain't so bad."

"Neither are you, hotshot." Drum held out a hand, and Booker gave it a
few strategic slaps. "So we okay, Mr. Drum? We cool?"

"You bet." He checked his watch. "Listen, I'd better get back to it,
kid. Catch you later."

"How 'bout I go with you? Got no homework."

"Not today, Book. Another time." Kid went glum again. It was like that
with a kid sometimes: one step forward, two back.

Stella trudged in wearing a white terry robe and quilted pink slippers.

She took the kid by the ears and bussed his forehead. "Hi, handsome.

Have a good day at the salt mines?"

"Yeah, fine. Hey listen, Mrs. Drum. Didn't you say I could hang around
and goof if I don't have no homework? Didn't you say it was okay long as
I was home by dark?"

"Yes, I did, honey. But today I need you to stick around.

Mrs. Bergmuller from social services said she'd be stopping by between
four and five to say hello."

She was trying to sound breezy, but Drum caught an edge of worry.

"What's she want?" Drum had never liked the broad. She was too young,
too bouncy. Had way too many teeth.

Stella shrugged. "She wouldn't say. Told me she had some news for us.

Wants to explain it in person. That's all."

Drum didn't like the smell of it. "I'll wait then."

"No need, Jerry," Stella said. Drum could see she meant it. Knew he
should be out there trying to earn his keep. "You can go."

He raised his eyebrows at her, double-checking. She nodded in that way
of hers that said, yeah, she could handle it, whatever it was.

Drum let her boot him out the door.

Driving north in the beauty, Drum kept thinking how you could never
figure things. About this time last year they'd been mad as hell that
social services wasn't on the case. The Bergmuller broad was in charge
of Booker's file, but they hadn't heard a peep from her in months.

Drum had called her office and left a stack of messages, but she was
obviously ducking him. When he'd finally cornered her on the phone by
posing as an old boyfriend from college, she'd finally admitted that
Booker wasn't going to be easy to place for adoption: too old, too poor,
too much baggage, way too dark.

Which had turned out to be more than okay with Drum and Stella.

They were doing fine with the kid. Better than fine. The last thing they
needed was some bouncy, shark-toothed, officious baby broad looking over
their shoulders. Scorched him to think about it. Maybe it was nothing.
Drum shelved the infuriating thoughts and got himself ready for the next
round. Time to drop in at the houses on his curious neighbor list.

He decided to go with his census-taker routine. Most people were willing
to cooperate when Drum produced the ten-page form he'd printed on the
press in his basement and flashed his laminated ID card with the bogus
official government business stamp. Once he got into a house and started
people talking, the rest came easy.

No one answered at his first stop. At the next, a mock Tudor a half mile
east of Cascade on ponus Ridge, the door was tugged open by a seventyish
couple named Marvin and Binnie Proust, who looked like flip sides of the
same short, portly, moon-faced coin and moved in the tortoise tandem of
twins joined at the-hip.

They were more than willing to answer his questions. Binnie pulled out a
fat family album to put faces on the jumble of relatives she found cause
to mention. Meanwhile, Marvin poured generous measures of Chivas Regal
for himself and Drum.

Drum protested that he wasn't supposed to drink on duty, but he allowed
Marvin to twist his arm and joined the old guy in a couple of belts to
avoid an insult. Anything for the cause.

When Binnie mentioned her five-year-old grandson from Phoenix, Drum
grabbed the opening and asked them if they'd known the local kid that
age who'd been involved in the hit-run.

They went grim with honest interest. But when Drum gently pressed them
to remember if they'd seen any speeding cars pass by around noontime on
the day of the accident, he sent them into a hopeless spiral of
confusion. "The twenty-first? Wasn't that the day we went for the root
canal?" Binnie said. "Eye doctor, I think. I needed a new reading
prescription, remember? Remember how I was looking at the Guide, and I
couldn't find Tuesday?"

"Right, yeah.

And then we had lunch at the diner on Summer Street? Tuna on whole wheat
and you had the turkey breast with Russian, right?"

"It was Friendly's, Bin. Remember the eggs were cold?"

"Oh, yeah, and tough as rubber. And the fryolater was out of whack, so I
had to have chips instead of fries, right?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Wasn't that the day Aunt Sadie came for
lunch, and she kept going on and on about how mad she was at Rose for
not inviting her to Ellie's wedding?"

Binnie let out a rush of breath. "Sadie's dead five years now, Marvin.

How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Oh, yeah. A stroke, right? Slipped my mind." "Not a stroke. A coronary.
Milton had the stroke."

"Oh, yeah."

At the next house, near the intersection with Cascade, the door was
answered by a young woman holding an infant. The baby was starched with
anger, screeching like a tripped alarm. Drum tried to pitch his spiel
over the ruckus.

The mother was shaking the kid like a cocktail, but it didn't help.

After a couple of minutes, she shrugged her shoulders in apology and
said that this wasn't a good time. Drum caught the word "colic" and her
asking him to come back later when the kid might be calmer.

Eighteen or twenty years, he figured.

His next hope was a sprawling gray ranch on Mill. He judged Helen
Silberfeld, the woman who answered the door there, to be in her late
fifties. From her responses to the fake census survey, Drum learned she
was a widow who lived alone with three calico cats, a pair of Irish
setters, and a mouthy cockatiel. No kids. She'd worked for years in the
reference department of one of the branch libraries, but she'd given it
up when her husband got sick, and she hadn't gotten around to returning.

Mrs. Silberfeld was attractive and intelligent. Plenty of vintage class.
But she had loneliness written all over her. Talked too much and too
quickly. Gave too much a"* too fast, which suited Drum fine.

He turned the conversation to the day of the hit-run, and she was able
to dip into her mental files with all the methodical clarity of a
trained researcher. She did remember hearing a squeal of brakes and
going to the window to investigate. She'd gotten there just in time to
catch a fast glimpse of a dark car rounding the hairpin curve toward the
High Ridge spur.

Drum coaxed, but she stayed foggy on the details. The car color could
have been any dark shade or even a dirty medium. The driver had been out
of sight around the curve before she made it to the window.

Her first impression was of a van or a station wagon in brown or dark
green, but after reading that another witness had mentioned a maroon
sedan going in the opposite direction, she had to admit to herself that
the whole thing had happened too quickly to leave her sure of anything.

A policeman had stopped by a couple of days later to see if she had
information about the accident, but the incident had seemed too
insignificant to mention. And reluctantly, Drum was beginning to agree.
Woman was no star witness. He finished the cup of coffee she'd pressed
on him and left.

Two hours work, and, so far, all he had to show for his troubles was a
full bladder.

Drum had one last card to play. He made another slow swing through
Tyler's Grove. Almost five o'clock and the place was finally starting to
look lived in. Clumps of kids were playing noisily in the street,
hopping around like beads of water on a hot skillet. Silent images
danced on television screens. Smoke belched from several stone chimneys
and wafted ghostlike on the frigid air.

Determined to interview the one witness of record, Drum pulled into the
bluestone drive at the Holroyd house on Melon Patch Lane and rang the
bell. He wanted to hear the broad's story about the speeding car with
his own ears, see how it played live and in person.

No answer. The house was a stock, center hall colonial with a weathered
shake exterior and russet trim. Drum peered through a broad bay window
into a pin-neat living room filled with fat English antiques. No junk,
no tossed shoes or rumpled magazines. Crocheted doilies guarded the
backs and arms of a plump sofa and a ring of side chairs done in pink
cabbage roses on a field of ivory chintz. The end tables were clean and
clear except for a couple of family treasures propped against squat
wooden stands: a hand-painted plate, a kid's book. The only island of
friendly disorder was an old walnut school desk in the corner. Its
pocked surface was piled with papers and a couple of texts. Drum studied
the scene as if it might have something to tell him. It didn't.

One of those days. He walked back to the beauty, stomping out his
frustrations in the broad stream of bluestone on the driveway. Time to
let out the slack and widen the circle.

He drove north on High Ridge and took Trinity Pass Road into the
half-horse town of Scotts Corners, New York. The place came down to a
scatter of clapboard houses and a single strip of understated shops:
appliance store, kitchen design, health spa, Irish handknits, beauty
parlor, Italian restaurant, combination stationery-delipharmacy with an
unadvertised side business in football bets. Drum pulled into the gas
station half a block past the main drag and strode through the cramped
front office to the service bays.

He spotted Billy Driscoll's feet poking out from under a disemboweled
Pontiac. The crusted, toeless work boots were a dead giveaway. So were
the blackened toes poking through the gap with their inch-long grimy
talons. Drum caught the rope trailing from the wooden dolly and yanked
the body out until he had a view of the whole sad story.

The eyes blinked. Oily black eyes floating in a pool of sludge.

Once, Drum had seen Driscoll spilled for his mother's funeral. Turned
out the guy had an actual face under all the filth. Long nose with
pinched nostrils, full mouth, thick eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, cupcake
chin. Standard equipment. But you'd never guess to look at him under
ordinary circumstances. Everyday Driscoll was filthy cords of tangled
hair, skin the color of raw sewage. Predictable stench. Real elegant.

The eyes stayed on Drum until they'd done their job and blinked a code
of recognition.

"That you in there, Jerry? What's the deal? Halloween's over."

"Yeah, Driscoll. Thanks for telling me. How's it going?"

Driscoll whistled. "That's some damned good getup you got there, Drum.

I wasn't a genius, I wouldn't have known you."

"You don't know me."

Driscoll stood and stuck out a hand. "You'll still do anything for a
buck, huh, Jerry? just like the good old days." Drum narrowly avoided
the proffered shake. Pumping Driscoll's handle was like dipping your
mitt into a sewer. "I didn't come here to be insulted, meat."

"Why then?"

"I'm working on this little matter for a guy. I wanted to run the thing
by you. See what you think."

Driscoll wiped his palms on his denim overalls. The crusted lips spread
to reveal a dilapidated fence of rotting teeth. Drum knew that some of
the cracked ivories and blackened stumps were casualties of Driscoll's
strange predilection for eating things whole-bones and all.

Raw or cooked, alive or dead, made no difference to Billy, which was how
he'd come by the nickname Meat.

Driscoll was a mechanical and scientific genius.. As a kid, he'd gotten
real interested in taking things apart to see how they worked.

Started with radios and toasters. Ended with an old one-eyed guy who'd
lived in a fleabag hotel in downtown Bridgeport. Drum had heard all
about the incident from Driscoll himself when they were next door
neighbors at the Long Lane Youth Correctional Facility. Meat was real
sentimental about that one-eyed guy.

Driscoll led Drum into the back office, a roach resort wedged between
service and the employees` can. He cracked a fresh fifth of Jim Beam,
poured a hefty measure into a glass of sweet cream, and slugged the mess
back.

Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, refilled the glass,
and held it out in Drum's direction.

Drum passed, but he was real polite about it. Last thing you ever wanted
to do was hurt Meat's feelings.

Fortified, Driscoll folded his arms and nodded. "Shoot." Drum described
the kid's injuries: compound fracture of the left tibia, fracture of the
left anterior skull. Persistent mild coma. Not wanting to influence
Driscoll's read, he didn't mention that the victim had been a child.
Avoided saying anything about a car or an accident.

Brain like Driscoll's needed plenty of room for taxi and takeoff.

Never knew where the guy would land either. Probably wouldn't come up
with anything, but Drum figured it couldn't hurt to let him try.

Driscoll thought a minute, then he started firing questions. Any tearing
of vascular channels around the brain? Any scalp lacerations?

Did the brain lesion cross the middle meningeal artery? What was the
nature and size of the skull fracture? How did the victim score on the
coma scale?

As usual, Drum was impressed. Driscoll would have made a helluva doctor
if he hadn't been caught playing butcher. "So?" Drum said.

"What's your read?"

"Wait a damned minute, Jerry. You know I don't lay my hand until I have
all the cards." Driscoll asked a pile of additional questions about the
posttraumatic condition of the victim. Vomiting? Pupillary asymmetry?

Had there been a need for endotracheal intubation? Was the victim put on
assisted or controlled respiration? What were the blood gas values?

Drum knew he was in way over his head at this point. He went out to the
beauty and fetched the copies of the hospital reports from the trunk.
Pulling off the identifying information on the top sheet, he handed the
pile of papers to Driscoll and watched the cesspool read.

Driscoll chewed on a knuckle. Scratched his filthy head. At one point,
he pressed one nostril shut and shot the contents of the other one into
his shirt pocket. Guy's manners had improved.

When he finished, he tossed the papers aside and went into one of his
stupors. Drum had seen it before. Guy turned blank and still as a rock.
Only sign of life was the low humming noise that seemed to come from
Meat's entrails. Sounded like he'd swallowed a bee hive. Then with
Driscoll, you could never tell.

Drum waited until Driscoll came around and shook off the fog like a wet
dog. "Got it," he said. And he started reeling off the facts and
suppositions.

The injured party was a male child, aged somewhere between five and six.
Driscoll recited the Merritt kid's vital statistics as if he'd just
finished fitting the kid for a suit: thirty-eight pounds, forty-three
inches tall, medium hair, light eyes, no prior injuries or serious
illnesses. No allergies. No siblings. Parents well educated.

Both employed. Professional or creative fields. Mother was in one of the
helping professions. Meat was a little cloudy on the father's gig, but
the man was definitely over six feet tall and talented.

Drum knew Meat was only warming up. Driscoll could easily get all that
information by working from the medication and equipment orders, the
anecdotal notes, and the grainy copies Drum had made of the kid's X
rays. Driscoll could read a person's life story in an X ray.

When they were at Long Lane, a vet from Belmont used to come up to visit
Driscoll once a week during the racing season. All Meat had to do was
look at the horses' X rays, and he could tell the guy exactly where to
lay his loot.

Vet got rich, Meat got richer. And he'd invested his winnings wisely.

Drum knew he owned a dozen stations like this one in various parts of
the country, a fleet of cabs, a limo operation, and a chain of walk-in
clinics and medical labs.

"All confirmed as far as you've taken it, Meat. Now tell me something I
don't already know," Drum said.

Driscoll's eyes narrowed. "You always were an impatient sonavabitch,
Drum. Hold your water, will you? I'll tell you plenty."

The broken leg had been caused by sharp, sudden impact with a piece of
curved metal. Probably a steel alloy. Approximately six inches high over
a springmounted rubber base.

Translation, car bumper with a late-model crash damage control system.

Car had a steel chassis, automatic transmission, power-assist steering.

Either a foreign model or one of those American cars with Tokyo-made
parts that had been slapped together in Michigan. The weight Meat
estimated would make it a midsize sedan or a wagon with plenty of crap
in the trunk. Steel-belted radial tires. Snows on the rear. If the car
hadn't been laundered, there'd be blood on the right front fender and
traces on the hood and windshield.

The head injury was not so easy for Driscoll to read. It was a depressed
skull fracture with none of the accompanying tearing of the vascular
channels Meat would have expected to find. The circular scalp laceration
was. also surprising. "You see, Drum, if the kid was hit by a car and
tossed so his head hit something round and hard like a rock on the
ground, you'd get a different kind of picture altogether.

The blood vessels and membranes around the brain would be trashed.

You'd have swelling, bleeding." He held the X ray up to the light and
pointed a soiled finger. "Look at that head shot, my man. Squeaky
clean."

Other things didn't fit either. Given the injury profile, there was no
reason Meat could see for the boy's cardiac symptoms. The kid had gone
into arrest three times, and his vitals had remained erratic for the
first twenty-four hours after the accident. Even after that, he'd had
several bouts of tachycardia, rapid heartbeat so severe they'd had to
put the kid on an antiarrhythmia medication called Inderal.

Strangely, even that had failed to control the problem at first. Made
Driscoll wonder.

Meat looped his grimy paws behind his equally grimy neck and paused for
effect." ...  So what I'd say we've got here is a couple of interesting
questions. How come the head injury was so clean? And why the heart
symptoms?"

"So you have any ideas?"

"My mama, may she rest in peace, told me never to read in the dark,
Jerry. Only one way to know for sure what we're dealing with."

Drum scowled as Driscoll explained what he'd need to take the next step.
"Tell me you're joking, Meat. How the hell am I going to do that?"

"That's your problem, pal. You want me to make tea, you gotta bring me
the tea leaves."

Drum listened to Meat's instructions, picked up the kid's hospital
reports, and walked back toward the beauty.

The last of the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. His shadow wavered
and strained over the greasy blacktop, and his breath rode the air in
angry puffs.

He hadn't been able to get Meat to make any guesses, but Drum was
itching to come up with a few of his own. So how did it all fit
together? He tried to find a place for all the odd pieces.

Unexplained heart symptoms? Injuries that didn't add up? Strange
medication reactions? What in the hell was Meat thinking?

Drum pictured the driver hitting the kid and flying into a blind panic.

And after that, nothing. All he kept imagining was running and more
running.

But then that weird image came back to him. Whisper on the wind.

Why did he keep thinking about that? What did it mean? He could almost
feel the pulse of air. A phantom projectile streaking through the silent
sky.

Drum shook his head to clear it. Reading in the dark. Meat's mother was
right. Definitely not the best way. The trick was to follow up, be
methodical. He could almost hear Big Matt's voice: Use what you have,
Johnny. Everything you find can tell you a story if you take the time to
listen and learn, son.

Drum gunned the engine and turned the beauty around. A playful little
smile worked over his mouth. Even though Meat had refused to lay out his
guess, the guy had obviously smelled something, and Meat's nose was
legendary. Funny how the people who try the hardest to disappear always
manage to leave behind a calling card.

By the time Drum arrived at the hospital, visiting hours had ended.

Entering the lobby, he heard a nasal voice over the loudspeaker urging
the final stragglers to leave. Which called for Plan B. Drum ducked into
a phone booth near the coffee shop and asked the hospital operator to
connect him with the family waiting room on the labor and delivery
suite. A hoarse-sounding guy answered there, and Drum inquired if there
was any news yet about Mrs. Rodriguez. Drum heard the receiver clatter
on its cord and the hoarse guy asking around. No Rodriguez.

Drum hung up, waited half a minute, and called again. He could hear the
raspy guy's patience eroding. Four more calls, and the man was shooting
sparks. "Listen, buddy, I told you there's nobody here named Rodriguez.
There's a Frasier and a Mahoney and a Minotti, period. Now will you stop
ringing the damned phone? Happens we're waiting for important news." At
the security desk, Drum stopped and asked directions to the delivery
suite. "My daughter's having a baby. Name's Minotti." The guard was a
ruddy giant with Chiclet teeth and a salted walrus mustache. He took in
Drum's mis-buttoned trench coat, jittery stance, and the huge basket of
flowers he carried, and grinned. "First grandkid?"

"Shows?"

"Know it well. My first, I was out of my head.

Got four now. Two more on the way. Everything works out fine and dandy.
You'll see."

"Yeah. Hope so."

Drum shoved a cigarette between his lips, wrong end out. Thing felt
peculiar. He'd copped it from a pack he'd hidden in his sock drawer for
emergencies and managed not to need so far. The guard chuckled and
punched a few keys on the computer terminal at the main desk. "Minotti
hasn't delivered yet. Go on up, grandpa. Be over before you know it, and
you'll have yourself a nice little baby to spoil rotten. Nothing like
it."

When he was out of sight down the hall, Drum shrugged out of the coat,
rolled it into a taut cylinder, and slipped it behind a trash can.

Underneath, he wore an ink-blue jumpsuit with I'm 21 sewn over the
breast pocket and "Property of Fairview Hospital" embroidered on the
back. Carmody's tailor, Luigi, was far from the best needleman in the
game, but he had to be one of the quickest. Drum had called in his order
to Luigi's shop first thing this morning, and he'd found the package of
costumes waiting when he went home for his afternoon nap.

He lifted the flowers out of their basket. Inside was a metal bucket, a
measure of powdered soap, and a sponge. Drum replaced the flowers and
set the basket on the windowsill at the far end of the hall. Then he
filled the bucket in the nearest men's room and took a quick hike
through the glass bridge and down the rear elevator to the laboratory.

The door was double locked with a serious deadbolt, but Drum and his
picks managed to convince it to open.

The place was exactly as Meat had led him to expect.

He passed through a generous reception area, silent except for the angry
hiss of the overhead clock. Inside, the work areas ran like spokes off
the narrow central corridor. To the left was a rabbit warren of tiny,
windowless offices. A series of labs separated by glass dividers jutted
off to the right. Their specialties were stenciled on the glass doors:
hematology, toxicology, cytology, genetics, chemistry, and other names
that made Drum's tongue feel tangled.

The polished steel counters were crammed with intimidating machinery.

Drum took a stroll around the place and checked out the gamma counters,
the fluorescence polarization machines, the variable rotators,
centrifuges that looked like the eggs of giant aliens, the prothrombin
time analyzer. He was hard-pressed to spot a microscope or much of
anything that required a human hand.

He ended his tour in the hematology section. Along one wall was a line
of steel-doored refrigerators. They held specimen racks by the hundreds,
each jammed with dozens of labeled glass vials.

According to Meat, the Merritt kid's chart indicated standing orders for
daily blood work. The docs wanted to check for infections and monitor
any glitches in the kid's metabolism that might signal impending system
failure. Standard procedure given the nature of the child's injuries,
Meat had assured.

The orders didn't call for a fasting specimen, Driscoll had noted, so it
was likely that the kid would be on the list for a late collection.

According to Meat, that meant the samples would probably be stored for
next-day analysis. There would also be a refrigerated baseline sample,
drawn at the time of admission, and held for later comparisons.

Perfect for Meat's purposes.

According to Driscoll, the daily draw would likely be divided into five
vials. He'd instructed Drum to siphon a half inch or so off each sample
and substitute the draw for the baseline sample Meat needed.

Complicated, but the only way to ensure that nothing would be missed.

Drum started rifling through the specimen racks. The samples were
arranged by floor, which made his job easier. He culled the racks from
the fifth floor and started searching for the ones bearing the Merritt
kid's name and six-digit patient number.

Drum was down to a few final possibilities when he heard a key working
in the door to the lab. His first instinct was to disappear, but he
couldn't spot any promising hiding places. The room had too much glass,
too many polished surfaces. He took a breath and stood his ground.

The key belonged to a stern-faced doctor in green scrubs. Guy stopped
short when he spotted Drum sponging tight circles on the steel counter.

But after a quick glance and a dismissive nod, he turned away, tugged
open the warmer in the adjacent bacteriology lab and started rifling
through the culture dishes. Not the type to waste much time on a mop
jockey, Drum figured. Lucky thing.

Drum caught the doc's reflected image in a glass fronted equipment
cabinet. Something familiar about the guy, but Drum couldn't pin it
down. Hopefully, the amnesia was mutual. Even in full camouflage, the
right set of eyes could see through him.

The doc was staring at the cultures. On several, Drum could see where
slimy green splotches had infiltrated the gum-pink surfaces and spread
to resemble the maps of emerging African nations. The doc made notes to
himself in a leather pocket organizer and returned the glass dishes to
the cooker.

Guy was taking his sweet time. Made Drum antsy as hell. The steel
counters were already so clean they squeaked when he wiped them.

He took a drag on the antiseptic air and let it out by degrees.

Finally, the doc was finished. His rubber soles squished across the
checkerboard tile, and he closed the door behind him with a resolute
click. Drum waited until the guy had plenty of time to get gone before
resuming his search.

Three more racks to go. The names and numbers on the vials were faint
and hard to read. Drum had to hold several up to catch the light at a
better angle. Took him five minutes more to eliminate the rest of the
first batch.

He was halfway through the second rack when he spotted the name Merritt.
The kid's other samples had to be nearby. He was checking the rest of
the specimens when he heard the knock.

There was a sharp rapping at the locked laboratory door. Too insistent
to ignore. Cursing under his breath, Drum answered.

A plump, sandy-haired nurse was on the other side. She beckoned him with
a cocked finger. "Got an upchuck for you in five twenty-seven, friend.
Doc was checking a kid's throat and back came dinner. No answer at
maintenance. Where is everybody?"

Drum shrugged. "I'll go get my mop. Meet you on five." "Uh, uh," she
said. "I got you, I'm not letting you get away. We have a beautiful mop
upstairs with your name on it, Joe. Come on with me, I'll introduce
you."

She looped her meaty fingers through Drum's elbow and escorted him up to
pediatrics. He swabbed up the mess, breathing through his mouth to avoid
the stench. This was definitely going to cost Carmody something extra.
Maybe that portable Nintendo game Booker had his eye on. Maybe more.

On the way to the elevators, he was stalled by a spilled glass of juice
in five-thirty and a jammed Venetian blind in five-seventeen.

The door to the Merritt kid's room was closed. Passing in slow motion,
he picked up a muffle of voices from inside, but he couldn't make out
the words.

Drum took the elevator down and went directly through the lab to the
rack of vials. He found the kid's number again in the middle of the
pack', located five other specimens with matching labels, and drew off
the samples into the sterile tube Meat had given him to switch with the
baseline sample from the refrigerator. Delicate operation. He was out of
the lab, and the door had locked behind him before he noticed the pox of
red flecks on his fingers.

He strode through the lobby wearing the trench coat. His hands were
thrust deep in his pockets. The guard flashed him a silent question.

Drum answered with a slow nod and held his grin steady until he was out
in the parking lot. He'd smile for real when he had the right brand of
blood on his hands.

Ten minutes after Cinnie returned to the hospital, Karen Sands wheeled
James back from the last of his tests. Poor sweetheart looked exhausted,
arms dangling, lids at half mast, chin lolling near his chest. "He did
great, Cin," Karen said. "Worked his cute little butt off."

Cinnie kissed him on both droopy eyelids and slicked a ribbon of fallen
hair back from his forehead. "How's it going, Jimbo? You look like
overcooked spaghetti."

"I, bet he won't sleep for more than a week or so," Karen said. "You get
a nice rest now, handsome. No more Devil's Island boot camp for you
until first thing tomorrow. Okay?"

They transferred James to the bed and settled him under the covers.

His eyes fluttered shut, and his breathing settled in a light snore.

Karen patted Cinnie's hand. "He really did well, Cin. Much better than I
expected, in fact. You want my amateur opinion, he'll get over all this
way faster than you will."

"Testing went all right too?"

"Fine, from what I heard."

"Come on, Karen. You know what I'm asking: numbers, conclusions,
prognosis.

Don't give me any of that 'fine crap. I want to know how he is-really."

Kareh flopped down on the visitor's chair and spewed a rush of air.
"Therapists make the worst patients and absolutely the worst patients'
mothers, Cin. That's the truth."

"Don't change the subject. Tell me."

"There's nothing you don't already know. It's going to be a long haul.

Everyone's reasonably optimistic about where he'll wind up eventually,
but he's going to need a lot of intensive therapy. And he's going to
need it for a long time."

"SO?"

"So as soon as Dr. Silver can put it together, everyone on the case will
sit down to hash out the treatment options and figure out the best way
to get from here to there."

"I want an invitation to that meeting."

She shrugged. "You know patient conferences are strictly for case staff,
Cin. Silver will never allow you to sit in. You and Paul will be
consulted before anything's decided. That much I can promise."

"I want an invitation, or I want a transcript or a tape recording.

This is my kid, and I have a right to know what's said about him. How
the hell are we supposed to make an informed decision if we're not
informed?"

"Why do you always have to be so damned logical?"

"Word for word, I want to know what's said and who says it."

Their eyes locked. Karen blinked first. "I'll see what I can do."

After Karen left, Cinnie settled in the chair next to James.

Watching her son sleep, she felt her bones melting. Her mind drifted.

She was nearly asleep herself when his voice pierced her bubble.

"Book, Mom."

"Ssh, honey. You rest now."

"Book, Mom. Book!"

"Sudden craving for literary enrichment, sweetie? Okay then."

Yawning, she walked over and picked several books from the stack on the
windowsill. "Okay, I've got Mr. Angelo, The One in the Middle Is the
Green Kangaroo, and that classic epic poem, I Can't, Said the Ant.

What's your pleasure, sir?"

James shook his head. "Book, Mommy."

"Not any of these?" She returned the first bunch and brought another
pile to the bed. He kept shaking his head in the negative until she held
out a slender beige volume called Garden of Weeds.

James nodded and patted the cover with his hand. "Book." Cinnie opened
to the first page and started to read. It was an odd, unpleasant story
about a wicked woman who lived in an old stone house.

She planted her garden with weeds and plucked out any stray wildflowers
or sweet berries that poked up through the thorny tangle.

Eventually, her weeds grew tall and strong and began to invade other
gardens in the village. The woman's neighbors pleaded with her to get
rid of the mess, but she refused. So one night, the neighbors stole into
the ugly garden and sprinkled weed killer over everything.

In the morning, nothing remained but two young, sturdy weeds named Dove
and Elegant. The woman took them in and nurtured them as her own son and
daughter. By supporting each other, the weeds thrived through a long,
difficult winter full of harrowing threats by the angry neighbors, and
the next spring, the old woman set them out again to flourish and
spread.

The weeds were connected by some weird bond. When one had a good day,
the other grew stronger. When one suffered adversity, the other one
weakened and bled a bitter green sap. The ailing weed could only be
restored by sucking the sap from a healthier weed in another garden.

Charming.

Cinnie finished reading and set the book aside. "Book, Mommy."

"How about this one, Jimbo? It's an Encyclopedia Brown mystery. Your
all-time favorite super intelligent little sleuth."

But he picked up the book about the weed garden and thrust it toward
Cinnie. "Book."

Reluctantly, she read it again. Creepy story. Homely little volume.

The pages were yellowed at the edges, the pictures grim and unappealing.
With a prickle of annoyance, Cinnie realized that her father's wife,
Madeline, must have brought the book for James along with the
ribbon-wrapped bag of chocolates on his night table and the new pair of
mud-brown pajamas she'd spotted in his drawer.

Cinnie's stepmother was a bargain fanatic. No doubt the pajamas and
chocolates had been on sale. The book was obviously used. The name
"Malcolm" was scrawled inside the front cover; Cinnie's nose wrinkled at
the musty scent rising from the pages.

Cinnie had nothing against bargains, but markdowns were Madeline's Holy
Grail. Didn't matter how homely the pajamas or how creepy the story or
how antique the chocolates. No matter if the pajamas were chocolate
colored and the chocolates tasted like pajamas. As long as the price was
right. Made Cinnie furious. Then everything about Madeline made Cinnie
furious. -At least no one could accuse her of being inconsistent. "Book,
Mom."

"Come on, Jimbo. Enough of that putrid story. How about I read you
Curious George Goes to the Hospital? It's got everything: suspense,
romance, high adventure."

She shoved the offensive little story under a pile of toys and found
several more attractive alternatives. But James would not be deterred.

He flushed, stiffened, and pointed in the direction of the hidden
volume. "Book, book! Book, Mom!" He was whimpering.

Desperate. "Okay, sweetie. Okay, you win. How come I'm bigger, and you
always win?"

She read the weed story half a dozen times more, but still James wasn't
satisfied. Nor did familiarity make the tale any more endearing to
Cinnie. She had a sharp fantasy of sprinkling weed killer over Madeline
and watching her shrivel and turn brown at the edges.

Dreadful book.

By the time James finally fell asleep, Cinnie was tempted to toss the
weed book out the window or stash it someplace suitable like the bedpan.
But she had the grim feeling that James would be asking for it again as
soon as he woke up. At least he was asking for something.

He slept soundly through Dal's visit. She brought Cinnie up to date on
neighborhood news, including the delicious gossip that Lydia Holroyd's
husband had given up his job that involved sixty percent travel for a
new position in which he'd be out of town almost full-time. "Can't say I
blame him," Dal said. "If I was married to -that know-it-all bitch, I
think I'd become an astronaut." Dr. Ferris stopped by to see how James
had fared in therapy. He passed a delicate hand over the little boy's
forehead and smiled. Cinnie was touched by the unusual display of
affection.

Being on the hospital staff, Cinnie knew enough to pick her doctors by
skill rather than personality. She'd ignored all the nasty asides about
Ferris from colleagues who resented his medical genius and his
standoffishness. He'd committed the mortal sin of refusing dinner party
invitations and refusing to attend hospital benefit dances.

Cinnie knew that socializing with the medical community didn't make
anyone a better doctor. But she'd often longed for the vaguest show of
warmth from Ferris, for her or James. For anybody. Most of the time, he
reminded her of something shrink-wrapped. But now she had a teasing
glimpse inside the careful packaging.

Ferris met her eyes. "Can't tell you how pleased I am, Mrs. Merritt.

How relieved. For a while there  ..."

"But he's not entirely conscious yet, is he? He still seems to be
drifting in and out."

The doctor frowned. "Not entirely, but close. Anytime now, I think we'll
have him fully alert. James has always been such a bright, animated
little boy. So outstanding. You must be very proud."

He looked softer than Cinnie could ever remember. Man was not bad,
artistic face. Intelligent eyes. Gentle hands. She'd never thought about
his age before, but he couldn't be much more than midthirties.

Wouldn't be a shabby catch, she thought and wondered how he'd react if
she mentioned Dal's single sister from Norwalk * Funny to consider
Ferris as anything but a medical machine. "Yes, I am proud of him, Dr.
Ferris. And thanks for the vote of confidence. I can't tell you how many
people refer to James in the past tense or pretend he's turned
invisible."

He waved away the sentiment and cleared his throat. "If there's anything
I can help you with, at any time, don't hesitate to call on me, Mrs.
Merritt. I know all this must- be terribly difficult for you."

He scribbled his pager number on a prescription form and handed it to
her. "Call anytime."

Dr. Silver, the neurologist, showed up shortly after Ferris left.

The contrast between the two men was overwhelming. Silver was a brusque
bigmouth with all the finesse of a lowland gorilla.

Cinnie had had plenty of professional run-ins with Silver over the
years. He was vehemently opposed to therapy for older stroke patients,
referred to anyone over sixty-five as beef jerky. Said treating them was
a waste of money. In Silver's view, precious dollars should be reserved
for more critical things, like fat salaries for baseball players. It
struck Cinnie that he certainly knew jerky.

Firsthand. She'd only put up with having him on James's case because he
was the best neurologist in town. Strange talent for a simian.

Silver peered at James and cleared his throat. "Zonked, huh?

How's he coming along?"

"You tell me," Cinnie said. "You're the doctor." Silver squinted in her
direction and frowned. His teeth were cigar chewer's yellow, his nose a
spongy mushroom of large pores and broken capillaries. "You look like
hell, kiddo. When's the last time you got a decent night's sleep?"

"James is your patient, Dr. Silver.

Not me. How did the testing go?"

"Don't you worry your pretty head about that, mommy. You just take care
of yourself, and we'll do the rest."

"Don't patronize me, Marty.

I want to know how he did."

Silver chuckled. "Now, now. I know all this is hard on you, but really
it's better if you relax and let us take care of the medical issues."

"Of course, you're right, Dr. Silver. I must've lost my head.

Wanting to know about my son's progress, what could I be thinking?"

"Look, you've been on the other side. You know it's not good to ask too
many questions. Only gets you upset.

Cinnie's teeth ached from clenching them. "Just one question then, Dr.
Silver. Do you know how to screw yourself?"

She was able to keep James awake through dinner, but he was out cold
before dessert. When Paul arrived, she tried to wake the little boy long
enough for a hug and a hello, but no chance. James was down for the long
count.

She and Paul sat on opposite sides of the bed and talked awhile about
work, the weather, topics so light Cinnie imagined them dancing in the
air like dust motes.

She thought of broaching her concerns about the upcoming meeting to
discuss James's future treatment. She considered telling him about her
visits with Marion Druce and Lois Sanders that afternoon. But it all
seemed like way too much work.

A decent interval had passed, and Paul, was getting ready to leave. He
tuned his air guitar and sang a chorus of his traditional good-night
song: "See You in the Morning, Jameser, Unless I Sleep 'til the
Afternoon." After the final flourish, he returned the invisible
instrument to its imaginary case, kissed James, who snored in response,
and shot a questioning glance in Cinnie's direction. "Need me to bring
anything tomorrow?"

She responded by packing a few phantom things in an imaginary suitcase,
closing the locks, and standing. "You're coming home?" Paul said.

"Yup. Breaking out of this joint. You bring the salami with the file in
it like I told you?"

"No, babe. Will baloney do?"

"Whatever you've got, I'm prepared to nibble on it."

Nice lascivious leer. "Your dish is my command." They rode home in an
easy silence. In the farmhouse, Paul lit the fire and poured two glasses
of dry sherry.

Settled on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, Cinnie sipped and
stared at the flames. A delicious drowsy feeling overtook her, and she
felt her muscles slacken. Paul lifted her hair and settled a kiss on the
sensitive spot beneath her left ear. He snaked a hand over her shoulder
and fiddled with the on-button in her right breast. He played her like a
well-tuned instrument: stroking, teasing, coaxing out her hidden tones
and rhythms. She floated on the feelings, felt her head expand, her mind
bobbling free like a runaway balloon.

Later, she lay with her head on Paul's shoulder, their limbs tangled
like unsorted laundry. "That was nice," she said. "Friendly."

"I was afraid I wouldn't remember how."

"Nab, it's like riding a bike." Paul laughed. "You must've had a helluva
bike." So nice, Cinnie thought. Closeness, warmth. Her body reduced to
tapioca, brain idling in neutral. She could have stayed like that
indefinitely.

Probably would have, if only she'd been able to keep her big mouth shut.

But she kept thinking of her discussions with Marion and Lois earlier in
the afternoon, especially the one with Lois. And she yielded to an
irrepressible urge to tell Paul about it.

She felt his body stiffen. "Not that nonsense again."

"This is different, Paul. Please hear me out." He got up, muttering.

Cinnie watched him wrestle into his pants and slip on a sweatshirt.

"I'm going to the studio."

"Can't we talk this through, Paul? Do you always have to run away to the
damned studio?"

"The damned studio happens to be my work, my business."

"Your life."

"Whatever you say."

"I say if you weren't so selfish and preoccupied none of this would have
happened in the first place." She bit her lip, but it was too late. The
words were out. The air between them went sour.

Paul's eyes narrowed. "Christ. How the hell can you blame me for the
power going out?"

"You have a watch, Paul. You could have bothered to check." His face
darkened. "Damn it, that's not fair. I love that kid as much as you do."

"Maybe as much, Paul. But not the same."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Her eyes were burning. A bitter swell closed her throat. "I can't
explain. It's just different for you."

"You don't have to explain. I get it completely. You're wonderful and
perfect, and I'm an irresponsible screw up. No way you'd ever let James
have an accident, right, Cin? No way anything would ever happen to him
with Mighty Mom around."

"No. That's not what I meant. Please, no more. I don't want to fight."

"Fine. At least we agree about something."

"Look, I didn't mean to blame you. It's just .. "It's just that you
think I hurt our son on purpose." His voice broke. "You don't have to
bother beating on me, Cin. I've been doing a good enough job on myself A
thousand times I've gone over it. A thousand times I've prayed to have
that day back so I could do it over and make it turn out a different way
...  "I'm sorry. I didn't'mean-"

"No, don't bother.

It's all my fault. I accept that. I'm a selfish, unreliable jerk, and as
a result, my kid may never be the same. And you're so goddamned perfect,
it's hard to look at you without sunglasses. Does that about cover it?"

His expression went from pained to grim to empty. Cinnie could almost
see him pulling down the shades, shutting her out. "I know it wasn't on
purpose, Paul. I'm not blaming you. Please try to understand."

"I understand perfectly."

Cinnie could feel the gulf between them, a dark, dangerous chasm.

"What's happened to us, Paul? I feel as if we're going under for the
third time. And I don't know what to do about it."

He sat on the edge of the bed and met her eyes. "I don't either.

Maybe we've got to concentrate on James for now and put our problems on
hold for a while."

"I miss you, Paul. I miss us. Especially now."

His look softened, but after a beat, he stood and nodded. "See you
tomorrow."

As he walked toward the door, Cinnie considered stopping him with a
flying tackle. She toyed with the possibility of a really unfair
seduction. Paul had always been a sucker for her lavender teddy and a
splash of Chanel 19. The last thing she wanted tonight was to be alone
right now. She had never felt so alone.

But she didn't move. She listened to the sound of the front door
slamming and Paul's feet crunching over the frozen ground toward the
studio. And before he'd had time to traverse the grassy span to the
cottage, her mind was back on the hurt children.

Cinnie spent an hour staring dry-eyed at the ceiling. She craved sleep,
but her mind was a whirling blender. After a call to pediatrics, where
she was assured that James was still fast asleep and fine, she got up,
dressed, and left the house.

The neighborhood was still. Lights winked through a few shaded windows.
Otherwise, the houses were a scatter of hulking silhouettes framed by
the velvet sky.

Everything looked so deceptively serene. Tyler's Grove, the model
American neighborhood. Sculpted shrubbery and towering trees, gentle
driveways and meandering field stone walks. Shadows mere tossed like
downy comforters over the slumbering lawns.

All so peaceful on the surface. But at every turn she was confronted by
a gruesome shrine to one of the terrible incidents.

There was the broad pond halfway down Grove Street where Ricky Dolan had
fallen through a thin patch of ice. It had happened on a Sunday
afternoon a year and a half ago, A group of neighborhood kids had been
playing ice hockey. It had been a prime winter for the sport, three
months of persistent record cold had carpeted the Grove Street pond with
a dense frozen layer.* The children had dispersed at dusk, and
seven-year-old Ricky was halfway home when he realized he'd forgotten
his new ski mittens. He ran back to the pond to look for them, and bad
luck had directed his steps to a freak thin spot in the frigid crust.

A neighbor heard the child's screams and called for help. By the time
the emergency squad was able to pull the little boy out of the freezing
water through the pond's cracked skin, he was gray and lifeless. The
paramedics had managed to get him breathing again, but not soon enough
to prevent the brain injury that had left Ricky with halting speech and
a faulty memory.

Passing the Wilders' sprawling colonial, Cinnie shivered, thinking of
Billy Wilder's nocturnal animal wails and the hollow-eyed creature he'd
become. Sometimes, when she took a walk with James, she'd spot him
cowering in the corner beside the den window.

Billy's disappearance and the epidemic of local hysteria that followed
had been in June, a few months after Ricky Dolan's accident.

Billy had been out riding his bike around the neighborhood at the time,
something he did almost every day after school. Later, when his mother
went looking for him, she'd found the bike propped against the towering
oak tree in the front yard. Not a sign of Billy.

The recording studio had been booked solid with outside bands at the
time, and Paul was spending most nights in the converted cottage
overseeing the operations.

Determined to protect James from the child-snatching lunatic, Cinnie had
slept on the floor at the foot of James's bed, startling at every creak
and shudder in the arthritic frame of the old farmhouse until Billy was
found a week later, wandering in the Arboretum a mile away.

Passing Pumpkin Patch, she spotted the Mcarthurs' sprawling brick ranch.
Tragedy had visited here too, just last spring.

Cinnie, James, and Paul had been on the shady span of lawn behind the
farmhouse when it happened. Paul was flipping burgers on the grill.

James stood beside him, flipping grass clumps in imitation.

Cinnie could still hear the child's melodic voice as he aped Paul's
customary grillside patter. "Who wants 'em roar? Who wants 'em well
dunned?"

"One of each for me," Cinnie said. "You're such an excellent cook, I
just can't get enough of your delicious burgers, Mr. Chef."

"James berbers, " he said. "Come and gettum.

Perfect family scene. And then came the inhuman shriek. Cinnie could
still feel it piercing her bones.

Time froze for a bristling instant and began again at a surreal pace.

Paul sprinted down the block to investigate. Cinnie scooped James up and
held him tight to her chest.

In moments, the Grove was aswarm with police and emergency vehicles.

Neighbors congregated in nervous clumps. Rumors spread in a garish
contagion of fear and speculation.

James went limp in Cinnie's arms, his head resting on her shoulder.

His breathing gentled, and a flush warmed his cheeks. She swayed and
hummed a soothing tune as she was drawn in a near trance toward the
commotion. Maybe he'd sleep through it all.

Down the block, she saw Paul talking to a group of the men. She drifted
past them, the horror compelling her like a giant magnet.

The dead boy lay in the gutter on a bed of grass clippings and pink
dogwood petals. He was a tall child, Cinnie noticed with dull
detachment. Pale and poorly built. The thick tube of fat around his
middle poked out from under his T-shirt, and his limbs were milk-white
and flabby. He had chunky cheeks, a formless chin, and a tiny uptilted
nose.

A few feet away, a hysterical woman was being comforted by an obese man
with brilliant ined hair, dark glasses, and a garish Hawaiian shirt.

Probably the father, Cinnie thought. "It can't be," the woman screamed.
"He was just standing there. Right there on the lawn, Larry. Right
there. No. No!"

There were other voices, deep and rumbling like an underground train.

Cinnie tightened her grip on James and walked toward home. The driver of
the car that struck the boy had never been found.

Cinnie would never forget that scene. Or the similar shock and anguish
after Laurel Druce was hurt. She'd been home that day too, baking
cookies with James when the rescue sirens sounded down the block at
Marion's house.

After the ambulance left to take Laurel and Marion to, the hospital,
Cinnie had turned to walk James home. She didn't realize how tightly she
was holding his hand until he squirmed and wrenched himself loose.

Halfway home, they saw the furniture truck. The driver was slumped
behind the wheel, mumbling to himself. "She just came flying into the
street out of nowhere," he kept saying. "Like someone threw her. I
didn't do anything wrong. I swear I didn't."

And then there was little Jason Sanders. Cinnie was still shocked by the
discussion she'd had with Lois Sanders after leaving Marion Druce's
house. The last person she'd expected to share her suspicions was Lois
with her cool, enormous intellect.

But Lois had surprised her. She'd opened the door and ushered Cinnie
into her pristine living room like a guilty conspirator.

When Cifinie asked if she had any theories about all the hurt children,
Lois had led her out onto the desolate redwood deck and pointed at a
large square of railroad ties filled with colored stones halfway across
the yard. "That was Jason's sandbox," said Lois. "He used to play there
for hours. We used to joke that he'd probably grow up to be a lifeguard
or a politician. Both professions where you get a lot of sand blown in
your eyes. "That day, Jason was home with Stacy, my regular sitter. The
phone rang, and Stacy ran inside to answer it.

Turned out to be a wrong number, so she wasn't gone for more than a
minute. But it was enough time for him to find the firecracker and set
it off. "EMS arranged to have Jason helicoptered to Bellevue. The
microsurgery team there worked on him for almost twelve hours, trying to
reattach the two fingers, but there was too much burn damage. Same with
the eye. They told me he was lucky he didn't lose both of them.

Lucky, can you imagine?" Lois said. "Jason's a great little guy," Cinnie
said. "I can't get over how he plays Little League with the prosthetic
fingers. James is convinced he's going right to the majors."

"Thanks. I know he's done well. He doesn't even seem to remember the
explosion. Problem is I don't think I'll ever get past it." Lois stared
out at the box of stones. "Strange how nothing will grow in that damned
thing. Every summer I try, but anything I plant goes belly up. It's
become my life's quest to win out over that stupid little piece of
Earth." Cinnie followed her gaze. "Jason's doing fine," Cinnie said,
more to herself than Lois. "That's what counts." I "True, but to answer
your question, I do have a theory. More than a theory, in fact. I know
that what happened to Jason was not an accident. That firecracker was
planted deliberately."

"What makes you say that?"

"The morning it happened, Jason thought he'd lost one of his favorite
little plastic people in the sand. Major catastrophe. Before I left for
work, Stacy and I sifted through every inch of the damned sandbox, but
we couldn't find the stupid thing. Turned out Jason had stuffed it in
the pocket of his jeans."

"Did you tell that to the police?"

"Of course I did. I told everyone who'd listen and plenty who wouldn't.
But all I got for my trouble was patronized. "There, there, Lois. You're
just upset, dear.

So hard for you, sweetheart. We understand."

" There was a terrible look in Lois's eyes. Cold fury. "No one took me
seriously," she went on. "Even Stacy decided we must have simply missed
the firecracker when we did the search. She went along with everyone
else. Much more comfortable to believe the thing had been there since
the Fourth of July."

"But that is possible, isn't it?"

"No, I don't think so."

The discussion left Cinnie unnerved. Who would hurt Jason deliberately?

Made no sense in her wildest imaginings. But what did?

And what if Lois was right? Could there possibly be a human connection
between the terrible events in the neighborhood? If someone had planted
the firecracker, maybe the other accidents weren't accidents either.

She shivered and shook her head. Impossible. Or was it. She had no
better explanation, only this terrible, prickling conviction that
something was horribly wrong.

"Superstition, Paul called it. He spat the word like it was a rank
obscenity. "You must be out of your mind to think someone could be
behind these accidents," he said. "Completely nuts."

Cinnie's thoughts were pierced by the sound of a car braking to a sudden
stop. She placed the din somewhere near the stone pillars on Mill Road.
Stuck in place, she waited for the screams and sirens.

Nothing. She struggled to clear her mind of the horrific image.

But she could see the faceless child lying broken and bleeding at the
side of the road. The anguished parents huddled nearby. The ring of
anxious neighbors, closing the unfortunate ones out of the privileged
circle. Protecting themselves from the fresh tragedy. Shutting out the
pain.

She listened to the steady rush of the wind, the surge of distant cars
passing, the fierce beating of her heart.

Slowly, she turned and started walking again toward the farmhouse.

Malcolm Cobb stepped on the broad sensor pad, and the hospital doors
slid apart to admit him. Inside the deserted lobby, he sniffed and
scowled. There was the repugnant stench of soiled flesh. Rancid perfume.
Despair.

Cobb had observed the guard pacing about the entryway. He knew from
prior scouting expeditions that the addicted sloth slipped off at
regular intervals for a cigarette. Five minutes later Cobb watched him
amble away and felt a swell of contempt. Wretched mass of putrid
entrails. He pictured the tar-streaked lungs, the blood vessels reduced
to a mass of shriveled worms. The heart a pulsing prune of impotent
slime.

Striding through the lobby toward the stairs, Cobb dismissed his
revulsion and focused on the impending harvest. Caressing the sweet
specimen with his mind, he conjured the velvet skin, the fine features,
the thrum of power and intelligence. Beautiful bounty! Soul of my
deliverance!

His heart soared. He was the dark moon rising. Slipping up from the
stone horizon. Emblazoning his brilliance on the somnolent sky.

The reward was inching closer, moments away. Time ticked joyously in his
veins. Charged him with electric anticipation.

Climbing to the fifth floor, he ignored the steady sapping of his meager
energies. Soon the limitless stores would be his.

At the fifth landing, he paused and prepared to claim his treasure.

Gradually his breathing settled and his pulse gentled to a rhythmic
purr. All in order.

But as he touched the knob, he realized that his right hand had gone
numb again. He tried to grasp the metal orb, but his fingers were sodden
bands of worthless flesh. They hung from the drooping wreckage of his
dead hand, the flaccid hinge of his wrist. The entire arm was a maggot's
feast of dark decay.

Impossible! He swallowed his rising gorge. Struggled to suppress the
panic roiling in his veins.

Stumbling down the corridor, he felt the weakness spreading.

Suddenly, his knee buckled, casting him against the wall in a lurching
stagger. His skull was pummeled, jaw battered against the cruel cement.
An exquisite spike of pain penetrated his core.

Damnable vapor. Wretched treachery! Cobb was sinking, melting to
oblivion. A vicious pulse squirmed in his head. The darkness was
building behind his eyes. Pressure of pain. Power of the terrible blue
flame.

The phantom voice emerged, taunting. "Stupid ass. World's stupidest ass.
Throw one of our rotten apples at him, dear. There, now, go ahead. Enjoy
yourself. He's too dumb to feel a thing."

Splat and the acrid rot oozed its tortuous way down his face.

Insinuated itself under his collar and slid its loathsome fingers over
his flesh. The flies followed. Lazy, derisive.

Wretched invasion. Bounce and land, bounce and land until they pierced
his hide and swarmed in his entrails.

Then came the screaming within. Sharp, hideous voices.

Needle-edged. Puncturing, bleeding him to dust.

Through his agony came a match strike of warning. Cobb strained to
listen, to understand.

A humming voice. Footsteps. Someone approaching. He must not be
discovered. Lurching, stumbling, he struggled down the hallway and
slipped out of sight.

The dream bubbled up from the silence. So vague at the beginning, it was
little more than a like shudder. A breath. Then came a harsh sigh that
grew to form the wheezing rhythms of an approaching engine.

At first, James was oblivious to the danger. He was running.

Washed by sunshine. Buoyant and unbound. Laughter welled up from his
belly and settled on the air in a froth. He was running faster.

Racing in wide, jubilant circles. Chasing the sun.

Then came the plaintive howl. Shrill whistle of warning. It licked him
like a playful flame. Began to encircle him. Then it cast around him
like a vicious whip, caught him at the knees, and sent him plummeting
headfirst to the ground.

James tried to get up, to escape. But his legs had turned to sand.

His breath came in ragged gasps. The whistle shrilled louder.

Screaming.

He was caught. The monster loomed closer. He felt its searing breath,
the heat of its venom. Had to get away. Couldn't move!

Help me!

He startled awake. His heart was leaping like an eager puppy, pulse
racing. James craned his neck to catch a comforting glimpse of his
mother sleeping on the cot.

Nobody there. Then he heard the door opening and the throb of
approaching footsteps. Flashlight beams wavered across the room and
settled below his chin. "You up again, child? We got us a night watchman
around here, you know. You trying to take the poor man's job away, or
what?"

James watched as the cocoa-skinned nurse neared the bed. He caught a
whiff of a flowery smell as she plucked the white sensor thermometer
from its electronic housing and planted it under his tongue. While she
waited for his temperature to register, she grasped his wrist in her
meaty fingers and trained the light beam on her watch.

The tension from the train dream subsided, and James felt a tickle of
amusement. He still saw two of everything. There were two dark nurses
holding his wrist, two beeping thermometers, two stuffed bears in
wrestling garb seated at the foot of his bed. The bed had two footrails
and two mattresses. A double water pitcher with twin cups sat on his
double nightstand. Two bunches of identical balloons hung from the
privacy curtain. Both of the bunches needed air.

The nurse looked perplexed when he giggled. Both of her looked
perplexed. Her double mouth twisted and her right eyebrows peaked at the
center to form a pair of flying seagulls. James suppressed his mirth and
attempted to explain.

He pointed at the stack of volumes on the radiator. "Book, book."

She flapped both of her right hands. "You kidding me, James Merritt?

It's the middle of the night, child. This is no time for you to be
worrying about reading no books or nothing else for that matter. You go
on and get to sleep now, hear?"

James sighed and tried a different tack. "Bear, bear."

"No playing either, mister. Bedtime. Night, night. You read me?"

She scribbled on the chart at the foot of James's bed and turned to
leave. He gazed back at the cot.

Still empty. Where was Mom? James struggled to remember her leaving, but
could not. It wasn't like her to go without a proper farewell.

Still, it was obvious that she'd been absent for some time.

Her pillow was fluffed smooth, the blankets drawn taut under the slender
mattress. Her purse was not in its customary spot on the floor beside
the night table, and her suitcase was missing. He was forced to conclude
that she'd decided to spend the night at home.

James attempted to ignore a flicker of unease. He assured himself that
he was more than capable of dealing with her absence. No reason to
worry. He would simply find his way back to sleep and remain there until
she arrived again in the morning..

He was foraging for a comfortable position when his eyes fell on the
open closet door.

Impossible. The nurse was nearly out of the room now. He searched for
the words to stop her. But he couldn't separate the ones he needed from
the unruly mob of labels swarming in his head. She was almost entirely
out in the hall now, her hand pulling at the knob.

Desperate, he puckered his lips and made a loud kissing sound.

The nurse paused and poked her head back into the room. James could see
the stark whiteness of her teeth as she grinned in response.

She raised a hand and blew a kiss at him. "Aren't you the sweetest
thing? Nighty night now, Mr. James. You sleep tight, sweetheart, hear?"

James stiffened and tried to speak. But before he could force out the
word, she was gone. The door edged toward the frame and clicked shut.

Lying in the darkness, James worked to thwart his burgeoning panic with
reason. This was not his room at home. It was highly unlikely that his
monster had the wherewithal to relocate to the hospital closet. In fact,
Vinton probably hadn't the slightest notion where James had gone.

All reassuring in theory. But James could feel the searing gaze of an
evil observer emanating from the open closet. If only he could somehow
make it across the room to shut that door.

He tried to lower the metal side rail on the bed, but it was locked in
place, and he could not figure out how to unlatch it. He strained to
lift himself high enough to vault the metal barrier, but his muscles
quavered and lapsed, and he sprawled against the mattress in a clammy
heap, his chest heaving.

Three kisses, covers to the chin, close the door hard, and no more
Vinton. So simple, but he could not accomplish the protective ritual
alone. His eyes welled with bitter frustration, and his lip began to
tremble.

But wait, she was coming back. The door opened with exasperating
slowness. James had the word ready. "Door." He rehearsed it again and
again in his mind, formed the sounds with his lips. Focused on it
fiercely, so it would not elude him when she finally appeared. He would
tell her what he needed done, and the monster would be incapacitated.
"Door," he said with a burst of satisfied relief as the light from the
hall filtered in and she slipped inside. "Door. But wait, it wasn't
the nurse. "Excellent, my child. You are recuperating precisely on
course. Communicating purposefully now I see. And you understand me as
well, don't you, James?"

James fell silent. The shadow man again. What could he possibly want in
the middle of the night?

He seemed to read James's mind. "The moment for the harvest has come.

The time of grand reckoning. Rejoice! " James felt a stab of fear.

An involuntary protest escaped his lips. "There, there. You mustn't be
concerned. It's a very elementary procedure, as you'll see.

A simple transfer of assets. Restoration of the divine cosmic balance.

Right and renewal."

James squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, the
shadow man would go away. His insides were churning. All he wanted was
to be left alone. "Excellent. Relax. Go to sleep. This won't hurt a
bit." At that, James's eyes snapped open of their own accord.

The shadow man was drawing closer, pulling something out of his pocket.

James recalled the man's last visit. He anticipated the glint of the
needle. "No!"

"Now, now. No need to fear. This is your destiny. You shall be a
catapult to greatness, James. Servant of the dark moon. Yours shall be
the noblest of sacrifices. A glorious bequest."

"Mommy? Mom!"

The man hissed for silence, and his face metamorphosed from dark to
deliberate light. "Your mother has departed, my child. Left us to our
noble enterprise. She respects what I must do. Her wish is for you to
cooperate with me in every way, James. You must lie perfectly still and
make your offering now."

James peered into the shadow man's eyes, searching for signs of guile or
sincerity. But they were like the bowls of polished spoons: vacant,
shiny. James saw nothing but his own distorted reflection in their
gleaming centers. So eerie and confusing. "She wants you to do as I say,
James. She asked me to come and assist you in fulfilling your
obligation. My healing is the path to your own, my son. My resurrection
shall signal your full awakening."

Another treatment? James thought about all the bizarre things they'd put
him through in therapy. Rocking him over giant beach balls, dangling him
from a net, strapping him into an odd, metal frame and shining lights in
his eyes.

Thoroughly perplexed, James watched as the shadow man used his teeth to
tear open a plastic package. Some clear spaghetti fell out and slipped
to the floor. The man muttered and bent to retrieve it with awkward,
lurching movements. "Mrs. Wheel? pop?" James was eager to understand.
"Quiet now! Be still."

The voice was an angry blade. James demurred, chewing his lower lip.

The shadow man rose and drew closer. "The clear spaghetti was hanging
from his mouth. A needle protruded from between two fingers of his left
hand.

James detested needles. The sight of the shiny missile terrified him.

He bit his lip harder and felt his muscles tense.

Silently, he chanted his mother's standard assurances. A second and
it'll be over, limbo. Pinch and it's done.

So what was taking so long? The shadow man's face was drawing tighter.

He dropped the tubing again and took forever to crouch and retrieve it.

Then, trying to thread the fine spaghetti onto the needle, his fingers
began to quake wildly like a cartoon character on the brink of
explosion. James almost laughed, but restrained himself Then he had an
intriguing notion. Maybe the shadow man was doing all this to amuse him.
That would certainly explain the weird gestures, the strange speeches,
the fun-house faces and awkward pitching movements.

All a joke. James relaxed and watched as the performance continued.

The shadow man had the needle nearly into the tubing now, but then he
dropped the needle. His color deepened, and he spat a curse as he knelt
and fished for it on the dark linoleum.

The forbidden expletive uncorked the trapped laughter. James felt it
bubble up from the nervous hollow in his belly. He surrendered to it.

Giggling in giant bursts. So funny. So ridiculous.

Funnier still, the shadow man's face looming over him. Animal mad.

Broad fiery blotches were climbing up from under his collar. His eyes
bulged. "That's enough, James. Enough I say!"

James tried to stem the mirth, but it had taken him over. His eyes were
streaming tears, nostrils twitching like a rabbit's. His ribs were
starting to ache. "Stop it. Cease this instant!"

And then came the slap. A shock of pain across his cheek.

The man's eyes narrowed and sparked hatred. "How dare you mock me?

How dare you!"

His cheek stung. James felt the heat spreading from the site of the
assault. A bitter lump filled his throat, making it hard to breathe and
impossible to swallow.

The man's voice dropped to a poison rasp. It crept up James's pine,
freezing him in place. "Not another sound! Stay still, or I'll teach
you."

Again, the man tried to affix the needle to the tubing, but his hand was
trembling wildly. His chest puffed and held as he tried to still the
tremor. But he was unable to make the fine connection. He spat his
disgust, flung the needle and tubing in the trash barrel near the door,
and returned to the bed in a clumsy hobble.

He drew a penlight from his pocket and drizzled the beam over James's
arm. The light perched on the taped IV line in the back of his left
hand. A hep lock, it was called, James remembered. Left there in case of
emergency, his mother had explained, though she'd assured him that no
emergency was anticipated. The shadow man tugged at the adhesive holding
the device in place, but he was unable to disengage it. Then he leaned
hard over the rail, lifted James's hand to his mouth, and caught the
edge of the tape with his teeth.

There was a fire of triumph in his eyes as the tape yielded to reveal
the capped intravenous line. James winced at the sight of the bared
needle poking into a distended vein, but he managed to keep silent.

Now the, shadow man used his teeth to pull at the protruding plastic cap
above the needle. James felt a dreadful sting as the needle popped loose
and fell away. A trickle of sticky warmth flowed over the top of his
hand and dripped on the blanket.

Better. Done. Now go away. James's mouth was dry, and he was sweating
ice.

But the man was not satisfied. A strange look came over him as he
pressed James's hand to his lips and started to suckle at the open wound
like a starved infant.

James felt the lapping tongue, the rhythmic suction. The man emitted a
contented humming sound.

There was no pain now. Nothing but the tickly sucking and the shadow man
pretending to be a tiny baby drinking from his mother's boob. So absurd,
James thought. The man had to be crazy.

He'd have to tell Mom about all this in the morning. Knowing Mom, she'd
have some logical, reassuring explanation. James busied himself with
that comforting prospect until the shadow man withdrew his mouth, pulled
the covers to James's chin, and made his way out of the room.

He was nearly gone when the stored word emerged unbidden from his mouth.
"Door," James said and worked his eyes toward the closet.

"Certainly, my child," the shadow man said and tapped the cubicle shut.

James watched him peer out into the corridor and slip away.

Alone in the dark, he tried to make sense of the strange incident.

But a fog of exhaustion rolled in, clouding his thoughts. "Mrs. Wheel,"
he said in a lame whisper. "Shadow man. Pop the weasel." All so
difficult to sort and comprehend. So confusing. "Flying green tunnel.
Blue coat lady." Nothing made a bit of sense. No matter how he tried, he
was unable to fit the unwieldy pieces together. "pop.

Mommy? Mrs. Wheel. Book, Mom."

The words swirled together in a muddy soup. James tried to place them in
logical sequence, but they were too slippery.

A pleasant tingle overtook him. His eyes wet heavy.

Allowing his lids to drift shut, he gave up the impossible effort and
slept.

Drum was back at the service station ahead of schedule. He spotted
Driscoll under a Mercedes wagon in the center service bay.

Smartass had wedged the dolly out of reach and tucked the cord up under
his legs. Meat's version of a Do Not Disturb sign.

Drum called, but he refused to acknowledge him. For a few minutes, he
waited as patiently as he could, but Driscoll gave no indication that he
was planning to come up for air anytime soon.

Drum slipped into the Mercedes, gunned the engine, and blasted the horn
loud enough to get Driscoll's attention. When he got out of the car, he
saw Meat's hand sticking out from under the car, shooting the bird at
him. "Sorry, Meat," Drum said to the protruding finger. "But you know
how I hate waiting."

"Keep busy then, Jerry. Go fuck yourself or something. I got a bleeder
here. It's gonna take a few minutes. Like it or not."

Drum fidgeted the time away. Smoked a couple of invisible cigarettes and
paced the greasy floor. About ten minutes later, Driscoll emerged.

Rising, he spotted the blood vial poking out of Drum's shirt pocket and
nodded -his approval. Motioning for Drum to follow, he loped out to the
front lot.

Driscoll climbed into a jacked-up black truck decorated with dragon
flames and fired her up. Thing roared like Stella when Drum had done
something to light her fuse. Drum slipped into the beauty, fell in
behind the truck, and braced himself.

Driscoll led him on a high-speed chase out of Scotts Corners, down High
Ridge Road, and onto the westbound Merritt Parkway. They breezed past
the Stamford and Greenwich exits, jolting to a near stop, every time
there was a warning beep from Driscoll's fuzz buster.

Over the New York State line in the town of Purchase, the truck exited
onto King Street and headed north passing a string of old mansions that
had been converted into private schools, convents, dancing academies,
and nursing homes. At the next light, Meat veered left and barreled down
the approach road to the Westchester County Airport.

A twin engine Cessna was circling in toward the landing strip as Meat
careened through the parking lot. He jolted the truck over the grassy
fringe at the perimeter of the lot, toppled a span of link fence, and
raced onto the tarmac. Drum braked the beauty at the edge of the
blacktop and settled down to watch the show.

A startled guy whose fat ear protectors made him look like a Mouseketeer
started waving his signal lights at Driscoll in a frantic parody. Meat
waved in response and killed the truck's engine smack in the center of
the ring of lights set to welcome the approaching plane.

The Cessna was down now and speeding on a collision course with Meat's
pickup. A little smile played at the corners of Drum's mouth.

Driscoll wasn't much to look at, but he could be entertaining.

The guy in the earflaps was jumping up and down and screaming.

Drum could see-his mouth stretch in a broad oval and the cords bugging
out in his chicken neck, but his shouts were swallowed by the noise from
the Cessna's engine. The pilot had pitched the thing into reverse, and
the plane roared like a tornado. A trail of sparks spat from the rear
wheels.

As the Cessna jolted to a stop, Drum caught the stench of burnt rubber.

Hard to tell whether it was coming from the plane or the little guy with
the ear protectors.

Meat hopped down from the truck's cab, which was close enough to kiss
the Cessna on the cheek. The little guy was gesticulating and sputtering
some apoplectic noise. Ignoring him, Driscoll fetched a set of movable
stairs from the line near the equipment hangar and rolled it out to the
pilot's door.

A tall, round-shouldered guy in a leather bomber jacket and a baseball
cap climbed out of the cockpit and strode down the steps. He was
followed by a short, higheaded character with a monk's tonsure and a
serious squint.

Meat led the pair over to where Drum was standing and made the
introductions. The tall guy was Jeff Harkavy, a Vietnam vet who piloted
Driscoll's company plane and helicopter and ran a flying school on the
side.

The Mr. Magoo look-alike was Alvin Greenglass. Meat explained that
Greenglass had been in Honolulu for a couple of days, attending a
seminar on the analysis of tropical microbes. "After you left the
station, I remembered that big Alvin here was on his way back tonight.

So you're in luck, Jerry. Getting my best man," Driscoll said.

Drum nodded. "And your quickest?" Driscoll made a face. "Mr. Drum's ass
is on fire, Alvin. Think you can put it out?"

Greenglass cocked his outsized head. "What do you need?"

"Just a little blood work and a read on a piece of fabric," Driscoll
said.

"Nothing you can't handle in your sleep."

"Good thing," Greenglass said. "It's been a long day. They drove in
caravan to the lab, which was located near the sprawling Cornell-New
York Hospital medical complex invalhalla, New York. Driscoll's operation
was housed in a sleek building done in steel and smoked glass. The
interior was stark: polished tile floors, ice-white walls, harsh
lighting. Driscoll butted open the swinging doors leading to one of the
immaculate laboratories and led Greenglass and Drum inside.

The lab was an oversized square packed with electronic gadgetry.

Everything was slick and imposing. Made the setup at Fairview look stone
age by comparison.

While Greenglass got started, Meat took Drum on a short tour of the
facility. A line of interior passages connected the labs.

Greenglass was working in the area devoted to radioimmunoassay. When
Drum and Driscoll returned, the chemist was hunched over an intimidating
machine, loading vials of yellowish fluid onto a miniature conveyor.
"Basically, I'm playing musical chairs with molecules, Mr. Drum,"
Greenglass said. "I'm separating the free molecules from those bound to
radioactive atoms. That way I'm able to compare the free molecules to a
series of previously calibrated serums. If we find the analysis and
we've postulated in sufficient amounts, all we have to do is eliminate
the substances that cross react, and voila! You understand?"

"Yeah, sure," Drum said. "Exactly how I'd do it myself." , Driscoll and
Greenglass traded shop chatter while the chemist worked. "You ready for
the gamma counter?" Meat said. "Almost. Guess I'll use the Isoflex
twenty-four well. Save a little time."

"Good thinking."

"Think I'll go take a leak," Drum said. "You guys be okay without me for
a couple of minutes?"

"We'll survive," Meat said. "But hurry back, will you, Jerry? Never know
when we might need your expert advice.

By the time Drum returned, the machines had gone quiet, and Greenglass
and Driscoll were in a tight huddle. Drum tried to break in, but Meat
waved him off.

When they finished talking, Driscoll left Greenglass in the lab and 'led
Drum to his private office at the opposite end of the building.

It was a large, corner suite strewn with litter and filth.

Meat was a devotee of the early landfill school of interior design.

Driscoll sat on the brown leather sofa and plunked his feet on a coffee
table laden with old coffee cups, greasy doughnut wrappers, and worse.

He wriggled his blackened toes through the holes in his boots and
stretched. Drum took his chances and sat on a scummylooking recliner.

"The fabric scrap had the same blood type as the kid, for whatever
that's worth. The rest is sort of what I expected, Jerry.

Only not exactly."

Meat explained that Greenglass had found traces of a digitalizing agent
in James Merritt's blood sample. Exactly what he'd thought they'd find,
given there was no other reason for the child's cardiac irregularities
immediately after the accident. "No internal injuries, no major
bleeding," Driscoll said. "So I figured the kid had to have been slipped
a dose of some heart-hyping drug."

"You saying the paramedics screwed up at the accident site?"

Driscoll kneaded an earlobe. "Could be. Though it's real rare for
paramedics to administer drugs. By the book, all they're allowed to do
is start lines and monitor monitors."

"So you think maybe there was a doc on the ambulance?"

"Plenty of possibilities, Jerry. You know the list. Someone could have
screwed up on the way to the hospital or in emergency. Or the normal
saline solution they hung on the kid could have been messed up at the
factory. Or someone could have injected an amp from the wrong vial in
the heat of the moment. Hate to say it, but it happens all the time."

"All sickening and interesting, Meat, but none of this is going to help
me figure who ran down that kid."

"Maybe so, but there is an interesting hitch. Like I told you, I found
what I expected, but not exactly."

"Meaning?"

Driscoll hitched his brow. "Meaning that what Greenglass found wasn't
any of the standard heart drugs. We both figured he'd come up with one
of the regulars like digoxin, but the drug traces he managed to isolate
in the kid's blood sample don't match anything we're familiar with."

"So you're saying it wasn't a heart drug after all?"

"Not one we know of. Greenglass guesses it was probably experimental.

The good news is it's not something you'll trip over every place you
look. Identify the substance, and it probably won't take much to figure
out where the kid's dose came from."

Drum scowled. "Where does that get me?"

"Well, it's one thing for a regular, lying-around drug to find its
accidental way into a patient. Something rare makes me real curious."

Drum couldn't get his head around it without a lot of hard stretching.

"But why? Who? Makes no frigging sense." Driscoll chuckled. "You looking
for things to make sense, Jerry? Bet you still believe in elves and
fairies, you cute thing."

Drum wasn't going to hang around and argue. You never knew what was
going to crack a case. Trick was not to toss anything unless you were
sure it was worthless.

"Okay, I'll run with it. How long will it take Greenglass to dope it
out? I can wait."

"You'll wait a real long time, Drum. We don't have the equipment to run
it here. You're going to need a fully equipped tax lab and someone with
a good handle on rare compounds."

"So who do I see?"

Driscoll hitched his shoulders. "You want to get to Kansas?

Guess you'd better go directly to the Wizard."

The sky was pebbled with clouds, the moon a specter. Drum shared the dim
road with a scatter Ilk of night crawlers. He passed one snub-nosed man
in a Trans Am and a couple of woozy-looking kids in a dented Honda. A
ragged line of bikers zoomed by. And he was forced to swerve around a
sluggish van with blackened windows. Only two kinds were on the road at
this hour. People looking for trouble and those who'd already found it.
Drum figured he fit neatly in both categories.

, Easing off the High Ridge Road exit in Stamford, Drum tried to kick
the day's events to the back of his mind. He was eager to get home.

Anxious to slip into bed beside Stella. All he wanted was to cuddle up
in her creamy hills and hollows and check out.

Turning onto his block, he was surprised to see his house ablaze with
light. Nearing the place, he ran through a string of comforting
possibilities. Maybe Stella had gotten in later than usual and decided
to wait up for him. Or maybe she'd worked herself half dead at the club
and forgotten to shut things down. Or she could have left the place lit
up on purpose, so he wouldn't have to stumble around.

What he didn't expect was to find her in the kitchen with Booker.

They were faced off at opposite ends of the room like boxers between
rounds. "What gives?" Drum said. "Tell him," Stella said. "Go ahead."

"Got nothing to tell." Booker gnawed at a cuticle and eyed the floor.

"Oh, is that so?" she said. "Well, I do. Want to hear how I spent my
evening, Jerry? I had a charming tour of the West Side.

I saw all the sights: shooting galleries, open-air drunk tanks, flesh
peddlers of both and indeterminate sexes. I was manhandled, hooted at,
offered every illegal act and substance known to man. Risked my fool
neck looking for this little character who thinks it's fine to take off
whenever he happens to feel like it."

"Nobody told you to come after me, Mrs. Drum. You didn't have to go do
that."

She spewed an angry breath. "I care about you, you little jerk.

You think I'm going to let you run around all night and maybe get
yourself hurt?"

"I can take care of myself. My business what I do."

Drum decided it was time to jump in. "Wrong, hotshot. We're your family,
remember? So it's our business what you do. Now what the hell got into
you? Spill."

"Don't belong to nobody. Ain't nobody gonna tell me where I gotta be or
where I gotta go. Ain't no damned baby."

Stella blew a breath. "How many times do I have to tell you, Booker?

There's nothing for you to get so upset about. It's nothing but talk."

Stella explained that Ms. Bergmuller from social services had stopped by
to report that a couple from New Haven had shown some interest in
adopting Booker. They were both successful black lawyers in their early
forties who'd been searching for some time for the right" child.
According to Bergmuller, they were after a boy with exceptional
intelligence. Kid with ivy growing out of his ears.

Stella imitated the woman's chirp to perfection. Even got down the
broad's perky movements and the perpetual smile. Drum was so busy
admiring the likeness, it took a few seconds for the words to sink in.

"You saying they're gonna take Booker away from us?"

Stella shot him a hard look. "It's all preliminary at this point, Jerry.
Probably won't come to anything."

"I ain't going to New Haven or Old Haven or any damned Haven, Mr. Drum.

Tell you that much."

"What do you mean preliminary?" Drum demanded.

Stella tossed another loaded look, but Drum wasn't catching. "I said,
what do you mean?"

"I mean it's just talk. This couple read that article in the paper about
Booker winning the school spelling bee, and it got them thinking.

At this point, they're asking to have a look at his school records.

If they're still interested, they'll arrange to meet him. See if the
chemistry's right. Bergmuller said they've gone this route with several
other kids, and none of them worked out. She said they've been
impossible to please. So it probably won't come to anything."

"You bet it won't. Booker doesn't have to put up with any damned
dog-and-pony show. I'm going to call that Bergmuller bitch first thing
in the morning and tell her SO." Stella's teeth were clenched, hands
fisted. "You'll do no such thing. You'll keep your fat mouth shut and
your feelings to yourself.

Chances are this whole thing will blow over, and Ms. Bergmuller will
crawl back in her little hole. That is unless you shoot your trap and
make the lady mad. Then she might just decide we're not suitable to care
for Booker under any circumstances. You catch my drift?"

Drum bit his lip. "Yeah, okay. Guess you're right.

Stella's right, hotshot. Best thing is to sit tight, and it'll pass.

I "Ain't going to no Havens of any kind, Mr. Drum. That's final."

Drum took the kid by the shoulders. Their eyes locked. "I said it's
going to be okay."

Booker lowered his eyes and mumbled some angry jive. Drum held on
tighter. "You heard me, hotshot. It's not going to happen. That's a
promise."

Booker's face changed. Kid was still wary, but Drum could tell he was
easing up. "Get to bed now. Night's half over."

"Yeah, okay.

"Night, Mr. Drum, Mrs. Drum."

"Night, Book. Sleep tight."

They listened as he climbed half a flight, stalled, and trudged back
down to the kitchen. "Sorry, Mrs. Drum," he said in a grudging whisper.

Stella gave him a hug. "That's okay, handsome. Forget it."

"You tell me who bad-mouthed you, I'll put out the word. Get their asses
fried for them. I got friends."

"Thanks, but I don't want that. It's over with. The important thing is
everyone's home safe."

"Yeah, but ain't nobody got the right to treat you that way. You're good
people."

"You too, kiddo," Stella said and kissed him on both cheeks."

"Night now."

Drum tried to look properly furious. "You ever pull a stunt like that
again, you'll have me to answer to. You hear?"

Kid dipped his eyes. "Sorry, Mr. Drum. Guess I wasn't thinking."

"Yeah? Well, next time you'd better, or I'll give you something to think
about-hard. Now get to bed and give it a rest."

This time, Booker took the stairs at a trot, and there was the sound of
springs whining as he flopped on his bed.

Drum's face darkened. "So what's going to be?" Her eyes shimmered with
unshed tears. "I wish I knew. Worst case, this lawyer couple falls in
love with him and takes him away. God, Jerry. I don't want to lose that
little boy."

Drum took her in his arms. She smelled wonderful, felt better.

"Don't worry. I'll think of something. Book's not going anyplace."

Stella fell asleep immediately, but Drum's gut was churning. He couldn't
let anyone take Booker, couldn't imagine LIFE without that kid.

So what could he do? The Bergmuller bitch had made it clear to Stella
that if the black couple wanted the adoption, it was as good as done.

Drum couldn't hope to battle them by trying to adopt the kid himself
That would mean a full background investigation. All social services had
to do was get a whiff of his history and Booker would be taken away no
matter what the lawyer couple decided.

Drum searched for a solution, but his head was teeming with useless
regrets and recriminations. If only he'd done things differently. If
only he could have that one night back again.

Thinking about it now got him boiling. The loathsome face wormed into
his consciousness. So like his father's face, but there was a hard edge
to the elegant features and an ugly chill in the emerald eyes.

Uncle Liam. Before his father's death, Liam had been a near stranger.

Big Matt had never talked much about his older brother. And Drum hadn't
seen much reason to ask questions.

After the funeral, Drum had gone home with Oliver London. Seemed like an
okay arrangement to Drum, but a couple of days later a tall guy in a
suit showed up and told them that Drum was going to be placed in Liam's
custody.

Drum couldn't figure it and didn't want to go. But the suit-guy had
handed London some official papers. Uncle Oliver read them through and
shrugged. "Liam is your next of kin, Jerry. He's petitioned for
guardianship, and it's been granted by the court. Nothing we can do."

So Drum went along. And Liam had seemed all right at first, though he
didn't know the first thing about caring for a kid. He took Drum along
on outings to his favorite pubs and strip joints, left him alone,
sometimes for days at a time. There were no rules, no boundaries.

Drum kept looking for the walls, but all he found was silent, endless
space.

Liam's house was a rambling green Victorian with imposing turrets and
gingerbread trim set on a lonely stretch of land overlooking the Long
Island Sound. It was much grander and many multiples larger than the
modest two-family Drum had lived in with his parents.

There was a game room complete with pool tables, Ping-Pong, and pinball
machines; a fully equipped gym, including steam room and sauna; a movie
theater complete with commercial popcorn maker.

After Drum moved in, Liam had installed a soda bar, a candy dispenser,
and a jukebox in the oversized den. Drum's friends were bug-eyed
jealous. But there was a cold empty feeling about the place that echoed
the icy void in Drum's life.

At first Drum tolerated his new circumstances with the numb curiosity
that had become his central emotion since his father's death.

He was especially curious about his uncle Liam did no particular work
that Drum could see, but the guy had a bottomless cash supply. Liam was
forever slipping big bills into Drum's palms or pockets. And Drum
quickly learned that wherever he went, he could settle his tab by simply
asking the proprietor to charge it to Uncle Liam. It was as if the man
owned the world or, at least, held the mortgage.

Having everything he wanted was the one part of his new life Drum found
an easy adjustment. Problem was everything didn't feel like nearly that
much.

Drum's loneliness was like a fat, ugly cloud. It refused to yield to the
noisy invasions from his friends, who loved to hang around his uncle's
house enjoying the freedom and indulgences. Nor was it lightened by the
steady parade of oddball friends and acquaintances who came to call on
Uncle Liam.

The most intriguing people arrived at all hours to visit or court favor
or seek advice. "Types," Drum's mother would have called them, meaning
they were the sort who caught your eye and made you wonder.

Drum had tried to size them up in every imaginable direction, but all
they seemed to have in common was age. Drum had them all figured for
high school, college age at the most. Funny for Liam to have so many
young friends.

Liam's houseman, a willowy blond named Kurt, ushered most of the
visitors into the office in the rear of the first floor. Generally, the
meetings were concluded at the front door with Liam peeling bills from
the fat roll of hundreds he always carried.

The private office was the only place in the house that was off limits
to Drum, which naturally made him ache to get inside. Passing the heavy
oak door, he never failed to rattle the knob, hoping Liam might have
neglected to lock it for once. One night, when Liam was out of town and
Kurt was gone for the day, Drum spent several hours rifling through his
uncle's bureau drawers, hoping to find the key. No luck.

For months, the office remained a mystery to Drum. Then one night after
supper, Liam appraised him with an odd look in his eyes. "Half a man
already, aren't you Jeremiah? Suppose it's time you were treated like
one."

He led Drum down the hall and into the hallowed office. The room was
nothing near what Drum had imagined. One wall was mirrored in smoky
squares that fractured Drum's face and made him feel strangely
disoriented. There was a black leather couch, twin chairs upholstered in
plush white fur, white fur throw rugs, an antique trunk with leather
fittings, Liam's desk, and a line of locked closets.

Liam poured hefty measures of brandy from a crystal decanter and held
one out in Drum's direction. "Here's to a fine young man. Go on now,
drink up."

The booze seared Drum's throat, but he managed to empty the glass.

Matter of pride. He was half a man already, whatever that meant. At
least, he liked the sound of it.

Almost immediately, he felt warm syrup infuse his bones, and his eyes
went foggy. Next thing he knew, he was trying to climb out of a spinning
well. Slick sides, nothing to do but keep sinking to the inky bottom.

He awoke to the sight of Uncle Liam lying with his head on the armrest
of the leather couch. His silk robe was splayed open. Drum was startled
by the whiteness of his uncle's skin, the distended belly shot with a
rash of veins. The thatch of dark hair beneath the swell.

In mortified fascination, he watched as Liam played with himself,
working his angry member in slow, languid strokes. His uncle's mouth was
agape, eyes gleaming. He made low, moaning sounds like a hurt animal.

Drum stifled a nervous giggle and tried to pretend he was still asleep.

His head was thumping, mouth parched and sour. Hung over?

He pressed his eyes shut, but the pounding in his head worsened and the
room started to buck and spin. Allowing his lids to open a crack, he
chanced another peek at Liam. The man's flush was deepening, flesh slick
with sweat.

Liam was transfixed, staring at something on the wall. Drum tracked his
gaze to the pair of figures projected on a portable screen.

The bigger one on top was writhing in passion, working over the smaller
character Drum could hardly see.

A blue movie. Drum had heard about such things in the schoolyard.

One boy claimed he'd found several steamy reels in his father's
handkerchief drawer. For a week of lunchtimes, he'd entertained a pack
of kids including Drum with the play-by-play.

The focus was poor, and Drum squinted for a better view. The bodies
shifted. The camera zoomed in closer and fixed on the faces.

Drum recognized the larger of the two figures as Uncle Liam himself.

He was touching the smaller one, kneading at the naked flesh. Drum felt
a slap of shock. He wanted to turn away, but he was caught, held.

The second, smaller person loomed larger and closer. His eyes were
closed, features limp as melted wax. Drum's shock turned to raw,
crawling horror. It couldn't be. His eyes had to be playing a vicious
trick.

Liam's lips spread in a cruel, lazy smile. "Like being a star, Jeremiah?

Like the pretty pictures? Hot off the presses. Developed them myself."

Drum lunged at him, started pounding the milky flesh in a rage.

"I'll kill you. You touch me again, I swear I'll kill you."

Liam caught his wrists. Drum was shocked by the strength in the pale,
portly limbs. Liam's smile twisted. "You'd best behave, Jeremiah.

Better mind or I'll have to arrange a nice private showing of your movie
debut. Invite all your little friends. How would that be?"

Drum tore loose. He yanked the film reel from the projector.

Tugged the celluloid off the reel and crushed it.. Gasping, he turned to
face his uncle. The creep stood with his robe still gaping. His fat gut
heaved over his dying erection. "There," he spat. "Now you can go to
hell."

"Fine, Jeremiah. I'll go, but you're going with me.

You see, all you ruined was a copy, my boy. The original is locked in my
desk. And there it's going to stay as long as you behave."

The morning was drab and shot with drizzle. It was near eight-thirty
when Drum finally finished his round-trip run to Philadelphia and limped
the beauty into his garage.

He found Booker sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor. Kid was
munching on a buttered bagel and poring over the business section of the
Times. Runt had an eye for investments, sound and otherwise.

"Hey, Mr. Drum. What's up?"

"Not me, that's for sure. Hey, check the time, hotshot. You'd better
hustle or you'll miss the bus."

"Ain't going to school today."

"Law says you have to go, kid. School or jail."

"Hell with that. I'm spending the day with you, Mr. Drum.

We gotta talk."

"Get your butt to school. We can talk after."

Booker shook his head. "Can't wait for after. Trust me." Upstairs, Drum
splashed cold water on his face and put on a fresh shirt. Stella was
still sleeping. He took a long, longing look at her. Watched the ebb
and-well of her bosom under the bodice of her white lace gown.

Admired the way her dark hair fanned over the pillow and the flush on
her cheeks. Took everything he had to keep from diving under the covers
and drowning in that beautiful broad.

The kid had his coat on and was waiting at the door. "If you got to work
today, it's cool, Mr. Drum. I'll be glad to help you out,"

"How about we hit the diner first? I could use some breakfast."

"That'd be good. I already had some, but I'd be glad to watch while you
fill up. No problem."

At the Greek place on High Ridge, Drum ordered a toasted English and
coffee. The runt pored over the menu and asked for a stack of pancakes,
two eggs over, a side of bacon, home fries, and a large orange juice.
"Wouldn't want you to eat alone," Booker said.

Kid sucked up the food like an Electrolux. Pity Stella wasn't around to
watch, Drum thought. Nothing made that woman happy like the sight of the
kid making a pig of himself.

Drum kept waiting for Booker to spill what was eating him, but the-kid
was in no hurry. Figuring he wouldn't waste the time waiting, he decided
to run a couple of errands.

First, he dropped by the headquarters of the Volunteer Ambulance Corps
on Long Ridge Road. Posing as a new guy in town interested in serving on
the emergency rescue squad, he managed to get a copy of the procedure
book and a lecture on what EMS technicians could and couldn't do.

Absolutely no drugs were administered. No docs ever rode on the local
ambulances. So it wasn't likely that the heart drug, whatever it was,
was accidentally slipped to the Merritt kid on the way to the hospital.

Next, he swung through Tyler's Grove, hoping to find the Holroyd woman
home. Still no luck. But when he swung around to the Merritts' place,
there were encouraging signs of life in the recording studio behind the
farmhouse. Drum spotted a pack of cars in the driveway, silhouettes
dancing on the translucent shades. He left the runt in the car and
trudged over the lawn to the cottage.

No answer when he rapped at the door, but it wasn't locked either, which
was Drum's idea of an engraved invitation.

Inside was one cavernous room buffered by heavy duty acoustical tile and
vault-thick walls. The space was divided by a glass partition. On the
far side was a stage setup and a crowd of microphones. The side nearer
the door was jammed with electronic gadgetry and enormous speakers.

Drum noticed the clock, a flashing red digital readout on the sound
board. Hard to miss.

A solitary guy sat on a stool in front of the main controls. He was
listening to something through a fat set of earphones. Something mellow,
Drum could tell. Guy's head was bobbling like a rubber duck in a
bathtub, and his eyes were hooded.

Drum recognized the character from the hospital: the kid's father.

Guy did fit Meat's description exactly: tall, involved in a creative
field. Made Drum's tongue itch to watch the character enjoying himself
while his kid was laid up in the hospital. Not a fair reaction. But his
allergies had no sense of justice.

He went around and stood where the guy couldn't miss him. "Mr. Merritt?"

The man took off the earphones and blinked. "Yes. Sorry, I must've lost
track of the time. Do we have an appointment?"

Drum had put on a three-piece suit, an upstate accent, and blue contact
lenses. With his hair parted on the other side and his personality set
at extra pushy, he could see that the father didn't recognize him.

He introduced himself as Larry Tympani, an account supervisor for Young
& Rubicam, and tossed the guy a business card. He said his firm was
considering a local advertising shoot and needed to hire a sound studio
for the vocals. So he needed to see samples of dubbing tracks the studio
had done for other videos.

Drum sized the father up while the guy made his spiel about the quality
of the studio's work. Man obviously had Stella's passion for music.

You could see it in his face when he talked about tracks and tunes and
arrangements. His eyes glistened like fresh snow.

Drum had mixed feelings about the guy.. He looked okay, talked a good
story. But he had the kind of smooth, boyish good looks that sometimes
turned up on the wrong kind of poster.

Paul Merritt pulled a couple of tapes from a metal rack. Drum caught the
dates on the labels and asked to see the one made on the day of the
accident. He sat back in a swivel rocker while the guy set up the
viewing equipment. Good, comfortable chair, Drum noticed. Too bad no
popcorn.

The tape featured a smoky-voiced woman in a black knit skirt the size of
a Band-Aid. Her tits were so big they looked as if they were meant to be
continued on the next woman. But it wasn't the giant jugs that held
Drum's attention.

He was glued to the digital time running at the bottom of the tape.

The hour, minute, second, and millisecond ticked away under the singer's
tapping spike-heeled shoes.

Drum watched for a few more minutes, long enough to be polite, and
promised to get back to the guy when the firm made their decision. His
smile faded as he stepped outside. , The running time on the tape
started at ten to eleven, so the bit about a power outage making the guy
late to meet the kid's bus could be genuine. But that still left a fat
end dangling.

To double-check, Drum traced the outlet for the main power line from the
cottage and tracked it as it ran beneath the eaves and dropped down the
rear of the building to connect with an underground feed to the
farmhouse. Drum trailed the line from the source again, but there was no
mistake. The farmhouse and the cottage were on the same line.

A power outage in one place had to mean the whole system was down. But
the Merritt woman had been real clear that the blackout had been
restricted to the cottage.

Made no sense. He kept working it like the dial on a combination lock.

Turning and turning. Listening until his ears ached for the sound of
those sweet tumblers clicking in place.

Only two possibilities he could see. Either someone else had altered the
studio clock, by accident or on purpose, or the kid's father had done it
himself. Could be he'd changed the time accidentally while he was
messing with the board. But it could also be he'd wanted to create an
excuse for being late to meet the bus.

That led to a couple of thoughts Drum didn't enjoy considering.

What if the guy had set the kid up for the accident and tampered with
the clock to give himself an alibi?

Crazy, yes. But Drum had seen way crazier. Maybe the father had a
chickie on the side who didn't like kids. Maybe the kid had life
insurance or a trust fund that would revert to Daddy in case of the
child's death?

The only thing Drum knew for certain was never to be sure of anything.

He scribbled a couple of notes to himself. Does the kid have any
inheritance? Insurance? Is Daddy involved in extracurriculars? How's the
marriage?

Continuing north, he took a turn through Scotts Corners. Driscoll wasn't
at the station, so Drum left a note saying that he'd been to see the
Wizard and the guy had promised results in a couple of days tops.

Back in the car, Drum could see that Booker's brain was running at full
throttle. Soon as he gunned the engine, the kid was full of questions.

"So where'd you go to last night, Mr. Drum. Heard you take off, must've
been pushing three in the morning."  "I had to see this Chinese
scientist guy in Philadelphia. Couldn't sleep, so I figured I might as
well get the trip over with."

"Middle of the night you went to see the guy?"

Drum nodded. "Best time. Guy's nocturnal."

"Thought you said he was Chinese." They were headed south again on High
Ridge when Drum felt the kid tense and stare out the window. He kept his
peace.

The silence paid off after a few long minutes. "We got it pretty good,
don't we, Mr. Drum? I mean, we got us a nice LIFE the three of us, ain't
that so?"

"Yeah. I'm not complaining."

"Me neither ... So that's why I decided I'm gonna make sure things stay
just the way they are."

Drum scowled. "What's that mean?" He looked over and noticed the smug
look on the kid's face. "Talk to me in English, hotshot."

Booker patted Drum's hand. "No big thing. I got a plan guaranteed to
keep me clear away from that -New Haven place."

"Which is?"

"Don't you bother yourself about it, Mr. Drum. I just wanted to let you
know you can leave it to me. Everything's under control."

"Don't be a smartass, Book. You don't want to go getting yourself in
trouble."

"Trust me, man. I ain't no fool." Kid whipped a paperback book out of
his jacket pocket and started reading. Case closed.

If only Drum had been able to put a lid on his childhood demons and
trash them as easily. But they'd been way too big and ugly.

After that night in his uncle's office, Drum kept waiting for Liam to
try to touch him again. One finger on him, and he swore he'd kill the
sonavabitch. Drum had spent a thousand hours rehearsing the murder.

His dreams were full of Liam's blood. Visions of knives slashing the
spongy white flesh, the recurring image of Liam's brains spattered over
the walls by a gun blast in his fat mouth.

But Liam didn't come near him. Didn't look at him. Shut Drum off like he
was dead and forgotten.

Drum was left with nothing but the fury and the fear. What if Liam
showed that film to anybody? The idea froze his flesh, turned his bowels
to water, left him raw and empty inside. Drum had dread flashes of the
grainy images playing on the side of the school building.

Everyone watching.

He tried desperately to find the original film. Every time Liam wasn't
looking, Drum was pulling things apart. But he knew the damned thing was
in Liam's office. Locked in the desk where he couldn't get at it.

Eating away at his life.

Remembering, Drum felt the wrath building again, consuming him like a
wisp of paper in a raging fire. His hands were balled in iron fists.

The nails bit his flesh. Stop it, Drum. Let the damned thing go.

There was a hot sword in his throat and the taste of bile. "You okay,
Mr. Drum? You look funny."

Drum forced a couple of breaths. It took all his strength to push the
anger back a centimeter. Heavy bureau full of poison hatred.

Damned thing sitting in the dead center of his existence, so he was
always having to walk around it. "Yeah, hotshot. I'm fine.

Daydreaming, that's all."

Booker shook his head. "Even sound funny, man. You could tell me, Mr.
Drum. Whatever it is. Probably feel better if you was to talk about it."

"It's nothing, Book. Nothing to tell."

Better, the anger was backing off like a challenged punk. Nothing left
but a hulking shadow and the feeling that someone had iced his bones.

Drum kept up the deliberate breathing until the rage was half a block
away. Almost back to normal, not that his normal was anything to write
home about.

Driving toward home, he turned his thoughts to business. Best way to
keep his mind off the rest, Driscoll's hotshot scientist friend in
Philadelphia had told him that it would be a couple of days before he'd
have a definite answer on the kid's blood sample. Drum knew he couldn't
afford to waste the waiting time.

But what next? He closed his eyes and rummaged around for an idea.

The other big hole was the damned car. There had to be a way to find it.
Made no sense that the hit-run vehicle had made its way through a
sprawling neighborhood like Tyler's Grove in the middle of a sunny day
and managed to elude all but one witness. So maybe the trick was to
figure out who else had seen something and maybe not even realized they
had.

One witness with one sketchy description wasn't much to go on.

Drum considered the librarian again, but even if the car she saw was the
one they were after, she didn't have much to add to the mix. Not nearly
enough.

Drum considered what Big Matt would do under the circumstances.

What he would not do was try to play out the hand while he was only
holding half a deck. If you don't have what you need, you go out and
find it, son.

He eased back to a better time, when he was a real kid with all the
trappings: love, security, big eyes. Funny how you never appreciated
those simple things while you had them. Never thought about them until
it was way too late.

Drum draped an arm across the Booker's shoulder and settled into the
rhythms of the ride.

An icy mist was falling. Cinnie parked the Volvo in the Fairview staff
lot and raced across the blacktop to the hospital's rear entrance.

She'd checked in several times with the night shift, but she was anxious
to see James for herself and confirm that he was fine.

When Cinnie got to the room, a young nurse with a bouncy blonde ponytail
was giving James a sponge bath. He looked as soggy as the towel. "Well,
look who's here, Jimmy. It's your mom."

He managed half a grin. "Hi, sweetheart. Sleep well?" "Mom?" "Yup.

How's my trooper? Feeling better today?" His voice was a zephyr.

"Shadow man. Mrs. Wheel. Book, Mom. Pop the weasel."

The nurse frowned. "He keeps saying those same things over and over.

What's it mean?"

"Wish I knew."

The nurse removed James's left arm from his hospital gown and dipped the
washcloth in a bucket of soapy water. Cinnie's eye was drawn to a livid
bruise on the back of his hand. "What's that?"

The young woman eyed the wound. "Looks like an old IV site."

Cinnie remembered the hep lock. "Oh, right. They left one there in case
of an emergency. Guess we're finally past that. Nice."

"Guess so. All done now, Jimmy." The nurse slipped his arms into a fresh
gown, rinsed the washbasin in the sink, and left the room.

Cinnie sat on the edge of the bed. "You okay, Jimbo? Anything hurting?"

At that, he tensed. "Shadow man, Mommy. Baby man. Door, Mom."

She stroked back his hair and pulled up the covers. "Ssh. Get some rest
now, sweetheart. Karen will be coming by to get you for therapy in a
little while."

In moments his eyes closed. Restless, Cinnie went out to the nurses'
station and thumbed through his chart. If anybody questioned her, she
was prepared to claim she was checking on a patient, which was true
enough. She found nothing out of the ordinary in the nurses' anecdotal
entries. Paging back through the physicians' scribbles, she winced at
some of Dr. Silver's gems. "Patient condition unchanged.

Mother agitated and unreasonable."

"I'll give that creep agitated and unreasonable- "Everything okay, Cin?"

The concern was courtesy of Evelyn Larwin, the head pediatric nurse
who'd been on the Fairview staff since the hospital's opening in the
early sixties. Evelyn was also Fairview's unofficial housemother: warm,
soothing. "Everything's fine," Cinnie said. "Just talking to myself."

The nurse cast a meaningful look at James's chart. "We're all keeping an
eye on that cutie pie of yours, Cin.

Giving him star treatment. Try to ease up a little, will you?"

"I am trying. That's why I want to know what's going on. Keeps me
saner."

"Guess I'd be the same way. Any particular questions? I'll do my best to
answer."

Cinnie shrugged. "No, nothing particular. just fishing, I guess.

I was glad to see they removed the hep lock. That's progress at least."

The nurse hesitated. Something odd crossed her expression.

"Listen, I'd better get hopping. We're shorthanded today. If you need
anything, holler. Okay?"

Cinnie watched Evelyn's bustling retreat. She spent a few more minutes
with the chart, long enough to convince herself that nothing ominous was
lurking in the stack of pages, and went back to James's room to watch
him sleep.

Dr. Ferris stopped in on morning rounds. Trailed by a covey of residents
and interns, he pointed to James in a proprietary gesture.

"This young boy is the kind of patient who makes it all seem worthwhile.
He was gravely injured in a car accident. But the child has the kind of
fortitude that can help restore anyone to health. And, of course, the
strong family support helps as well." He nodded in Cinnie's direction as
if soliciting applause. "Thanks, Dr. Ferris."

"Thank you, Mrs. Merritt. When James wakes up, tell him I said hi."

He motioned for the ducklings to follow and left to continue his rounds.

James was still dozing when Karen Sands showed up almost an hour later
to take him to therapy. Cinnie shook him gently awake and helped him
into his robe. "Wheel, Mom."

"Okay, sweetie. Ready to go now?"

"Vinton, Mom. No more Vinton!"

"That's what he kept telling me yesterday," Karen said. "What's a
vinton?"

"Vinton is James's personal monster. Lives in his closet at home.

Don't you worry, Jimbo. Vinton's not here, and he's not coming. Even he
knows they don't have decent closets in this place."

"Vinton came, Mom. Last night."

Cinnie was taken aback. That was more clear language than she'd heard
from James since the accident. If she didn't know better, she'd swear he
was making sense.

Karen wheeled him out of the room. Cinnie took the stairs up to her
office and locked the door. She had ten minutes before her first
scheduled patient. Enough time to call Deputy Chief Allston.

Allston was a tall, pallid blond with dull blue eyes, an aquiline nose,
and a personality like coarse-grade sandpaper. He might be one of the
top men on the force, as he himself had been quick to inform her, but
that didn't mean Cinnie had to like him. From her first interview with
the man, she'd found him abrupt and unsympathetic. Now, after several
more unpleasant runins, she knew her first impression had been wrong.

Allston wasn't disagreeable, he was positively repulsive.

"What is it, Mrs. Merritt? I'm very busy."

She refused to let him get to her. "I'm missing James's backpack and his
favorite T-shirt. He had them both on the day of the accident.

Could you please check to see if they were claimed for evidence?"

The phone clattered against a hard surface, and Cinnie heard Allston
squawking into the intercom. Moments later, there was a squawked reply,
and the deputy chief came back on the line. "Property has the backpack,
but no shirt. Check with the hospital, why don't you? Docs in emergency
may have taken it off and trashed it."

"But ..."

"Have to run now, Mrs. Merritt. I told you, I'm busy.

The phone disconnected with a jolt. Cinnie glowered at the dead
receiver. "One more thing, Charlie dear. As soon as you can make time in
your busy, busy schedule, do me a favor and go to hell, will you?"

She hung up fuming. jerk wouldn't even listen. No question James's shirt
was gone by the time he was placed in the ambulance.

Cinnie had a clear picture of his bare chest under the sheet. The police
or EMS workers had to have taken the shirt off at the scene.

Which was very strange, when she thought about it. All hospital
personnel were required to take first aid training, and rule one was to
avoid moving an accident victim any more than was absolutely necessary.

She remembered the ambulance driver handing her James's jacket on the
way to the hospital. "Had to take it off to start a line," he'd said.

The T-shirt wouldn't have been in the way. And even if they'd chosen to
remove it for some reason, why wouldn't it have found its way to Cinnie
or the property clerk like the rest of James's things?

So many questions. So much frustrating speculation. Seeking a
distraction, she took the top chart off the pile on her desk and flipped
through the records. Mrs. Hibbel was her first scheduled patient. Good.
Mrs. H was one of Cinnie's favorites, a retired singing teacher in her
mideighties with a severe case of vocal polyps, also known as
"screamer's nodules."

Mrs. H had a gentle voice. Good pitch, proper Volume. Cinnie had been
mystified about the source of the voice abuse until, after several
sessions, the woman had sheepishly admitted that for years she'd belted
Ethel Merman numbers in the shower with no ill effects.

But recently her grandson had turned her on to Tina Turner.

There was a knock. When the door opened, Cinnie was surprised to see
Evelyn Larwin. The nurse sported a plastic smile. "Sorry to interrupt
you, dear. I was wondering if you happened to know who took out James's
hep lock."

"No idea. Why?"

Evelyn's grin evaporated. "No big thing. I couldn't find an order for
the removal in the chart, so I thought I'd check it out."

"It was gone when I came in this morning. Are you saying someone took it
out by mistake?"

Evelyn flapped a hand. "Don't give it another thought. I'm sure there's
some simple explanation. I'll get right to the bottom of it and let you
know."

As the nurse ducked out, Mrs. Hibbel arrived for her session.

Cinnie tried to focus on the delightful old woman. But her thoughts kept
shifting to James and the missing hep lock.

Could someone have removed the line without orders? She knew only too
well that even the top hospitals committed their share of calamitous
errors. Given that she was on staff, she'd counted on James getting the
best care Fairview had to offer. But maybe their best wasn't good
enough.

Terrible, chilling thought. She wished she could slip James out of this
place and take him someplace where he'd be safe and protected.

If only such a place existed. Funny how she used to believe it did.

The morning seemed to evaporate. Cinnie's case schedule was booked
solid, which left her short of fretting time.

There were two new evaluations, an hour spent teaching a postop, throat
cancer patient to talk with the aid of an electronic larynx, and then
she'd been called to the emergency room to do sign language interpreting
for a deaf girl who'd collapsed in the Town Center Mail and been brought
in for an evaluation.

When the knock came, she was back in the office catching up on
paperwork. She was surprised to see him in the doorway, dressed in a
natty pair of tweed trousers, a cardigan, and a dotted bow tie. "Mr.
London? I told reception to let you know I had an emergency and couldn't
reschedule you for today. Didn't they call?"

The working side of his face fell. "Pick-uh?"

"Sorry, I didn't get that. Try again, would you? Nice and easy."

He sucked in a major breath. "Pick-iflll."

"Pick ... ill?

Pickle? Oh, of course, we have a lunch date, don't we? Stay right where
you are. I'll get my coat.

He set his jaw and started to pivot his chair toward the door.

"Bluch."

"No, wait. I'm looking forward to it, really. I've just been up to my
ears this morning, so it slipped my mind."

"Bluch," he said again. With a dismissive swat, he started wheeling out
to the reception area. "All right. Have it your way. If you don't want
to come, I can take Mrs. Hibbel or Mr. Levinson. I'm sure either one of
them would be delighted to join me in a delectable bowl of chicken
noodle soup, a thick, juicy hot pastrami sandwich on fresh seeded rye,
an icy, delicious cream soda  ..."

London made another valiant push.

A creamy double scoop vanilla sundae with hot fudge and wet nuts  ... .
With that the old man stopped cold. He threw up his good arm and shook
his head in surrender.

Cinnie came up behind him and started pushing the chair toward the
elevators. "You certainly play hard to get, my friend. Lucky I think
you're worth the trouble."

She drove north on High Ridge and angled the Volvo into a slim space in
the parking lot fronting the deli. It took considerable maneuvering to
get Mr. London transferred from the front seat into his chair. He leaned
heavily on Cinnie's shoulders, but still his wasted leg wobbled like
cheap furniture. She shifted his weight in an awkward stagger and set
him clumsily on the plastic seat.

Flushed and perspiring, she flashed a high sign and worked to catch her
breath. "Bring on the pastrami."

The proprietor, a bearish man named Ernie, led them to a small table in
the corner and removed one of the bentwood side chairs to make room for
London. "Looking good, Officer London. So nice to see you out and around
again."

"Bluch," London said. "Bull-shit."

"He's a little cranky," Cinnie said. "Forgive him."

Ernie shrugged. "No problem. Usually he's a lot cranky." They ordered,
and London passed the time spearing sour tomatoes from the bowl in the
middle of the table and popping them whole into his mouth.

His cheeks bulged, and soon he was enveloped in a garlicky haze.

When the soup and sandwiches arrived, they ate for a while in silence.

Cinnie noticed a softening in London's posture, and a mushy look of
contentment came over his face. Simple pleasures.

After he'd downed the soup and three quarters of the sandwich, the old
man finally saw fit to pause for a second. "Goood," he said and
unleashed a hearty belch. "Glad you're enjoying it. Up for dessert?"

He belched again. Not a real answer, but the twinkle in his eye said
yes.

By the time he'd plowed through half of his banana split, Cinnie had run
out of small talk. Left idle, her mind wandered back to all the strange,
troubling events: the missing T-shirt, the hep lock removed without
orders, all the suspicious accidents, James crossing Mill Road on his
own. When she looked over at London, he was staring at her with a
questioning look. "Sorry, I was just thinking about the accident for a
change. Makes me crazy that they haven't found the driver yet. And there
are so many things that make no sense."

"Things?"

Cinnie hadn't intended to trouble London with any of it, but she started
telling him about the missing Tshirt and wound up spilling everything.
She talked about all the accidents in the Grove. All involving children.

So much didn't add up: Ricky Dolan falling through a freak thin patch of
pond ice in the dead of a record cold winter, Jason Sanders finding a
firecracker in his sandbox and somehow setting it off after his mother
had searched the sand for a missing toy, Billy Walker's disappearance
that had never been explained, three kids in car accidents in under a
year. "How could all that be simple coincidence?

There has to be something going on in the Grove that no one is willing
to recognize. And I keep thinking that unless something is done,
there'll be more and more hurt kids. At least, we have to try to put an
end to it, don't we?"

It was so nice having someone who was willing to listen for a change.

London displayed none of Paul's caustic skepticism, none of Dal's
sympathetic but disbelieving indulgence, none of Detective Allston's
maddening lack of interest.

Ever the cop, London waited until she'd finished and then strained to
fill in the blanks in her story. "Ice?" "It was only thin in that one
little patch where Ricky fell through. The cops checked over the entire
surface the day after it happened, and they found four to six inches
frozen solid everywhere else. So isn't it creepy that Ricky happened to
step on that particular thin place? And it was so cold-why was that one
spot thin in the first place?", He formed a circle with his thumb and
forefinger and held it to his eyes. "Seeee car?"

"You mean did anyone witness the hit-run? Yes, in fact, a neighbor of
mine saw a car speeding away right after the time James must have been
hit.

She gave the police a description, and she noticed the car had New York
plates. So why can't they track it down? You know how the force operates
better than anyone, Mr. London. Am I being unreasonable?"

London looked sympathetic. "I don't understand it. The person who hit
James didn't fall off the face of the earth. There has to be some way to
track him down. All this time, and the police are no closer to finding
him. This can't be the best they can do. I have to know who did this. I
have to know what kind of a person could hurt my little boy like that
and just leave him there to suffer."

Tears puddled in her eyes and spilled over. She swiped them away
furiously.

London patted her hand. "Ssh," he soothed. "Ssssh."

"Sorry.

The last thing you need is my sob stories. It's just so aggravating.

I'm starting to think they'll never find out who hit James."

"Git ... get. Yes," London said with a firm nod and a solid fist on the
table.

"You really think so? I wish I had your confidence."

A sly look crossed London's face. "Yooou ... tell."

"Tell? Tell what to who?"

"Tell ... awllll."

"Sorry. I don't get it." She tried to catch his confidence. But for some
reason, she wasn't feeling very optimistic.

In fact, she was starting to get that awful sense again that she'd had
on the day of James's accident.

She mustn't let herself do this. "Ready to go? I'll get the check."

"Tell ... boom boooom."

London's face was flushing in dusky blotches. He hunched his back and
rapped his fist on the table. "Boooorn ... boom. Tellll. Awwll .

.. tell."

"Easy, Mr. London. Check please, Ernie. Let's hit the road, friend.

I think it's time you got some rest."

She helped London back into the Volvo and folded his chair into the
trunk. Maybe taking him out hadn't been such a hot idea.

Suddenly, Cinnie was eager to get him back to the hospital.

Slipping behind the wheel, she took an anxious look at him. He'd stopped
pounding and gesticulating, and his color had dimmed to an innocent
pink. Better. Whatever had upset him so had obviously passed.

He gave her a sheepish smile. She patted his hand and felt a swell of
affection. "Thanks for the company, Mr. London. And thanks for
listening."

He looked vague and distracted. "Tell awwll ... tell boooormn boom,"' he
muttered. "Tell, go ... shit."

"It's okay, Mr. London. Don't worry about it." Cinnie pumped the
accelerator, turned the key, and the cranky, old engine came alive.

Tunnel of smoke. Malcolm Cobb narrowed his eyes and surliok veyed the
shadowy street. Plume of foreboding darkness. Beckoning fingers of
silent doom. Beneath him, the engine trembled like a frightened beast.

The wheel shuddered in his grasp.

Breath held, he began another slow circuit of the block. The pavement
was rutted and strewn with rubble. Driving without headlights, he was
powerless to avoid the dross. Flying stones assaulted the undercarriage,
and the tires crunched like giant's teeth in the drifts of putrefying
matter. The concussion of the ride rattled his bones.

Tunnel of doom. Her house was at the dark terminus. Cobb saw it as a
seductress. A painted siren, simultaneously beckoning and repellent.

Pillar of peril, precipice of dark demise.

A blush of light escaped the drawn curtains. The porch lamp blazed. A
halo of heat cradled the roof, and a teasing curl of smoke escaped the
chimney. Mesmerizing.

Approaching again, Cobb's mouth parched and a cruel pulse pummeled his
temple. At the critical instant, doubt forced his foot to the
accelerator, and he shot past the drive and back to his starting point.

"Dolt," he muttered angrily to himself "Cowardly buffoon."

Slowly, he marshaled his courage and started again. The car jolted over
the scarred terrain. Cobb's apprehension built with the speed of a
wind-fed fire.

This time, he kept up a running patter with himself. "Nothing to fear.

She will welcome you. How can she not? You are bound to her by flesh and
destiny."

He was nearer, approaching the drive again. "Blood of her blood.

Go, and be reconciled."

Almost there now. Only a few more yards separated him from her sweet
approbation. But before he could traverse the meager distance, a spasm
jammed his foot hard onto the brake.

The car screeched like a wounded beast. The sound pierced his torment.

Had anyone heard?

Casting his desperate gaze from side to side, he observed the
neighboring homes. No shades fluttering, no peering accusatory eyes.

There had been no deadly betrayal. Not yet.

But the seconds were seeping away, draining from the finite supply,
dripping into the bottomless chasm of eternal regret. Fool!

He had to proceed without delay. Cobb invoked his firmest control.

Lever of will engaged.

He eased the car onto her drive, rolled out of sight behind a stand of
evergreens, and killed the engine.

Stepping out, he felt the rush of a stern wind. It prodded the clouds
scudding across the solemn face of the night.

Cobb embraced the image. He was a cloud. Plump cumulus bobbling in the
gentle arms of eternity. Vicar of the night sky. Lowering lord of lost
vision and failed enterprise.

Brilliant!

Moon of night Eclipsing the day's fire. Reigning in dark triumph.

Dark moon rising over the cowering universe. Behold!

His doubts evaporated. Boldly, he strode to the door and rapped on the
frame. There was a crackling silence, but Cobb was not to be denied.

He knocked again. Louder.

Finally, he heard the deep concussion of footsteps overhead. They were
followed by the light crackle of stair risers. More steps. A lamp flared
in the front vestibule. The door opened.

His breath caught at the sight of her. She was radiant. Eyes glinting.
Mouth bowed in a knowing smile. He'd never seen her so beautiful. She
led him into the living room and bade him sit. "So," she said. There was
mischief in her gaze. "Not a great success from the look of you, was it,
Malcolm?"

Cobb struggled to remain calm. He longed to sound confident and appear
commanding. But a tic danced beneath his right eye, and his throat
jammed in an incipient slammer.

She frowned at him. Pursed her lips. "What happened exactly, dear?

What went wrong?"

Despite his urge to deny the failures, the story poured forth.

The mistakes had not been his doing, he told her. The child's mother was
to blame, constantly thwarting him, standing between Cobb and his
rightful recompense until he was weakened almost beyond redemption. It
was the woman who had aborted his proper harvest, left him to forage for
scraps. All the woman's fault. Everything.

She listened without comment or obvious emotion. When Cobb finished the
tale, she settled a harsh gaze on him. "Then you know what you must do,
Malcolm. Whimpering won't solve a thing."

Cobb nodded. The threat of her ire had rendered him mute. "And in the
meantime, how do you propose to regain your strength, darling?

You look dreadful."

Cobb flushed with confusion. Endearment tainted with insult. She was a
master at unsettling him. He struggled to speak, had to respond.

"I'm f-fine. Tired is all."

Her giggle was a piercing awl. "Oh, come now. I can see the weakness.

Look at yourself, Malcolm. It's written all over you."

He caught his reflection in the window. His features were beginning to
sag, arm growing numb again. , He gasped in horror. She must not see him
in this condition. "Think, Malcolm," she said.

"There must be some way for you to overcome this little setback.

You're a clever boy." His lip quivered. "I'm trying, you know.

It's not my fault, I told you. It's all her doing. That miserable
woman."

"Don't be a fool, I said. Get hold of yourself now, Malcolm."

"I ... I am trying." His eyes welled up and spilled over. "I am."

"Listen to you. How ridiculous you sound. Put aside that mewling
self-pity and think, you silly dolt. Use your head. Stop that slobbering
this instant!"

Her rebuke was an icy wash. Cobb stiffened and caught hold of himself.

"I'm sorry."

"As you should be. How perfectly useless to fall to pieces like that.

What a perfect waste."

"You're r-right, of course. I can divine a solution. I m-must."

He fell silent. Evading her icy gaze, he endeavored to view the problem
as a puzzle. Slick pieces, sharp-edged and singular. Using the technique
he'd mastered in the seventh-phase exercises, he transmuted the parts,
viewing them from subtly shifting angles like the play of evolving
images in a CT scan.

Cobb could see each of the several faces of each of the several arts.

Endless possibilities. Permutations ad nauseam.

Slowly, finally, the right one appeared. Perfect, priceless! Ad
asteroid!

He would struggle toward the heavens. Reach the stars!

"What is it, Malcolm?"

He stifled a giggle. She looked perplexed. Dear little muddlehead.

Sweet little bumble-brain. Fearsome little bubble of poison fluff.

Cobb stood, pulled her to her feet, and danced her around the floor in a
raucous waltz. She sputtered in dismay. "Come now, Malcolm. Get a grip
on yourself."

Bright bursts of hilarity rocked him like a dinghy in a squall.

"I have it. I have it. It's so wonderful. You'll be astonished."

She disengaged herself and faced him with crossed arms and a petulant
expression. "Tell me then. Don't behave like an ass."

Cobb recoiled at the slur. "Don't call me that."

"Come now.

Don't be such a silly boy. You know I didn't mean a thing by it."

"You must never call me that."

"Tsk, tsk. So sensitive, are we?

Forget I ever said it, will you, Malcolm? Tell me. What's your plan?

I'm dying to hear."

He bit his lip and kept his eyes averted. He would bear no more of her
insults.

Her face went coy. "Flirtatious grin, fluttering lashes, voice an ooze
of warmest honey. "Come now, dearest. Please, please tell me. I can't
wait to hear your clever plan. Such a genius you are, Malcolm.

Such a giant of intellect and creativity. You can solve anything if you
put your mind to it, you lucky boy. You simply must share it with me
right now. This instant. I'll positively burst if you don't."

He allowed her to cajole him awhile. Reveled in her discomfiture.

She began to whine, so frustrated was she with his stolid denial.

Served her right. How much frustration had he borne at her behest How
many torments?

"Malcolm, stop this! I can't bear it another minute. Tell me this
instant. Tell me or  ..."

Her eyes went dark, rent him like skewers. He could not allow this to
degenerate as it had the last time. That would be his undoing.

"All right. If it's all that important to you," he said. "Oh, yes, dear.
Very, very important."

Cobb explained his plan. So simple and elegant. And yet entirely
foolproof, he was certain. All he needed to do was procure the vehicle.
And he couldn't imagine that as more than a minor inconvenience.

Her expression changed as he spoke. Surprise yielded to respect, respect
to awed pleasure. "Brilliant," she said at last. "Truly brilliant. And
you're sure the child won't even know he's being milked?"

Cobb shook his head. That was the incredible part. It could be done
openly, and the specimen would not realize a thing. "You're right, dear
boy. It is perfect. Priceless. Oh, I'm so proud of you, Malcolm. So very
proud. As soon as it's done, we must celebrate.

Name the time, and I'll bring the refreshments. Finest champagne and
caviar first, in honor of your triumphant recovery. And then a feast.

Doesn't that sound lovely?"

She fluttered about the living room making plans for their repast.

"Oysters, I should think. And then that roast veal with the chestnut
puree you're so fond of. A warm rhubarb pie with cream ..." Cobb smiled,
satisfaction warming him like a beneficent sun. There was nothing on
Earth he wouldn't do for her approval. joy of joys!

Suddenly, she went silent. Her brow furrowed. "And what about the woman,
dear? I suppose you've thought of a brilliant way to see to her as
well?"

The words pierced Cobb's elation. Sent him plummeting. The woman's
-disposal presented a complex of difficulties that he had not yet been
able to overcome.

Then, if his brilliant plan for the specimen went well, the woman would
be irrelevant. Cobb was buoyed by the thought, infused with fresh
confidence. "Certainly," he said. "The woman will be no issue."

Her eyes narrowed to penetrating slits. "You're not protecting her, are
you, Malcolm? Sometimes I get the feeling you're afraid to deal with
that dreadful woman."

"Afraid? Don't be absurd."

"I certainly hope it's absurd, dearest. It would surely be absurd for
you to protect her as you did Mummy, wouldn't it now? Absurd and
dangerous, Malcolm. Very dangerous as you know."

Cobb stiffened. "You needn't worry. I'm entirely in control of the
situation."

"I sincerely hope so, darling. For your own sake."

Cobb wished to believe his own comforting words. The woman would not
interfere this time. But if she somehow did manage to thwart him again,
Cobb was determined to overwhelm all obstacles and make certain it was
her final intrusion.

After a stop at home for lunch, they spent the rest of the day cruising.
Getting the feel of things. It was one of the things Big Matt used to do
when he'd hit a wall on a case. You looked around long enough, you might
finally see something.

Most of the time, the kid was quiet, enjoying the radio and the day off.
Over dinner at a little Italian place in Pound Ridge, Booker thanked
Drum with a melting smile and a couple of high fives. Best return Drum
could ever remember getting on an investment, and he'd traded from the
cozy inside more than once.

Booker was out cold by the time Drum pulled the beauty into the narrow
garage. Drum hefted the kid and carried him up to bed. Hotshot weighed
next to nothing. Amazing given what he'd packed away that day alone. Kid
had eaten a giant hero for lunch and downed most of Drum's lasagna at
dinner after he'd inhaled his own. Runt probably sucked up helium when
no one was looking. Maybe they'd better tie a string on the little
bandit before he floated away altogether.

Drum felt himself-grinning like a fool. Kid had that effect on him.

Made him something he never imagined he had the capacity to be.

Drum settled Booker in bed, tugged off his high-top sneakers, and pulled
the covers up to his pointed chin. "Night, hotshot. Sleep tight."

There was a neon vacancy in Drum's stomach. Anxious to fill it, he went
to the kitchen and spent a few minutes with his head in the icebox. He
found some leftover meat loaf, a bowl of cold mashed potatoes, two cans
of Bud, and a wedge of Boston cream pie. Not the perfect snack, but
close enough.

On his way to the table he spotted a note in Stella's firm hand propped
against the phone. She'd been called to fill in for the night at a jazz
club near the Sound. The regular singer had come down with laryngitis.
It would be a late gig, she figured, so she'd see him in the morning.

The note mentioned that there had been a couple of calls from Carmody.

Chief wanted him to leave a progress report with his friend Louis
Packham at Failsafe Security. And Drum was to make sure Booker had a
decent dinner and a hot bath.

Drum crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash. He'd done okay, he
decided. Booker's day had been one long meal. Way better than decent.

And as far as the bath was concerned, things hadn't turned out near as
dirty as Drum had hoped.

Louis at the alarm company thanked him for the last batch of pirated
tapes and agreed to pass a message to the chief. Drum considered how
optimistic it made sense to sound. If he was too negative, Carmody might
get disgusted and pull the plug on Drum's operation. On the other hand,
if Drum's message was too upbeat, Carmody would probably expect an
immediate solution and drive Drum nuts until he got one.

Drum decided to have Louis tell the chief that things were coming along
as expected. That'd keep the old lard guessing.

"Okay. I'll tell him."

"Yeah, and tell him there's no reason for him to go shooting his hose.

You got that?"

"Sure, Jerry. No reason for the chief to shoot his hose. Got you."

Drum had planned to cash it in for the night, but the message from
Carmody made him feel real ambitious all of a sudden. He called next
door and got Mary Ellen to come over and keep an eye on Booker until he
got back.

The roads had gone slick from a quick shot of frozen rain. Drum skidded
turning onto High Ridge. The beauty did a wild three-sixty and then
angled in to bash the curb. A car braked hard behind him, and Drum
braced himself for a crash that didn't come. When he looked out the rear
window, he saw a fat guy in a Lincoln sputtering curses and clutching
his chest. Drum waggled his fingers and blew the guy a kiss.

After that, he headed north at a sensible crawl. Everything was moving
in slow motion. Other cars inched along like languid snakes.

Traffic lights hung forever in the red zone. As he approached the
Merritt Parkway intersection, a rangy, slack-tongued dog loped across
High Ridge in front of him and he was forced to a stop. Beast was in
less than no hurry. Drum was stuck forever watching the one-pooch
parade. Lucky he liked animals.

Finally, he was under the Merritt Parkway overpass and skating the
beauty through the tricky turns on the way to Tyler's Grove. He turned
in through the broken pillars and eased the beauty around until he was
idling at the precise spot where the witness had been stopped when she
saw the speeding car. All three police reports put her at the same
place, in front of the first house beyond the left stone pillar.

He rolled down the beauty's window. The -air had the damp, heavy feel of
wet sheets. Not much in the way of noise. Listening hard, Drum picked up
the vague crackle of frosted windows, music thumping from an overwrought
stereo system, a baby bawling.

Drum faced Mill Road and stared through the stone columns. Almost five
minutes passed before a car approached from the High Ridge spur, slowly
rounded the curve in front of the pillars, and continued north toward
New Canaan. Drum watched without blinking, but the view was nothing near
what he expected. Surprised, he waited until a second car followed the
same track, crossed his vantage point, and disappeared up Cascade.

Real interesting. Drum waited for one more car to trace the path along
Mill toward New Canaan. He wanted absolute confirmation, and he got it.

Same story all three times. Approaching cars on Mill Road followed the
curve in the street so that they remained invisible behind the left
pillar at first and then swerved so a stand of trees quickly swallowed
the image. With the way the road banked, there was no way to cut the
curve and still hold the pavement. Especially not if the driver was
speeding.

From where the witness had claimed to be, she could not have gotten more
than a fleeting view of any passing vehicle. With all three cars, Drum
had managed no better than a hazy glimpse of dark metal and a glint of
glass. No way to be sure about model or body type.

Impossible to get a read on the license plate or the person behind the
wheel either, and the Holroyd woman had told the cops the driver was a
young, blond male with cropped hair and blue eyes.

With the sun in her eyes as it would have been at the time of the
accident, it would have been a trick for the witness to have seen much
of anything. No more than a streak of passing glare.

Which made him more anxious than ever to hear the story with his own
ears. He drove the beauty around the block and turned down the small
cul-de-sac off Grove where the witness lived.

Broad was home, but not to Drum. He tried to coax an audience with the
stiff, disembodied voice behind the locked door, but she wouldn't budge.
Not even when he gave her the line about being a reporter with the Times
on tight deadline and slipped his fake press pass through the mail slot.
Thing came flying back out at him like a broken cash register drawer. No
sale. "Sorry. But it's quite late, and I'm busy.

You really should have rung first. I'd have saved you the trip."

"I only need a couple of minutes. All I want is to ask a couple of
questions about the car you saw leaving the scene of the hit-run. The
paper is willing to run a feature on the case, help get the word out and
maybe nab the driver."

"I've already told everything to the police. Call them, why don't you?

I'm sure they'd be delighted to cooperate with the Times."

"Right, only I'm sure you can tell it better, Mrs. Holroyd. You were
there."

"As I said, I'm busy. Good night now."

Her voice was dead-bolted. Drum could hear it was useless to argue.

He made his way over the uneven flagstone walk toward the beauty.

The woman doused the spotlights when he was halfway to the drive. Miss
Hospitality.

The darkness gave Drum -a chance to look around. Over his shoulder, he
eyed the silhouettes moving behind the filmy drapes over the living room
windows. There was a tall, slim one Drum made as the witness.

She had her hair slicked back, posture like a palace guard.

Broad was shaped like raw ziti, Drum observed, but not the kind that'd
make you the least bit hungry.

There was a smaller silhouette halfway across the room. The son, Drum
figured. Kid was also long and skinny but without the mother's starch.

He was huddled behind the antique school desk cluttered with papers.

Kid was clutching the desk as if it were a life preserver.

Drum could see the woman barking at the little guy and how the kid
appeared to shrink from the iwords. His head was bowed, shoulders
rounded. Drum had the impression of a regular kid who'd been put through
a juice extractor.

The woman crossed the room and picked up an object from the end table
nearest the desk. She held it so Drum couldn't exactly make it out, but
he remembered it from the last time he'd stopped by when no one was home
and peered in the window. Funny how she seemed to take the thing so
seriously. She was pushing it in the kid's direction and spitting her
words. The boy was backing off.

Drum watched until he was sure the kid wasn't in for a beating. A hint
of that, and he would have found a way to butt in with a distraction.

There was always the broken-down-car bit or the one about his emergency
beeper sounding and having to call in. Kid definitely didn't look like
he needed hurting.

But the ruse wasn't necessary. After a couple of minutes the woman flung
the object back on the desk and stormed out of the room.

The kid waited a beat and followed. Not what he would have done if he
was afraid he was headed for a pounding.

Drum couldn't decide what to make of the broad. He didn't need to hear
her fleeing driver story to know it didn't compute. She'd invented at
least some, if not all, the details. But why?

He toyed with the options. Could be she was so anxious to help the cops
nab the runaway driver that she'd succumbed to wishful thinking.

Imagined she'd seen what the cops might need. Woman didn't come across
like the concerned citizen type, but you never knew. She did have a kid
of her own, and Drum was learning firsthand how much having a kid could
change a person.

Then there was the chance she'd made the whole thing up to get
attention. Plenty of nuts around who craved microphones and spotlights.
Never occurred to them they could be scuttling a case and letting some
rodent run loose in the process. But if the broad had such a yearning
for center stage, why would she refuse to talk to a reporter?

Drum had plenty of questions but only one definite answer. His own eyes
had convinced him that Lydia Holroyd couldn't be definite about the
hit-run driver, the plates, or even much about the speeding car.

In other words, no matter what her reason for telling it, the woman's
story was suitable for dumping.

Drum gunned the beauty and headed up the Mill Road spur toward High
Ridge. Sifting through the cassettes in the beauty's glove compartment,
he selected a big-band collection featuring the Duke and Stan Kenton and
popped it in the cassette deck. Good thing it was a three album set.
Looked like he was in for a lot of running around.

The doorbell rang as Cinnie was about to step into a steaming tub.

She was sapped, but she perked up at the sight of Dal bearing one of her
care packages of sample products from her market research firm.

Dal was wearing her hide-all-sins sweater, a green number large enough
to sleep six, over a pair of baggy jeans and black high-top sneakers.

She looked like an overgrown version of Teejay in drag.

Same impish grin, same electric vitality. "This week we have the wonders
of macrobiotic plant food, cotton swabs in designer scents and colors
for the truly pampered belly button, and the pise de resistance-to-da
...  colorless odorless chocolate syrup."

"Sounds revolting. Who'd buy such a thing?"

"Good question. The manufacturer came to us convinced that there's an
enormous untapped market of diet cheats out there aching to get their
hands on invisible chocolate."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I told him five thousand plus expenses, and he can expect the report in
a month. Business is business, Cin.

My mission is not to turn away customers, no matter how demented their
products."

Dal had also brought a chilled bottle of Johannesburg Riesling.

"I actually sprung for that myself. So open it quickly, before I come to
my senses and remember what a tightwad I am."

Cinnie uncorked the wine, and they sat in the den, sipping and catching
up. The conversation soon turned serious and drifted to James.

Cinnie had suffered a serious blow to her optimism. She needed to talk
to someone about it, and Dal had always been the person she could tell
the impossible things. "I'm starting to think he may never get over this
thing, Dal."

Earlier in the evening, Dal had smuggled Teejay into James's room for a
quick visit, and the contrast between the kids had been devastating. A
few weeks ago, James had been the bigger, stronger, more advanced kid by
several years and all the right margins.

Teejay had always looked up to James. Cinnie could remember how the
little guy had watched his older friend with reverent eyes and
unflinching attention. She and Dal used to get a grand kick out of the
way Teejay imitated James's every move and mannerism.

But the accident had turned everything upside down. At James's bedside,
it was Teejay who'd chosen the activities and patiently explained the
rules and procedures. Teejay was the one who'd spoken slowly and
carefully in a higher than normal voice, instinctively trying to help
James understand. James had been the one struggling to imitate and keep
up. Broke Cinnie's heart to watch them.

It also had forced her to take a hard look at the possible future.

And she'd had to admit to herself that there might be some virtue in
Paul's tendency to steel himself for the worst. "I used to believe James
could b anything he set his mind to, Dal. Now I feel like I'd better get
used to the sound of lost options and doors slamming in his face."

"Wait a minute. That doesn't sound like the Cinnie I know and love.

What have you done with my friend, lady? Come on, I'm wise to you, you
miserable impostor."

Cinnie shrugged and forced a feeble smile. "Can't help it, my Pollyanna
suit is at the cleaners."

The words brought back her conversation with Detective Allston.

She felt a ripple of anger remembering how he'd dismissed her concerns
and ignored her questions.

Cinnie should have let the creep know what she thought of him.

Maybe that was part of the reason she was feeling so down. She'd been
allowing herself to be a doormat. Play victim, you become a victim.

When had she forgotten that important bit of truth?

The odds might be against James, but she wasn't going to improve them
any by moaning to Dal. "Mind if I kick you out?" Cinnie said.

"Nab, I've been bounced out of way better joints than this. Everything
all right?"

"Not entirely, but I just remembered there is something I can do to make
myself useful. Maybe drag myself out of this putrid funk while I'm at
it. And I really should get started before I collapse for the night."

"Okay." Bless Dal. She knew when to ask questions and when to disappear.

Cinnie walked her to the door and flipped the lock behind her.

In the den, she found a blank legal pad and a pen. Curled up on the
sofa, she nudged her mind back to the morning of the accident and
started writing. If that adjuster from the insurance company thought an
account of that terrible day might be useful, why not give it to him?

What had Mr. London advised? Tell all. Couldn't hurt, could it? At this
point she was willing to try almost anything.

The day came back to her in a vivid reel. Everything had seemed so
routine: James eating instant oatmeal for breakfast, she and Paul
munching on wheat toast. Cinnie could see the table jumbled with plates,
coffee cups, and newspapers. She pictured James crouched on his
haunches, prattling on between mouthfuls about soccer and how his team
was going to win the championship of the world in the indoor season.

There was that particular smile on Paul's face, the one only James knew
how to evoke. Thousand-watt smile, full of pride and pure amusement.

Cinnie had always found it contagious and incredibly sexy.

Since the accident, there hadn't been a trace of that look on Paul.

She wondered if she'd ever see it again.

No more playing sob sister, she rebuked herself. Pay attention.

They'd all left the house at eight-thirty.. Cinnie had dropped James at
the bus stop and driven on toward the hospital. She'd caught a last
glimpse of his ruddy cheeks and sunlit copper hair in the rearview
mirror as she approached the intersection of Cascade.

Paul had gone to the studio, where his schedule was packed as usual.

He'd mentioned the lineup to Cinnie, and she reconstructed it now as
best she could: a couple of demos, a sound track for a music video, and
then the afternoon had been reserved for a new group under contract to
Polygram. Paul was producing their first album.

Cinnie felt a little foolish detailing her routine morning at the
office, but the adjuster had been clear about wanting her to go back
over everything to refresh her memory.

She wrote nonstop until she'd covered all that she could remember about
that terrible day. In painful detail, she recounted her trip to the
Grove from the hospital. She recalled the delightful sense of well-being
that had enveloped her on the ride. And then came the horror as she
approached the tangle of emergency vehicles on Mill Road and found out
they were there for James.

The memory caught and held her as if she were a startled deer.

But she forced the feeling away. She wrote about the terrible ride in
the ambulance: James spewing gibberish, the horrifying wail of the heart
monitor.

And then came the hideous time she'd spent sitting outside the emergency
room, waiting for someone to come and tell her that it had all been a
dreadful mistake. James was fine. James had to be fine.

It had taken forever for Paul to get there. With the studio's
soundproofing, he hadn't heard the sirens on the corner. He'd been
totally unaware of the accident until someone in the studio turned on
the local radio station during a break and they heard it reported on the
news. By the time he finally arrived and finished sputtering his
impossible excuses, all they could do was wait together in mute terror.

Dr. Silver had been called in for an emergency consult, and he'd been
the first to emerge through the swinging doors to the waiting area.

The man had the touch of a typhoon. "It's bad," he'd told them.

"Could be worse than bad. First twenty-four hours will be crucial."

"What can we do?" Paul had said.

Silver shrugged. "Know any prayers?" Thank heaven for Dr. Ferris who'd
shown up moments later. In his cool, rational way, he'd taken over.
After assuring Cinnie and Paul that things weren't as dire as Silver
made them out to be, Ferris had collected the early diagnostic test
results and the professional opinions of everyone who'd examined James
so far. Then the pediatrician had distilled the information and gave
them a clear, reasonably encouraging picture of what they could expect
in the short run. "We're going to monitor him very closely until we can
assess the extent of the injuries."

"Is he ... is he going to make it?" Paul said. "Yes, he is."

In that quiet certainty, Cinnie had found her anchor.

Ferris would take care of James. Ferris wouldn't let anything happen to
her baby. She would have embraced the man but he was as cuddly as a
porcupine.

Thinking back, Cinnie wrote about the power outage in the studio and
Paul being late to meet the bus. She waited for the usual stab of fury,
but it didn't come. So maybe she was finally through with it.

Or too numb to feel anything.

The narrative rambled on for fifteen written pages. The insurance
adjuster was going to get a lot more than he bargained for, Cinnie
thought, and probably nothing he'd find worth his time.

She stapled the pile of pages together and stuffed them in an envelope.

As the insurance man had suggested, she called his service and told the
man who answered that the letter was ready. She hung up and went outside
in her robe and slippers to deposit the account in the curbside mailbox.

Back inside, the warmth of the farmhouse seeped under her skin and
turned her to mush. She yawned. Now she was absolutely ready for a long
soak in the tub and a night's sleep, preferably in good company.

On a hopeful whim, she dialed Paul's number at the studio. No answer,
which meant he was in the middle of a session and had switched his calls
to his service. The operator finally picked up on the fifth ring, but
Cinnie didn't bother to leave a message. No way she could induce Paul to
leave the studio before he was entirely ready. Another woman she might
be able to handle, but she didn't have a clue about how to compete with
a sound board.

The bath water was too cold. Cinnie drained it and started over.

She flipped the taps on full and poured in a packet of scented salts.

Waiting for the tub to fill, she undressed and wrapped herself in an
ancient blue robe. With a few minutes to waste, she picked up several
papers and magazines from the neglected pile on the desk and started
leafing through them.

The world had continued to turn in her absence: plenty of murders,
political coups, economic upheavals, deaths, divorces, major scandals in
the wings waiting their turn for tabloid space.

Her eyelids gained weight as she tried to catch up on three weeks worth
of local politics, favorite cartoon strips, goings on in Central America
and the Middle East, recipes for Tex-Mex concoctions.

A tickle underfoot jolted her alert. She looked down to discover that
her bath had overflowed and was forging a soapy river on the bedroom
floor. She raced -into the bathroom, sloshing in the flood, and turned
off the faucets.

It took over an hour of bailing and mopping to turn the tides.

The plank floor was still soaked through, and ancient layers of wax were
lifting in ugly white blotches. The small oriental rug that she'd
inherited from her mother was saturated. Cinnie wrung it out and draped
it over the tub to dry.

Finished, she surveyed the mess and mused at her own lack of reaction.

After all that had happened, she couldn't get too worked up over wet
wood planks and a soggy hunk of woven wool. James's accident had shifted
the world into different focus.

Which reminded her to call pediatrics and see how her sweetheart was
doing.

She recognized the voice on the other end as the young nurse who'd given
James his bath this morning. Double shifting, Cinnie thought.

No wonder they made mistakes. "This is Cinnie Merritt. How's James
doing?"

There was an awkward pause. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing really, Mrs. Merritt. Poor Jimmy just seems
...  unhappy to me. Kind of upset or something. Not the way he usually
is."

"What do you mean? What's he doing?"

"It's hard to explain.

Look, I probably shouldn't be bothering you with it at all. He'll
probably drop off to sleep in no time and be just fine in the morning."

"Of course you should bother me with it. You did exactly right. Do me a
favor, will you? Tell him I'm coming right over."

"Oh, I'm sure there's no need."

"Fifteen minutes, tops.

Please tell him."

"Really, Mrs. Merritt. We can take care of him.

No reason for you to ... "Be right there."

Cinnie tossed on a sweatsuit. The Volvo refused to start, so she grabbed
the keys from Paul's dresser and took the Porsche.

Maybe it was silly, but instinct nudged her to make the trip. And from
now on, she was determined to listen to those inner voices, no matter
how unreasonable they sounded.

Traffic was thin on High Ridge, and the lights had been switched for the
night to a series of yellow warning blinkers. She wanted to hurry, but
the slick roads held her to a frustrating crawl.

The radio surrounded her with a comforting cushion of sound.

Cinnie concentrated hard on the icy road. All she wanted was to get to
her little one and ease whatever was troubling him. She was so focused
on her destination that she never saw the accident coming.

Cobb was jubilant. Procuring the vehicle had been far simpler than he'd
dared to hope. A single phone call made with the appropriate modicum of
guile had sufficed. As planned, he explained that he was conducting a
crucial experiment and required immediate delivery.

He had suffered no tiresome queries, no hesitation from the source,
though he had been prepared to deal with both, if necessary.

But all had proceeded apace. And the brilliant means to resolving his
dilemma had been forthcoming in hours, conveyed directly to his cabin by
a fawning courier. All that remained was the installation and retrieval.

As he approached the entrance to the hospital parking lot, the arm of
the wooden sentry made its deferential ascent. At the far end of the
desolate blacktop, he eased his car into the shroud of shadow cast by a
ring of evergreens.

Stepping out, he was caressed by the vibrant night sky. Spurred by the
wind. Silently, he traversed the dark sea of pavement and claimed the
cover of a privet hedge near the entrance.

He was a few spare feet from the guard. Cobb narrowed his eyes and
appraised the vile creature: scaly skin with a bilious cast. Eyes the
dull yellow of overboiled eggs, mouth puckered and dry like an anus.

Cobb observed the man's blunted fingers and edematous paunch.

With rising abhorrence, he catalogued the bold signatures of the
creature's impending demise.

Failing health aside, the moronic sloth still craved his putrid vices:
Cobb caught the stench of stale tobacco rising from his rumpled uniform.
He was visibly agitated. His head flailed from side to side, limbs
pulsed in a cluster of nervous need.

Perfect. As expected, the guard soon abandoned his post and vanished
around the corner of the building. Cobb rejoiced. The munificent fates
were urging him on his mission.

The lobby was empty save for three ancient women. He winced at their
aura: a ripe ooze of decay. The dust of their putrefaction trembled in
the stifling air and settled about them in a savage halo.

Heedless, they prattled on. Voices an impotent shrill. Cobb masked his
revulsion as he passed near them enroute to the stairs.

He climbed on cat feet, lithe and limber. Anticipation had overwhelmed
his debility. He was the moon rising, fountain of celestial splendor.

Spikes of warmth radiated from him, brightening the dank stairwell.

Fifth floor. Cobb paused at the landing. He peeled open the lid of the
plastic container to peer inside. The vehicle remained hail and plump.

Glorious. With the certitude of high resolution film, he reviewed all
that he'd read in the seminal three-volume Oxford University Press work
on the subject of his chosen vehicle. Species Hirudo medicinalis.

Variation on the common swamp leech.

Ancient physicians had employed the cunning creatures to rid ailing
patients of what were presumed to be tainted humors. But with the advent
of so-called modern medical practice, therapeutic bleeding had fallen
into disrepute. For centuries Hirudo had been reviled and grossly
undervalued, to the point that several subspecies now faced the imminent
threat of extinction. Only in recent years had the pharmacological
virtues of the species been reconsidered and acknowledged.

Cobb was conversant with several promising new treatment modalities
involving the lowly leech. After microsurgical limb reattachment, the
creatures had demonstrated the unique ability to resorb small clots
around the surgical field without harming delicate tissues.

But that was far from Hirudo's sole value. Leech saliva had been found
to contain a protein called hirudin that had grand potential as an
anticlotting agent in the treatment of cardiovascular disease.

Hementin, a substance produced by the Amazonian leech, had proven
effective in dissolving blood clots. And orgelase, also a byproduct of
Hirudo metabolism, was under study for its potential value in the
treatment of glaucoma and certain circulatory disorders.

But Cobb had still another, grander enterprise in mind for the humble
Hirudo. Plan beyond reckoning. Triumph of ingenuity.

He pressed his ear to the fire door and listened. Footsteps clacked like
frozen teeth over the cold linoleum. Voices chattered.

An anguished child begged for respite from his pain. The wails pierced
Cobb's fragile font of patience.

Be still! Silence!" Anxiously, he willed the clamour to subside.

But the noise and activity were incessant. A telephone rang. There was
the staccato clatter of a linen cart and the low rumble of a gurney
returning a patient from surgery.

A sudden draft invaded the stairwell, and the lights dimmed.

Strident voices echoed up from the bowels of the building. Cobb felt the
crackle of menace before his ear caught the approaching threat.

Footsteps on the risers below. He held his breath as the interlopers
ascended to the third landing and commenced toward the fourth.

Silently, he bade their immediate arrest. Come no further.

Cease!

But the footfalls persisted. Resonant, determined. Drawing closer.

On the fourth landing now, and still approaching.

He could not be discovered cowering in the stairwell. What reasonable
excuse could he offer? He would be exposd, humiliated.

The intruders were drawing nearer.

No choice, no time. Cobb threw open the fire door and forced himself to
stride boldly down the bustling corridor. He averted his eyes, refusing
to return any curious glances. Only a few yards to the sanctum. There,
he could safely await his opportunity. ' When he was certain he was
unobserved, Cobb let himself in and quickly shut the door behind him.
Crypt darkness. He searched through his pockets but found no matches.
Arms outstretched, he made his way across the span to search for the
light cord. He groped and fumbled, his fingers recoiling from objects he
was powerless to identify.

In the center of the room, Cobb stumbled and cursed. His strength was
evaporating. Panic reduced him, sucked him into the maelstrom of oily
ruin.

Stop! Cobb clenched his teeth and struggled for control. He invoked the
rudimentary first-phase exercise. Mental mapping.

Universal, global, and internal maps were all dependent on the same
elementary device.

Eyes shut against the dark invasion, he extended his mind's eye to a
postulated focal point on the unseen wall. Through complex calculations,
he divined the formula for placement of any given object within the
remainder of the meager space. He had only to extend a finger then and
find one object. He touched a slick framed rectangle: his shaving
mirror.

With renewed confidence, Cobb turned and moved toward the obvious
position of the lamp. There, he felt the shade and grasped the dangling
chain beneath. A triumphant tug and the room was awash with soft pink
illumination.

Cobb scanned the space. All appeared to be in order. The serpentine
thread had been deformed, but that had likely been his own doing.

Waiting for the commotion on the floor to subside, Cobb opened the
plastic container and stared at the wriggling vehicle. He was spellbound
by the creature's luxuriant movements. Slither and writhe.

Squirm in mindless pleasure.

Precious specimen. Cobb imagined the lustrous body engorged with the
child's blood. He would then be able to extract the precious humors
directly, in the fresh form he required. There would be no evaporation
of the essential humors as there was when the specimen's blood was
stored in those ruinous vials in the laboratory. He required pure
infusion and he would have it as soon as .

Cobb's reverie was pierced by the silence. All activity had ceased in
the corridor. A precious lull.

Stealing forth, clutching the vehicle, Cobb made his way toward the
specimen's room.

The dingle nurse had returned. Real names continued to elude him, but
James had managed to apply alternate labels to the jumble of people he
saw regularly in this noisy bed world. There was the dingle nurse, the
pebble nurse, nurse heighdy-ho, the goo-goo doctor, Mister blah, the
shadow man.

The shadow man. The thought slithered up James's spine and made him
shiver. He had a horrific image of sharp needles, evil teeth gleaming in
the darkness, tunnel, eyes.

He nudged the terrible thought aside. Dingle nurse was plumping his
pillow now, turning it over to the cool side. Nice, pretty dingle.

Her hand on his cheek was warm pudding. She had a sunshine face and eyes
like pool water.

Double sunshine face. Double pool water eyes. Now she moved to the head
of the bed to straighten his sheets. James observed her twin upside down
mouths from his queer perspective and attempted to enjoy the absurdity.

She began talking. Her words were reminiscent of the melody bells James
had been assigned to play in music class because he was, the only one
who could read music.

Light, tinkly sounds without substance issued from her inverted lips.

After so many tries, James recognized the probable futility of the
effort. But he decided to make one last attempt to explain his concerns
to the dingle nurse. "Shadow man. Vinton. pop, Mom.

Door."

"There now, Jimmy. That comfy?" green tunnel. Mrs. Wheel."

"Easy now, honey. Guess what? I just got off the phone with your mommy,
and she said to tell you she's on her way to keep you company for a
while. She'll be here real soon. So how's about you settle down and get
a little rest in the meantime?"

James attempted to heed her counsel. He watched her effervescent double
image as she left the room and closed the door behind her. A fist of
foreboding gripped him as the lock clicked shut.

What if the shadow man came back? He vowed not to entertain that dread
possibility, but the idea kept snaking back into view. The shadow man
could appear at any moment.

James started at the slightest sound in the corridor. Any hint of an
approaching intruder and he tensed.

Where was his mother already? He listened for the glad ping of the
elevator, imagined the sharp cadence of her approaching stride. He could
almost feel the door fling open with a cool rush of air and visualize
her walking toward him. "Hey, Jimbo. How's the world's best small
person?"

The thought of her voice warmed him and made him smile. She would sit on
the bed beside him and tell him a story. "Once, upon a time there was a
monkey-faced little boy named James. And he lived in a house in the
woods with a garden full of weeds. "The two strongest weeds were a
brother and a sister named Dove and Elegant  ..." No.

Not that story. He didn't want to think about that.

James had mentioned the book in the hope that he could convey its
significance to his mother, that it had come from the shadow man.

James had wanted to inform his mother about the shadow man's weird
visits, all the strange, scary things. But she had misunderstood.

She'd thought he wanted the book read again and again. After so many
times, he thought he could probably recite the narrative from memory ".

.. And the strong weed, Elegant, made sure her ailing brother, Dove, got
the sap he needed to get well. When she was ailing, Dove went out and
found the healing sap for Elegant."

Stupid story. So stupid he would not give it another thought.

James ordered all vestiges of the tale from his consciousness and filled
the fragile void with soothing mechanical utterances: "January,
February, March ... ; summer, fall, winter, spring. Mary, Mary, quite
contrary, how does your garden grow ... ?"

With silver bells and cockleshells and pretty maids all in a row."

James froze at the voice and the cackle of mirth that followed.

The shadow man had slipped in without his notice. "Feeling better all
the while, are you not, my child?"

James went mute with fear. The shadow man's face was stretched in a
grotesque grimace. "I have a surprise for you, James. A simple means to
fulfill your obligation. It doesn't even require a needle, isn't that
grand?"

James couldn't move. He watched the shadow man from the corner of his
eye. There was a glint of mischief in shadow's expression. The man
peeled back the cover from a cloudy plastic container with a sound like
paper tearing. And then came a slurp as he dipped his hand deep into the
cylinder and had to wrench it loose.

When the hand emerged, James saw a fat black blotch squirming on the
palm. The shadow man raised the blotch toward his lips and crooned
lovingly. "Dear little cleverness. Cunning beast of My salvation."

A nervous giggle bubbled in James's throat. But he remembered the last
time he'd laughed and the slap that followed. He bit hard on his lower
lip.

The man's voice was changing, growing dangerous. He was still addressing
the blotch. "You are the moment. Creature of great enterprise. Servant
of the dark moon. Behold." The shadow man came nearer and leaned over so
James could look into his empty eyes. "Be still now."

James stifled a tremor. The shadow man pulled down his covers.

He felt a hard pull at the top of his leg cast and a pressure verging on
pain as the man forced his fingers down the tight plaster tube.

"Still my child, almost finished."

There was an odd, clammy sensation as the man withdrew his fingers.

James wanted to scratch it away, but the best he could do was rake the
plaster. "All done. See the magnificent simplicity? Sleep now, James.
Rest."

The shadow man slipped out of the room. James still felt the clammy
tickle under the cast. He forced his flattened hand down the top as far
as he could', but his fingers were too short, and he couldn't get close
enough to scratch the tickle.

Then he thought of the blotch. Had the shadow man put that blotch thing
on his leg? James tensed and squirmed at the notion. He wanted it out,
gone. Whatever it was, he didn't want it on him.

He whimpered a protest. The sound generated another and another and took
on a frightening power of its own. He could hear the shrill of his own
terror, but it seemed to be coming from someone else. He couldn't reach
it, couldn't find the way to stop the screaming.

Where was his mother? Why wasn't she here?

"Name."

"Cinnie Merritt."

"You okay, Mrs. Merritt? Want me to call an ambulance?"

She told him no. An ambulance was the last place she ever wanted to be
again. Anyway, nothing hurt more than a dull shot. Plenty of bumps and
bruises, but nothing to merit bouquets or exceptional sympathy.

Arms folded over her chest, she surveyed the wreckage.

The road was strewn with jewels of shattered glass. What remained of
Paul's cherished car looked like a battered red accordion. It was wedged
against the curb at an improbable angle, spewing acrid fumes and making
a noise like hot grease.

Cinnie knew she was badly shaken. Her voice quavered, and she felt a
numbness she self-diagnosed as mild shock. Her mouth was chalk, heart
jumping.

Ten yards away, another cop was chatting with a truck driver, a blond
giant with a walrus mustache, an orange hunter's vest that capped
several comic, strips worth of tattoos, and an incendiary expression.

He was claiming at the top of his considerable lungs that the whole
thing had been Cinnie's fault. There was one clean dent in the side of
his produce truck, a dimple between the painted apples and bananas.

"That woman came streaking out of nowhere in that fancy car of hers.

Thinks she owns the damned road."

Cinnie tried to keep calm. "Look, officer. I'm on my way to see my son
in the hospital. This character came turning onto High Ridge from the
parkway ramp without bothering to look or slow down. But I don't have
the time to argue right now. The important thing is, nobody's hurt. So
please, can we have our insurance companies hash this out or something?

I have to get to my son."

"Merritt?" the cop said. "Was it your little guy in that hit-run?"

"Yes. Please, I have to get to the hospital. I spoke to his nurse, and
James is having a rough time right now."

The cop turned to the trucker. "You were turning onto High Ridge from
the parkway, the lady says. That right?"

"Yeah, but she ..

"But she nothing, buddy. No trucks allowed on that parkway. You aware of
that? And would you happen to remember who has the right of way at a
parkway ramp, if you were supposed to be on it in the first place?"

The guy started sputtering. The cops rolled their eyes and got on with
it. One began writing citations for the traffic violations while the
other opened the patrol car door and offered to drive Cinnie to
Fairview. Sweetheart was even willing to call a wrecker and have the
Porsche towed away. Nice to know how caring and efficient some cops
could be.

By the time the officer dropped her at the hospital entrance, Cinnie had
put the accident behind her. Despite his devotion to the stupid hunk of
metal, Paul's car was only a thing. It could be fixed, replaced,
forgotten if necessary. If Paul chose to have a tantrum or go into
mourning over it, that was his problem. James was all that mattered now.

The sound hit her as soon as the elevator doors opened on five.

Desperate screams. At once, Cinnie knew it was James.

She raced to his room. Two -nurses and a resident were trying to calm
him. Everyone looked flustered and worn out, especially James.

His face was blotched, swollen, and streaked with tears. His mouth
distended as he continued to scream. His voice was fading and full of
static. "It's okay, Jimbo. It's all right, baby. Ssh, now. Stop.

She took him onto her lap, cast and all, and pressed his cheek to her
shoulder. He was drenched with perspiration, body heaving in hysterical
pulses. "Stop, sweetie. Ssh. Tell me what's wrong. Let me make it
better."

Slowly, he calmed down. She held him tight until the last tic of anguish
shook his little body. "There, that's better. Want a drink of water?"

A nurse handed her a cup, and James took a sniffling sip. Cinnie wiped
his face and neck with a cool, damp washcloth and changed him into fresh
pajamas. Settled back in bed, he looked like a deflated balloon.

"Better now, sweetheart? Can you tell me what happened?"

Cinnie gestured for the troops to retreat. The nurses and young doctor
nodded and left the room. They all looked ready for early retirement.

She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked James's forehead. Poor monkey
had been through a giant emotional wringer. "Tell me, sweetheart. Did
you have a bad dream?"

He shook his head no. "Are you in pain then? Is that it? Can you show me
what hurts?"

He touched his leg cast at a point just above the knee. "Your leg is
bothering you? That's what all this was about?"

He nodded. "Oh, sweetie. I'm so sorry. I'll go call the doctor.

Probably the cast is too tight or some dumb thing like that. I'll take
care of it right away, honey. Hold tight a minute. Okay?"

There were no phones in the pediatrics rooms. Cinme hated to leave him,
even for a minute, but she had no choice. And James was much calmer now.
She imagined how frustrating it must have been for him, in pain and not
able to tell anybody. "I'll be right back."

On her way to the pay phones she passed one worried face after another.

She wanted to shriek at every one of them, maybe wring a couple of
necks. Why should James have had to suffer like that?

Someone should have taken the time to try to figure out what was
bothering him.

She dialed Dr. Rosenquist, the orthopedist who'd set the leg.

Service answered. Cinnie explained the problem, but the operator told
her Rosenquist was off for the night. Dr. Terry was covering.

Cinnie knew Terry only too well, and she wouldn't have trusted that
jackass to set her hair. One thing about working in the hospital, you
got to know which noble healers to avoid.

She tried a couple of other bone men, but no one was willing to see an
inpatient under the care of another private physician. Cinnie was
running out of ideas when she thought of Dr. Ferris.

Ferris's service picked up on the second ring. Cinnie explained the
urgency of the problem. "He's in terrible pain. Someone has to come
tonight and take a look, and I've run out of orthopedists."

The operator assured her that Ferris was on call and available by pager.
"I'll beep him and make sure he gets right back to you, Mrs. Merritt.
One thing Dr. Ferris can't stand is seeing a child in unnecessary pain."

"Thanks. I'll wait right here." Cinnie gave the woman the number of the
floor phone and hung up feeling better. Ferris was dedicated and
competent. He'd get here as quickly as he could and take care of it.

Cinnie knew you didn't have to be an orthopedic surgeon to cut a window
in a plaster cast and see what the problem was underneath. "Oh, hi,
how's Jimmy? Calmer?"

It was the young nurse who'd answered Cinnie's call. She was stepping
off the elevator. Probably back from a break and missed the commotion.

"His leg is hurting him. I couldn't get hold of Rosenquist, but I'm
waiting for a callback from Dr. Ferris."

"That's good.-Ferris knows his stuff. I have a problem with a kid, I'm
always glad to see that man."

"Yes. Me too."

The phone shrilled moments later. Ferris hadn't answered his page yet,
but the operator was positive she'd be able to reach him in a couple of
minutes. "He's always available when he says he'll be, Mrs. Merritt.

Probably caught him in the shower or something."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. You go visit with James, and I'll fill the doctor in as
soon as I can reach him. Don't worry. He'll be there very soon."

Cinnie's insides were still churning. On the way back to James's room
she made a quick stop at the restroom to splash her face with cold water
and compose herself. She wasn't going to do her little boy any good if
she was cracking at the seams.

Everything was going to be all right. Ferris would show up and do
whatever it took to make sure James was comfortable again. Soon.

Sooner than she could possibly imagine. Even as she stood at the
bathroom mirror and resolved to put on a confident front for James,
Malcolm Cobb was back in the child's room. He'd heard her at the phone
trying to get help for her son. He had to, retrieve the vehicle before
it could be discovered.

Drum was out before dawn, threading the beauty through swags of
low-lying fog. His breathing was labored, heart clunking like a gummy
carburetor. Damned case was wearing him out. When all this was over,
he'd have to find a way to swing a family vacation in the Caribbean.

What he needed was a week on one of those islands so quiet the fish died
of boredom. He'd have to figure a way to get Carmody to spring for it.
Drum couldn't imagine a better use for the department's sunshine fund. I
He followed the maze of streets leading to Tyler's Grove and drove in
through the broken stone pillars. The neighborhood was out cold. All the
houses were dark, shuttered, and still. Only sign of life was a striped
tabby whose stalking shadow played over the frozen ground.

Drum stopped in front of the Merritts' farmhouse and retrieved the
bulging envelope that Louis at Failsafe Security had told him would be
waiting in the mailbox. Looked like the kid's mother had found plenty to
say. Some of it surprising, he hoped.

High Ridge Road crossed the New York State line five miles north of the
Grove and continued through the sprawling Westchester town of Pound
Ridge. Drum drove past a pristine town park, a line of ancient white
clapboard buildings given over to municipal use: library, historical
society, post office, hall of records. Place reeked of New England.

Drum had the uneasy sensation he'd slipped off the real world and landed
in a Norman Rockwell painting.

He tracked the main road for a while, checking out the few gas stations,
body shops, and chop operations on the list he'd put together. Not much
industry in this town, he'd noticed. Then most of the types who lived
here had already done their most important life's work: gotten
themselves born to rich parents.

Eventually, the road veered left toward the village of Bedford, New
York, and Drum did likewise. The properties stretched and the houses
grew larger and more distant until they disappeared like shy giants
behind towering iron fences and manicured hedgerows. From then on, the
only hints of life were the carefully chiseled estate signs and the
posted warnings about mad dogs, ferocious burglar alarms, and the high
cost of trespassing. He stopped at the town line and turned around.

On the return trip, he covered the few side streets on his list.

There were a couple of auto operations tucked into the rows of shuttered
stores, one next to a small private school, and another half hidden
behind a garden supply place dotted with specimen shrubs and fledgling
Christmas trees.

At each stop, he drove the beauty in a slow loop through the lot and
then got out to peer through the body shop windows. Remembering
Driscoll's assessment of the Merritt kid's injuries, he looked for
right-side front fender damage on a late-model, foreign-make midsized
sedan or wagon.

Nothing -matched Meat's description, but the car he was after could well
be long gone.

Thinking that Driscoll might be able to- pin the missing car down
further, Drum swung left and headed through the center of scotts
Corners.

No lights were on in Driscoll's service station. Drum knocked, but
couldn't raise anyone inside. Then he climbed the rickety back outside
stairs to the apartment Meat kept over the garage and pounded on the
door. No answer, but the thumping had dislodged a note wedged between
the storm door and the frame. It was an order to the milkman to hold
Driscoll's deliveries until further notice.. Meat's peculiar eating
habits had left him with an ulcer the size of Hoboken, which he treated
by drinking fresh sweet cream out of the carton (often laced with a shot
of bourbon to cut the cholesterol). Driscoll was never without his sweet
cream, so the note meant Meat had to be out of town.

Maybe visiting one of his favorite vacation spots: Attica or Sing Sing.

Still an hour or so until the earliest businesses opened. Drum settled
back in the beauty, poured himself a short cup of coffee from the Hulk
Hogan thermos he'd copped out of Booker's lunch box, and opened the
envelope.

The Merritt woman's account was very clear and detailed.

Interesting how the worst days got etched in your memory. Burnt in like
the scars on Drum's face.

Snap, and it all came back. Snap, and he could relive every.

stinking minute. Stroll down memory frigging lane.

That filthy loop of celluloid had been Drum's cage. He was terrified of
crossing his uncle, afraid the old man would pay him back by showing the
film at the Avon Theatre. The air in Liam's house was too thick to
breathe, rancid. But Drum couldn't leave, couldn't go anywhere as long
as that movie reel was still around.

He spent all his time, searching for a way out. His nights were full of
toxic dreams and murderous fantasies. Drum ached for Liam to drop dead.
But even the old turd's death wouldn't release him. He knew he would
never be free until he got rid of the damned film.

The plan came to him weeks before he had the guts to pull it off.

A simple way to cut loose. It would work. Risky, true. But there were
way bigger risks in not taking care of it. Risks so big, Drum couldn't
see past them. The threat was a huge range of black mountains blocking
out his life, leaving him cold and empty. Whatever the possible
consequences, he had to destroy that film.

Drum waited for a time when he was sure Liam would be out of the house.

He'd checked with Kurt, the houseman, who'd assured him that Liam would
be spending this particular night in Manhattan.

Kurt left after dinner. Drum sat awhile listening to the silence,
letting the hatred build and consume him. He thought about the film
until he was too full of rage to feel fear or anything else.

Earlier, he'd taken the can of charcoal lighter fluid from the garage
and copped a box of kitchen matches.

Nobody home, but Drum still stole silently through the dark house toward
the office. His blood was frozen, heart wriggling like a hooked worm.

He soaked sheets of looseleaf paper with the lighter fluid and eased
them under the office door. Enough flame, and the carpet would catch.

Drum was counting on that. First the 'carpet, then a slow spread of
flames until the drapes went up and the wood paneling caught.

No one was expected until Kurt came back in the morning. By then,
there'd be nothing left in the damned office. And Drum would be long
gone.

He lit a match and touched it to the protruding tail of one of the
sheets of paper. Thing went up with a reassuring pop. Drum could hear
the flames leaping on the other side of the door, and he caught the
stench of burning wool.

A couple of minutes to make sure the fire had taken hold, and Drum
planned to get the hell out. He had no idea where he was going.

Didn't care either, as long as it was far enough away from this place.

So far, he'd never have to look at that fat, ugly monster again.

He caught the first whiff of gathering smoke. He decided to wait a
minute more to be absolutely sure the fire wouldn't go out. A few more
seconds.

Satisfied, Drum turned to leave. His hand was on the doorknob when he
was stopped by the shot. Turning, he saw Liam in the foyer archway, his
face twisted with rage and loathing. "Next time, I don't miss, Jeremiah.
Next time I start killing you off a bit at a time, you scum.

Start with that sweet, little sausage of yours. See how it looks
grilled."

He aimed the gun at Drum's crotch. "You don't want to make me do that,
do you? Wouldn't want me to make you a girl, Jeremiah. That's been your
worry right along, hasn't it?"

Liam shook his head and sniffed. "Here I take you in, give you
everything. And this is the thanks I get."

Liam kept the pistol level with Drum's groin and edged him toward the
kitchen phone. Raising the receiver, he flashed an evil smile.

"Seems you've left me with no choice, boy. First, I call the fire
department. And then I'll have to report all this to the cops. It's MY
civic duty to help them understand what sort of a boy you are, what sick
appetites you have. Pity it is, what's become of my dear brother's son.
Poor Matthew would roll in his grave if he knew, wouldn't he, Jeremiah?

Matthew never would countenance certain types of appetites, you know.
He'd make these little fag jokes, your father did."

The fury was building in Drum like a trapped head of steam.

Growing until it was too large to contain. An inhuman sound ripped from
his throat. Drum knocked Liam down with a flying tackle and started
pummeling the bobbling flesh. He kept punching. pounding. A monstrous
rage fueled him, drove his fists like metal pistons.

Liam deflated like a stuck balloon. Went still. Panting, Drum looked
down in horror to see his uncle's pale, wasted body. A trickle of blood
flowed from the distended nostrils, and there were livid welts on the
puffy limbs. Otherwise, the old man looked like a huge empty pelt.

Paralyzed by shock, Drum staggered back. He was so sure Liam was dead,
he couldn't fathom the hand that shot out and caught his ankle.

He plummeted to the floor, slamming his head on the polished wood.

Sparks, erupted behind his eyes, and the air rushed out of him.

Struggling against unconsciousness, he rolled over onto his back.

There was a flash of metal as Liam smashed the pistol down toward his
face. He felt a crack across his nose and tasted blood. Then came an
exquisite pain as Liam brought the gun down and shattered his wrist.

Another searing blow across his knee, and everything went black.

He came to in a hellish inferno. Through the forest of flames came the
stink of his own burning hair and flesh. Dark billows of acrid smoke
filled the foyer, stealing the air. The house was a nightmare of heat
and boiling fire, furniture going up like sparked paper, beams crashing
down.

He stumbled, his legs reduced to numb stumps. Half crawling, he
continued toward the door. Ragged breaths burned in his chest. A snake
of horror wound around his neck and started squeezing.

Finally, he managed to reach the door. But the knob was scalding metal
that melted his palm like candlewax. He recoiled in an electric shower
of pain. Desperate, he struggled back, through the curtain of flame
toward the window.

Closer, there, a light. Drum ran through the ragged glass like it was a
spray of cool water. Felt nothing but exquisite relief.

The night air was unbearably sweet. He filled himself and felt dizzy
from the sweetness. The sky was ablaze, rent by approaching sirens.

Looked so much like the real world, Drum's eyes swelled with grateful,
bloody tears.

But he knew everything was changed, ripped into unrecognizable
fragments. Nothing anyone could do to save him now.

Liam was dead. Drum had killed him. He had to get away before the cops
showed up, had to run.

Drum snapped out of the dread reverie. Not now. No more, Drum.

Shut it away. Lock the frigging door on it already.

His throat was chalk. He downed another little red cupful of sweet
coffee and stared out at the misty dawn. The cords around his neck eased
up a little. He picked up the pages again in a trembling hand and forced
himself to keep reading.

Fifteen minutes later, he was finished. A couple of things had caught
his attention, and he added them to his growing list of loose ends.

But first things first. Drum had decided to start searching for the car
up north. Way fewer shops to check in that direction. And the lonely
ex-librarian had seen a car speeding toward the High Ridge spur, which
fed the northbound lane.

If nothing panned out on this round, he'd have to turn south toward the
endless possibilities in downtown Stamford, Greenwich, and the dense
Westchester, New York towns further along. Not a happy prospect.

But Drum had a hunch it wouldn't be necessary. If a guy with a bloody,
dented fender wanted to disappear in the middle of the day, he wasn't
likely. to head through the congested center of Stamford. Not when the
end of the world was only a few miles in the opposite direction.

Drum started with the auto body shop nearest the accident. He introduced
himself as an investigator for the triple A. Metal-maulers were very
anxious to stay on the good side of the auto association.

Plenty of referrals came that way. Could be even more efficient than
chasing ambulances and monitoring the police band.

Drum claimed he was conducting a safety survey, looking at recent
accident rates by make and model, covering the last three weeks as a
random sample.

He knew exactly what he was after, but he came up empty at the first
four shops he visited. Last on his list in the area was Bud's Auto Body
near Bedford Center.

Drum was beginning to lose faith. There was always the chance that the
hit-run car was languishing in a barn or garage or rusting among the
bottom weeds in some sleepy river. But he was counting on the driver
wanting the evidence erased. Permanent solution, everything neat and
tidy.

Bud's Auto Body looked more like a movie set than a real garage.

Drum pulled the beauty in front of the immaculate glass-walled shop.

Mostly exotic imports in the lot. Drum figured Bud did a land-office
business in door dings and upholstery stains.

Three mechanics were having coffee in the office when Drum walked in.

There was a big guy who had boss written all over him, a younger clone
Drum made for the head honcho's son, and a third young guy who had
actual dirt under his fingernails. The big man flashed Drum a
challenging look. Drum guessed he didn't pass for the shop's standard
customer.

He danced through his triple A routine, and the boss took the bait.

Big guy said he'd be glad to cooperate, but he didn't have many accident
cases to report. Most of the shop's routine work was detailing, he
explained. For two hundred dollars, they cleaned customers' cars fender
to fender by hand, Q-tip, and toothbrush. Drum didn't comment, but for
two bills he'd expect to get a whole lot more taken care of than his
ashtrays and hubcaps.

I The boss hauled out a ledger and gave Drum a rundown of recent jobs.

In addition to a long roster of weekly detailing customers, there had
been three accidents in the past three weeks: a black Corvette with a
dent in the passenger-side door, a flipped beige jeep, and a baby-blue
Rolls with a dimpled rear bumper.

While Drum listened, he worked his eyes and picked up something real
interesting. Thinking this might be his lucky day after- all, he kept
the boss talking until the phone rang in the immaculate office.

When the big guy ambled in to answer, Drum waved good-bye and headed for
the exit.

Perfect. The boss's son was busy buffing the trim on a Jaguar.

Drum motioned for young Mister Dirty Fingers to follow him out and held
the door open for him. "Got some rust I'd like you to take a look at,
pal," Drum said loud enough for anyone interested to hear. Then he
caught the young guy by the elbow and steered him toward the beauty.

The kid caught a glimpse of Drum's shark grin and started to look a
little nervous. When they were next to the Mustang, Drum patted the hood
and winked. "Something tells me you do a little work on the side, am I
right?"

"What do you mean?" "Work, pal. You know, a little repair business just
between you and me. You fix up my sweetheart here. I pay you direct and
get a real reasonable price. We both make out, so what's the harm,
right?"

The kid shrugged and went cute. "Wouldn't be right for me to make side
deals, mister. I work for Bud."

"Yeah, that's right. You do.

Until I tell him you've been scamming him, that is. Then I bet you're an
independent contractor full-time, wiseass."

"Hey, come on. You got nothing on me."

"Like hell I don't." Drum grabbed one of the kid's dirty paws and held
it up so it caught the sunlight. "Let's see. Here we've got a nice
domestic metallic silver, a spatter of Ferrari red, a touch of Lincoln
sapphire blue, vintage eighty-nine. Want me to go on?

Or you think Bud won't need to hear the whole sad story before he cans
your crooked ass?"

The guy started whimpering. "Please, mister. I can't get by on what he
pays me. Nobody could. So once in a while, I do small jobs after hours.
Like you said, what's the harm?"

"Exactly. Kid perked up. "So okay, fine. I'll be glad to fix you up.
Nice old girl you got here. What night you want to bring her in?

Name it.

On the house."

Drum put an avuncular arm across the kid's shoulders. "All I want from
you is a little information, buddy. You tell me something real
interesting, and I just may forget all about blowing my whistle to big
Bud."

Thoroughly disgusted, Drum reared back and pitched the receiver low and
inside. It smacked against the plastic wall of the phone booth and left
a satisfying web of cracks.

Better. He hurled the thing several more times until the booth wall
looked frosted and the phone's entrails were dangling from the metal
cord. The exercise dimmed his anger to the low flame of a pilot light.

Too bad that jackass shrink from the department wasn't around.

Drum, would show him displaced aggression like he never imagined.

Why was nothing ever easy? The big hot lead was turning out to be a big
hot pain in Drum's butt.

The young mechanic from Bud's had been the ticket after all. Kid had
patched up five cars on the sly in the last three weeks. Two met Drum's
basic specifications: a brown Audi 5000 and a green Peugeot wagon. The
winner had been real easy to pin down.

The Audi had belonged to a middle-aged guy who claimed to have skidded
into a phone pole. The dent had been consistent, according to the
mechanic. Large even bruise in the right front fender.

But the Peugeot was another story. Stranger had come in late in the day
three weeks ago and told the mechanic he needed work done right away.
Kid had agreed to meet the guy back at Bud's an hour after closing.

When the character showed up, he'd acted real nervous. There was a big
ding in the Peugeot's right front bumper, a spatter of dried blood on
the bumper and hood and more blood traces on the windshield.

Guy claimed he'd hit a deer.

The damage had been easy to fix. All it took was a mallet on the fender
dent, a little rubbing compound, and a quick shot of spray paint. The
driver had come back for the car in a couple of hours as they'd agreed.
Acting like he was in a hurry, he'd paid cash and left without wasting
any words Kid told Drum he'd suspected right away that the deer story
was a phony. He'd seen plenty of wrecks after deer collisions. Cars
usually looked as if they'd slammed into a brick wall, much more than
fender damage and way more spatwed gore. But he hadn't thought to take
issue with the guy's story. Way he saw it, people had plenty of
excellent reasons for keeping their business to themselves.

Drum had pressed for a helpful description of the driver, but the guy
had been too damned ordinary. Medium everything: hair, height, eyes,
build. According to the mechanic, the driver had no distinguishing
features except the hundreds he'd used to cover the tab.

The kid hadn't made note of the license plate number and hadn't noticed
anything out of the ordinary about the car. Drum was about to cash his
chips when he thought to ask whether the kid had happened to notice
anything inside on the seats or the floor.

Drum could see the light snap on in the mechanic's eyes. There had been
a strange-looking booklet on the passenger seat. Kid remembered it
because of the peculiar picture on the front. It showed a head sliced
open above the ears so the brain was exposed. Underneath was a single
word, Braintrust.

A couple of calls, and Drum had learned that the name belonged to an
L.A.-based organization whose membership qualification was a
stratospheric I.Q. Made ordinary geniuses, like those who joined the far
better known Mensa, look dumb. Naturally, it was a very small, very
exclusive bunch.

It was only a couple of minutes past dawn L.A. time, but Drum called
anyway, hoping the group might be administered out of somebody's house.

Drum wasn't worried about waking the character. Anyone with brains that
big could afford to be groggy.

jackpot. He'd been prepared for a service or a tape, but a wispy, male
voice answered instead. Drum didn't bother apologizing for the hour.

He didn't see it as his responsibility. Anyway, the guy didn't sound all
that sleepy. , "Braintrust. Mirabile visu."

"Yeah sure, same to you."

The. wisp chuckled. "Mirabile visu means 'wonderful to behold."

That's our organizational motto, Mr.-?"

Drum passed himself off as Fred Conga, a researcher for Donahue.

They were planning a show on geniuses and wanted to contact some
possible guests from Braintrust in the New York metro area.

The response was an obnoxious giggle. It went on long enough to make
Drum's teeth itch. "Donahue, no less."

"What? You got a problem with Phil? He's a sweetheart, honest."

"You misunderstand. It's just that our membership avoids publicity at
all costs. None of us would be willing to expose or exploit our gifts in
such a trivial fashion."

Drum was getting a teensy bit miffed, but he managed to hold his reins.

"Nothing trivial about it, I promise. Phil's planning a real quality
presentation. Very educational."

"Oh, my, look at the time.

I'm off to the gym now. Have to run."

"But wait, I have to ..

"Thanks alot. Toodle-oo."

Drum tried to stall the jerk by asking about the group, but all he got
was a disgusted sigh and an offhand mention that the trip to the gym
would only take half an hour or so.

Drum assaulted the phone one last time, left the booth, and stopped at a
nearby coffee shop for a shot of wake-up juice. Counter girl kept
looking him over. Drum couldn't tell if it was interest or disgust.

Finally, he. stuck a finger up his nostril and did a little mining.

Broad got real busy on the other side of the shop. Cleared up that
mystery in a big hurry.

But there were all those others. Drum still couldn't make sense of the
Holroyd broad's story about seeing the hit-run car. He still wondered
about the kid's father. What made the guy tick? And was it the kind of
ticking that should make Drum consider calling the bomb squad? And what
in the hell was Charlie Allston doing to keep busy?

The deputy chief had spent the entire three-week investigation running
in place. Then, maybe screwing up, if you raised it to an art form, was
a full-time job.

What Drum figured he needed was fewer questions or a way bigger brain or
maybe both. Bigger brains. Got him thinking about that wispy-voiced guy
from the egghead group again.

Drum kept thinking as he drove south. His mind was elsewhere as he sped
past the pay phone at the Gulf station north of the Merritt Parkway.
Spotting the booth from the corner of his eye, he made a lunatic U-turn,
stopped in the lot, and got out to dial the L.A. number again.

The wispy guy was back from the gym, but he refused to budge. "As I told
you, our members respect their unique intellectual aptitudes.

They wouldn't dream of giving public performances on the subject. It
would be sheer exploitation."

"Isn't it possible they don't all agree with you, pal? They don't want
to do it, they'll tell me no, right?

So what's the harm if you give me the names? I won't even say where I
got them. Scouts' honor."

"Abyssus abyssum invocat, sir. One misstep leads to another. I cannot
violate the trust of my brothers. That would be unthinkable. Good day
now."

Drum heard a click, and the line went dead ' He dialed again, managed to
keep his tone even, and tried to reason with the jackass.

He tossed in all his aces, flattery, bribes, threats. Got nowhere.

Hanging up, he sentenced the phone to die a gruesome death, but he
noticed that the station manager was watching.

Temporary stay of execution, he muttered as he walked back to the
beauty. But only temporary. First thing when he got back from L.A he'd
take care of it.

The tape Karen Sands had made of that afternoon's staff meeting was
barely through playing when Cinnie stormed out of the rehab suite, took
the stairs to the second floor, and strode past the startled
receptionist, into Dr. Silver's private office.

Silver was leaning back in his desk chair, staring at a magazine he
obviously was not proud to be caught reading. Flustered, he shoved the
thing in a desk drawer and shot Cinnie a sour look. "Okay. What's the
hysterical matter this time?"

"In case it's slipped your tiny, little mind, Dr. Silver, James happens
to be my son. You have no right making plans to have him transferred
without Paul's and my consent." He blew a breath.

"Lighten up, lady. Blythedale is the best place for James to do his
long-term rehab. A space opened up, so I grabbed it. I was going to tell
you." "You're not suppposed to tell me. You're supposed to ask me. And
if you had, I'd have given you our answer: No way." He clacked his
tongue and sighed. "Now, now, Let's be reasonable. There is no medical
reason to keep James at Fairview any longer. His head injury is healing
nicely. And after all his carrying on last night, they did x-rays and a
visual inspection of the fracture site.

Everything's coming along fine. So it's time for him to move on."

"Fine, no argument. I'll take him home first thing in the morning." i
Silver puffed his disgust. "The kid needs intensive rehab, Cinnie.

Every day for months. Don't be a mule about this. Blythedale is an
excellent facility."

"I agree with you."

Cinnie had been to the Valhalla, New York, hospital several times to
visit patients who'd been transferred there for long-term treatment.

Blythedale was a chronic-care facility for kids: bright, cheerful, good
reputation, fine staff. "Great," Silver said. "I'll call administration
and set things up. We'll have James transferred tomorrow."

Cinnie shook her head. "You misunderstand, Dr. Silver. I agree that
James's follow-up therapy should be done at Blythedale, but it will be
on an outpatient basis. He'll stay home."

Silver bullied and argued, but Cinnie was not about to be pushed.

She knew that therapy sessions were restricted to regular business
hours. She could drive James to Blythedale before work and pick him up
at the end of the day. No question in her mind that he'd be better off
at home the rest of the time.

Silver finally pushed back from his desk and threw up his hands.

"Okay. You win. I'll write the discharge orders for tomorrow morning."

Cinnie's triumph was tempered by a sudden attack of insecurity.

What if something went wrong? Would she be able to take care of James?

She rebuked herself They wouldn't be considering any kind of discharge
if he needed medical monitoring. And she could certainly care for him
better than anyone else.

"Fine. I'll cancel my morning appointments. What time can I take him?"

"That's up to Dr. Ferris. He'll want to do a final checkup and write the
home-care orders. Want me to call his office?"

"No. I'll speak to him."

Cinnie took the elevator to pediatrics. After Ferris finished with the
patient he was seeing, she was ushered into his office. It was
scrupulously neat, antiseptic, and controlled, like the man. On entering
the office, Ferris exchanged his soiled lab coat for one of the dozen
hanging in his closet. He washed his hands at the sink under the window
and sat behind his polished desk with woven fingers and a noncommittal
expression.

Cinnie explained her plan to keep James at home during his
rehabilitation. "Makes no sense to have him stay at Blytdale, Dr.
Ferris. They can't do anything for him that I can't. I'm sure James will
be more comfortable in his own bed with his own family."

"I'm sure you'll manage things." Typical Ferris. Flat and even as new
pavement. "So you don't think it's a mistake?"

"You have to do what you think best. I can't tell you what arrangement
would best suit your family, Mrs. Merritt." Cinnie searched for a pin of
encouragement or disapproval, but if Ferris had a stronger opinion he
wasn't prepared to part with it. She pressed harder, anxious for his
blessing. "But you think James will be all right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Merritt. I think James will continue to recover nicely.

As I told you, he's a strong child.

Highly intelligent and vigorous. Try not to doubt yourself. What greater
medicine is there than a mother's love?"

Leaving, she was still vaguely uneasy, but feeling better all the time.

It had taken some doing, but Ferris had approved. It was okay for her to
take James home.

She tried Paul and Dal to give them the news, but she couldn't reach
either of them.

Madeline answered at her father's apartment. Cinnie told her stepmother
about the impending discharge, and she couldn't have been lovelier or
more supportive. "I'll be glad to come stay with him whenever you like,
dear. And if you need help getting him back and forth to therapy, just
holler. Wait until I tell your father, he'll be so thrilled."

Cinnie was disarmed, and she felt a pang of guilt. She had never thanked
Madeline for -all the visits or the gifts she'd brought for James in the
almost four weeks since the accident. Sheepishly, she apologized for the
oversight and tried to sound enthusiastic about the pajamas, candy, and
book. "I didn't bring a book, dear. That must have come from someone
else."

Cinnie hung up perplexed and more than a little chastened. She was
always so quick to find fault with her stepmother. The fact was,
Madeline had always been patient and kind, even though all she'd gotten
from Cinnie in return was frostbite. And she'd embraced James as her own
grandchild, even though Cinnie had done everything in her childish power
to get in the way.

Time to stop the nonsense. She dialed again. Madeline answered.

"I'm sorry," Cinnie said. "For what?"

"Everything.

There was a pause. "Don't be silly, dear. You haven't done anything."

On an impulse, Cinnie invited Madeline and her dad to come to a party at
Fairview late that afternoon in honor of James's release. She made a few
more calls to arrange things and went back to give James the good news
before he was taken to therapy.

"Imagine it, Jimbo. No more hospital food, no more nurses waking you in
the middle of the night to see if you're sleeping comfortably.

Tonight will be your very last night in this joint, kiddo. Tomorrow,
it's over the wall,"

"Shadow, Mommy. Shadow!"

"Come on, sweetie.

Forget all that junk. One more night, and we're out of here. Isn't that
enough to take your mind off your troubles?"

He shook his head from side to side, looked like he was on his way to
another major tantrum. His color deepened, and his hands were balled in
fists. "Book, Mom. Book!"

"Okay, anything. Even that awful thing if you'll calm down. She found
the weed book and pulled the visitor's chair close to James's bed.
Revolting book. She wondered who'd brought it. She thought of weird
Hanky Moller, the volunteer. It would be just like that creepy character
to foist off a hideous story like this on James when she wasn't looking.

Flipping to the beginning of the story, she noticed the name penciled
inside the front cover." Malcolm. It sparked a tickle of recognition,
but she couldn't make a clear connection.

Turning the page, she noticed that the copyright was more than ten years
old and that the book had been published in London. Someone had probably
donated the dreadful volume to the hospital. How many times had she told
Hanky that James didn't want or need anything from his damned cart? But
that infuriating man would not listen. At least, if he was going to
ignore her wishes, he could have come up with something more pleasant
than this heinous book. Almost anything, else would have been an
improvement. "All right, Jimbo. Here goes absolutely nothing."

By now, she knew the story from memory and wished she could get away
with a condensed version. A few sentences were way more than the tale
deserved. An old woman grows a garden of weeds that start to spread to
other gardens in the neighborhood. The neighbors protest.

The protests fall on deaf ears, so the neighbors do what they have to
do. Form an antiweed vigilante committee.

Two weeds survive, a brother and sister named Dove and Elegant.

Pretty stupid names for a couple of weeds, Cinnie thought. At least the
book was consistent in its dreadfulness.

The weed siblings have this weird sap dependence, and they're able to
pull each other through a series of ailments by taking sap from healthy
weeds. So they make it through the winter. And everyone lives strangely
ever after. The end.

Cinnie closed the book and kissed James on both eyelids, both cheeks,
his nose, and chin. "Now please, Oh best little boy in the history of
little boys, don't ask me to read that stupid thing again.

Okay?"

His eyes were full of pleading. He bit his lip, whimpered, and turned
his head toward the wall. "I'm sorry, Jimbo. I didn't mean it.

I'll read it as many times as you want. No big deal."

He shook his head and whimpered again. "All right, honey. Let's forget
everything except how great it's going to be to have you back home
again. One more night, sweetie. Isn't that the best?"

Tears glistened in his eyes. One spilled over, and Cinnie brushed it
away. "I know, honey. I can hardly believe it myself. Tell you what.

I'll go home a little early tonight and make sure everything's all
ready, so I can come for you the very first thing in the morning.

Okay?"

Another tear trickled down his cheek. Cinnie felt a sympathetic stinging
in her own eyes and scooped him up for a hug. It was going to be all
right. One more night and James would be safe at home.

Drum had planned to fly to L.A. later in the afternoon, give himself a
day to take care of things, and head home the following morning. But
when he called Stella to fill her in, she reminded him that he had
promised to be at Booker's big event the following evening.

Drum had always kept his promises, except one. And that book wasn't
closed by a long shot.

He called for flight information. There was a ten-thirty on American out
of Kennedy that would get him to the coast at about one Pacific time.
He'd do his arm twisting this afternoon and check in someplace for the
night. To make Booker's gig, he'd have to catch the first bird back in
the morning.

It was past nine-thirty by the time he eased the beauty onto the Merritt
Parkway. Normal to the airport was an hour and change give or take
traffic. Drum waited until he was through Greenwich and fished
for the red plastic gumdrop he always kept in his glove compartment.

The thing stuck to his hood by four suction cups and connected to a
nine-volt battery under the drivers seat by a thin filament of clear
wire threaded through the window gasket.

Ready, he flipped on the light and activated the siren he'd had
installed to scream through the Mustang's four speakers. Traffic parted.
Moses at the wheel.

He made it to JFK with more than ten minutes to spare and bribed the guy
supervising the lot nearest the American terminal to keep a real close
eye on the beauty. Drum slipped him a twenty up front and promised him
another -there bill or a full set of dentures if anyone touched a hair
on his car while he was gone.

The terminal was jammed. Drum busted through a long line of
Spanish-speaking people with tons of luggage waiting for who-cared-what.
At the ticket counter, he walked directly to the only unoccupied clerk,
who just happened to be selling first class. Drum requested a seat on
the L.A. flight.

The clerk told him that the ten-thirty was booked solid. Oversold in
fact. Drum had no time to argue. He asked what was available, and the
clerk punched at the keyboard for a couple of minutes until he came up
with a single first class slot on the next flight out to Phoenix.

Drum took it and ran.

He looked up the posted gate for the L.A. flight and hustled to the
security checkpoint. Damned metal detector went off three times, and
Drum had to go back through the archway, stripping away his watch,
chain, metal belt buckle, and keys until they finally discovered that
the problem was his sunglasses.

Another three minutes gone. The L.A. gate was at the far end of an
endless row of departure areas. Drum took the distance at a jog.

By the time he arrived at the departure lounge he was looking for, his
lungs were screaming and his calf muscles were hot fists.

The last of the passengers were heading through the boarding door, and
the gate clerk was closing up. Drum rasped at her to hold it, said he
had to make the plane.

When she started to argue that it was full and he didn't have a boarding
pass to L.A. anyway, he took a surreptitious look around and told her he
was a safety inspector from the Civil Aeronautics Board.

Fortunately, he always carried an impressive set of federal credentials
in his wallet. Chief of the Bullshit Bureau. He flashed the papers at
the broad. She hesitated a half second and picked up the phone at the
desk. "Don't let on," Drum mouthed. "It's supposed to be an unannounced
inspection."

"Oh, of course. I wouldn't say a thing."

He smiled. Three seconds after he was through the door, she'd be on the
horn to the flight crew, warning them to cross all their t's.

Drum knew he'd have to deal with a truckload of bowing and fawning. If
only Carmody knew how he sacrificed for the cause.

She had a muffled conversation with the plane, hung up, and smiled.

"They're offering a free round-trip to anyone who'll volunteer to take a
later flight, sir. I'm sure we'll have a seat for you in just a minute."

"I'm sure," Drum said.

Five and a half hours later the DC 10 touched down at Los Angeles
International. Not a bad flight, considering. Drum had been installed in
first class, waited on like he was somebody. Before the plane landed,
the main cabin attendant had slipped him a bag with a couple of bottles
of champagne and a life supply of midget scotch bottles. At the cabin
door, she'd given him a kiss that made Drum wonder if maybe they'd been
closely related in a former life.

He'd used the in-flight phone to call for the stretch Lincoln that was
waiting at the curb. A gorgeous broad was at the wheel. Drum was
surprised for a second, then remembered where he was. Everyone in this
burg was killing time, waiting for that big break. Drum grinned,
thinking of the one unsuspecting sucker who was about to get his break
in spades.

Drum gave the driver the address and settled in for the ride and the
view. From where he sat, he had a good angle on the woman's profile:
nice features until he got to the chest. There the hills were too high,
too round, and way too firm. Again Drum remembered where he was:
silicone valley.

He turned his thoughts to the creep at the genius organization.

Like it or not, the guy would have to part with his precious member
list. Up to him which way he was going to do it, hard or easy.

The driver took the San Diego Freeway and exited at Sunset Boulevard.

She followed Sunset to the Pacific Coast Highway and aimed north.

Drum took in the cliff dwellings on his right. Many of the sprawling
houses were perched like overweight birds on the rocky precipice.

Others clung to the heights like barnacles. On his left were sandy
expanses punctuated by an occasional surfside restaurant.

State beaches. Drum watched the roiling breakers and thought how weird
it was for the ocean to be on the wrong side of the car. Gulls circled
in the hazy sky, and the sharp, briny smell made his eyes water.

Farther along, small clusters of homes cropped up on the ocean side of
the road. From Drum's angle, they looked like nothing much, could have
'been storage garages or workshops. But he knew they were the incredibly
pricey digs of characters like Johnny Carson.

The driver turned into the last row of beach houses in the famed Malibu
Colony and stepped out to open the door for Drum. "This is it.

Want me to wait?"

"May as well. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes." Drum spotted a
double mailbox next to the front door. It was the guy he was after, all
right. There was a small plaque under his name with the legend,
"Braintrust, mirabile visu. "I'll give that creep something wonderful to
behold," Drum muttered as he stuck his finger in the bell and held it.

A bearded, gray-haired guy with unnaturally white teeth and a trim,
tanned California physique answered the door. He blinked at Drum as if
he'd been expecting someone else. Drum muscled his way inside before the
jerk had a chance to react. "Excuse me! You can't come barging in here
like this. Who are you?"

Drum took in the posh digs. Panoramic glass wall overlooking the ocean,
vaulted ceiling with a lazy rolling fan in the center of a line of
suspended baskets hung with ferns, white leather furnishings accented by
large abstract oils from the likes of Mother well and Hackney, white
marble floors. There was a cutesy collection of gilt-edged ceramic
teacups propped in an open glass case on the far wall. That would do
fine. "I'm the guy you wouldn't help out on the phone this morning. So I
had to come all the way from New York to explain how important it is for
you to give me those names, pal. Phil wants those names real bad."

Guy's eyes got a touch wider. "I told you it is strictly against
Braintrust policy to reveal our membership. I simply can't give you the
information. Volo, non valeo. I am willing but unable. I'm sure you can
understand."

"Let me get this straight, buddy. You're telling me no? Is that it?

You're saying no to Phil frigging Donahue? I'm shocked, honest."

"If I could help you, I would. I am a mere servant of my brethren in the
group. We function in support of one another, devising challenges,
sharing experiences. We are not a performing society."

"Yeah, sure. I read you. You'd help me, but your hands are tied."

Guy's shoulders dropped. "Exactly."

"Guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, right?"

"Right." "Exactly." Drum picked up one of the teacups and dangled it by
the delicate handle. "Please. That's a priceless antique. Put it down."

Thing was weightless, edged in gold, way too fancy for Drum's taste.

Made him itch, fancy things like that. He tossed it up and caught it.

Thing wasn't even any fun to play with.

So what was the point? "Put it down, I said! Put it down! "Yeah, sure."

Drum did like the guy said. Put it down. Thing shattered against the
marble floor with a nice crystalline splash. Left a dusting of shiny
splinters. Much more. interesting that way in Drum's estimation.

The guy started to sputter, his face was turning scarlet. "Those cups
are irreplaceable. They date to the court of Louis Quatorze.

Please don't  ..."

Drum picked up a cup in each hand. One slipped right through his
fingers. "Tsk, tsk. How clumsy of me."

The guy lunged at him. Drum let the other cup fly and deflected the
creep with a head butt. Guy went reeling backward, staggering toward the
glass wall.

He hit the glass with a sick thwacking sound and let out a startled
little cry. His legs gave way, and he dribbled to the floor like the
runny innards of a cracked egg.

Drum lifted two more teacups. The guy held up a hand. He spoke between
gasps. "No more, please. No more. You win. I'll give you the damned
list."

Guy stood and brushed off his bruised dignity. His lip quivered.

Cutting a wide swath around Drum, he crossed to the white lacquer desk,
rolled back the cover, and turned on his Compaq PC.

His fingers danced on the keyboard, and a series of displays flashed on
the screen. There was a whoosh as the laser printer spat out a page.

"These are our only members within fifty miles of New York City. Now, if
you'll kindly leave me in peace."

Drum eyed the list and scowled. "What the hell's this?

Machiavelli? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Rasputin?"

"All our members are registered by mailing address and a historical
pseudonym that reflects a special personal interest. It's a long
Braintrust tradition. That is all the information I have."

Drum expressed his dismay by tossing another cup. The guy flinched but
didn't sing another chorus. So Drum could see the phony name story was
genuine.

More work, more trouble. Drum got into the limo, sat back, and put his
feet up on the opposite velvet seat. He had the driver use her cellular
phone to call ahead to the Four Seasons Hotel on Doheny. He'd intended
to cash it for the night at one of the airport flophouses, but after all
the aggravation, he figured he deserved a nice, comfortable place to
stay. Executive suite with a Jacuzzi would do nicely, room service
dinner with a little sevruga and a chilled bottle of bubbly to drown his
sorrows.

So Carmody would see the expense chit and spit fire. The chief was so
damned cute when he was mad.

James's friends departed in turn, and each was replaced by a mass of
emptiness. The blank spaces loomed as cold and frightening as the
yawning grave at grandma's funeral.

It was a long time ago, but the memory was clear as yesterday.

James could still see his own startled eyes reflected in the coffin's
polished surface. He could still hear the straining sound of the
lowering pulley and the terrible concussion as people tossed shovelfuls
of pebbles and dirt on the box to close grandma in.

What if he slipped and fell in with her? James had stationed himself
behind his father's solid frame and clung fast to the sturdy legs to
avoid such a dread possibility. But even when the service had ended and
they were safely ensconced in the car on the way home, he had continued
to gulp greedy mouthfuls of air, imagining.

Now he shivered and fought the draw of sleep. His mother had not yet
left for the night, and James was determined to convince her to stay.

It was imperative that he be alert and at his most persuasive when she
returned from depositing the party trash in the large barrel down the
hall.

He decided it would be prudent to ease into the subject. First, he'd
thank her for the party. All his favorite people had come: Teejay and
his parents, Grandpa and Madeline, Laurel and her mom, Jeremy Heckerling
and Mike Marchand and Bobby Moon from his class, even Mrs. Tella, his
teacher.

There had been gifts, laughter, flattering comments about how well he
was doing and how wonderful it was that he was being discharged.

James was hopeful that the event had left his mother in excellent
spirits. And he was reasonably confident that she would accede to his
wishes. Still he intended to broach the subject with all due discretion.

His eyes were so heavy. Elephant feet stomping on the lids. He decided
to rest for a moment until he heard her coming. Then he would be fully
awake and ready to make his pitch.

He would explain that, even though he realized it was unseemly for
someone his age, he would dearly love to have her company tonight. He
would appeal to her soft center, the part of her that he had always been
able to melt with his most calculated pleading looks. He'd make no
mention of his compelling concerns that the shadow man might reappear in
her absence. He knew nothing would be gained by that approach.

For reasons beyond James's ken, he'd been unable to make his mother
appreciate the peril from the shadow man. How many times had he
patiently tried to explain his dilemma only to see that same taut,
uncomprehending expression claim her face?

So he'd avoid that issue. As soon as she came back from dumping the
trash, he would simply tell her he needed her to stay. It was a pure,
visceral, undeniable need. Childish yearning. How could any mother fail
to be moved by that?

But where was she?

He forced his eyes open a crack. The light stung. Objects undulated in a
vexing rhythm: bedstead, bears, balloons, toys. James felt an unsettling
in his stomach. Hard to discern whether it was a rumble of hunger or a
protest of overindulgence.

He decided on the former, and he was drawn to the tantalizing bouquet of
chocolate chip cookies. Turning toward the nightstand, he spotted the
leftover pile of homemade double-sized, double chunkers on a doilylined
plate. They had been a gift from Dal, Rick, and Teejay.

His mouth watered, and he yielded to a sudden surge of appetite, downing
several of the cookies. He chewed with his eyes closed, savoring the
sweet crunchiness: chocolate, walnuts, brown sugar, a drop of vanilla,
purest flour snowing from an ancient red sifter, warm butter beads like
drops of sunshine. James squeezing the silver handle, adding the baking
soda, baking powder, pinch of salt, and cook them for ten minutes  ...
Rise of delicious aromas, fingers of warm comfort stroking away his
fear, enveloping him. Floating him away on a puff of a lovely dream so
thick nothing could pierce it. Not the first invading light of morping.
Not even the door squealing open in his room or the muffled steps of the
approaching stranger.

In the dream, he's sitting on his dad's high stool at the sound board,
using a pencil to conduct the band behind the glass wall. The singer
croons to the beat of his bobbling eraser. The drummer answers with a
rapid roll that escalates into a wild, pulse-pumping riff.

James feels the rhythm thumping in his bones. He's dancing, flying.

Sound of drumbeats, arms hefting him skyward, joyous feeling lifting him
like the upward spring off a trampoline.

He's so absorbed in the dream, he barely notices the tiny stick of pain.
Minuscule gnat bite in a carnival universe. His attention flits to it
for a split instant and flutters back to the dream.

The pain does not alarm him. In his wildest imaginings, he has never
considered that death could come in such a tiny, innocent way.

Cinnie had set the alarm for seven and was ready to leave for Fairview
by half past. In the garage, the Volvo shuddered and stalled, but she
managed to persuade the old bomb to turn over. Several hard stomp's on
the accelerator and the threat of a trip to the local crusher had done
the trick.

Leaving the Grove, she thought fondly back to yesterday's farewell party
at the hospital. James had obviously enjoyed the attention and
commotion. As soon as the final guests were out the door, he'd fallen
fast asleep with a smile on his face.

Cinnie had straightened up the majority of the mess and sneaked out of
the room to avoid waking him. She'd been surprised to find Paul waiting
for her in the lobby. She'd thought he was anxious to get home. Saw him
leaving with Dal and family and assumed he was going to hitch a ride
with them so he could get back to his precious studio.

For once, it was lovely to be mistaken.

He'd driven her home in the bomb. On the way, there was only one minor
explosion. Stopped at a light, Paul bashed the steering wheel and
started muttering angry nothings under his breath.

"I know, it's no Porsche, Paul. But it gets you there."

"My car gets you there better."

"Not right now it doesn't." She could feel him smoldering. "Look, I'm
sorry. It was an accident, and not my fault, but I know how much that
precious car meant to you. If they can't fix it, you'll get the
insurance money and buy a new one. No big deal."

"No big deal to you. No big deal, because it was my car. Is that the way
it goes?"

Cinnie swallowed hard. "No, Paul. No big deal because it was a thing, a
stupid hunk of macho metal and glass. It wasn't our kid."

They fell silent. Cinnie went cold inside. Stayed that way until he put
a gentle hand over hers and spoke in a hushed voice. "You're right. I'm
sorry. How could I be so stupid?"

"Years of practice."

He chuckled. "I deserved that. I love you, Cin. "Oh, yeah?

When I kick off will you grieve for me the way you're mourning your dumb
car?"

"Well, maybe. But you've got a lot more mileage on you.

They fell into a comfortable torpor. Sentimental tunes wafted from the
radio. By the time they turned into the Grove, both of them were in a
very friendly mood.

They'd walked hand in hand from the garage to the farmhouse. Paul lit
the fire, and they spent a cozy while staring at the flames, sipping at
glasses of port. And then they'd made the kind of slow, lazy love that
used to turn Sunday afternoons into Monday mornings before James and the
rest of reality came along.

Afterward, Paul hadn't even felt the need to vault out of bed and trek
back to the studio. They'd slept like cradled spoons, the way they used
to at the beginning.

Cinnie yawned and did a languid cat stretch, remembering. She found
herself daring to consider that they might be on the brink of becoming a
real family again.

James was coming home, Paul cracking out of his blasted shell.

She realized she hadn't thought about the accidents or the hit-run
driver since before last night's party. So maybe her obsession was
curable too. Things were definitely looking up.

Paul had even volunteered to cancel his early morning recording session
and accompany her to the hospital, but Cinnie had assured him she'd be
fine picking up James by herself.

She could hardly wait. In an hour, James would be home in his own bed,
surrounded by silly toys, watching pure garbage on the tube, learning to
be a regular, little kid again. Traffic above the parkway was moving
at an exasperating crawl. Early commuters snaking toward the Merritt,
Cinnie thought. Restless, she inched along, the speedometer needle
barely wavering out of the dead zone.

It was after eight when she finally turned into the Fairview staff lot.

She wound through the packed lanes of parked cars searching for a
vacancy. Nothing. Disgusted, she finally created her own space at the
edge of a grassy divider. Worst she'd get was a ticket. And she couldn't
stand to keep James waiting another minute. Or herself for that matter.

She felt wonderful in a hyperactive, apprehensive sort of way.

Reminded her of the day she and Paul took James home as a newborn. She
could still picture him swaddled in blue blankets. Nothing visible but
those wide, navy blue eyes and the vague look of concern on his tiny
features. Cinnie had caught the solemn expression and decided the kid
was smart enough to be worried about her parenting abilities. She'd
offered a studied, reassuring smile in return, but James hadn't been
fooled for a minute.

Paul had brought the car around to the hospital entrance, and she'd sat
in the back with the baby, feeling about as relaxed as she would be
cradling a lit stick of dynamite. Paul had driven home at about three
miles an hour, stopping altogether when he spotted a bump in the road,
They'd thought that James was so fragile then. His vulnerability had
seemed so terrifying. And yet neither of them had really understood how
fragile everything was, until this. The solid-looking world could be
ripped to paper shreds and scattered to the wind.

But now she could envision an end to the nightmare. Only a few more
minutes, and they'd be civilians again. "Morning, Cin."

Cinnie waved and smiled at the colleagues she passed on the way to the
elevator. She made the highly scientific observation that everything
looks ninety percent cleaner, brighter, and more attractive when you're
on your way to spring your kid from a hospital bed.

The elevator took forever to come. Cinnie was toying with the idea of a
five-flight run up to pediatrics when one of the three cars in the main
bank finally showed up. But inside, one of the maintenance men was
fiddling with the light panel in the ceiling. "Better take another car.
I've got to get this thing fixed."

The next arriving car was jammed with a linen cart and a stretcher-bound
patient headed down to X ray. Cinnie was halfway to the stairs when the
final elevator in the bank materialized. At a run, she managed to make
it inside before the doors closed.

Typical morning chaos on pediatrics: babies crying, televisions
blasting. A flushed hellion raced buck naked through the halls trying to
escape his morning bath. Cinnie's smile kept broadening on the way to
five-fourteen. This was the last time she'd have to come here to visit
James. Last visit, last walk down this blasted hall, the end of it.

She considered what James might want for lunch. Maybe she'd have Paul
pick up a pizza. How long had it been since that kid had some good old
American junk food? Probably teetering on the edge of a serious
deficiency by now.

Cinnie was nearing James's room when she saw Nurse Evelyn Larwin's
considerable rump poking out through the door. Probably saying good-bye.

Closer now, she noticed another, slimmer uniformed butt wedged in the
doorway. Then she spotted the wall of people inside the room.

It didn't click at first. All she could imagine was that everyone had
come to say good-bye. So many docs and nurses at once? Didn't they have
anything else they had to be doing? She hoped James wasn't overwhelmed
by the glut of people.

Cinnie raised her voice to be heard above the clamor of voices.

"Hey you guys, can I get an audience with the star, please? I have an
appointment."

No one seemed to notice her. "That's my kid in there, pals. How about
letting me in, okay?"

What the hell? Standing on tiptoe, she managed to catch a glimpse of the
knot of people hovering nearest James's bed. She couldn't catch what
they were saying, but there was a sharp edge to the voices. And what was
that at the foot of the bed? "Hey, what's going on? What's the matter?"

Evelyn Larwin turned and put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Cinnie.

It's so crazy. He was fine. I just looked in on him ten minutes ago.

But when Ferris stopped by on rounds, James was cyanotic."

Blue, not breathing. Dead? The word stuck like a sword in Cinnie's
throat, she couldn't say it. Couldn't think it. She tried to shut it
away, pressed the iron door against it. But the word edged into her mind
and erupted in a blinding shower of sparks. The world was wavering out
of focus, turning black. She was sinking. Slipping away.

Suddenly, hands were around her, setting her down. The sharp sting of
ammonia spirits shot up her nostrils. She opened her eyes to a swarm of
anxious faces.

Dr. Ferris suddenly appeared, edging the others away. "Give her some air
now. Back off, people." he felt fuzzy, padded by shock. "What happened?

Where's my baby.

James? James!"

"Easy, now. It's over. He'll be all right."

Now Cinnie didn't trust her ears. "He's not ... "It was touch and go
there for a minute, but he's okay now. Stable."

He helped Cinnie to her feet. She was shivering, her legs unsteady.

Ferris walked her to James's room, and she sat on the chair next to the
bed.

She watched James breathe, stared at every hitch and fall of his chest.

His face was deathly pale. Cinnie wiped the sheen of cold perspiration
from his forehead. There was a fierce tremor in her hand that worsened
when she tried to contain it.

She could feel Dr. Ferris standing behind her. "What happened?"

"I honestly don't know, Mrs. Merritt. We're running some tests.

Should have an answer later today."

"I don't understand. He was fine."

"The accident was a major assault to his system. It's rare, but there
can be delayed reactions. Setbacks."

Cinnie remembered Ferris voicing some objections to James's discharge on
the tape of the team meeting. But he'd given in so easily. "Then why
didn't you insist he stay here? This could have happened at home.

James could have been ." .."

"But it didn't. And he's not." As always, Ferris was the voice of
reason: soothing, sane.

"If I'd thought there was real danger to James, you know I'd never have
agreed to his going home. This was a one-in-a-million thing. No one
could have predicted it. I thought I was being overcautious having any
doubts when the others were all in favor of the discharge. Given the
odds of a problem, I was being overcautious. None of us has a crystal
ball, Mrs. Merritt. You know that."

Cinnie's anger was crumbling. Ferris was as careful as they came.

Even the deadly scourge of hospital politics and Dr. Silver's blowhard.
bullying wouldn't have moved him to agree to James's release against his
will. His crime was not heeding his own best instincts, putting reason,
training, and statistics above the far more trustworthy mindless
reaction. Deadly flaw.

But the worst hadn't happened. Cinnie would have to hold on to that for
the time being. "Where da we go from here?"

Ferris's mouth pressed in a seam. "Several steps backward, I'm afraid.

I'll order a complete battery of tests. Make sure we're not missing
anything. I think we should suspend therapy for the time being also.

Give-him a chance to rest and recover."

"You'll let me know the test results?"

"Of course, as soon as I get them."

"I'll be right here."

He shook his head. "Do yourself a favor, Mrs. Merritt. Go home and get
some rest. You've had quite a shock to your system too."

"I want to stay with James."

"I understand. But I've given him a sedative, and he's going to do
nothing but sleep for a good, long while. Anyway, I'll be right here in
the building, and the nurses are going to keep a very close eye on him."

"I'm staying until I know exactly what happened, and I'm sure it won't
happen again."

Ferris clucked his tongue. "Please, Mrs. Merritt. You're not going to
do James any good if you become hysterically overprotective."

So she had another vote for hysterical mother of the year. So what?

Cinnie didn't bother to argue. No matter what anyone said, she was
staying right where she was until she was damned sure James was out of
danger.

She took James's limp hand and held it. Ferris turned on his heel and
strode angrily from the room. Cinnie felt a twinge of regret.

She'd always had a cordial and positive relationship with Ferris, always
felt there was solid, mutual respect.

But that wasn't important anymore. This was far bigger than image or
attitude. It was a matter of life and death.

The sanctum was dim and suffused with a penetrating chill.

Cobb lay shivering on the bare mattress. His knees were pressed tight to
his chest, head bowed as if braced for an assault. No sound pierced his
fear but the sharp, relentless ticking of the clock.

Only ten hours remaining. Cobb strained against the dizzying dissolution
of the milliseconds. The lapsing time dripped like acid, pitting the
surface of his strength, eroding his flesh. He chafed at his own putrid
odor, the stench of hopeless surrender. That, mingled with the acrid
scent of the blue vapor, made his stomach heave in dry rebellion. He
endeavored to quell the queasiness with slow, measured breaths.

Less than ten hours. Time was trickling way with the dread inevitability
of death. Dark dissolution. Pain beyond reckoning.

In his mind she was already arriving at the cabin, crossing the stone
patio, tapping lightly at the door. He could see her delicate arms laden
with sackfuls of succulent delicacies, her face flushed with
anticipation.

She would breeze in and set the tins and wrapped dishes on the table,
and then she would bustle about collecting the necessary implements for
their celebratory feast.

While she prepared, she would prattle on about fluff. But all the while,
that coy, expectant expression would play upon her face.

Goading him. Waiting for his declaration of success.

Waiting for what he could not deliver. Cobb wished he could deceive her
in this one instance. But no matter how heroic his attempt at guile, she
would know he had failed. She would sense his humiliation, smell it. And
then she would seize the chance to bludgeon him with his ineffectuality.
Taunt and upobaid him. Leave him to bleed his shame and impotence until
nothing was left of him but desiccated bark and a core of putrid decay.

He seethed at the injustice. His plan had been inspired. None of the
failure was his. It was all the woman's doing.

That vile woman had deemed herself the guardian of his child.

Contemptible shrew. Usurper of his salvation. She had foiled him with
her vicious meddling, brought him to this hideous impasse. If only he
had disposed of her earlier. Lethal indecision.

Cobb struggled to sit. The sanctum walls tottered. A harsh ringing
erupted in his ear. Pressing his finger to the tragus, he attempted to
block it out, but the sound worsened, building to a cruel, electric
crescendo.. The sensation tracked a sharp descending pathway, triggering
a series of jolting alarms in his cochlear nerve, the glossopharyngeal,
the visceral efferent fibers of the accessory, crossing the dendritic
processes of the hypoglossal, and driving like a spike into the
spinothalamic tract.

His body went rigid, back arched, limbs splayed, head wrenched back so
hard his throat constricted, and he felt the first strangling heat of
asphyxiation.

The pressure mounted. Screamed, in his skull. His lungs swelled toward
rupture. Cobb held his breath. Strained against the white-hot pain
building inside him.

At last, the spasm eased. In a reflex of survival, he dropped to the
floor and crawled out of harm's way before a second wave of rigor
overcame him. It was weaker this time. Shorter in duration.

He wrenched his mind from the horror. Anything but this. Groping for
escape, he turned to the second phase exercises. Focus.

Focus! Cobb grappled with the simplest mental challenge permutations to
infinity of an increasing spire of digit forms. No more than mechanical
busywork, and still he failed to achieve perfection. But the exercise
had the intended effect. By the time he'd completed the requisite series
of calculations, the second seizure had passed.

He opened his eyes and strained to focus. A soft glow bordered his
conscious perspective. His sensations were swaddled in an insulating
foam. There was a torpor in his. limbs, not entirely unpleasant. And the
clamorous clanging in his head had been supplanted by a lowpitched hum.

Afterglow. Cobb exploited the false aura of well-being. Lifting himself
to the edge of the cot, he sat and assessed his dilemma with clinical
detachment.

He knew that the seizure meant his stores had sunk dangerously low. He
was far too feeble to renew himself by direct assault on the specimen.

But there was one more reserve in the secret place in the cabin. One
final supply of healing humor. His emergency store.

His only chance. After he renewed his strength, he would dispatch the
woman. Without her, nothing would impede his mission. He could use the
child at will. The specimen would not be leaving the hospital.

He had seen to that by injecting the insulin.

Marshaling his strength, Cobb donned one of his disguises and strode
toward the elevators. He could not afford to fritterlis meager energies
on the stairs.

Each step was a conscious effort. Deep flexion in the rectus femoris and
gluteus followed by femoral extension through the hamstrings, heel
strike to firm dorsiflexion of the foot. Sizzle of the firing nerve
bundles, blaze of spent neurons.

He drew no suspicion. Nothing but offhanded nods and automated greetings
from those he passed. How could they fail to perceive the ghastly aura
of his steady expiration? Fools were purblind and deaf.

Cobb could herald his contempt in their fool faces, and still they
remained unaware. Duped.

Even now, he could fool the fools. Even in death, he was the dark moon.

Temporary death. He had only to get to the cabin. The emergency reserve
would allow him to overcome this heinous adversity. By the time his dear
one arrived for their celebration, he would be ready.

Driving was hellish. Cobb's vision was constricted to an overwrought pin
of glare in a sphere of glimmering distortion. His grip was uncertain.
The car lurched and flailed in his limited control like a child in
tantrum.

Farther on, the road narrowed and began to swerve in unexpected
directions. His unblinking eyes went dry, fingers clutched the wheel in
spasm.

By the time he turned into the long, winding dirt drive leading to the
cabin, he was bathed in sweat. Stumbling over the patio, he entered the
dark main room and engaged the row of locks behind him.

Cobb turned on a single lamp and sat in the rocker waiting for his
racing pulse to subside. There was much to be done before her arrival:
his own ablutions, a final tidying of the cabin.

He would soak in a lavender-salted tub, perhaps, and then scent himself
with that lemon water cologne she so admired. He planned to dress in a
white-on-white shirt, silk paisley ascot, the tan vicufta jacket with
suede elbow patches, pale tweed trousers or perhaps the brown cashmere.

Tasseled suede slippers over the hand-knitted argyles she'd given him
for his last birthday.

So much to do, the prospect exhausted him further. And still cruel time
dripped away.

Cobb turned his attention to the final scrap of fabric from the
specimen's bloody shirt. He had to move the bed to get to the precious
remnant hidden under the floorboard. No meager feat given his debility.

He pressed his shoulder to the bedstead and applied the force of his
weight, The floor groaned, and the bed yielded a paltry inch or two.

Several more exhausting attempts, and the bed still occluded the secret
compartment. Cobb leaned against the wall and struggled to catch his
breath.

To think. The bed would yield far more easily if he could find a way to
reduce the friction of the legs against the plank floor. He thought of
stuffing the edge of a tangled sheet underneath, but he was unable to
lift the bed enough to wedge the fabric below. Next, he sprinkled talcum
around the base of the bed, but when he attempted to stand and push, his
feet slid on the velvety powder, and -he was unable to gain solid
purchase.

Bristling with frustration, he tried wiping up the talc with the
bedclothes, but only succeeded in spreading the lubricant and extending
the slippery area. He dampened a rag in the kitchen to wipe up the mess.
But the liquid turned the powder to beads of pasty sludge that he was
powerless to disperse.

In a fit of exasperation, Cobb flung the filthy rag out the bedroom
door. It splattered against his row of precious books, marking them
indelibly with the stain of his worthlessness.

Cobb sank to the floor and wept. After his grief was spent, he stayed
sprawled there for an indeterminate time, worn as the saturated rag,
lame as the filthy slick of talc.

Hopeless. He might have remained in that piteous heap indefinitely.

But his ear caught the prickle of approaching disaster.

The familiar concussion of her tires on the long drive, the wavering
beams of her headlights.

She could not see him like this. With a Herculean effort born of fear,
he shoved at the bedstead again, and it yielded the necessary distance.

Cobb pried up the loose section of floorboard and found the precious
scrap of soiled fabric underneath.

Gasping, he staggered to the cabin door and opened the locks.

Too late. Her headlights were bearing down on the cabin. He would be
trapped in the glare and exposed.

Cobb tore a page from his tablet and scribbled a note claiming there had
been a sudden emergency at work and a colleague had come for him.

His fingers were quivering, thoughts tumbling together. She must believe
him. Mustn't suspect..

There was a rumble of engine sounds beside the patio. She parked and
doused her lights. He heard her car door open and close again with a
resonant ping.

Cobb hastened to the bedroom, slipped out through the side window, and
dashed to the cover of the woods.

There he crouched, shivering with the cold and terror. He heard the
sharp strike of her heels against the patio stones, the light tap of her
knuckles on the cabin door. The melody of her voice. "Malcolm?

Malcolm, are you in there? Anybody home?"

There was a silence Cobb imagined her fiddling in her purse for his
keys, letting herself in. "Where are you, you silly goose? Come now,
Malcolm. I'm in no mood for games."

A light flamed on in the cabin. And another.

"Look at this godawful mess. What is all this powder? My god.

And I've brought such a lovely meal. You come out here, Malcolm. Come
clean up this instant."

Cobb shuddered. The black wind tore through him. He pressed the fabric
scrap to his lips and worked his tongue over the stiff stain at the
center.

Instant wash of warmth. Rush of vigor. "Malcolm Cobb. Stop this.

You're acting like a goddamned ass. This is stupid now.

Crazy."

The insults glanced off his heightened sensibilities and fell away.

Nothing could wound him. He was inviolate. Charged with the night air.
Vicar of the darkness.

Cobb slipped deftly through the brush toward the distant roadway.

Soon he would return triumphant.

He could think of nothing else. There was nothing for Cobb beyond the
crackle as his feet crushed the underbrush and the ripe scent of
impending conquest. Her mocking voice had been swallowed by the wind.

He would paint the echo.

Drum's day had started off on a rotten foot. The cashier at the Four
Seasons had taken an American Express imprint on check-in, but when Drum
went to settle up, the money man wasn't able to squeeze enough juice out
of Gertie Gold Card to cover his considerable tab.

Same problem with Vicky Visa and Marjorie Mastercard. Seemed all Drum's
best girls had been putting in way too much overtime and were begging
for vacations.

Drum was more put out than embarrassed. He was a goddamned good
customer. Okay, maybe too good. But the way he saw it, the whole point
of plastic was to let you overextend yourself.

The cashier was starting to lose patience when Drum remembered the
department .. green card he'd neglected to turn in when he was
suspended. Actually, Dan Carmody had only ordered Drum to surrender his
piece and his shield. Not a word about the company card, so Drum had
figured he might as well hold on to it. American Express had always been
his weapon of choice.

When he handed the cashier the department card, Drum knew he was taking
a big chance. If the charge happened to clear before the case did,
Carmody would hang him out to dry. But any more delays, and he'd miss
his plane. The slightest hitch on the next flight out, and he could be
late for Booker's big deal. So he tossed Carmody's plastic on the
counter and hoped for the best.

Still he had to hustle to catch the eight o'clock flight out of L.A.
International. By the time he wheezed through the departure gate, the
plane had already boarded and was pretty well packed. Nothing was
available in first or even business class, so Drum was forced to take
the center seat in a five-across. Sardine central.

On his right side was a broad who should have been required to buy a
second seat for her mouth. Woman kept harping at the bald guy next to
her until Drum wanted to send her tongue out for bronzing.

The guy on his left was months overdue for his annual bath. Drum had
already seen the movie, and it hadn't been worth viewing once.

Breakfast was typical airline fare: Alpa and eggs. "Not very conducive
working conditions, but Drum didn't want to waste the time. He'd stopped
at the main U.C.L.A. library late yesterday afternoon and wangled a rush
on the computer search he wanted. If the genius group members chose
their historical pseudonyms by special interest, Drum figured it
couldn't hurt to get a handle on the three characters on the list:
Machiavelli, Rasputin, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The university mainframe had coughed up way more than he'd bargained
for. Drum skimmed through the hill of pages, window shopping.

Niccole Machiavelli had been a Renaissance statesman and political
writer. In his most famous book, The Prince, Big Mac had argued that it
was okay for a ruler to do whatever it took to seize and hold power.

Reminded Drum of a couple of the young Italian toughs from the old
neighborhood. There was this one punk especially, also named Nicky by
funny coincidence, who'd strutted around the Cove section of town like
the whole area was registered in his name.

Guy was heavily into being right all the time. You didn't agree with
him, Nicky would bust up. your father's car or trash your family's pet
or toss a little Sunoco daiquiri through your living room window. All
very convincing ways to make a point as Drum remembered.

He flipped to the section on Rasputin. GUY looked like another piece of
work altogether. He'd started out as your average peasant in the late
nineteenth century. Then one day he's slopping the pigs or doing other
peasant stuff as usual, and he gets it in his head that he's got these
astonishing mystical powers.

Drum concluded it was probably a nasty hay allergy or the side effect of
sucking up too many manure fumes. But this Rasputin character is
completely convinced that he's become a major hotshot.

Goes to monk school. Starts to think he's got a direct pipeline to the
big man upstairs. Guy's even nervy enough to show up at Tsar Nicholas's
palace in St. Petersburg, shopping for power.

Turns out the tsar and tsarette have a kid with hemophilia, which, as
Drum remembered, was this bleeding disease that royal families tended to
get because they insisted on marrying their cousins.

That number Drum had never been able to understand. His cousin Lucy, on
his mother's side, had had an obvious thing for him when they were kids.
And Lucy wasn't half bad: round, sexy, not at all shy or short of real
interesting ideas.

Drum had been tempted, true. Especially this one Thanksgiving after
dinner in the broom closet at Aunt Jeanette's. But he'd thought about
the possibility of having two-headed kids who bled all over the place,
and there went the mood.

Anyway, Rasputin does some hocus-pocus with the tsar's kid, and claims
the bleeding problem is cured. Tsar Nicholas and his wife are so
grateful, they practically hand Rasputin the country, which he proceeds
to practically run into the ground.

This Rasputin character gets so carried away with himself, he thinks he
can pull off anything. Starts handing out pink slips to some of the
tsar's top ministers. Predictably, he steps over the line, offends some
hotheaded types, and they set him up in a brand-new career-pushing up
daisies.

Drum had saved Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for last on purpose. Big Matt used
to be a giant fan of Sherlock Holmes. Drum still had the old, falling
apart, volume of Conan Doyle's collected works that his father used to
read aloud. Still remembered some of his favorite stories: "Three Broken
Threads,"

"The Man on the Tar,"

"The Adventure of the Red Circle." Now he learned that Sir Arthur had
been educated at Stoneyhurst and Edinburgh. Guy became a doctor, but his
head stayed in fantasyland. In addition to the Sherlock stories, he had
written a bunch of historical romances, history books, and plays.

Four pages of the printout made a big deal out of the relationship
between Holmes and Watson. Claimed there was way more between those two
guys than clues.

Drum tossed the material down in disgust. Watson maybe. But no way was
his man Sherlock bent. And even if he was, Drum didn't want to know
about it.

He leaned back, closed his eyes, and mulled over the three historical
figures. Nothing jumped out at him. No obvious reason to put one of the
three eggheads at the top of the list of people most likely to run down
a kid and panic. He spent a few minutes concocting a way to approach the
geniuses, and then he caught a quick snooze.

- The plane touched down at Kennedy ten minutes ahead of schedule and
slid right into a vacant gate. Drum jostled his way down the crowded
aisle and out the door. No luggage, so no waiting at the claim area.

He was in the beauty and on the road by ten to five.

Booker's gig wasn't until seven. Traffic was thick but moving.

Drum decided to skip a stop at home and see how far he could get with
his eggheads before he was due at the kid's school.

Machiavelli's address was half a mile from the Hutchinson River Parkway
exit in Scarsdale. Town reeked of money. Giant houses stood shoulder to
shoulder like beefy linebackers. The lawns were so stark perfect they
looked fake. Kind of place where weeds couldn't afford the rent.

He turned the beauty into a circular drive paved in brick chevrons and
parked in front of the massive double doors. Waiting for someone to
answer his ring, he stared through one of the Tiffany glass panels
flanking the entrance and took in the cascading chandelier in the entry
foyer, the soaring marble staircase, the oversized Aubusson rug, and the
scatter of oriental antiques. A Sharpei trotted in at the heels of a
white-gloved, uniformed maid. That breed cost five big ones minimum,
Drum knew. Looked like something forgotten at the bottom of the laundry
basket. Had a collar on him covered with genuine fake rubies and
diamonds.

Real understated. Drum pitched the maid that he was an independent
investigator for the Macarthur committee. Told her that someone in the
family had been nominated to receive the genius award, which paid big
chunks of cash for five years with no strings. The prize committee
looked at the nominees' potential. It was Drum's job to make sure the
candidates were kosher.

The maid hesitated and ushered Drum in to wait in the library while she
passed the word. Room was furnished in burgundy leather pieces and rich
mahogany. There was an oversized fireplace with a carved granite hearth.
"Drum strolled around checking out the shelves jammed with leather-bound
first editions. He took in the ripe scent of lemon oil and pipe tobacco.
Soft music wafted through the paneled walls.

A couple of minutes later a paper-thin blonde broad in a purple silk
caftan showed up. She moved like some-. thing on . wheels, held herself
in a model's pose: round-shouldered, one hand floating on the air. She
introduced herself and started babbling about the nomination.

A couple of sentences, and Drum could tell she wasn't the brightest of
bulbs. He pushed for an introduction to the nominee, and she floated out
to fetch the family genius.

Drum was hoping for a nondescript guy of medium height, weight, etc. If
Machiavelli matched the man who'd brought the bloody Pugeot to Bud's
Auto Body, Drum could put a hold on him and call Carmody to take care of
the packaging and delivery.

But the skinny blonde came back with a pudgy pigtailed kid in tow.

Girl was about ten with a plague of freckles and a mouthful of braces.

She wrenched loose from the woman's grasp and stood with her stubby
hands on her hips. Her chin was tipped forward, mouth pressed in a hard
line. "I told you, I am not interested in awards, Mother. I am, as the
great one said, 'the class of intellect which comprehends by itself." So
good-bye and good luck, Mr. Whoever-you-are. Have a nice life."

Kid went storming up the marble stairs. The woman followed Drum to the
door. Carried on all the way about how Melissa Ann was high-strung and
impulsive. She begged Drum not to hold it against the child. Kid's I.Q.
had been estimated at two-twenty. So difficult for a young child to deal
with an intellect of such awesome magnitude, she said.

Everyone misunderstanding her. Expecting so much. "They don't realize
what a strain she's under. So they pressure her to conform, and
naturally she acts out. Please don't judge her by this one little
meeting. How about coming back tomorrow for dinner? Or lunch?"

Drum nodded all the way to the door. The broad's voice followed him out
to the car. He revved the motor and turned up the radio to drown her
out.

He spent the distance to the next stop appreciating Booker. Kid was
plenty smart enough by anybody's standards. But he wasn't angling for a
Phd. in obnoxious like that speckled fat kid.

One night away from home, and Drum was missing the runt already.

He wondered if Stella had heard anything more from the social service
bitch about that New Haven couple. Thinking about it made him spit
flames. No way anyone was taking that kid away from them.

The address for Arthur Conan Doyle was a dilapidated rooming house over
a deli in downtown White Plains. Drum checked the number twice to be
sure. Didn't look like fitting digs for an Einstein.

Whole building smelled like pickle brine and stale pumpernickel.

Drum climbed to the first landing above the deli and started knocking on
doors. No one home at the first three. At number four, he managed to
raise a Howard Hughes look- and smell-alike. But the guy was a little
under the whatever, speaking in tongues.

As Drum was about to climb to three, he nearly collided with an old
geezer carrying a sack of groceries. Drum gave the guy the genius award
story. And he bit hard.

Old guy knew right away who Drum was after. He led him back to the first
door at the top of the stairs and knocked.

Drum had already tried that one. No answer. But the geezer didn't give
up so easily. "Open up, Artie. I got someone here may want to give you
some money."

Grumble inside. "Big money, Artie. Don't be a schmuck." Took a few
minutes more for the old guy to wangle their way in. Drum spent the time
imagining his average looking guy. Hoping. More than ready to be done
with this damned thing.

But when Artie finally relented and opened the door, Drum could see it
was strike two. Artie was done up like Sherlock himself, double-peaked
cap, manor-house tweeds. Everything fit except the motorized wheelchair
the guy was sitting in. He controlled the thing by sipping and puffing
at a mouth stick. Had a trained monkey to fetch and carry for him.
Monkey's name was Watson. Real original.

The old guy walked Drum back down to the ground level. On the way, he told
Drum that Artie (guy had actually changed his legal name to Arthur Conan
Doyle) had been paralyzed from the neck down in a high-school football
accident. Good bet Sherlock Junior hadn't strolled into Bud's Auto Body
or anyplace else for over twenty years now. Hadn't done any fancy
running away either.

Brilliant deduction, Drum. Which left Rasputin and the problem of having
to track the guy through his fisted address, which was a box number.

After six-thirty already, so the post office would be closed.

Anyway, Drum wouldn't make the kid's big event if he did any more
digging right now. So the last great hope would have to wait.

Drum didn't want to think about it, but there was always the chance that
he'd strike out with Rasputin too. The Braintrust booklet could have
been left in the car by anybody. Maybe a visiting relative or friend,
maybe a stranger who'd hitched a ride. Anyone.

Worse, it could be the Peugeot wasn't even the car he was after.

Guy in that car might have hit an actual deer like he said. Or for all
Drum knew, the moonlighting mechanic at Bud's might have made up the
whole damned story. No Peugeot, no dent, no booklet, no nothing.

Not a pretty thought. If he didn't bag a pigeon soon, Carmody would pull
the plug on his operation. He'd have nothing to show for his trouble but
egg on his face and a couple of lousy bucks that wouldn't begin to fill
the gaping hole in his pocket.

There'd be nothing more for him to do but contemplate his inadequacy
full-time Wait out the suspension. Probably spend the rest of his cop
career as a crossing guard on a slow corner.

Turning into the lot at Davenport Ridge Elementary, Drum tried to get
past the doomed feeling. He had too much riding on this, too many people
he cared about letting down-himself included.

But the case was looking more and more like a terminal situation.

Drum tried to block out the gloomy feeling and get himself in the mood.

Tonight was for the, kid,. and the hotshot deserved to be put center
stage for the duration. All that hard work and he'd earned at least that
much.

People were streaming into the auditorium. Drum locked the beauty and
joined the crowd.

A line of gunmetal folding chairs stretched across the auditorium stage.
Drum spotted Booker in the clump of kids milling in front of the vacant
seats and waved. Hotshot didn't see him.

Place was near capacity. He looked around for Stella. Took him a few to
spot her up near the front. She was standing in the middle of the row
chatting with some people Drum couldn't make out from a distance.

He was halfway down the aisle when he realized who they were. Made his
skin crawl.

Stella was flushed, running at the mouth. "Jerry, hi. See, I told you
he'd make it on time. He wouldn't let Booker down for anything. Those
two are like this." She twisted her fingers together so hard they
blanched white. "You remember Ms. Bergmuller from social services, don't
you, honey? And these are the Duncans from New Haven."

The Bergmuller bitch held out her little paw, which Drum treated like a
hot stove. "Hello, Mr. Drum. The Duncans wanted to come and meet Booker.
Get acquainted. So I thought this was the perfect opportunity."

Right away, Drum could tell they weren't his type.

Guy was way too tall. The woman's smile was all teeth. Nothing behind
it. Hoop jockey and an empty cage. No way they were right for Booker.

Drum caught Stella's warning look and tried real hard to keep a lid on
it. "How come you want to get acquainted with our kid?" he said.

Stella shot him another hard look, but Drum couldn't see her problem.

He was smiling, wasn't he?

Ms. Bergmuller issued a nervous giggle and pointed at the stage.

"Oh, look, they're getting ready to start."

Drum was steamed, but he tried not to scorch anything. He sat next to
Stella as the lights dimmed and watched Booker claim a seat smack in the
middle of the line of chairs. Finally caught the kid's eye and flashed a
high sign. Book answered with a grin and hitched his thumb.

Runt looked to be on top of the situation. Drum was another story. He
felt nervous for the kid. Hotshot had worked so hard for this.

Studied that damned spelling list until he could practically recite it
by heart. Kid deserved to win. First round started, and Booker's turn
came. Drum held his breath as the kid approached the mike and waited for
his word. Drum fired silent darts at the English teacher holding the
list. Give him an easy one, scum, he chanted in his head. Make it real
easy.

Guy said, "elephant," and right away, Drum relaxed. Piece of cake for
Book.

Hotshot was looking around, acting antsy all of a sudden. His glance
flitted toward Drum, and Drum nodded his encouragement.

Kid knew the damned word. No question. So why didn't he get going
already? Drum started mouthing the letters, trying to help him along.

But Booker wasn't looking his way. "Elephant," Book repeated finally.

His chest puffed and held. "Ee ... el ... ee ... el  ..."

A razzing buzzer sounded. Drum felt his elevator plunge. It's okay, kid.
No big thing.

Hotshot looked confused for a second. He blinked and opened his mouth as
if he wanted to say something. But no sound came out.

It's okay. Don't take it too hard. Drum kept beaming the subconscious
message to the stage, hoping the kid would pick it up.

But Booker looked stuck there at the microphone. Guy. with the list
leaned over and said something to the kid, but Book still didn't move.

So the guy put a hand on the runt's back and gave him a gentle nudge.

The push set the kid off like a nuclear -warhead. Booker spun around and
caught the guy in the midsection with a flailing arm. Then he started
stomping and screaming. "You can't do this to me, man.

Didn't give me a goddamned chance. You think I'm a dumb nigger, don't
you? Think I don't deserve no chance."

Guy with the list looked like his eyes were going to pop out of his
head. The principal and a couple of other teachers hopped to the stage
and practically carried Booker to the wings. Kid was a screeching
dervish. "Get your damned hands off me. I ain't your nigger, man.

You got no right."

Drum was in a tight bind. Half of him wanted to race out to help the
kid, but the rest didn't want to make the scene any bigger. After a few
more kids got their words tossed at them, Drum decided he'd sneak out to
find Booker. Best way.

Waiting for things to settle, he caught the grumbling down the row.

The Duncans were huffing at the Bergmuller bitch. Carrying on about how
they'd been led to believe Booker was free of emotional problems.

What was she trying to pull here? They certainly weren't interested in a
child with such poor impulse control or such rotten upbringing.

They turned out of the other side of the row and bustled up the aisle
toward the exit. Bergmuller chased after them.

Stella stood to go out and find Booker. Drum pulled her back down beside
him. "Wait a minute."

"I have to go to him, Jerry," she said in a rasp. "Poor kid is really
hurting. I've never seen him so upset."

Drum chuckled and shook his head. "Kid's too much."

"What are you talking about?"

He turned and saw the auditorium doors close behind the Duncans and Ms.
Bergmuller. Rising, he signaled Stella to follow. "You'll see. Come on."

Book was waiting on one of the cool-off chairs outside the principal's
office. He was smiling and jiving to a tune in his head when Drum and
Stella walked in. "Hey, Mrs. Drum, Mr. Drum."

"Hey," Drum said. "Booker, honey. You okay?" Stella hugged him and held
him out for inspection. "You shouldn't have taken it so hard. It wasn't
that important."

"Yeah, I know. just blew off a minute. It's cool now."

She smoothed his hair. "Well, you look much better. Good. You shouldn't
take things like that so seriously. It was just a game."

The principal had edged out of his office. He clasped his hands and
nodded. "Exactly what we talked about. Isn't that so, Booker?

Competition is difficult for many youngsters Booker's age, folks. I'm
sure he'll learn to deal with it much better as he goes along, won't
you, son. "Oh, yeah. I go along, I'm gonna be something else. You'll
see." Wall-to-wall grin. "And no more outbursts, right?"

"Eighty-six on the outbursts man. You got my word on it."

Principal gave Book a pat on the back. "That's the spirit. All done and
forgotten. You people run along now. See you Monday, son."

"Yeah. Later." Booker was all shake and swagger on the way out.

Halfway to the car, Stella's puzzlement yielded to a glimmer of
understanding. "You mean to tell me that-" Booker's eyes went real
innocent. He cast an anxious look in Drum's direction. "Go on, you
little con. Tell Stella the truth."

"Truth is, I ain't no dead chicken hanging in a window."

"What's that mean?"

"Means I ain't for sale like some goddamned dead chicken hanging in the
butcher shop.

Ain't going no place I don't want to go, and ain't nobody telling me
different." Stella shook her head. "I told you, it was only preliminary,
Booker."

"I ain't for sale, Mrs. Drum. Preliminary or no other time."

Drum shrugged and bit back the smile pulling at his mouth. "I'll take
Book home with me, Stella. Okay?"

"Take him. Be my guest."

Stella was trying to look mad. Failing miserably. "That was some
performance."

In the beauty, Book leaned back and wove his fingers behind his neck.

"Saw to that, didn't I, Mr. Drum? Took care of it like I said I would."

"Didn't I tell you to watch it, kid? Didn't I tell you not to come up
with some crazy scam and maybe get yourself in trouble?"

"Yeah, you did. But I pulled it off, Mr. Drum. Told you not to worry."

Drum fell silent. For once, he had no bottled advice for the kid.

Instead, Booker had given him a fat dose of what he should have
remembered himself. You want something bad enough, you go after it.

Use whatever it takes. Keep going until it's yours. Basic.

But for a while there, Drum hadn't been thinking that way. He'd been
ready to give up, cash it in because things weren't falling in his lap.

"Yeah, hotshot. You pulled it off."

"Miss Bergmuller brings around any more people like those Duncans, I'll
take care of them too, Mr. Drum. You'll see."

"Bet you would, kid. But a bigger bet you won't have to. Pain pinched
the child's expression. "Guess you're right. No way nobody's ever gonna
want to adopt me. Ain't no cute little baby no more. Ain't easy either.
Just as well."

Drum didn't answer. He'd give the kid -the words when he had the ones he
wanted.

While Stella was tucking Booker in, Drum called Louis at Failsafe
Security for his messages. There had been a couple of nag calls from
chief Carmody and one from Lindy Tang, Driscoll's big-shot scientist
friend from Philadelphia.

Drum dialed the number Tang had left for the Bethlehem, PA, lab.

Turned out to be the guy's private line. "I have evaluated the sample,
Mr. Drum."

Tang told Drum he had isolated an organic poison in the child's blood.

It was a glycoside from the seeds of a tropical plant in the foxglove
family that was indigenous to Africa. The poison mimicked digoxin in its
tendency to cause erratic heart rhythms. "A poison, you said?"

"Correct, Mr. Drum."

"Is this one of those-poisons that has some value as a medicine?"

"As I said, it is a heart stimulant, so it is feasible that it could be
employed medicinally. But its historical use is as an arrow or dart
poison." Drum asked the scientist the obvious questions and got exactly
the answers he didn't want. The poison shrub was readily available from
any number of tropical greenhouse suppliers across the country. No major
skill or fancy equipment was necessary to extract the plant's venom from
the seeds.

Nothing to narrow the field. He hung up feeling like he'd lost another
round. Meat had suggested that the substance in the kid's blood might be
an experimental medicine. If he had to canvass all the tropical
greenhouse suppliers and every drug manufacturer running experiments on
heart drugs, it was going to be a real long winter.

He called Carmody and gave him a line about how well things were coming
along. Drum kept it in code in deference to the chief's telephone
paranoia. Made it sound like he'd had a stomach problem, and it was
almost cured. "So all that gas is almost gone, Chief. You can't imagine
what a relief."

Drum knew he wasn't any closer to nabbing the creep but there was no
reason to let Carmody in on the secret. He had to try to keep the chief
interested long enough for his luck to turn.

Stella ducked her head into the den to tell him there had been a message
from Oliver London on the phone machine. Drum played it back three
times. "Boooy ... good," the old guy had said. There was obvious effort
in the-voice. Big deal for the poor slob to get the message out. And for
what? So the Merritt kid was doing okay. Drum didn't make that as a
major news bulletin.

Disgusted, Drum was ready to call it a night. Figured he'd start at
Stella's left ear and work his way down. Nothing he liked better than a
nice, lazy, nature walk. All scents and scenery.

He was dawdling at one of her more interesting foothills when the phone
rang. Stella made him answer. Woman had a mean streak.

It was Dan Carmody again. He'd just gotten a call from American Express
asking for approval on the Four Seasons chit.

Carmody was spitting fire. Drum held the phone out to keep from burning
his ear. He caught snatches of the tirade. Enough to know the chief was
not a happy fellow.

Drum listened, hoping Carmody would run out of steam. But the guy showed
no sign of cooling. Came down to an ultimatum. Drum had forty-eight
hours to tie up the hit-run, or he was dust.

Drum hung up and did the only logical thing under the circumstances.

Tossed a lamp against the wall. Trashed four of the good. crystal
goblets they'd gotten as a wedding gift from Stella's Aunt Frieda.

Then he stood back to survey the carnage. Didn't make him feel a bit
better. Used to be tantrums like that did him a world of good. But even
the simple pleasures were turning on him.

Stupid, Drum. He knew he'd brought this on himself. Knew he'd been
asking for it.

Stella had heard the commotion. She brought Drum a broom and dustpan and
left without a word. She was right as usual. He'd made the mess, time to
clean it up.

Ten minutes later, he was in the beauty heading for the Pound Ridge Post
Office. Two days weren't much, but he was determined to make the most of
them.

When Dr. Ferris stopped by on evening rounds, James was sleeping.

The doctor took a cursory look at the little boy and turned to leave.

"Wait," Cinnie said. "I wanted to hear about the test results.

He looked surprised. "Test?"

"The blood work you did after James got so sick this morning. You said
you'd have the results by this afternoon."

"Oh, right. I did. But apparently the lab is backed up.

One of the techs is out sick, I think. Probably hear from them
tomorrow,"

"But this was an emergency."

"Come now, Mrs. Merritt," he snapped. "Let's not overdramatize the
situation."

Cinnie felt slapped. "How can you say that? James wasn't breathing.

He could have  ..."

Ferris mumbled to himself. He seemed so strange and distracted.

"Sorry You're right. Forgive me. I haven't been getting much sleep
lately."

That she could understand. "You'll have the results in the morning?"

"Soon as possible. Excuse me, will you? There's something I have to take
care of."

On her way back from washing up in the patient bath, Cinnie almost
tripped over Oliver London. He had stationed his wheelchair beside the
door to James's room. "Boooy?"

"You heard what happened to James?

It was awful, but he's fine now, Mr. L. You're sweet to come check."

He cocked his head and strained to get something out.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "Honest, he's all right. He's fast
asleep hugging that sweet teddy bear you brought him. See you tomorrow,
okay?"

He shook his head, puffed his chest full of air, and unleashed a flood
of gibberish. "Tomorrow, Mr. London. Since I won't be taking James home,
we have our usual date at nine-thirty. You go get some rest now, all
right?" She went inside and put her things away.

She'd expected London to leave, but she could hear the squeak of his
chair as he positioned himself directly in front of the closed door.

There was the sound of the brakes clicking in place.

Cinnie decided to ignore him. Sooner or later, he'd get tired and leave.

James was still sound asleep. Cinnie smoothed his forehead and tucked
the blankets closer around him. When she kissed his cheek, he stirred
and muttered a few garbled words before settling down again."

"Night, sweetheart. Better day tomorrow. I promise."

Cinnie curled up on the couch. Easy promise to keep, she thought.

Today had been world-class miserable.

Why didn't Ferris have any answers yet? She had to know what had caused
James's crisis.

Ferris had acted so strangely. Usually, he was cool and impossibly
level, but tonight, there'd been a jittery edge about him.

He'd seemed so distracted and eager to leave.

After he'd gone, Cinnie had called the lab herself, hoping to put a fire
under them. But both of the docs she knew on the pathology service had
already gone for the day.

The receptionist was new. When Cinnie asked her to check the status of
James's blood work, the woman had trouble finding the requisition order.
After about a five-minute wait, the receptionist finally put her hands
on the form, but she couldn't make sense of it.

She said it looked as if the order had already been processed. At the
time, Cinnie had assumed the woman was simply mistaken.

Lying awake now, Cinnie began to wonder if Dr. Ferris had been evasive
on purpose. Could it be that he'd found something terrible in James's
blood sample and didn't want to tell Cinnie about it yet? She knew how
doctors sometimes worked, put off transmitting the bad news until it was
absolutely necessary. Or slightly afterward. That would certainly
explain Ferris's jumpiness.

Then there was Oliver London's strange behavior. Maybe he'd heard
something terrible about James, and that was why he was hanging around.

Cinnie knew people tended to talk freely around patients like London.

Hard to remember that the man was perfectly capable of hearing and
digesting everything. But London was. And if he'd picked up any
interesting information, she was more than ready to hear it, good or
bad.

She knocked at the door and asked London to move his chair. When she
could hear that he'd rolled a safe distance away, Cinnie went out to the
corridor. London looked miserable. His eyes were rimmed with dusky
circles. "What are you trying to tell me, Mr. London?"

London struggled to speak. His eyes bulged, and the cords tensed in his
neck.

"Easy. Slow and easy. Is it something about James? Did you hear something about
his test results?"

His mouth gaped, and he flushed crimson. Cinnie was afraid he was headed
for another stroke. "That's enough. Take it easy."

He stretched his mouth, pushed a final time, and gave up. His breathing
was harsh and ragged. There was deep sadness in his eyes.

"Listen to me, Mr. London. You're working too hard. Don't try to talk
anymore for a while. A good night's rest and you'll be back to yourself
in the morning. Whatever it is can wait until then."

London looked bowed with defeat. He didn't protest when Cinnie wheeled
him to the elevator and pressed the button. She waited until a car
arrived, maneuvered him inside, and pushed the number for his floor.
As the doors slid closed, she stepped out and blew him a kiss. "Take it
easy, Mr. London. See you in the morning."

Passing the nurses' station, Cinnie lifted James's chart, tucked it
under her robe, and sneaked it into the room. She read until her eyes
went hazy, studying every new entry and all the lab reports for the past
week. There was nothing from today. So Ferris was telling the truth. If
the results had been sent up, a copy would have been, placed in James's
records.

Cinnie took the chart back to the front desk and slipped it back in
place. Then she padded down the hall to James's room, flopped on the
cot, and pulled up the covers.

This time she dismissed the nagging inner voices. Sleep was her major
need at the moment. Everything else would keep.

James shifted in his bed, tossed an arm over his pillow, and mumbled.

Cinnie flipped off the bedside light and shut her eyes against the
darkness.

he knew that the post office was hooked on a direct line to the police
station.

Stepping back, he could see there was only one way to get in without
tripping the system. Drum figured the pants were a sure sacrifice.

Ditto the silk-blend shirt. Lucky thing Carmody was already steamed.

Save him the trouble of working up a fresh head when he got Drum's final
expense vouchers.

Treading carefully on the window frame, Drum hoisted himself to the
second story and then onto the gabled roof. His shoes were leather-soled
and slippery, so he was forced to sink to hands and knees and crawl up
the steep incline toward the chimney.

The copper flashing at the base was green with age. When Drum grasped
the edge to pull himself closer, a moldy sheet of copper snapped off in
his hand. He slid backward, raking at the shingles to stop his fall
Slowly, he regained the ground he'd lost and hoisted himself to the top
of the brick-faced spire. He lowered himself feet first into the breach
and let go.

Drum barely fit through the slim tube. He was jostled and bumped to the
bottom. By the time he hit, his knuckles, elbows, and knees were scraped
and bleeding. He was caked with soot and creosote.

Brushing away the worst of it, he crossed to the inner office and
started rifling through the files. He found endless records of insured
packages, color-coded forms in triplicate, stacks of booklets about mail
fraud and postal regulations.

Nothing about RO. boxes. Drum busted into a couple of desks, rummaged
through the drawers. He was about to give up altogether when his eye
caught the computer terminal at the sales counter.

Last chance. Drum flipped on the system and fiddled around. He'd seen
Booker doodling with the Apple IIC they'd bought him for his birthday,
and it looked easy enough. Easy for the kid anyway. All Drum got for his
trouble was of angry beeping and a bunch of warning messages he
couldn't understand.

Hotshot would probably be asleep by now, but this was an emergency.

Drum called home collect, so there wouldn't be a record of his being in
the place after regular hours. Using his best pitch, he convinced Stella
to wake the runt.

A few minutes later, Booker picked up. Kid sounded zonked, but he
snapped to when Drum explained the problem.

Kid talked Drum through the keyboard. Gave him a couple of suggestions:
keystroke combinations, ways to persuade the system to sing his tune.
Five minutes later, he was looking at the list he wanted. "That's it,
hotshot. Got it right here. Thanks, I owe YOU.

"No problem, Mr. Drum. What you up to anyway? You need me to come help
you out, be glad to. I ain't sleepy." "Not necessary. You were great.
Go back to bed now before Stella works me over but good, will you?"

"Ain't tired, I told you. So what's it to her?"

"I don't know, kid. Point is, she'll boil me if I keep you up, so
pretend you're tired and turn in, would you, please? It'd be a big
favor."

Big yawn. "Yeah, okay. Going to bed now, Mr. Drum. I'm real pooped.

See you in the morning, man."

Drum scrolled through the post office box numbers until he came to the
four-digit combination that belonged to Rasputin. Box was leased to a
guy named Malcolm Cobb at an address a couple of miles out of town on
Hollow Tree Ridge Road.

A few minutes, and he'd know whether he was back to square one.

Drum shut off the computer and took a look around. The keypad for the
alarm was next to the front door. He couldn't disable the system without
the entry code.

From the months he'd spent at Precision, Drum knew there was a way to
rig a false contact that would allow him to open the door without
setting off the bells. But that would take time he didn't care to waste.
And there was no guarantee he wouldn't trip something in the process.

So he did the only sensible thing. Threw open the door and ran like hell
for the beauty.

Seconds later, he rolled out of the entrance to the historical society
and headed north. Half a mile away, he caught the flame of approaching
headlights and a wail of sirens. Drum broke hard right, bolted down a
slim driveway, and bumped the beauty out of sight on the swatch of lawn
behind a private house.

After the commotion passed, he angled back to the road and continued the
distance to Hollow Tree Ridge, a curving, narrow strip of backwoods
blacktop. He found the number he was after, changed into respectable
clothes, and ditched the beauty at the foot of the long, narrow drive.

A late-model green Peugeot wagon was parked at the mouth of the drive.

Car had no bruises or blood spots Drum could detect. No obvious signs of
repair work either. Thief at the body shop had done a decent job.

Crouched out of sight behind the car, he took a hard look at the cabin.

No sign of anybody stirring, no curious eyes at the window.

Drum slipped into the car through a rear door. The Braintrust booklet
was still on the front seat.

Drum left the car and took in the exterior scene. A homemade patio
connected the cabin with the unpaved drive. Brown scraggly grasses poked
up through the seams, and the field stone blocks were cracked and
uneven.

Place was screaming for paint and a new roof The cedar shakes were
pocked with scaly patches and spreading fingers of dry rot. Swords of
peeled paint clung to the window frames. Curled shingles topped the
desiccated tar paper lining the eaves. The rusted gutters sagged under
the burden of years of muddy debris.

Drum pressed his ear to the door and listened. The place was all lit up
but dead still. No response to his knock. Using his pick collection, he
worked the trail of locks and edged the door open.

The cabin had been trashed. Incredible mess, stench that made Drum gag.

He took a deep breath and started searching. Began with the bedroom.

Stingy square. Nothing in it but an old maple dresser and a four-poster
with a broken canopy. All the clothing had been dumped out of the
dresser. The bed linens were a tangled, dirty mess. A ring of scum took
the place of a throw rug. Drum ran some of the slime through his
fingers, felt like glue, smelled like a baby's behind.

From the way the dirt on the floor was distributed, Drum could tell the
bed was not in its normal position. Staring hard, he noticed an
unexpected pair of seams in the floorboards near the rear legs. He poked
and prodded until a small rectangle lifted out.

Underneath was a hollow. Drum groped around in the dark space but found
nothing.

The contents of the medicine cabinet had been dumped in the bathroom
sink: a couple of physician's samples, a straight razor, and a half-used
bottle of cologne with a cloying lemon scent.

Back in the main room, he traced the stench to two large paper sacks in
the corner. One held two fancy china plates, two place settings of
ornate silver, and a pair of crystal wineglasses wrapped in linen
napkins. Peering inside the other, he saw that someone had opened an
assortment of food containers and dumped the contents in the bag. Then
the mess had been mashed together and crowned with a human turd.

Drum's stomach lurched and threatened to erupt. But he stayed on top of
it and forced himself to keep looking.

There was an old maple chest topped by a smashed mirror.

Materials from the genius group had been pulled out of an antique
writing table: intellectual exercise books, a procedure manual. At the
bottom of the heap were two writing tablets. Drum flipped through them.
Both were empty.

A dozen or more of the same slim book had been tossed from a shelf on
the opposite wall. Drum stooped and picked one up. The cover was damp
and streaked with more of the pasty mess from the bedroom floor.

It Was a kid's book. Prickly garden scene on the cover. Needles of
anticipation poked his neck as he opened to the inside back cover.

Yes! There was an author picture on the flyleaf. Young creep with long,
scraggly hair and the face of a scared rabbit. The eyes were vacant and
strange. Weak mouth, pale sickly complexion. "I'm gonna get you, you
scum. You thought you were going to get away with it, didn't you? Well,
it's payday."

He tossed the reeking paper sack out the open bedroom window and settled
in to wait.

Drum sat on the rocker, staring at the cabin door. He tuned his ear to
the road, willing the sound of approaching tires. Nothing but the wind.
"Come on, you shithead. I'm ready for you."

Silence, The tortuous slow passing of scrutinized time.

Restless, Drum picked up the kid's book again and read through the
story. Couple of weed kids shaking up the neighborhood. Sister and
brother named Dove and Elegant. The young weeds come out okay after the
neighbors try to destroy them, but then they get sick with this weird
weed bleeding problem.

So this Rasputin character is real interested in blood, Drum thought.

Even writes kid's books about it.

Bad kid's books. Drum couldn't imagine why anyone would want to read
their kid a creepy story like this.

But people did. He knew they did. Drum had seen the damned book before.
No question. Where, Drum? Think.

He tried to bring it in focus. Went through the list of logical places
where he might have seen children's books. Definitely wasn't one of
Booker's. Drum could picture the runts shelves.

So where? He rolled it over and over in his head. Closed his eyes and
tried to concentrate.

It came to him like a filmy scarf drifting on a breeze. Blew in and
settled down until Drum could pick it up and run it through his fingers.

No need to wait around for the sicko creep to come home. Drum had caught
his scent.

It took less than ten minutes flying time for Drum to get to Tyler's
Grove. He turned in through the broken pillars and followed the curves
of Grove Street to the second spur. He eased to the end of the
cul-de-sac, and left the beauty at the curb.

Crossing the lawn, he saw a curtain move on the second floor.

Drum could feel the eyes on him. But when he rang the bell and pounded
on the door, no one answered.

Which definitely called for self-help. Drum pulled the picks out of his
pocket and went to work on the deadbolt. He wasn't trying to be quiet,
but the noise of his jimmying was drowned out by the sound of feet
clumping down the stairs and crossing the living room. Drum was in the
house before she could finish dialing.

He wrenched the phone out of her hand and waggled a finger at her.

"You promised this dance to me, sweetheart. Don't you remember?"

"The nerve! What do you mean breaking in here like this?"

Drum looked her over and couldn't help smiling.

Broad was in character, even at this time of night. Her hair was pulled
back in a perfect chignon, stern schoolmarm expression firmly in place.
She wore a prim robe over matching silk pajamas. Her feet were encased
in pristine pink leather slippers with regal trim. "I mean to find out
who Malcolm Cobb is to you and where I can find him."

ydia Holroyd stiffened and pushed back an invisible wisp of hair.

"How absurd. I don't even know anyone named Malcolm anything."

Drum took the kid's book off the stand on the antique school desk and
flashed it in her face. "You don't know him? Then why do you display his
frigging book?"

She didn't flinch. "Because that happens to be my son Todd's favorite
story. Now if you'll leave me in peace, I won't have to call the police
or your boss at the paper."

Drum's temper was flaming. "I'll leave when you tell me what I want to
know, lady. Who's Malcolm Cobb?"

"I told you, I don't know.

Now get out of here."

She was coming at Drum, a murderous expression in her eyes. Drum was
enjoying the show, but he was distracted for a second by the sound of
steps entering the room. When he turned to check who it was, the broad
beaned him with a bronze lion's head bookend.

Drum staggered, but he didn't go down. He caught her hands, disarmed
her, and shoved her down hard on the couch. She sat with a startled rush
of breath. Flat tire. "That wasn't very nice, Mrs. Holroyd.

Not real hospitable." Drum rubbed his head. A big lump had already
risen, and a tropical pulse was dancing in his temples. He used
everything he had to keep his temper from exploding. "This is my house,
and I want you out of it. Right this minute!"

Drum bared his teeth, kept his tone even. "I want out too, lady.

Only first I have to hear about Malcolm. I have a real special
present for him that I have to deliver in person."

"You mean Uncle Malcolm?"

"Shut up, Todd," Lydia Holroyd hissed.

Too late. Drum smiled at the kid. Walked over and ruffled his hair.

The kid returned a shy little grin. Boy obviously wasn't used to much
affection. "Yes, pal. That's, exactly who I mean," Drum said.

"Thanks, you've been a big help. Run along now, will you, tiger? I have,
to talk to your mom alone for a couple of minutes."

Kid looked at his mother, but she wouldn't meet his seeking expression.

Catching Drum's wink and nod, he hustled up the stairs.

"Now you're going to tell me all about Uncle Malcolm, Mrs. Holroyd.

One way or the other."

She eyed her lap. Drum watched her sigh and bite her lower lip.

"All right. I suppose I've no choice. Malcolm is my younger brother."

"Just slipped your mind there awhile? Is that right?"

She caught his eye. Hers were frosty and filled with loathing.

"He's all the family I have. It's a natural instinct to want to protect
him when I have no idea what you're after. What do you want with dear
Malcolm anyway?"

Drum wanted to deck her. "Dear Malcolm ran down one of your neighbors'
kids and nearly killed him. Took off and left the kid hurt and
unconscious on the side of the road."

She gasped. Her lip quivered and tears puddled in her eyes.

"This can't be. Not after .. "After what, lady?"

"Nothing. You have to make them see. It's not his fault. He's not
responsible."

"Why the hell not?"

Drum watched her lips work and the nervous play of her hands.

"It's a long story. Terribly complicated," she said finally.

"Then you better get started," Drum said. When she looked up, there was
a slick of pleading in her eyes, but she stiffened and pulled the shade
on it. Cool bitch, Drum thought. Should have a
frostbite warning sign on her. "All right. I 'suppose it will have to
come out anyway ... Malcolm was a brilliant child, not simply precocious
but highly creative. Talented in art, music, writing. To think what he
might have been ... "Our mother wanted to give him everything, all the
right enrichment and stimulation. But it was so difficult for her. My
father abandoned us when Malcolm was just an infant. Mummy was forced to
work two jobs to make ends meet. "Malcolm and I were alone much of the
time. Being older, I was responsible for him. I tried to watch him, to
make him mind, but I was only a child myself. And he was so terribly
difficult. He would break things deliberately, hurt people. "It worsened
as he got older. Malcolm was forever getting himself into some dreadful
trouble and Mummy would have to drag him out of it."

"What kind of trouble?" Drum said.

Lydia Holroyd flushed. "He would ... expose himself to other children.

Threaten them into sodomizing him. Doing as he wished."

Drum felt his gorge rising. "Boys?"

"Mostly." She met Drum's gaze for an instant and looked away. "Mostly
young boys. "Mummy had to scrape and borrow, but she always managed to
hire the finest lawyers. And they always found a way to get Malcolm off.
She could never accept that he was seriously ill. just bored, she'd say.
A bored genius. "After each of his messes was cleared up, Mummy would do
what she thought best to discipline him, to make him see how naughty
he'd been. And it would seem to work for a time. But then the awful
behaviors would start again. Worse each time."

"Worse how?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He became paranoid, fancied that evil
spirits were after him, sapping his strength. He was so irrational, so
frightening. The violence and abuse escalated."

Drum had heard enough. Too much. "Look ' you tell me where I can find
Malcolm, and I'll be sure the DA hears the whole story about his being
sick and maybe not responsible."

"I can't. I don't know where he is."

Something in her expression changed. Drum could almost smell the lie.

"Yeah, you do. You know."

She tensed. "I thought it was over. I thought he was getting better.

Honestly, I did. But now this .. "Where is he?"

She started to cry. Her body heaved and tears streaked her face.

"Oh, God. It can't be happening again."

"Where is he, lady? You have to tell me."

She wiped her face with a hankie and blew her nose. Folding her hands,
she made- a visible attempt to compose herself. "You must understand, it
was years before I was finally able to get him into treatment. I
couldn't really help him at all until after Mummy died.

She wouldn't hear of it. "No doctors,' she'd say. "Malcolm is perfectly
capable of turning around on his own."

"On her deathbed, she finally admitted why she hadn't been able to deal
with Malcolm's illness. She told me that our father had been severely
schizophrenic.

When Malcolm started to act out, she suspected deep down that he'd
inherited the sickness. "Mother blamed herself, you see. She thought she
should have realized how deranged Father was before she risked passing
that terrible curse on to his children."

Drum was losing patience. "All real interesting, Mrs. Holroyd. But it
doesn't help me find your brother."

"I told you, he had delusions that spirits were pursuing him, ruining
him. When I got him into therapy, Malcolm was able to tell the doctor
that he'd found a way to fool his assailants. Each time they stole his
precious humors, he restored himself by claiming the humours from a
strong, intelligent child." Drum didn't get it and said so. "Blood. He
would hurt a child.

Then he would go to the hospital, where he could sneak in and take the
child's blood." She shook her head. "I thought it was finished. He's
been functioning so well for such a long time. Working, pursuing his
interests, making a life for himself. For a long time, he was so
terribly reclusive, barely left that cabin of his except to go to work.

But last year, he even managed to do some traveling."

The tumblers were clicking in plate. "To Africa?"

"Why, yes, how did you . "And is one of his interests archery, Mrs.
Holroyd? Does your baby brother practice, shooting arrows and darts?"

"He took it up at one of his treatment centers. Became quite proficient,
as he does in all things. But how did you know that?"

Drum's head was reeling. All of it was beginning to come together.

The Merritt kid getting zapped with some weirdo arrow poison. The odd
round bruise on his head -that Driscoll said couldn't have come from
being run down. Whisper on the wind.

And then there was the clock in the recording studio running an hour
behind the house. All of it made sense if the hit-run had been planned
deliberately.

He felt a crawling in his gut. Rage building and a fat sense of urgency.
He raced to the phone. The broad was all over him, pulling at his arm.
Begging him not to hurt Malcolm. He shook her off like a bug.

Nobody answered at Carmody's house. Drum dialed the chief's direct line
at the station. Three rings ... four.

No answer. Carmody had to be carrying his beeper, had to be.

Drum dialed, left the Holroyd broad's number, hung up, and prayed until
the phone rang half a minute later.

Not a second to waste. Drum spoke in a rush, gave the chief just enough
to convince him to get rolling. Carmody promised to cordon off the
hospital and conduct a room-by-room search. No one would get near James
Merritt.

Drum felt a rush of relief. "Meet you there, Chief."

"No way.

You show your face at Fairview, I'll suspend your ass for another six
months. As far as this case is concerned, you don't exist, Jerry.

Remember that."

Drum didn't bother to argue. What the chief didn't know, wouldn't hurt
him. And if going against Carmody's orders extended his time in Siberia,
that was a price Drum was willing to pay. He'd eaten his frigging
greens. Time for dessert.

Crocodile tears were streaming down the broad's face. Drum wasn't
impressed. "They won't hurt him, will they?"

"Don't you worry, lady.

Dear Malcolm's gonna get exactly the treatment he deserves."

Chief Carmody and Charlie Allston oversaw the search-and-destroy
operation from a makeshift command post in the office of Fairview's
chief administrator, Walter Kampmann. Kampmann, a stately
septuagenarian, had arrived minutes after Carmody's call. Ever since,
he'd been raking nervous fingers through his fine, white hair and pacing
a rut in the cocoa carpeting beside the office window.

The final sector report came in less than forty minutes after dozens of
cops had disappeared to canvass every room and cubicle in the ten-story
building. Carmody listened to the squawking voice on the walkie-talkie,
gave instructions to the sector chief, and signed off with a hefty sigh
of relief. "That's it then," he said to the others.

"Not a creature is stirring."

"So what now?" Kampmann said. "So now, we wait," said Allston.

"Exactly," Carmody said and felt the tension building again. "We wait."

The chief leaned back in the gray leather desk chair, wove his hands
behind his head, and considered the reception committee he'd arranged
for Malcolm Cobb.

From the distance came the persistent slapping sound of helicopter
rotors. The traffic chopper had been commandeered from a local radio
station to sweep back and forth between the turnpike and the parkway and
report on approaching vehicles. The sweep would deliberately avoid the
immediate Fairview area to keep from arousing the pigeon's suspicions.

Five deserted-looking EMS vans were parked at planned intervals in front
of the building. They were rigged with ultrasensitive listening devices
and infrared video equipment to immortalize Malcolm Cobb's grand
entrance. Each was manned by a pair of the department's top marksmen
armed with Heckler & Koch MP-5 semiautomatics. Another five men with
Mcmillan'm-82 sniper rifles were stationed on the roof. Two unmarkeds
with deep-tinted windows were covering the rear and emergency entrances.

Ideally, if Cobb didn't get wind of the trap, he'd be allowed to make it
inside, where three men were waiting to take him out, down, or whatever
it took. On the impossible chance that he managed to slip through the
wall of perimeter security and tried to get anywhere near the Merritt
child, Carmody had posted a pair of guards in the stairwell at each
landing.

The gas-leak ruse had gone off without a hitch. No one had questioned
the announced need to check every room for a trace of fumes.

Most of the patients had slept through the sweep, and those who hadn't
were satisfied with the canned assurances. The staff had been unruffled
too. Not a raised eyebrow. Exactly what Carmody had hoped to accomplish.

So Jerry Drum wasn't the only one in the department who could pull off a
successful con. Dan Carmody issued a wry chuckle in Drum's honor.

The man was tough, talented, and hands-down the most exasperating cop
Carmody had worked with in his forty years on the squad. Drum had
inherited his father's pluck and instincts, but there the similarities
ended.

Carmody could well remember Jerry Drum as a little kid. He'd had so much
of Matthew in him then, it was uncanny. The child had mastered his old
man's energetic stride, the distinctive vocal cadence and speech
patterns. He'd even aped Matthew's courtly manners.

But young Jeremiah had coarsened over time. He'd developed a rough
exterior and insides so bristling hot with anger it took next to nothing
to set him off.

Though it hadn't been easy, Carmody had put up with the outbursts and
the man's crazy spending for Matthew's sake, and his own. Jerry Drum
used his wolf hunger to advantage, pushed way past the point when
standard, sane cops gave up. Which made him an incomparable treasure in
a seemingly hopeless case like this one.

An almost finished hopeless case. Carmody tried to get a mental read on
the stalking lunatic. From what Drum had told him, they Were after a
crazy genius with a family history of severe schizophrenia.

The chief had encountered the type too many times before: wholly
dysfunctional. Suffering from the kind of reality breach that leads to
acts of desperate violence against unseen enemies and imagined threats.

He could tick off a list of the worst cases the department had ever
handled; many were of that breed. There was the serial murderer who'd
left a trail of decapitated bodies strewn along the banks of the
Rippowarn River on the alleged orders of a minor character in a comic
strip. There was the young man with a Jesus complex who'd visited a
local elementary school playground carrying an Uzi for show and tell.

He recalled the woman who fancied herself a savior of animals when she
bombed the homes of corporate executives whose drug companies were
conducting experiments on mice and monkeys.. The men scouting the fifth
floor had come across an old, forgotten storage room that the guy had
obviously commandeered as his own headquarters. Carmody had been called
up to take a look, and the sight had made him shudder. Tiny, dim space.
Compulsively clean and orderly. Stocked as if someone were planning to
bunk here for a long siege, or already had. There was a strong,
primitive stench.

Stirring his revulsion, Carmody took in the furnishings: cot, dresser.

There was a row of staff uniforms hanging in the metal locker: surgical
scrubs, a lab coat, the yellow jumpsuit used around infectious cases.

A shoebox beside the sink was full of first aid supplies, rotting food,
books, and loaded hypodermics.

Carmody had been horrified. To think that the madman had been so near
the children. Able to move about the hospital undetected. He wondered
how long this had been going on, how many other seeming "accidents" had
been engineered by Malcolm Cobb to satisfy his sick bloodlust.

Wally Kampmann was still pacing. Carmody watched the guy and felt a
swell of sympathy. "We'll get the. bastard, Mr. Kampmann. It's all over
but the shouting. Don't worry."

Kampmarm flashed a desperate look. "I can't believe this, Chief Carmody.
To think he was right here and nobody knew ..."

"Try to put it behind you," Carmody said. "It's history. Malcolm Cobb is
history."

Allston started working on the incident report. Anything to pass the
time. Carmody passed the time picking his cuticles. Unless Cobb was
tipped, he would show up eventually. And with someone watching the
sister's house and monitoring her phone calls, a tip was highly
unlikely.

But nothing was worse than the waiting. And Carmody knew that nothing
was certain until the waiting was done.

Oliver London tuned his breathing to the rhythmic rise and fall of the
child's chest. After Cinnie had put him on the elevator, he'd waited a
decent interval and come back up to keep an eye on things.

His chair was pressed in the shadows in the corner of the room where he
could watch Cinnie sleep and the sleeping boy and the door. Silent
sentry.

When Peterson and Daitch had come through on. their room-by-room search
of the pediatrics floor, London had seen enough to convince him that the
sweep was not about any gas leak. The pair of detectives had approached
each room with guns discreetly drawn. They'd gone in according to
standard procedure for handling a perpetrator marked armed and
dangerous: door shoved in, the men crouched in position, spring-ready
for any nasty surprises.

When London tried to get the real lowdown from his brother officers,
Peterson had handed him a patronizing line of malarkey about there being
nothing at all to worry about. And didn't he need his rest? And why
didn't he run along to his own room like a good boy?

London ached to tell the young snot what to do to himself and by what
method, but he'd found his tongue tied in half hitches as it often was
since the stroke, especially when he was angry or upset.

London was confident that Jerry Drum would be willing to tell him the
truth about the operation, but there was no sign of him. So the old man
had been forced to content himself with waiting until Peterson and
Daitch were a few doors down. Then he'd slipped into James Merritt's
room and settled in for the duration. Whatever was going down, he would
not allow it to touch Cinnie or her son.

Anyone who thought of hurting either of those two would have to do it
over London's dead body.

Hours passed, and a tense hush settled over the surveillance operation.

In the EMS vans, the marksmen stared through the darkened windows at a
somber sky. Behind emergency, two detectives in a Chevy drank tepid
coffee from paper cartons and hid the glow of their cigarettes in cupped
palms. On the roof, members of the sniper squad took turns ducking into
the stairwell to warm hands and feet numbed by the bitter chill and the
need to lie prone against the cold concrete to remain invisible.

The men posted in the lobby and at each landing were tight enough to
snap. They sprang to action with every unexplained sound: a capricious
turn of the wind, tapping tree branches, creaks and shudders in the
building's facade.

No one knew when Malcolm Cobb would appear or from what direction.

No one could predict what the madman would do when he realized he was
cornered.

The waiting had taken its toll on Oliver London too. He'd struggled
valiantly to stay awake, but his eyes were so heavy, he finally relented
and allowed them to drift shut. Only resting, he told himself If
anything happened, he would hear.

But the figure moved in utter silence. He stalked the deserted corridor.
Pressed out of sight in the cubicle housing the fire extinguishers, he
peered toward the specimen's room and exulted.

Laughter bubbled in his throat, but he thwarted its escape. He had
foiled the swarm of eyeless, mindless, malevolent pests.

Dark moon triumphant. Rising over all. Cobb plucked three rubber-capped
hypodermics from the pocket of the lab coat he wore, selected one, and
injected its contents into his thigh. At once, he felt the beat. of his
escalating energies. His pulse began to race, and there was a ferocious
thumping in his chest. Rush of sacred humours, power of the dark star.

Now he was ready. A final look, and he started down the hallway again.

He was halfway to the child's room when a pair of clucking nurses turned
the far corner and came toward him. Cobb's urge was to turn and flee,
but he resisted. His Adrenalin-induced powers were at their peak, he
could not afford to waste the charge or allow it to ebb.

He knew that another dose too quickly could imperil him.

Control! Lever of will engaged. Maintaining an even, unhurried stride,
he approached the two nurses. They were engaged in petty discourse.
Blessedly preoccupied.

But as they drew nearer, they went mute and foisted their full
attentions on him. Cobb stifled his terror and kept walking.

Control! They must not thwart him. He would have to dispose of anyone
who stood in his way.

He was within a few yards of them now. Boldly, he cast his eye at the
pair and acknowledged their presence with a curt nod. The wrong response
would be their last.

Cobb was beyond worry over consequences. He was the dark moon, soaring
and inviolate. "Hello," one of the nurses said with a coy tip of her
chin.

Cobb nodded again. "Hi, Dr. Ferris," the other one said. "How is it out?

Look like snow?"

-Cobb shrugged and kept walking. The hens continued on their way.

He heard the ping of the elevator bell behind him and a breathy swallow
as the doors shut the pair inside.

He was beyond harm. Prepared to dispatch the woman at last and have the
specimen to himself.. Cobb paused at the door to the child's room and
listened to the stillness. The moment had arrived.

The wretched masquerade and the waiting were behind him. Now was the
time to reap the dividends at long last. Cobb indulged in a moment of
self-congratulation. He had fooled them all.

Dolts. He had duped them thoroughly and systematically.

Overlooked nothing. They had been deceived by the falsified diplomas,
the flaunted knowledge he'd absorbed from his readings, the laudatory
references from invented colleagues overseas.

At this moment, at each moment of final fulfillment, it seemed well
worth the years of waiting. He thought of all the vile filth he'd
endured, the petty concerns of pinch-browed parents, the wails and
protests of the loathsome children. So many of them useless little lumps
of refuse. So few brilliant enough to serve his magnificent cause.

True, Lydia had helped. Cobb had found his finest specimens by listening
to her. How she'd go on about this one and that one and how her Todd was
the most brilliant of all. Of course poor Todd didn't nearly fulfill his
astounding potential. At least, as she saw it, the child did not. She
was forever mewling about this child and that one pretending to be
Todd's superior. She complained about the other ones and their
duplicity. All trying to detract from her Todd's genius.

In all but one case, the children she'd touted had turned out to be
perfect prospects. To be fair, the sole exception had been Cobb's error.
He had been after a young boy at a particular house, but he'd damaged
the child's visiting cousin by mistake. A rapid assessment had revealed
that the injured child was not worth saving. The wounded boy had been
fat, slovenly, and dull beyond forgiveness. Cobb had rectified the
mistake by dispatching the child in the emergency room.

The appropriate injection and the problem was remedied.

A minor travail, quickly forgotten. A simple error. Cobb bristled,
remembering the punishments he'd endured over the simplest errors.

Cruel tortures, humiliations beyond reckoning.

No matter what his accomplishments, they had been inadequate by her
standards. Like poor Todd, he'd always been found lacking. The only time
Cobb had won the unmitigated glow of her approbation was over the
publication of his book. And then he'd been unable to produce its equal.
The shame! The heinous ignominy.

But after this, he would be unfettered. Soaring. He twisted the knob,
pressed the door open, and slipped inside the specimen's room.

The woman was sleeping on the cot at the far corner. First, he would see
to her. He could not risk her interference again.

Cobb plucked the rubber stopper from the second hypodermic. The
reservoir was filled with Norcuron, a depolarizing neuromuscular
blocking agent. The drug would paralyze the woman, render her incapable
of speech, movement, breath. Her death would be slow and agonizing,
fifteen minutes or more of terrifying awareness. She would be trapped in
the useless shell of her vile being. Helpless.

No more than she deserved. Once he had dosed her with the deadly
extract, he would wrest the healing humours from the child, He had
decided to sedate the boy to prevent an outcry. Cobb hadn't wished to
risk any diminishment of the child's powers, but he was well beyond
concern over optimal conditions. At this point, he would be content to
begin his restitution by whatever means.

The woman stirred and rolled onto her side. Cobb observed her and felt a
swell of loathing. Anxious to be done with her, he approached the cot.
The needle glinted in his grasp. His eyes, blazed with madness.

Lowering the covers, he tried to spot a promising vein in the woman's
hand or forearm, but the light was inadequate. He would have to settle
for an intramuscular injection. It would take slightly longer for total
paralysis to set in, but ultimately, it would be as effective, and as
lethal. He was poised to administer the dosage when he felt the hand on
his back.

Cobb spun around and was startled to see the old man in the wheelchair.

The wizened creature was gnarled and nearly immobilized.

He attempted to speak, but only succeeded in issuing a few porcine
grunts. Cobb was moved to laughter.

What was this? The gargoyle was attempting to overwhelm him? The man was
tugging at the hypodermic with a mangled claw. "Get back. Get away from
here. I'll kill you, you putrid ruin."

Behind him was the sound of the woman coming awake. Rising. Cobb could
not allow the deformed ancient to thwart his plan. With the full might
of his fury, he shoved the wheelchair back against the opposite wall
where it tilted and flipped on its side. Then he turned to the woman,
caught her flailing arm, stabbed the needle into her forearm, and
pressed home the plunger.

Delighted, Cobb stood and watched her begin to yield to the drug.

Her voice faded, and she crumpled back against the cot. Satisfied, he
left her to her horror and approached the child.

The boy was fast asleep, but Cobb decided to heed caution and proceed
with the sedation. He extracted the final hypodermic from his pocket and
injected a meager dose of Valium into the child's buttock.

Enough to insure his docile cooperation.

Cobb risked a momentary flash of the beside lamp to ease his efforts.

In an instant he had inserted the hollow needle into a vein in the
specimen's hand, and the humours were infiltrating the clear plastic
tube. Cobb lowered his mouth to the end of the tubing and began to suck,
trying to draw the humours more quickly. He was so absorbed in his
enterprise that he didn't anticipate the arm that coiled around his
knees, tugged with all the might of a stubborn will, and sent him
reeling.

He struggled with the old man, but his strength was failing. The
familiar numbness claimed his arm, and he felt the sinking in his face.

Inches away, the precious humour was dripping to the floor from the tube
in the child's hand. If only he could get closer.

Cobb lunged for the tube, but only managed to dislodge it.

Sputtering in frustration, he turned and lashed at the old man. There
was a blind struggle. Two weak hulks of rotting flesh. Each was fueled
by foolish resolve and the last dying gasps of desperation.

But Cobb was winning. He rolled the old man on his back and pinned his
good arm to the ground. Raking his fingers against the saggy flesh on
the face, Cobb raised lines of bubbled blood. He pressed his weight
against the ancient Adam's apple and began to squeeze. Soon, it would be
over. Moments.

He wasn't aware of the old man's other hand as it struggled in a palsy
toward the call button dangling from the child's bedstead. He heard the
squawk of the intercom and the nurse's voice. "Yes, James?

Need something, honey?"

Startled, Cobb wrenched the button from the old man's hand. There was
another squawk as the old man drew a torturous breath, and forced the
words, "Code Bluuue."

The silence was a suffocating blob. Cobb pressed his hand across the old
man's mouth and stared at the metal grate of the intercom. His breathing
was shallow and labored. He willed it to settle, so he could trust his
voice.

The intercom crackled and lit up again. "Yes, James, honey? You want
something. I didn't catch that."

"Dr. Ferris here," Cobb said.

"I must have hit the button accidentally. James is asleep and fine."

Static and a pause. "Yes, Dr. Ferris. Thanks." Cobb pressed a trembling
thumb against the old man's jugular until the wrinkled lids fluttered
shut and the man went still. He had moments to milk the child and be
gone. They could not find him lingering here too long.

Clumsily, he retrieved the dislodged tubing from the floor and struggled
to thread the fine edge over the needle that still protruded from the
child's vein. His fingers quivered with weakness, head reeled from the
effort.

There!

He watched as the healing fluid trickled into the tubing and oozed
through with exasperating slowness.

Starving with need, Cobb bent over the free edge of the tube and pressed
his lips to the cool plastic. He was waiting, suckling greedily, when
the first blow came.

Drum raised the washbasin and bashed it down again on the lunatic's
bowed head. There was a satisfying crunching sound and a rush of air,
but the sonavabitch wouldn't go down. "One for Mommy," Drum said and
beaned him again. "One for ... baby. And one for Uncle Oliver!

Now crumple, you crazy sonavabitch. Give it the hell up get really
before I Y peeved."

The creep reeled around with an animal yelp and lunged at Drum's throat.
Drum felt the iron fingers digging into his larynx, saw fireworks.

Getting light-headed, he brought his knee up hard into the maniac's
groin. The pressure on his neck let up. Drum staggered backward and
rubbed away the sore spot. "That was not a good idea, buddy," he gasped.
"Now you got me real offended."

Catching his breath, Drum took a running start and butted the guy hard
in the chest, knocking him back off balance. When he caught his footing,
Drum balled his fist and gave the creep a nose job. Local anesthetic.

Cobb fell to the floor in a fetal ball, weeping.

"You go ahead and cry, sweetheart. Your privilege. The party is frigging
over."

Drum looked around and took in the damages. London and the kid were out
but appeared to be okay. The kid's mother was another story.

She was stiff. Even her eyeballs seemed starched. Drum flipped on the
light and caught her ashen color. Leaning over the bed, he pressed the
emergency buzzer and then he raced out to the hall to hustle things
along.

They had to be able to save her. Damned story was supposed to have a
happy ending.

The beauty was in a feisty mood as he drove toward the Sound.

Drum slipped a Nancy Wilson tape into the deck and settled in for a
bumpy ride. His part in the case was over, but he still had one large
piece of unfinished business to see to. The thought of it turned his
mouth to chalk, but he knew it was time. This debt was way past due.

Drum rolled down the window and felt the tear of the frigid wind.

Dark night. No stars; no moon. Fine with him. Anything better would have
felt like window dressing. Wouldn't have made this any easier.

On the four-lane abutting the Sound, Drum eased up on the juice and
tried to pull it together. He had to keep remembering what he was after.
Stick to the point, no matter what it cost him. Not going to be easy.

The house loomed like a hulking giant against the brooding sky.

The sight of the place started a pulse knocking in his throat. He tried
to push back the foul memories, but they kept at him.

e used one of his plastic chits to raise the electric gate and drove
inside. Fifty yards down, he took the fork leading to the rear service
entrance and parked.

He left the beauty idling and worked his way inside through the pantry
door. The kitchen was dark, but he could see nothing had changed. A ring
of dark pots hung like executed prisoners over the commercial stove.
Everything cold and hard.

Treading down, the back hallway, Drum was careful to keep it quiet. He
wanted to surprise the old turd. Hold on to every advantage.

He stopped outside the study. The door was open a crack, and Drum had a
view of the leather couches, the skin rugs, the wall of mirror tiles.

Everything was back to the way it had been before the fire.

Perfect restoration of the horror museum. The old man was sitting at the
desk, poring over some filth, Drum figured. He butted the door open and
strode inside. "Long time no see, Uncle Liam."

Liam looked up and the color drained from his fat face. Drum could see
the tremor in his hand. But the old creep forced a plastic smile.

"Jeremiah? How have you been?"

"Great. I've been just terrific. You?"

"Getting old, you know. Aches and pains. Slowing down. Usual crap."

Drum chuckled. "But you're not dead yet, are you, Uncle dear?

Every day I read the obituaries hoping, but no luck so far."

Liam was inching his hand toward the desk drawer. Good, Drum needed a
little comic relief. "Oh, I'll be gone soon enough, Jeremiah.

Dead and buried so you can come by every Sunday and spit on my grave.

That's what you want, isn't it? Never forgive a thing, do you, boy?

just like your father. Always disapproving of me. Making his little
jokes."

Time. Drum caught the old man's wrist as he was curling his fingers
around a fat, ugly Luger. "Tsk, tsk. Don't you know it's dangerous to
play with guns? You could get hurt real bad."

Holding the flabby arm tight, he stared into the burnt-out eyes and
smiled. "Make a wish, sweetheart." Then he twisted the hand until he
heard the wrist crack.

Liam howled and hunched over in pain. Drum sat on the desk and started
counting on his fingers. "Let's see. I owed you one broken wrist, which
is all paid up. But I've still got to take care of the nose, carve a
couple of nice, deep gashes on your ugly face, trash that fat knee of
yours. We're gonna be real busy here for a while, aren't we, Unc? Hope
you got no plans for the evening."

"No more, Jeremiah.

What do you want, boy? Name your price, and then leave me in peace."

Liam was blubbering like a scared baby. "You don't get it, do you,
shithead? I don't want your money. I want you to suffer the way I
suffered. I want you to run and hide, so scared all the time, you can't
see straight. And then I want to find you and fuck with your mind and
ruin your frigging LIFE. "Tell me, Uncle Liam," Drum said.

"Was it fun for you? Did you enjoy telling the cops that I set the fire
for no reason? Did you get a big bang out of testifying against me so
they'd send me away for the maximum? "I loved watching you up there on
the stand. Mr. Squeaky Clean, talking about how you'd taken me in as a
poor orphan, given me everything, love and affection, all the frigging
advantages. "What was it you said about me? Oh, yeah, I was
incorrigible. That's it. I was the bad seed, right, buddy? Took me ten
years to crawl out of the hole you dug for me. Truth is I'm still
crawling."

Liam was mewling. "Please, Jeremiah. No more. I'm an old man.

Have mercy."

Drum laughed. "Now, that is a real funny one. Hysterical almost.

What the hell do you know about mercy? I was a kid, for chrissakes.

You cut me up in pieces and chewed on my bones. And to you it was all a
game, wasn't it? You had a wonderful frigging time watching, me sink."

"Can't let go, can you? just like your damned father, may he rot in
hell."

Drum lunged across the desk and grabbed Liam's collar. "All right, you
fat shit. You want mercy, I'll give it to you. I'll put you right out of
your frigging misery." He squeezed until the old man's eyes bulged and
his face turned the dusky purple of an old bruise. Drum was a fist of
rage, quaking from the poison.

Liam's color was deepening. There was a gurgling sound in his throat.

Death rattle. Drum forced himself to let go. The creep slumped back in
his chair, breathing in ragged puffs. "Now, here's what you're going to
do, Uncle Liam. You're going to make a phone call to one of the many
important people you own in this town and arrange something for me.
Then, you're going to forget you ever knew me. And unless you give me a
real good reason, I'm going to do the same for you. Get it?"

The old man's nose was running. A broad stain was spreading over his
lap. Drum caught the urine stench and winced. "Start dialing, shithead,"
he said. "I'll give you the details as you go along."

The next night, Drum had the chess board set up when the kid came down
from taking his shower. "Up for a quick massacre, hotshot?"

"Yeah sure, if you are, Mr. Drum. We playing for one hundred big ones
like usual?"

"Pennies?" Drum. raised a brow. "Actually, I had bigger stakes in mind.
Unless you're chicken that is."

"No way, man.

You name it. I'll cover."

Drum fiddled with his king and regarded the runt from under his eyelids.
"I'm talking real high stakes, Book. Man-sized."

"Ain't no chicken, I told you. Lay it out, Mr. Drum. I'm ready."

"Okay.

Here's the deal. Winner has to change his name, permanent-like."

Booker's eyes went wary. "Don't get you."

"It's simple, kid. If you win, I change my name from Jeremiah to
anything you choose."

Booker laughed. "You mean like Mary Lou?"

"If that's what you want, yeah."

"And if you win, you get to pick my new name?" Booker said. "Guess I can
risk it, seeing as how you never win." "Okay, Book. But I want to-warn
you up front. If I win, I'm going to make you change your name to Drum.
Booker Drum."

Kid's face went through a series of changes: confused, caught on, coy.

"You saying you're asking to marry me, Mr. Drum? "Cause Mrs. Drum ain't
going to like that, no way." "No, Book. Not marriage."

"Then you must be thinking about adoption. That right?"

"Yeah.

That's what I had in mind."

Booker let the grin flash, but reined it back in fast. "What about that
Bergmuller lady from social services, Mr. Drum? She ain't gonna let that
happen, you know. She likes black on black. Everything neat and tidy.
You're way too pale, man."

"Way too pale, way too ugly, way too lots of things. But it's all taken
care of. Someone I know arranged it, Book. So it's up to you."

Kid shrugged. "Same to me either way, Mr. Drum. Like you said, why don't
we play for it? See how it goes."

Drum extended a hand for the runt to shake. Kid pumped it eagerly, with
a nice squeeze of warmth. "Fine by me, hotshot. Let's see how it goes."

Drum was playing black. Booker opened with his queen's bishop's pawn.

Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since the attack in James'
hospital room, but already it had assumed the blunt, grainy guise of
distant memory. The facts were so hard for Cinnie to absorb.

Dr. Ferris, trusted physician and consummate professional, was in
reality a deranged killer with a vampire complex. Stranger still,
Malcolm Cobb, Ferris's alter ego (or was it the other way around?" had
turned out to be Lydia Holroyd's phantom brother.

And then there was the weird business about some stranger no one could
identify showing up to save Cinnie before the drug she'd been given had
time to do its lethal damage.

Whoever he was, Cinnie would be in his debt forever. She had just begun
to feel the terrifying constriction in her throat and the oppressive
weight of paralysis crushing her chest when the crisis team had burst in
with the crash cart. Before he'd disappeared, the stranger had handed
the labeled used hypodermic to the head doc, so they knew she'd been
dosed with Norcuron. The emergency team had administered an antidote,
and the effects of the drug had been counteracted in seconds. Some of
the longest seconds in Cinnie's life.

Thankfully, no one had been seriously hurt. Mr. London had suffered
scrapes and bruises, but nothing worse. Cinnie had worried that the
excitement might precipitate another stroke. But the old man had been
kept under close observation overnight. And the impossible darling had
shown no, ill effects from the ordeal.

Mr. London had even managed to get one of the night nurses assigned to
him to come back and sneak him a corned beef sandwich for lunch.

Cinnie had caught the telltale scent when she showed up to thank him in
person for risking his neck to protect her and James. So she'd decided
to ditch the pastrami on rye she had hidden in her tote bag. Another
time.

James had come through the nightmare unscathed. Because of the sedative,
he didn't even have a clear memory of the episode. This morning, he'd
reported a strange dream about the shadow man coming in to give him a
needle. Exact words: "Dream, Mommy. Shadow man come Stick my arm. Ouch."

Cinnie played the words over in her mind. It wasn't her imagination.

James was better, clearer. Even wretched Dr. Silver had noted the change
in his inimitable way: "Kid's less of a dishrag today, Cinnie.

Not ready for the debate team, but he's coming along.

Encouraging." Yes, she was encouraged. Tomorrow, they'd be bringing
James home. For real, this time. His so-called setback had been from a
shot of insulin Ferris had given him. Luckily, James's blood sugar was
up after the farewell party, so the drug's effect had been blunted.

Paul had insisted on canceling all his appointments for the day to be
with James and her, and this time, Cinnie hadn't argued. It would be
nice to have him around for the homecoming, but she knew that things
were far from resolved between them. In fact, Paul was at his precious
studio right now. He'd brought her home and hung around for a while.

But then the old restlessness had drawn him away. "I'll be back in an
hour, I promise," he said. "Just have a couple of things to finish up."

She watched him leave. She was forever watching him leave.

Cinnie was through straightening James's room. Paul wouldn't be back for
more than a half hour, but she was determined to be ready for him.

She might not know how to compete with that blasted sound board, but it
didn't hurt to try.

She took a hot shower, dressed in her lavender teddy, sprayed a few
strategic spots with Chanel 19, and slipped between the cool sheets. A
wonderful torpor claimed her, and she allowed her thoughts to float.

Her mind filled with lovely images: James playing soccer, flipping grass
clumps at a backyard barbecue, doing his Springsteen imitation.

At the edge of her consciousness, she caught the sound of the front door
opening. Paul was early. Good sign.

Lying on her side with her eyes closed, she listened as he closed the
door and padded down the hall. He was walking so slowly and quietly,
Cinnie thought he must be planning his own surprise.

The footsteps paused in the kitchen. Sweetheart was planning to bring
her something. Taking so long * Finally, the steps started again. He was
coming into the room, getting closer. She turned to greet him.

It wasn't Paul. A strange, flattened face was looming inches from hers.
Cinnie felt the heat of its breath. Smelled its acrid odor.

The creature emitted a feral shriek and lunged at her. She tried to
fight, but the intruder had both her wrists caught in an iron grip.

Flailing from side to side, looking for a way out, she spotted the
knife. Razor point. Glinting in the lamplight. "No!" she yelled.

"Let me go!"

She couldn't move. Her legs were pinned by the intruder. The monster was
raising the blade, aiming it at her neck. Cinnie screamed again and
watched in horror as the knife reached the top of the arc.

"No," she said. "No!" She struggled against the creature's iron grasp
until her muscles caught fire. The blade was coming closer, plunging
toward her throat.

But time stopped. Her assailant was letting go, turning to fight with
someone else.

Cinnie raised her head and rubbed the soreness from her wrists.

The assailant's features were blunted by a nylon stocking. One gloved
hand raised the knife and tried to thrust it into Paul's back.

Numb with shock, Cinnie lifted her pillow and brought it down hard on
the knife blade. The point stuck and the knife clattered to the floor.

Someone shrieked. Paul and the masked intruder were pummeling each
other. They grappled to the floor, and both lunged for the fallen knife.
Cinnie held her breath as Paul overpowered the monster and bashed the
masked head hard against the wooden floor.

The assailant went still. Paul looked up at her, his face ashen.

"Call nine-eleven," he said in a breathless rush.

Cinnie made the call. The dispatcher took the vital information and told
her to keep the line open. "They're on the way."

"Five minutes," Cinnie told Paul. The figure on the floor stirred.

"Be careful."

Holding the knife in one hand, Paul used the other to peel off the
stocking mask. His jaw dropped.

Cinnie gasped. "Lydia?"

"Christ, what's going on here?" At that moment, a man burst through the
bedroom door wielding a pistol. There was something vaguely familiar
about him. But Cinnie couldn't make the connection. "You okay?" he said.

"Yes, thank goodness my husband showed up when he did," Cinnie said. ,
Paul came over and put his arms around her. "I love you, Cin," he
murmured in her ear. "If anything had happened to you  ..."

Cinnie touched his cheek and turned to the stranger. "How did you get
here so quickly?"

"Sorry I didn't make it sooner. You shouldn't have had to handle this
load of garbage yourself." Lydia Holroyd snapped alert at the slur.

"You've some nerve, you wretched man.

"Shut the hell up."

"I'll not be spoken to that way." Lydia started smoothing her clothing
and disheveled hair. "Shut the hell up, please.

That better, scum?"

"What's going on here?" Paul said. "Why the hell would you want to hurt
Cinnie, Lydia?"

"Tell her why you dropped by, Lydia."

Lydia glowered at the stranger. Her mouth was a drawn seam. "The
gentleman asked you a question, Mrs. Holroyd. He asked real polite-like.
So answer him." The stranger caught Lydia's hair in a clump and pulled
so hard her features were stretched like taffy. "I had no choice, don't
you see?" Lydia said. "I kept warning Malcolm that she was dangerous,
but he was so weak, incapable of dealing with her. She reminded Malcolm
of Mummy, I suppose. He never could fight back at that bitch either.
Malcolm always allowed Mummy to mortify him, to make him nothing. I
couldn't allow you to do the same, Cynthia. I simply could not see you
destroy everything."

"What is she talking about?" Cinnie said. "She's the other half of the
dynamic duo," the stranger said. "It was her idea to have dear Malcolm
hurt the children. She convinced her screwy brother that he needed the
kids' blood to survive." The stranger turned to Lydia Holroyd. "But you
knew better, didn't you, slime? What you really wanted was to get all
the smart kids out of the way so your Todd wouldn't have any
competition. Since Mrs. Merritt was watching James too closely, you
decided Malcolm had to get rid of her too. All that mattered were those
A-pluses and awards, right, Lydia? Pretty sick pup, you are, lady.
Sicker than old Malcolm even, and that's saying something."

Lydia Holroyd sat up, squared her regal shoulders, met Drum's gaze
squarely, and spat in his face.

He pressed the gun to her temple, and a terrible look came into his
eyes. Pure rage. "Don't," Cinnie said, There was the shrill of
approaching sirens. She caught the flash of cap lights. "There's your
royal escort, princess. But I can save you the trip, can't I?"

The stranger clenched his teeth, and his hand quavered with fury.

Cinnie winced at the click of the safety. But he didn't shoot.

A trio of uniformed cops took a struggling Lydia Holroyd away in
handcuffs. Cinnie and Paul watched as they shoved her into the back of a
squad car and pulled away.

The stranger had disappeared during the arrest, but now he came
sauntering back into the bedroom. "You two sure you're okay?"

"Yes, and thanks for showing up when you did. Mr.-?"

The name he mentioned wasn't familiar to Cinnie. But she recognized the
voice. Same voice as that insurance agent who'd come to visit at the
hospital. But the face ... He seemed to read her mind. "I usually cover
up the scars when I work, Mrs. Merritt. They tend to distract people." .
"Cinnie couldn't get over how different he looked with the ragged
depression in his cheek, the droopy eyelid, and the thick gray stripe
running through his hair.

She made a conscious effort not to be rude and stare. "How did you know
about Lydia?"

"My kid helped me put it together. He remembered some of the things I
told him your boy kept saying when I came to the hospital. Last night,
after I beat his butt in a game of chess, he started guessing what it
all meant. He figured out that the 'flying green tunnel was Cobb's
green station wagon. "Pop the weasel was about Cobb hitting the kid
with a dart full of poison to make it look like his heart was screwy so
they'd be sure to admit him to the hospital. The 'shadow man was Cobb
himself when he tailed James to get a handle on his daily routine.

That left "Mrs. Wheel and the 'blue coat lady."

"My kid suggested that the 'blue coat lady must have been someone
posing as you to lure James, into the street. Wouldn't take much in a
heavy glare like the one on the day of the accident to fool the kid into
thinking she was you: curly wig, similar coat."

"Your son figured all that out? Some smart kid," Paul said. "Yeah."

Drum couldn't help grinning. "My son. And after they nabbed Ferris, I
realized that "Mrs. Wheel was one of those word substitutions like
Oliver London makes. "Mrs. Wheel was your boy's say of saying "Dr.
Ferris. ' "

"Makes sense," Cinnie said.

Dazed, Cinnie listened to the rest. Nothing was as it seemed.

Ferris had never trained as a physician, and Lydia Holroyd had never
been your standard, suburban matron.

After Booker got the wheels rolling, Drum began to make the rest of the
connections. He'd thought about the children's book Malcolm Cobb had
written. Both weed kids had been major league screwy.

On the hunch that the names Dove and Elegant might tell him something,
Drum had looked them up in a baby name book Stella had picked up years
ago. Turned out Dove and Elegant were translations for Lydia and
Malcolm.

After that, Drum had gotten one of his buddies to tap into an
underground patient-claim data bank and confirmed that both Malcolm Cobb
and Lydia Holroyd had done long, hard time at a variety of funny farms.

An hour ago, it had come to Drum that Cobb's weed story might be an
allegory of Lydia's and Malcolm's real lives. Drum had reasoned that
after Cobb was out of commission, the surviving weed would be real
anxious to take over and make things right. That's why he'd come rushing
over, to keep an eye on things in case Lydia came prowling for blood.
Unfortunately, he'd been late. "That's some good sleuthing for an
insurance agent, Mr. Drum," Paul said. "Thanks, Mr. Merritt.

Only I have to tell you the truth. I'm no insurance agent."

Paul started to laugh. After a beat, Cinnie joined him.

Paul had gone downstairs to settle with accounts and bring the car
around. Nurse Evelyn Larwin had gone off in search of the cart they'd
need to haul James's collection of toys and other paraphernalia to the
car.

James was dressed for the first time since the accident. They'd slit the
leg of his jeans to accommodate the cast and gotten him a new Hard Rock
Care shirt. Little guy was the most beautiful thing Cinnie had laid her
eyes on in weeks.

She peered at her watch. "Where's Evelyn already? I'm ready to blow this
joint. How about you, Jimbo? You looking forward to going home?"

He went thoughtful a minute and gave her a wary look. "Vinton?"

"He's gone, sweetheart. He got so tired of waiting around for you to get
out of this place, he decided to retire from the monster business
altogether and move to Florida."

James looked at her and burst into giggles. "Mom fooling."

"No, honest. He took a condo in a new hotsy-totsy development at Boca
Mocha West, which is right near Fort Whoknowswhere. They have a golf
course and everything. Big rooms, terraces on every unit. Heated pools.
The closets aren't so hot, but old Vinton decided he'd make do.

You get to a certain age, you've had enough of the daily grind, Jirnbo.

Give it seventy, eighty years, and you'll see what I mean."

"Evelyn coming?"

"She'll be right here. Getting restless?"

He eyed the stack of books, and something uneasy crossed his expression.
"Read book, Mommy?"

"Any particular book you have in mind?"

"Book," he said. Cinnie knew full well which one he wanted.

She'd been sorely tempted to throw the awful story away, but much as she
wanted to be rid of it, she'd decided to let James get tired of it on
his own. Poor sweetheart had earned the right to work this nightmare
through on his own terms. Slipping the ugly, little volume from one of
the shopping bags, she opened the cover and started reading. "Once upon
a time, there was an old woman who had a garden full of weeds."

She read about the angry neighbors and the weird, parasitic weed sister
and brother named Dove and Elegant. She read about the long winter and
the illnesses that kept afflicting the strange sibling pair.

When she got to the final chapter about the following year, Cinnie
paused and gave James a kiss. "And then?" James said, wanting the
ending. "And then spring came and it was time for the weeds to go back
out into the garden," she said. "But when the old woman went to set them
in the ground, she found the garden was already too crowded and she
changed her mind. "You see, Jimbo, while she was all tied up with those
ugly weeds, someone had sneaked in and planted rows and rows of
chocolate chip cookies."

James's puzzled expression yielded to a tentative grin. "Happily after?"
he said. "Yes, sweetie. And they all lived happily ever after."