THE CLIFFS OF FALL By wjmtv * * * Category: SA, XA Feedback: wjmtv4me@yahoo.com Spoilers: Vague ones, mostly from "Empedocles." Rating: R for strong language and descriptions of violence against children Disclaimers: The characters of John Doggett, Luke Doggett, and Monica Reyes belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and a whole bunch of other people, all of whom are not me. The NYPD belongs to the taxpayers of New York City. Summary/ Author's Note: The kidnapping and murder of Luke Doggett. We have been given several timelines for this event, so I am going with the one in "Empedocles," as it appears to be the most comprehensive. * * * No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting? Mary, mother of us, where is your relief? ---Gerard Manley Hopkins I John Doggett shifted to his other foot and checked his watch. Terrific. Exactly three minutes since he last checked his watch. On the other side of the car, standing behind the other open door, Raul Hertado looked as weary as he knew he did. If he turned his head just a tiny bit to the left, he could see the sniper on the roof across the street, his rifle trained at the same front door he was staring at. Another rifle waited on the right, and scattered between and around the dozen cars parked in the street were at least thirty members of New York City's finest, waiting on the whim of one man. His name was Al Furness, and he had picked up his two sons from their mother's last Friday, come home to his apartment here on East 93rd, and locked the door on the three of them with a phone in one hand and a gun in the other. Now it was Monday, and they'd finally had a break. One of the negotiators had gotten him to consider giving up, so the call for more bodies had gone out shortly after dawn. Four hours later, Doggett was starting to think the negotiator had indulged in some wishful thinking. For a moment he wished he was still on the Child Abduction Task Force-he might have something to do here besides wait-but it passed. You can only chase after missing kids for so long before it starts eating at your insides. Especially when they usually turn up, but not always in the condition you'd hoped to find them. A murmur began to build among the officers scattered around. He and Hertado bent their heads toward the inside of the car, each straining to hear what was coming over the radio. Doggett gripped the edge of the roof, glancing at his partner. Hertado nodded and they both crouched down a little, moving toward the outside edge of their respective doors. The left-hand door at the top of the steps opened a crack. Doggett lifted himself to the balls of his feet, ready to run. Mike was his target; he was the younger boy. His brother Scotty was for Raul. The minute Furness laid down his gun, they were to grab them and get out. If he wasn't ready to do that, the best they could hope for was a clear shot from the rooftop. "Take it easy, Al," said a voice a few cars over. No bullhorn. Good. That would spook him some more. "Just come out slow, and we'll get this cleared up." Silence. No movement. Doggett's toes started to cramp and he dropped to one knee, his muscles still coiled and ready underneath the kevlar. The wind stirred his hair, just a little. The air felt strange, like fall, and it was still the middle of August. Hell, not even the middle yet. Fall was still a good six weeks away, and yet it seemed like the trees were already waiting, straining toward change. He and Luke hadn't been fishing once, and summer was already winding down. He smiled, half his mind wandering down the leafy, green roads upstate to their favorite fishing spot. Luke had been four the first time he took him there, and when they'd had no nibbles after two hours, Luke suddenly ran down the bank and into the shallows, splashing and kicking and beating the top of the water with his hands. "What are you doing, Bucko?" he'd called, laughing, watching the sunlight catch on the droplets of water in his son's blonde hair. "I'm scaring the fish so they'll run away, Daddy! So they'll run to the hook!" He stood and followed the boy into the pond, scooping him up in his arms. Water ran off of Luke's feet and dribbled down the front of his jeans. "Up, Daddy! Up!" Luke squealed, and Doggett tossed him in the air. Water sparkled, diamonds falling all around. The door swung open, and a boy of perhaps nine stepped into the noonday sun. That would be Scotty. Mike was seven, the same age as Luke. Doggett raised up onto his feet again. A whisper, almost a sigh, passed through the assembled officers as Al Furness followed his son onto the steps. He didn't look like a man who had held his own children hostage for four days. If it weren't for the semi in his right hand, pointed at the ground with his finger on the trigger, you might have thought they were headed for a game of catch at the park. But where was Mike? Doggett stretched his neck a little, trying to see through the doorway even though it was impossible at this angle. Furness said something and Scotty stopped, turned to look up at him. Furness gestured and Scotty continued down the steps. Furness paused, looked around at the people watching him, then followed. Shit. Where was Mike? Doggett heard Raul mumbling under his breath, "What the f--?" There. A few feet behind his father, coming through the doorway. He seemed to be having trouble with his feet. He stopped at the top stair and bent over, his little fingers reaching for the lace of his shoe. Furness must have heard him stop, or sensed that he wasn't right behind him. He turned. No one heard the shot. One moment Furness was standing there, suspended between his boys, then he was crumpling to the steps, clutching his right shoulder, the gun still in his hand. Doggett and Raul exploded from behind the car, running like the last ten yards before a touchdown. Scotty had just spun around, his hands reaching out toward his father when Raul whisked his feet out from under him and he let out a small yelp of surprise. Doggett never slowed, flying past Furness and scooping up Mike, letting his momentum carry them through the still-open door and into the darkness beyond. He shoved the boy into the corner of the foyer and stood in front of him, drawing his gun. "Your Dad's okay," he told the boy softly, trying not to frighten him further, glancing down with one eye while keeping the other trained on the open door in case something went wrong. "He's hurt, but not bad. He'll be all right." "We got him!" Came the shout from outside. Doggett holstered his gun and turned to kneel in front of the child, grasping him gently by his upper arms. "Are you all right?" He asked, peering at Mike's face, looking for bruises or cuts. The light wasn't great, but the kid looked unharmed. Mike nodded. "I want my Mom," he whispered. Doggett grinned, feeling a sudden, slight burn behind his eyes. "And she wants you. She's waiting outside. Should we go and find her?" He picked the boy up. "You know, I have the boy the same age as you, but I think you're bigger." Mike's eyes lit up. "Really?" "Yeah." Doggett winked. "Don't tell him that, though." He headed toward the door, pausing a moment to be sure Furness truly was out of the way before he stepped back into the sunlight to scattered applause and the sound of a woman weeping. He followed the sound, and deposited Mike in his mother's arms where Scotty already nestled. Straightening up, he scanned the crowd and saw Furness on his feet, his hands cuffed in front as a paramedic examined his shoulder. "The bullet went clear through," Raul told him, pointing to where two officers crouched at the top of the steps, poking at the brick. "Superficial damage. He'll live long enough to make someone else miserable." "Nice work, folks," rumbled a deep voice behind them. Doggett turned to find his lieutenant, looking like Columbo's rumpled brother, weaving his way past the group now surrounding the reunited mother and sons. "At least this one ended happy." "This one?" Raul said, looking uneasy. Like Doggett, he knew what was probably coming. Ben sighed. "They found another one. Another girl, seventeen. Face down in the woods near Mamanassee Lake, her liver and heart removed. They've called in the Feds." "Because it's across the line into Connecticut?" Doggett asked. "That's the story," Ben said, faint crimps of what would have been amusement in someone else, showing at the corners of his mouth. "But if the rest of them are as frustrated as Chang and Johnston, it's probably also because they don't know what else to do." Doggett swore under his breath. Three kids in three weeks, each one disappearing on a Tuesday. Found several days later in the woods, organs missing. Word on the street was the bodies had also been drained of blood, but that tidbit came from watching too many Stephen King adaptations. Besides, they didn't need help from the fantasy world for this one. It was too much a nightmare on its own. And now another parent would be burying a child. "Since this mess is over," Ben was saying, with a pointed glance at both of them. "We're going to have to give Chang and Johnston a hand. We'll meet with the Feds at 0700. They'll likely have us canvassing by nine." Doggett groaned silently. Tomorrow was his day off, or at any rate, it had been. Karen wouldn't be pleased, but she was rarely pleased these days. Luke was supposed to practice soccer with some friends in the afternoon and he'd been looking forward to playing coach all week. Now Luke would have to ride over with Jerry from Day Camp, and Karen would have to pick him up. She'd been planning to work late, and now he was going to get to listen to how his job was "more important" than hers. "It isn't more important," he'd told her. "It's just less understanding." There had been a time when the death of someone's child might have eased her hatred of his profession at least a little, but that day was gone. Along with so many other things. It seemed like all they had in common was Luke. He knew that wasn't healthy; what that thing was they called a marriage. Every two weeks when he got his paystub and looked it over, and saw the money that had been routed into the savings account for the day when he would retire and they could leave that crappy apartment and get a real house, he'd feel a twinge at what else it would mean. Luke would be away at college by then, and that real house would hold only two people. Two people who seemed to have precious little to say. "Jesus, L.T., it's our day off," Raul said, whining for both of them. "Not any more," Ben responded. He sighed. "Welcome to the glamorous world of police work." A shout brought their heads up together. Furness broke away from the two officers holding him and took a few lurching steps before a half-dozen bystanders swarmed him like ants on a dying grasshopper. He struggled, his hands still cuffed and Doggett winced, knowing how that shoulder felt. Two cops took each arm and began pulling him toward a squad car. He was yelling. "They're mine!" He cried, twisting in their grasp and pointing at the boys, who still huddled with their mother. "They're MINE!" II "Hold that right there," Doggett said, directing his son's fingers to the edge of the wing, while he applied a pinhead-drop of glue. "The Spirit of St. Louis" was shaping up nicely. Luke frowned, concentrating hard. It was unusual to find such quiet in a kid his age, but then, he took after his dad. Doggett often hoped he'd be a bit better at finding his tongue when he needed it, though. "Where are you putting this one?" he asked. "You're running out of space." "On top of the dresser," Luke said. "I'm gonna hang the 'Enola Gay' in the window and put this the 'St. Loius' in her spot." "I wouldn't want to be an air-traffic controller in your bedroom," Doggett muttered, spreading the glue with a straight pin. "Hey, Dad," Luke said, sounding like he suddenly remembered something. "What?" he looked up briefly, curious at the change in his son's tone. "Did you know Captain Lindbergh believed in ghosts?" Doggett raised an eyebrow, but kept spreading glue. "You don't say." "He said when he was getting close to France, he was getting really sleepy. He said a spirit was in the plane with him, keeping him awake so he wouldn't crash. He called it a 'gremlin.'" "I call it sleep deprivation," Doggett said. He'd heard the pilots talk about gremlins back in Lebanon, leprechauns who either drained their gas tanks, pinched them as they took aim, or told them where they could land safely, depending on their mood that day. Sounded like the products of exhausted minds. "Speaking of sleep deprivation," said a voice behind them. Luke moaned, loudly. Doggett looked up to see Karen leaning against the door frame, her arms folded. She looked tired, limp. Even her hair didn't have its usual golden shine. "It's time to get ready for bed, Luke." "Looks like he's not the only one," Doggett offered, testing her with a half-smile. If she was still mad about tomorrow, he didn't relish the idea of another fight once the bedroom door closed behind them. She didn't respond. "Don't forget to brush your teeth," she said to Luke, pushing away from the door and disappearing down the hall. "Like I'm gonna forget," Luke grumbled. "She reminds me every night." "Hey," Doggett warned. "Sorry." "Besides, if she didn't, you know you'd miss it. Okay, let go." Luke released the wing and they both waited. It held. "Good job. We've worked enough for one night." "Think we'll finish it tomorrow? Think you'll get home in time that we can work on it?" Doggett squinted, trying to guess what tomorrow might bring. If he had to be in the office at seven, there was a chance he'd be out by five or six if nothing else came up. "I'll try," he said, screwing the cap back on the glue. "Leave this for now. After the glue sets, I'll clean up." "Thanks, Dad," Luke said, scooting back his chair. It scraped on the kitchen tile. Doggett watched him leave, wishing his wife were as understanding of his position as his seven-year-old was. He knew that there were people in the world who believed that aliens walked among us. That they had come to earth in their spaceships and taken on the appearance of men, and the only way you tell they weren't human was by their hollow eyes. Some mornings, as he faced Karen across the breakfast table, he knew exactly how they felt. He would watch her hands curve around her coffee cup, watch the faint lines between her eyebrows as she scowled at the paper, and say to himself, "Who is this woman? What did she do with the laughing girl I married? Why has she hidden the body I once worshiped?" Most of the answers were easy. It had begun not long after their wedding, when he told her he was applying to the NYPD after his discharge from the corps. She had only agreed to marry him after he promised not to be a career Marine, but she'd given no indication her hatred of the military extended to other jobs in uniform. "I quit the Corps," he'd told her. "I didn't want to, but I did. Now you don't want me to do the only other job I'm fit for?" "It's not the ONLY job," she shot back. "There are plenty of jobs." "Name one." "I'm not going to play games with you. It's your life. You find a job you like." "But one that will satisfy you." "John, that's not fair." "And you are? YOU'RE demanding that we live in New York City so you can be near your folks. YOU'RE demanding that I leave the only job I've ever had. YOU'RE demanding that we live in a part of town that I'm going to need a damned good-paying job to afford. I thought marriage was supposed to be about compromise. When were you planning to start?" He'd taken the job. After awhile she seemed to soften and they settled into a quiet routine, a routine that had worked for a while. She stayed home with Luke until he was four, then went back to work. Her new job, at a larger bank, was both more insistent and held more opportunity to move up the ladder. She wanted to move up, and as the titles on her business cards changed, she did too. Sometimes he wondered if her job was more important to her than her family, but he knew if he asked he'd just have the same question flung back at him. Of course it looked that way to an outsider. An outsider couldn't understand, even after she'd been married to you for eleven years, that human passion and betrayals and the blood that comes with them, don't typically happen between the hours of eight and five. He ran his hands through his hair. He needed to get it cut, it was sticking up too high. He also needed to go to bed. Standing taut on concrete for four hours was hard on a body, and he'd likely be pounding that same concrete tomorrow. That wasn't much better. Somewhere in the city, two people a lot like him and Karen were probably hunched on their sofa, surrounded by family, talking in low stuttering voices about what the funeral home wanted to know. Three deaths in three weeks-the Big Apple appeared to have another serial killer on her hands, and this one wasn't leaving any clues except his victims. He'd heard Chang talking on the phone to a priest, asking questions about Satanism, and wondered what else was being done to the bodies to get her wondering about that. But he hadn't had a chance to ask. Perhaps he'd hear about it tomorrow. If they were briefing the Feds, they'd likely be telling everyone else at the same time. Luke was probably in bed by now, waiting to be told good-night. He stood and turned off the kitchen light and headed down the hall to his room. The only light came from a small plug-in near Luke's bed. He could see his son's body under the covers, and even from the doorway smelled the soap he used to wash his face each night. "Mom already came in," Luke said. Doggett nodded. They used to tuck him in together. What happened to that? "She said she has some papers to look at tonight," Luke continued. Yep. That's what happened. Why did so much have to be bound up in a career? Why couldn't it just be what you did, and not so much who you are? "I won't let her stay up too late," he promised. He held up his right hand and Luke rested his palm flat against it. "Catch you on the flip-flop," he recited. It was their good-night routine. "Flip-flop," Luke said. The light from the hallway caught in his eyes. "G'night, Dad." "Good night, Bucko." He pulled the door shut save for an inch, and headed down the hallway toward his room. He passed the office, where Karen sat at the desk bent over a stack of paper nearly three inches high. Pausing in the doorway, he watched her for a moment, then straightened his shoulders and walked in. "Hey," he said softly, coming to a stop behind her chair. The muscles in her back tensed a little; he could see them through the thin knit of her t-shirt. She said nothing, but raised her head and leaned back in the chair. She didn't look up. He tried again. "Gonna be up late?" She nodded. "We have a big meeting tomorrow. It'll probably take most of the day, and I'm supposed to know everything in this folder." He stared over her shoulder at the desktop. Why did he feel like a high school freshman trying to ask a girl to dance? "I'm sorry about tomorrow," he said. "If there's any chance I can get out in time, I'll call you." "I'll be in the meeting until the minute I have to leave. I won't be able to take any calls." "I'll call Andrea, then." "She'll be at the doctor." Karen sighed and finally turned. "Face it, John. You aren't Superman." His left hand clenched at his side. "Dammit, Karen, I'm offering what I can!" "And it isn't enough." She stared at him blandly, almost through him, as though it didn't matter if he was there. "It hasn't been enough for a long time, and you know it." "What do you mean?" He stared at her, the light in the room going sort of funny all of a sudden. "You know that too." She sounded so tired. "Tonight isn't the night for us to talk about what we both know. I have a lot of work to do." She turned back to the desk. Part of it was exhaustion talking. Part of it was nerves. He needed to remember that. She tended to overreact when she was nervous, and he knew what a file that thick could do to a person. He stepped back, flexing his fingers, then leaned forward. For a moment his hand hovered above her head, then lowered to touch her shoulder. She moved. Maybe another sigh, maybe a flinch, he couldn't tell. But he could wait until after her meeting tomorrow. He could show her that he respected her work, whether she believed it or not. "I'll see you in bed," he whispered in her ear, and kissed her hair. "Good luck." "Thank you," she said, her voice flat. He left the room and went to take a shower. Maybe once he got the dried sweat washed off from the morning's exercise in authority, he'd feel more human and less like the asshole he was apparently being. Fifteen minutes later, he padded back down the hallway to the kitchen, his bare feet whispering on the wood floor. The glue on the plane was dry and he raised it to the light, feeling a slight rush of air as the wings lifted past his cheek. A spool of thread lay among the glue tubes and straight pins and he picked it up. With it in one hand and the plane in the other, he returned to Luke's room and pushed open the door. Luke was asleep, curled around the teddy bear who waited on the bookshelf headboard during the day, and snuggled in his arms at night. Doggett laid "The Spirit of St. Louis" carefully at the foot of Luke's bed and picked up the "Enola Gay" from the dresser. He strung the thread through her wings, pulled a thumbtack from the bulletin board beside the door, and dragged the desk chair over to the window, nearly tripping over the Louisville Slugger that lay on the floor. He stood it up in the corner and climbed carefully onto the chair, raising his hand and thrusting the thumbtack into the ceiling. The "Enola Gay" swayed a little as he stepped down to check his work. Looked good. He picked up "The Spirit of St. Louis" and put it in the Gay's old spot. They'd finish her tomorrow, but for tonight she could watch over Luke. She had seen Lindbergh safely across the Atlantic; she would see him safely through the night. Whoever those parents were, the ones preparing to bury their daughter, he hoped they were holding hands. III Doggett was almost grinning as he sat down at his desk. It was barely six-thirty, but Karen had smiled at him when he came into the kitchen, and Luke was bouncing around like only a seven-year-old can. "The Spirit of St. Louis" was the first subject on his mind; he'd spotted it setting on the dresser the minute he got up. Doggett had to chuckle: the kid had so many of those frickin' planes in his room, it was a wonder he even noticed another, let alone got so excited about it. They'd high-fived as he left, and Karen had offered her cheek to be kissed. He wished her luck at her meeting, and she thanked him. She'd sounded sincere. Raul was already at his desk, studying a file that appeared to require all his concentration. He'd nodded good morning without looking up. Doggett had just picked up his coffee cup for the first sip, when Linda Chang walked into the bullpen with a stranger at her heels. The woman was tall and young, with shoulder-length dark hair and a nice suit. For a moment he thought she might be a relative of the latest victim, then she leaned forward and said something to Linda. Both women laughed softly, and he 86'd that idea. "Morning guys," Linda said. Raul looked up and he and Doggett nodded. "This is Special Agent Monica Reyes of the FBI, come all the way from New Orleans to give us a hand." Doggett and Raul both stood, extending their hands in turn. Agent Reyes looked him in the eyes as she shook his hand, and her grip was firm without being the punishing squeeze so many women seemed to think they needed nowadays. "Guess our weather is cooler than you're used to," Raul was saying. She nodded, grinning widely. "Getting out of New Orleans in August is always a good thing." As soon as she said it, she seemed to remember why she had "gotten out," and her smile deepened in apology, accompanied by a faint blush. Doggett saw she was even younger than he'd thought at first, but any hesitation her age might bring to a new acquaintance was offset by the sharpness of her gaze. He doubted she missed much. "Hey, Linda," called a voice from the doorway to the conference room. Cal Johnston, Linda's partner, beckoned to the women. "Scuse us," Linda said. Agent Reyes nodded to Raul and Doggett. "See you inside." They bobbed their head in response. Raul waited until they'd disappeared through the door before muttering to Doggett, "Is she old enough to drive?" He reached for his coffee cup, grinning. "Could be iffy." "Agent Reyes has a Master's in Religious Studies, specializing in Ritual Crime and Abuse. We have reason to believe her expertise will help us here." Doggett raised one eyebrow at Ben's words. "Ritual Abuse" had been all the rage about ten years ago, when first the McMartin Preschool case and then a slew of others had electrified the country, leaving parents quaking at the thought of sending their children to daycare where they might be forced to watch rabbits tortured, participate in Satanic bloodletting rituals or, worst of all, be sexually abused. In the last few years sanity had regained at least a toehold, and many of the poor daycare workers thrown behind bars thanks to the colorful-and coerced-testimony of four-year- olds, had been released. Ritual Abuse was generally considered dead in the water, but he knew that didn't stop a few psycho-nuts from trying to resurrect it in their own "work." Suddenly, Linda's phone conversation of a few days ago made a bit more sense. Linda stood up and moved over to an easel with some blown-up photos on it. "We'll just do a quick overview this morning," she said, "and address a few questions. We need to bring Monica up to speed, and then we're good to go." She pointed to the top photo, which showed a young girl lying on her back, twigs and leaves caught in her long, blonde hair. More leaves intermingled with her intestines, which spilled across her lap and hung over the opened waistband of her jeans, stained maroon with blood. More blood than you would think a human body could contain, had soaked into the ground around her. Her t-shirt had been slashed open along with her chest, and her barely adolescent breasts lay buried in the same scarlet shroud. Ashley Whitman, age seventeen. Disappeared on her way home from St. Martin's Academy on the Upper West Side, at three o'clock in the afternoon. A busy city street she'd walked a hundred times, and no one saw a damned thing. They found her face down in the woods near the Connecticut border, and rolled her over to snap the photo. Next photo. Joey Ciccone, eleven. Doggett didn't know if it was because he was younger, or because he was a boy, but that one was harder to take. Same injuries. He had a tough time looking at the picture, and pretended to be very interested in what Chang had to say. It wasn't much: Joey had been excused from classes that morning for a dentist appointment. He left the dentist's office at ten-fifteen, headed to school only two blocks away. He never arrived. Victim number three was Tina Josephs, another teen-aged girl. She had left her mother's apartment, just after school, to get milk at the corner store. She'd run into a girlfriend on the short walk back and chatted for awhile, then said she'd better get home before the milk got warm. She was to call her friend at eight so they could go over their math homework, but that was the last anyone saw of her until yesterday, when they found her on her split-open belly in the woods, just over the line into Connecticut. Everybody knew they were looking at one man. Everybody had read enough John Douglas to concoct a sketchy profile of their own: white male, late 20s, highly organized, with solid gold balls. They knew this because the victims were white, they were young, and their organs had been removed with near-surgical precision suggesting he brought exactly the tools he needed for the job. His chutzpah was explained by the disappearances: all three, in daylight hours on New York City streets, and no one remembered seeing anything suspicious. This guy was more than just psychotic: he was smooth. And he was smart. Smart enough to draw pentagrams in the dirt near his victims' heads. Smart enough to know the heart was crucial to any so-called Satanic ritual. Whether he was in fact a Satanist didn't matter. What mattered was that he wanted the world to think he was. The question was why. "So why is she here?" asked Reggie Composto, nodding at Reyes. Doggett didn't know him too well. He was from the 15th Precinct; he and his partner Danny Warren had caught the Joey Ciccone case. "I don't mean any disrespect, but if he isn't a Satanist, why bring in someone who specializes in Satanic Crime?" Linda opened her mouth to respond but Reyes beat her to it. "I don't exactly 'specialize in Satanic Crime.'" She smiled, disarming what otherwise might have sounded like an invite to a pissing contest. "What my supervisor, and yours," with a nod to Ben, "is hoping, is that I can provide suggestions for what he might try to do next. He's probably only dabbled in Satanism-I mean, read a few books and thinks he knows enough to run with. He'll lay down the expected signs and think he's got us wondering. I'm looking for any breaks in his pattern." Doggett hid an agreeing nod, listening carefully as she talked about the media attention the case was getting and how much of what he did was playing to that. She was forthright and clear in her statements, and the shadows he'd seen in her eyes as she studied the photos of Joey were gone. He suspected a lot of people initially looked at her as he had, but if they were paying attention realized that unassuming haircut hid a sharp mind. For a moment his own mind wandered, wondering if he might have a chance to test her on the subject of joining the FBI. Once a Fed, always a Fed, he figured, and maybe Karen would relax a little if he could get assigned to some small field office in Virginia or something. The FBI might be pretty interesting. If they hired young women with degrees in Religion, they might have a spot for a former Marine with a Public Administration diploma on the wall . With the thought of Virginia came thoughts of his sister. Melanie lived there, just outside D.C. with two kids and her husband, a career Marine. He'd introduced them. The minute he met Larry Sheehan when he arrived back from Lebanon, he had thought of her. She still thanked him every year on her anniversary. Even after eight years together and a miscarriage in the seventh month of her second pregnancy, they were the happiest couple he'd ever seen. It was the yardstick he held his own marriage up to, even though he knew that was a mistake. No one could live up to a track record like that, but some days he dreamed he might at least clock a decent lap. Melanie. After Luke, she was his pride and joy. He'd just turned four when she was born, and his earliest memories of her were as a diapered toddler, running and squealing as he turned the hose on her in their back yard. If he closed his eyes, he could see the sunlight flashing on her fire-red hair, hair the passing of thirty-plus years had done nothing to dim. She was so tiny, she liked to say that if her hair hadn't been that color naturally she'd have had to dye it, otherwise she'd disappear in a crowd. She thanked God on a regular basis that their mother's devotion to "Gone With the Wind" had netted her the name she got, and not the more unfortunate but logical choice of Scarlett. "That would have been a disaster," she liked to say. She'd been as pleased as Karen was angry when he called her to say he was joining the force. "An Irish Catholic cop in New York City," she'd giggled, her voice warm and close even over the phone line. "What a concept." At graduation from the Academy, she'd presented him with a medallion of St. Michael, the patron of police officers and firefighters. He could feel it even now, resting against his chest. He never took it off. For perhaps the hundredth time, Monica found her eyes straying to Detective Doggett. It wasn't just that he was good-looking, although he was. Or that he had the most striking blue eyes she'd ever seen. There was a watchfulness, a quiet strength about him that kept sucking her in no matter how hard she tried to concentrate elsewhere. She couldn't deny it: if she were raped on NYC's lovely streets, he was the cop she'd want handling the case. The details of these murders, the photos, surprised her. She 'd had a dream the night before they called. A body, lying face-down in the woods in a strange fall dawn. She'd stood over it, looking down to see it wasn't a body at all: just a body-shaped pile of ashes. When Director Twayne of the New Orleans field office called her in the next morning and handed her a plane ticket to La Guardia, she'd expected ashes were what she'd find. Her first dream had come at twelve. Before that, she'd experience fleeting moments-when she'd reach for something, or hear a few words, and know that it wasn't the first time. It wasn't just the queer déjà vu everyone gets; she was sure of that. Just as she was sure that there was a reason why, when the dreams started a few years later, they always came true. Years of practice had taught her to toss off references to her visions like other people mention a visit to the grocery store, but they still made her uneasy. Partly because of the smirking reaction that usually followed when she mentioned them to someone. Partly because she never knew when they would strike, leaving her shaking and often on the edge of tears. If she was lucky, she could go a whole month without one, but that didn't happen too often. Sometimes she thought maybe if she turned in her badge and became a candlemaker they might ease up somewhat, but that would never happen. Law enforcement was exhausting, aggravating and occasionally got her crying until there was nothing left, but it was her job and she loved it. Detective Doggett's partner had asked her a question. "I'm sorry." She shook her head a little to clear it, and smiled at him. "I didn't quite catch that." "You really think most of it is for the papers?" Detective Hertado repeated. "The Satanic stuff?" He nodded. "Yes. He wants attention, and knows the media can't resist a good devil story. As if being a serial killer weren't enough," she added softly, more to herself than anyone else. "Seeking attention would also explain him snatching the kids in the middle of the day. He's taunting us, daring us to prove we're as gutsy as he is." Detective Doggett shifted in his chair. She saw his left hand tighten to a fist, and guessed he had something of his own he'd like to prove on their unknown killer, preferably in a closed room away from lieutenants and other interruptions. Linda Chang moved over beside her and picked up a small stack of papers from the tabletop. "Quantico has faxed us a profile incorporating the information from this latest victim. We're going to have to go through the neighborhoods again, see if anybody has a memory triggered by either time or new ideas. I don't guess I need to remind any of you that today is Tuesday. We may be in even deeper before the day is done." She handed the stack to Johnston and it made its slow circle around the table. Once everybody had a copy and a few moments to look it over, she continued, naming the teams and the streets they would need to beat. "It's showtime," Detective Cohen said, rising from his chair. Detective Hertado caught Monica's eye as he stood and slipped on his coat, and shot her a furtive smile. A nice one. She smiled back. "So, what do you think of her?" Raul asked, as they climbed the steps to the precinct house at a little after noon. "Who?" Doggett glanced over at him. "Agent Reyes. She seems pretty sharp." "The FBI don't hire dummies." Raul didn't respond. Doggett tried not to grin as he held the door open for his partner. "Unless you aren't really talking about her brains." Raul jostled his arm sharply as he passed through the doorway. "Oops. Sorry about that." "I bet you are." "Hey!" Called a voice just as the door swung shut. They both looked up, blinking a little in the gloom after being outdoors. Sergeant Barry Kozlowski was coming down the stairs from the second floor at a pretty good clip, struggling with the velcro on a Kevlar vest. "You guys busy?" "Yes," they chorused, knowing what he was about to say. He said it. "Narcs have a raid at a warehouse up in the Bronx. Going down in about thirty minutes. It should only take an hour. We could use more bodies." Doggett glanced at his watch. Their canvass hadn't taken long. "One hour" raids meant two hours, but that would still get him out in plenty of time to watch most of Luke's practice. And if he hit the redial button often enough on his cell phone, he might be able to catch Karen on a potty break and let her know she could stay at work after all. "I'm in," he said. Raul sighed. "So much for an afternoon in front of the television." Doggett bumped his shoulder. "It's summertime. Oprah's in reruns." "Fuck you," Raul grumbled as they turned and followed Barry back outside. Yesterday's strange feeling persisted in the air, and as he drove to the warehouse, Doggett studied the occasional tree, certain that they looked less green. They parked around the corner from their target, amidst a small gathering of unmarked Fords that still managed to scream "Police!" to any observant passerby. Doggett took off his jacket, tucked the cell phone into the breast pocket and laid it on the back seat, then stripped off his dress shirt and locked the doors. Raul had the trunk open and handed him a vest as he shrugged into his own. As he always did, Doggett lightly kissed his index finger and pressed it to the medallion inside his t-shirt, then pulled the Kevlar on over his head. "Shit," Doggett said as they got back to the car, once he finally caught a glimpse of his watch. "One hour, my ass." Five-fifteen. So much for the soccer game. "Trust the narcs to think a warehouse full of cocaine wouldn't also be full of stolen televisions, VCRs, and fur coats," Raul replied. "That place looked like an explosion at Macy's." Doggett unlocked the doors. He picked up his jacket and pulled out the phone, flipped it on and checked for messages. There was only one. "John, it's one-fifteen. The president of the corporation flew in from Chicago for this meeting and I can't leave. Do you understand? I can't leave. You're going to have to get Luke. He's finished at four- thirty. Tell your lieutenant you put in your damned eight hours and you have to pick up your son." He immediately hit the speed-dial for Karen's office. No answer. His hands started to shake before he even closed the phone, and he looked up to see Raul looking at him oddly. "What happened?" Raul asked. "You look like you're about ready to take a header." He told him. Raul held up his hands, placating a little. "Hey, it's only forty-five minutes ago. He's probably waiting for you, cussing like a truck driver because he doesn't think you'll get to finish your airplane tonight." Doggett threw his jacket back onto the seat but kept the phone. "I'm taking the car." "You want me to come with you?" "No. Can you catch a ride to the station?" "Sure." Raul knew better than to push. "I'll call the local precinct house. Have 'em send a car." "Thanks," Doggett mentally swore for not thinking of that. "He's at Longfield Park." "Got it. Call me when you find him. I'll tell him I got to see his Dad fall apart." Doggett grunted, barely registering his friend's attempt to calm him down. He got in, slammed the door and took off with screeching tires and some choice words for bank presidents who thought they were Jesus Christ. After fifteen minutes of merely suicidal driving, he slapped the portable flasher on the dashboard and turned it on, setting down the phone to pull his badge from his pocket in case he had to wave it at anybody as he swerved by. It took nearly forty minutes to reach the park, thanks to the rush-hour cabs that clogged the streets until they looked like writhing yellow brick roads. The sun had settled into its late-afternoon glow, his favorite time of day, when he pulled into the small asphalt parking lot beside a marked car and got out to find an empty soccer field. His pounding pulse grew panicked. All the way over, as he'd dodged cars and run red lights, he'd told himself that Luke wouldn't be there; that he would have gone home with one of his friends. He expected an empty field. He didn't expect a little blonde-haired boy to be waiting for him in the slanting sun, hoping for a few final kicks back and forth before they got in the car and went home. He really didn't expect that. The uniformed officer climbed out of the other car and came toward him. "You Doggett?" He nodded. "I got here about fifteen minutes ago and there was no one here. I've been watching, but I haven't seen any kids." Doggett glanced at the name below his badge. "Thanks, Minelli." "Want me to call in a missing person?" "Let me make a few calls." "Okay." He leaned against his car and folded his arms. He was an old guy, had probably seen this a million times. He knew better than to make chit-chat. Call Karen first. He tried her cell twice and got no response. Call Jerry. He was Luke's best friend, and Doggett had dialed the number from memory for months. As the phone rang he dug his address book out of his breast pocket, knowing it contained the names of three other boys who were supposed to be there that afternoon. "Hello?" "Sheila? It's John." She must have caught the off note in his voice immediately. "Is everything all right?" "I'm sure it is," he found himself slipping into a certainty he didn't feel. It was the voice you used to tell a parent or spouse that you were doing everything you could, when you were pretty sure their loved one was sleeping with the fishes. "Karen got caught up at work and she was supposed to pick up Luke. Is he with you?" He heard her quick breath. "No, John, he isn't. He and two other boys were still there when we left. That was at about a quarter to five. He said his mom was picking him up." "Which two?" "Craig and Brandon. Do you want me to call them?" "No, I will. I have Craig's number here. Do you have Brandon's?" "Just a minute. Jerry!" A few moment's silence, while he listened to Sheila breathe and his heart try to fling itself from his chest. Finally, clattering feet. "Do you have Brandon's phone number?" "What for?" Came a faint voice. "Answer the question." Her voice grew sharp. "Yeah. It's in the school directory." "Oh, of course." Now she was talking to him again. "How stupid of me." Rustling pages. "Here. Here it is." She read him the number. "Thanks, Sheila." "Call me the minute you find him." "I will." He called Brandon. No, Luke and Craig were still waiting when they left at five minutes to five. At Craig's house, his older sister answered the phone. She'd picked Craig up at five-ten, and offered Luke a ride home but he said he'd just wait for his mom. "And you left him there?" Doggett blurted. "Alone?" The girl faltered, then turned defensive. "He didn't want to come! Besides, it was only five o'clock. I figured his mom would be there any minute." Doggett gritted his teeth. The kid was stupid, but she wasn't his. He had no right to give her the lecture she needed to hear. He thanked her and hung up, tossed the phone back into the car and without speaking to Minelli, strode to the middle of the field. There, he turned in a slow circle, studying the woods, looking for the flash of the red jersey that Luke had been wearing that morning. But his son wasn't hiding in the trees, peeking out from behind one in a latent game of hide-and-seek his dad didn't know they were playing. Suddenly, a cold, steel sweat broke out on his forehead. The trees. Pictures of other trees, other woods, and the things they'd been finding in them for the last three weeks- things that had disappeared the last three Tuesdays. A teen-aged girl, then a young boy. A teen-aged girl-he looked at the calendar on his watch, although he knew what it would say. Tuesday. IV The pager screamed. Monica automatically rolled over and reached for the phone, but it wasn't there. She pried her eyes open and saw faint light coming through unfamiliar drapes, then she remembered. This wasn't home, it was the Franklin Hotel in New York City. She flapped her hand around on the night-table for a moment before it connected with the pager and she lifted it, hitting the button. The tiny screen lit up, telling her a phone number and the time. One-fifteen. She sat up, turned on the light, pulled the phone into her lap and dialed. "Hertado." "This is Monica. You paged me?" There was a silence, then the sound of Detective Hertado taking in a deep breath. "We've had another kid go missing in the middle of the afternoon. Linda asked me to call you." She closed her eyes and leaned against the headboard. "Same scenario?" "Yeah. This time it was a city park. No witnesses." "What can I do?" "We have officers on-scene. I'm headed there. I can swing by your hotel." "That would be great, thanks. Give me about twenty minutes." "It'll take me at least that long to get there. But there's one other thing." Her joints dissolved. "Tell me." "The kid's name is Luke Doggett. He's my partner's son." He hovered over the technicians, trying to see what they were seeing in the beams of their flashlights. Nothing. What was taking the god-damned sun so long? Any other morning, it showed up way too soon. Around him he could hear murmured voices, crackling radios and the tread of two-dozen pairs of feet. Other flashlights cut the darkness, and it seemed as if he was watching it all from up above and far away. Like the sniper yesterday, he was a part of the action and yet apart from it; his body was here, but his mind was... Was what? Stuck in a rut. Caught in an LP groove, something Luke wouldn't know anything about. All he could hear was the same two sentences, played over and over like the guitar riffs in bad rock-and-roll. Why didn't she make sure I got the message? Why did I go on that raid? Why didn't she make sure I got the message? Why did I go on that raid? Occasionally the constant drone was broken when his head flew up, expecting to see Luke step into a flashlight's gleam and say, "Dad, what are you doing here? I've been waiting for you. I've got the kitchen table all set up to finish the plane." Someone touched his arm and he jumped. It was Raul. "L.T. wants me to take you home." "No." "He wants us back at the station at two-thirty. Monica will be briefing the Third Shift, then we're having a conference to go over what we know so far. I talked him into letting you sit in." Vaguely, it registered that this was a huge concession. A perk of the job, he thought without humor. This victim's father gets first dibs on everything the cops can find. He also knew that the slightest misstep would have Ben kicking his ass into the hall, father of the victim or not. So he nodded, and turned to follow Raul to the car. Agent Reyes was standing by an open car, her face visible in the light from inside. She was talking to a patrol officer he didn't know. As he opened his own car door, she glanced over and gave him a hesitant but encouraging smile. He was surprised to feel a touch of comfort in its grace. Raul said little as they drove through the still- dark streets. This was the only time of day you could negotiate them with any speed. The doubts returned with the silence. Doggett wanted to tell Raul to drop him at a hotel, but his tongue couldn't form the words. Now he was remembering what had happened once he got home after the park. He'd driven back with his thumb constantly hitting the redial button. She never answered. When he burst through the door to his empty apartment and was forced to see she hadn't picked Luke up after all and brought him home, he'd thrown it into the hallway mirror. It had shattered, pieces spinning across the tile as a crack diagonaled across the corner of the glass. The phone was probably still laying there. When he heard her opening the door, he'd cleared the distance between the kitchen and the hall in what felt like three steps. She was alone. His last shred of hope disintegrated and he reached out, bracing himself against the wall with one hand, clutching at his forehead with the other. "Did you get my message?" She asked. His hand froze in mid-grasp. He raised his head and looked at her, hysterical laughter bubbling in his throat. He fought it, nearly strangling. "Not in time," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. A shadow crossed her face. "What do you mean?" His fragile control shattered. "I mean," he said, his voice louder now, "I didn't get your god-damned message until five-fifteen, and by the time I got to the park at nearly fucking six, he was gone." "Gone where?" He shoved away from the wall and grabbed her arms. "Gone, Karen. Gone. Gone like three other kids in the last three weeks. GONE." He was shouting now. Her knees buckled, and only his fierce hold above her elbows kept her standing. "He's dead?" she whispered, beginning to tremble. Bile surged in his throat as he shook his head. Her body wobbled with him. "We don't know where he is." She stared at him as though she'd never seen him before and didn't know why he was clutching at her like a long-gone dream. "But I called at one. You had plenty of time," she said, slipping into the same denial that had sucked at him. Seeing it made his anger boil anew. "Fuck the time, Karen! What the fuck were you thinking?" All the things he'd wanted to yell at Craig's sister came pouring out. "You, of all people, know the dangers out there. How many times have you complained when I try to talk about work, about how all that ever happens down there is the worst mankind has to offer? How could you make one fucking phone call and think everything was fine and dandy? I'm amazed you tore yourself away from your god-damned meeting to do even that much." Her confusion vanished and flames shot from her eyes. "Don't you dare blame me! You're the one who's always trying to save everybody's ass, whether they want it saved or not. This time, I asked you to! I swallowed that pride you seem to think I'm choking on and asked for your help and where the fuck were YOU?" She jerked out of his grasp and backed away toward the bedroom, taking a few steps before crashing against the wall and sliding down into a heap on the floor, sobbing. He left her there. He grabbed a framed copy of Luke's latest school picture off the wall and headed back out to the car. It wasn't until he was halfway to the station that he realized they hadn't been talking about their son. The apartment was dark when he staggered back inside. He didn't touch the light switch, afraid of what might happen if he caught a glimpse inside Luke's room. The door to his own bedroom was closed, and as he paused in front of it he heard a noise behind him and turned to see Karen's mother framed in a faint light from the guest room. She was in a nightgown and robe, but he could tell by the look on her face that she hadn't been sleeping. "Ruth," he said. Suddenly the anger was gone and in its place the most awful emptiness. She came toward him and looked up, searching his face in the dark. "Any news?" He shook his head. She pressed her hands to her mouth and he saw his hand reach for her shoulder, clasp it gently. She sobbed once, then choked, and leaned into him. "My baby," she moaned, her voice muffled against his shirt. He put his arms around her and held on, waiting until the weeping eased. "How is Karen?" he asked after awhile. Ruth wiped her eyes and fished a tissue from her pocket. "I fixed her some tea after I got here. I slipped in a sleeping pill." Doggett nodded. "You probably should have slipped yourself one, too." She tried to smile but it was shaky. "I thought one of us should be awake in case-" She stopped. He knew what she meant. In case the phone rang. "Well, I'm here now, so you go to bed and try to rest. I don't want to disturb her. I'll take the sofa." Ruth probably knew what he meant too: he wouldn't be sleeping. He hoped she didn't also know the real reason why he wouldn't open the bedroom door. "Tell me about Detective Doggett," Monica said. She was sitting in the chair beside Linda's desk, both of them holding mugs of what was at least their eighteenth cup of coffee. She felt like New Orleans on Ash Wednesday, and it wasn't even noon. Linda frowned and reached up, tucking a strand of straight black hair behind her ear. "He's a good cop, good detective. Smart. Loyal to a fault. Don't ever ask him for the shirt off his back, because he'll give you his jacket and shoes too. Kind of quiet, especially with women, but if you're patient he'll open up to you. I think he has to be sure he can trust you first." "He's from the South?" "Yeah. Georgia. You catch it every so often in his voice." "And his manners." "That too." "Raul told me he'll be coming in for the briefing at three." Linda sighed. "I can't imagine what he must be going through." Monica could. Easily. But she didn't want to. "Think he'll make a scene?" "That's a tough one. He has an innate dignity, but when things have to get ugly, I've never seen him hold back. And he definitely has a temper. If I had to guess, I'd say he'll hold together all right unless somebody does something stupid." "I noticed a wedding ring." Linda nodded, the wrinkle deepening between her brows. "I think they're having some trouble." Monica winced. She'd seen good marriages destroyed by stuff like this. If theirs was already rocky, they didn't have a prayer. Consciousness came slowly, followed by a glorious moment before Doggett remembered why he was lying on the couch. Then his stomach turned over and he caught his breath, sitting up slowly and dropping his head into his hands. It felt like about ten o'clock; somehow he'd managed to sleep about five hours. No phone calls in the early dawn. No knocks on the door. No nothing. He stood up to go to the phone, but stopped halfway there. How many times, when he was on the Task Force, had he had a parent calling every ten minutes, asking if there was any news? How many times had he sworn in response that they would be the first to know? But now he knew why they called. It had barely been twenty-four hours and he was starting to grasp the special horror everyone described that came from not knowing and not being able to do anything. Passivity went against every fiber in his being. He knew when to fight, and he knew when to run, but at least those were actions. Pacing in his living room wasn't. A tiny sound came from the kitchen and he recognized the sound of a coffee cup being set down on the table. Ruth must be up. Suddenly, he needed to see Karen. He walked down the hall in his sock feet and laid his hand a moment on the knob before turning it and gently pushing the door open. She lay on her side, curled into a ball so tight she looked no bigger than a twelve-year-old. The lace edge of her favorite summer nightgown, a pale blue he'd bought her years ago, peeked out from underneath the sheet. He stood beside the bed, watching her. She probably wouldn't wake up for hours yet; downers had a strong effect on her. When Luke was born-something surged in his chest and he had to sit down in the chair beside the dresser. When Luke was born, she'd had a real reaction to the painkillers they gave her, and it was three days before she said her head didn't feel like it was stuffed with cotton balls. She'd slept so much, and he had let her. They put Luke in a crib beside the bed because she was breastfeeding and at every cry, every whimper, he was the one who'd shot out of bed and scooped him up, bringing him to her and touching the wisps of his hair as nursed. Then he would carry him around, patting his back and telling him about the wonderful things they would do when he was older. Karen stirred. One hand went to her cheek and scratched the skin a little, then her eyes opened. She looked around, then saw him and bolted upright, starting to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. "Has anyone called?" He shook his head and she fell back against the pillows, collapsing in on herself as he watched. Her face sort of folded, her eyes went dim. In that moment, he was able to push last night's words away. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. She didn't return the gentle pressure of his grasp, but she didn't push him away either. "He'll come back," he said. "We'll make it through." "What if he doesn't?" she whispered. "What if it's like you said last night? It was Tuesday." His hand clenched and he saw a spasm of pain cross her face. He eased his grip but raised her hand and shook it. "He'll come back. He will. He has to." She stared at the ceiling, her eyes starting to tear up. "Because he's all we have." "There is just nothing new to report." Sergeant Barbara Dixon of the Child Abduction Task Force managed to inject a world of sympathy into those few words, and Monica watched Detective Doggett for any sort of reaction. The look on his face reminded her of photos she'd seen of shell-shocked soldiers from World War I. Like those long-ago young men, he'd been thrust unprepared into a hell no one could imagine or hope to escape from. There was no preparation that could be made. "We started knocking on doors at seven in a half- mile radius clear around the park. We've contacted the Parks Department and spoken with the groundskeepers. We just sent Third Watch out to widen the canvass of the neighborhood." Sgt. Dixon didn't mention the county deputies and state troopers who had gone out that morning to scour the woods on the Connecticut border. Sgt. Dixon opened the table for discussion, and many of the twenty or so people ranged around it had things to say. Monica listened, but added nothing to the conversation. Her specialty in cases like these, unfortunately, was reading dead bodies, not tracking live ones. She desperately hoped her skills would go unneeded this time. After awhile the dialogue died down. Lt. Ben Cooper glanced over at Detective Doggett and cleared his throat, then asked if he had anything he needed to know. Doggett raised his head from where he'd been staring at the table top. He hadn't touched his coffee. Looking straight at Sgt. Dixon, he said, "What about Connecticut?" His voice was flat, almost without emotion. Only the rough edge to its already husky tone gave him away. "We're checking it out," she said, softly but directly. "No news." Doggett nodded a little, his lips thin. After a few moments of silence, Lt. Cooper nodded at Sgt. Dixon. "I guess we're finished here, then." Chairs scraped as the company stood up. Monica knew that normally there would be a burst of conversation now as everyone shared with a neighbor their own theories of what had happened, was going to happen, and what so-and-so had done wrong. There was none of that. A few whispered words between pairs was the only sound other than hard-soled shoes on linoleum and the occasional clink of a watchband against a pistol grip. One or two men touched Doggett briefly on the shoulder as they passed his chair, but no one spoke to him. She couldn't tell if it was because they had nothing to say, or they knew he would prefer it. She hung back from the crowd, watching through the open door to see how long he'd continue sitting there. After about three minutes he roused himself and stood, then froze. Color copies of Luke's school picture lay in a pile on the table. They were holding them up to whomever answered the apartment doors, and handing them out to store owners as they questioned up and down the streets. He reached for them, his hand hung in the air above them, shaking a little. Then he lifted a dozen or so, rolled them up and stuck them in the inside pocket of his coat. He raised his head too quickly for her to look away, and their eyes met. She was hit with a desire, almost a need, to go to him and give him a hug, offer him the comfort no one else seemed able to, but his reticence held her at bay as well. So she settled for a smile, even though it brought tears to her eyes, and he responded with a nod and turned away. On Thursday he had to take the subway to the station, and the rocking rhythm lulled him into the same trap he'd struggled out of the Tuesday night. Why had Karen only left the message? Why hadn't she made sure to speak with him? He would have walked out of the raid. He would have told the lieutenant to go to hell if he had to. He would have done a hundred-no, a million things, if it meant he could hold his son again. The subway slid to a stop and he exited, not knowing where he was or how far from his stop. He just couldn't stay down there any more, riding hollow-eyed with the other hollow people, people who would never know his pain and he hated them for it. He climbed the stairs to the sidewalk and began to walk without looking, until he found himself passing St. Patrick's Cathedral. Luke had been baptized there, and a small smile crossed his mouth as he remembered the majesty of all those pinnacles and spires, reaching to heaven that morning on behalf of such a tiny human being. He didn't have time to go inside, but in a few minutes was standing in the aisle. Others were in that quiet place, but he didn't see them. His instincts knew they prayed silently around him, but he was aware of just two souls: his own, and the only One who could help. Crossing himself and slipping into a pew, he knelt on the bare stone floor and buried his face in his hands, but he didn't pray. He begged. V Monica went to the window and looked out at the street below. Annoyingly, it hadn't changed a bit since she looked at it three minutes ago. Today was the funeral of Damien's latest vicitim, and they'd just gotten the report that confirmed it was indeed the work of the same killer. Detective Cohen had dubbed him Damien, after a devil kid in a movie she'd heard about but never seen. They had to call him something. You can't talk about a person and analyze his methods and motives, all the while calling him, "the killer." Damien knew his stuff. They had gone through the park with a nit comb and still came up empty. The three bodies yielded nothing but bits of thread and specks of dirt that could have come from precisely anywhere. It would take one of two things to catch this guy: a miracle, or time. Miracles didn't come for the asking, and she wasn't sure how much longer Doggett was going to last. The shadows under his eyes were so deep you could hide a truck in them, and she was willng to bet he'd had the equivalent of two pieces of dry toast and a cup of water since Tuesday afternoon. He stood in a forest, and something urged him forward. There was no sound. The light was faint, as though filtering through fog. Then a voice shouted, and another. People flew past him, jackets flapping and still he stood, frozen. The trees began to spin and then there they were: a small group of people in a circle in the woods. Looking at something on the ground. Something small. One of the people with their back to him turned around. It was Agent Reyes, a thousand sorrows drifting in her eyes. He looked nowhere but at her face until he stood beside her, trying to get his head to drop so he could see what was lying on the ground. "Dust to dust," whispered a voice in his ear, in his head. He looked down at last, seeing a red jersey and a pair of black shorts, covering a tiny body. He blinked, and the body turned to ash. A hand gripped his shoulder, flinging him awake. Doggett flew up, slamming his shoulder into something hard and cursing before he realized the something hard was the end of a pew in St. Patrick's Cathedral, and the hand belonged to a priest with black hair and wire- rimmed glasses. "I-I'm sorry, Father, " he stammered. "I must have fallen asleep." He tried to find his bearings, his heart pounding from the dream. It was just a dream, he told himself fiercely. It's still Thursday, and no one has called. He stood up and blinked, reorienting himself to the echoing chamber, where the only light came from the votives in the corner and the dim chandeliers high above. It might be midnight, it might be noon. "It's eight-thirty, my son," the priest replied, though he looked about Doggett's own age. "We're getting ready to close the doors." Doggett winced at the reference, and rubbed his eyes. The priest stepped back as he stood up, watching him closely. "Is something troubling you?" he asked. I'm beyond trouble, he wanted to say. I'm not troubled. I'm damned. But the thought of the sympathy in those eyes ready to be directed at him was more than he could stand. Never mind if it was the man's job to listen to other people's grief. No one's job could ready them for this. His sure hadn't. He shook his head. "I guess I'm just working too hard. I only came in to sit down for a minute." At three o'clock, he added silently. The priest nodded, not believing him. "Well, you are certainly welcome." Doggett nodded. "Thank you, Father." They walked to the foyer and Doggett pushed the door open. The air was cool, still too cool for August. The priest looked up at the darkening sky. "It almost feels like fall," he said. Doggett nodded, and started down the steps. "God bless you," the priest called behind him. He did, Doggett thought. And now I'm afraid He's taken it away. Monica dropped her cigarette in the bucket of sand by the door and stepped inside the coffee shop, drawn by the subdued lighting and sparse clientele. There was now more coffee than blood in her veins, but going back alone to her hotel room to wait and worry for the third night in a row, was something she needed even less. She'd spent as much time as she could at the station finishing up her field notes for the day, but it didn't take long to say "No further information," no matter how fancy you tried to word it. She paid too much for a cappucino and took it to a booth by the window so she could watch the theatre crowd go by when the shows let out in a little while. Friday night, and Broadway was bustling. How wonderful it must be to be a seamstress or an accountant or a bus driver; some job that didn't require you to stuff your heart into your chest every morning so it could be ripped out again by the end of the day. She took a sip of the coffee and had lifted the napkin to wipe the foam from her lips, when her beeper went off. Doggett stared unseeing out the car window. It would be turning light before they reached Connecticut. Raul drove silently, concentrating on the road. He'd already extended his sympathy. They had agreed that if anything happened, Raul would page him. He was still spending the night on the sofa, and that way the ringing phone wouldn't wake Karen and Ruth. So when the pager finally buzzed, he'd sat up alone and held it a moment, wondering if maybe he didn't look, the number it carried wouldn't really be there. A moment later, before he could even get to the phone, there had come a soft knock at the front door. If that was Raul, then the news was bad enough he had to give it in person. He stumbled to the door and opened it to find his partner standing there, hunched and suddenly small. "Jesus, John," was all Raul could say. He reached out and gripped Doggett's elbow. "Where?" "Danbury." Monica wiped her eyes and leaned against a tree. She needed a cigarette. She'd been out here for six hours while cops set up floodlights and took photos and pressed small fingers against an ink pad to get prints to fax in for identification of what they already knew. Shit. She'd given Raul the go-ahead to call Doggett two hours ago; they would be arriving soon. If circumstances and geography were different, she and Raul might have-she dug in her pocket, caving to the need for nicotine. The momentary brilliance of the lighter blinded her, then she sucked in a lungful of smoke and returned to Raul from another angle. His car was getting quite a workout tonight. He'd driven her up here, then gone back for his partner. During their hour alone together they had talked a lot, mostly about Doggett, and she had a clearer picture of him now. But she still couldn't tell if the anguish she felt was over the death of a child, the death of a fellow cop's child, or the death of his child. All she knew for sure was that if she met his eye again, she probably still wouldn't be able to think of anything to say. A gray mist filtered through the trees as Doggett followed Raul into the woods. It was cold, too cold for August. He could feel fall in the air. They came to the edge of a clearing and Raul stopped, turned back a bit to look at him. At the far edge of the clearing stood a group of people in a circle, standing and staring at something small on the ground. He spotted a dull red among the leaves and his breath went ragged. Dust to dust. He stumbled and Raul reached out for him, but he straightened up and continued forward. The clearing seemed to stretch away from him, no matter how far he walked. Someone hurried past on his right. His cheeks were wet, his vision blurred, and he felt the dizzy uncertainty you get at a precipice, as you stand there and fight the urge to step off into nothing. He was still hovering on the rim when one of the people in the group, a tall woman with dark hair, turned and looked over her shoulder at him. Monica Reyes. He came and stood beside her, Raul just behind them both. The sheet had completely covered Luke's body until a little while ago, when she had pulled it down just past his shoulders, so his father would see his unmarked face and not have to wonder any more. Doggett stood there a moment, staring down as they all had. Then he slowly knelt in the dirt beside the body and extended a hand toward Luke's hair, stopping just short of touching him. She bent toward him, ready to clasp his shoulders if she needed to. "He isn't ashes," he whispered. Her blood froze as the dream came flooding back. Woods. People. A body burned to ashes in the dim morning light. What did he mean? She literally had to bite her tongue to keep from asking. She got down beside him just as he reached for the edge of the sheet, and touched his wrist. "No," she said softly. "Don't move the sheet." He jerked his hand away as if he'd been burned. "You aren't finished with the scene yet? What the hell are we doing standing here?" She swallowed hard, trying to get around the golf ball in her throat. "Yes, we're finished. But you don't want to move the sheet." Recognition dawned in his expression as he must have remembered the photos of the other victims and what had been done to them. "He's-he's-" he stopped. A wave of something passed over his face, a pain so acute it made her stomach roil. She needed to get him away from here. "John," she said. No response. "John." She leaned forward so she could see into his eyes. "Lieutenant Foster of the Danbury Police is waiting to talk to you. We've found a witness." VI Raul took him to the local police station, and now they sat on metal-framed chairs holding styrofoam cups of coffee and waiting. He'd let Raul put a hand on his shoulder as he led him to the car, and he had resisted the urge to look back and see them loading his son's body into the ambulance. The last frayed filaments of his control had twined themselves around Agent Reyes' meager offering of a witness, and he was now forbidding himself to pace the narrow office as they waited for Lt. Foster to show up. Where the hell was he? Where was the witness? What had he seen? Was it something they could use, or would he have to spend today as impotently as he'd spent the last three? Which is worse: knowing your child is dead, or knowing you did nothing to stop it? A tall, thin man entered the room with a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Detective Doggett?" He said. Doggett nodded. The man extended a hand. "Lt. Foster. I'm very sorry for your loss." "Thank you," he mumbled. How many times had he said that, meaning it as sincerely as Foster did, and how many times had the answer been a barely-heard "thanks" and haunted eyes? Foster introduced himself to Raul and they all sat down. "We had a call just after dark last night from a young man out on a hike in the woods. He'd seen something strange through the trees and sneaked up for a closer look. It was exactly what he thought it was: a New York City taxicab." Doggett caught his breath. Raul swore. "The trunk lid was open," Foster continued, "and there was someone standing at the back." A pause while he skipped over some passages he probably didn't think Doggett needed to hear. "Luckily for us, before he finished what he was doing and drove away, our witness made out the number of the cab and a fair description of the driver." Deep in his belly, Doggett felt the flicker of a tiny flame. For the first time in three days, he had something to grasp besides his hair. He looked over at Raul. "A taxi. How fucking brilliant. No wonder he could snatch the kids off busy streets at three o'clock." Raul nodded. "The damned things are everywhere. You see them, but you don't even realize they're there." Doggett turned back to Foster. "Who is he?" Foster tapped the papers on his desk. "That's the information I was waiting on when you got here. His name is Bob Harvey. Your officers just picked him up at his apartment." "Absolutely not." "Lieutenant-" "NO." Monica watched as Doggett and Lt. Cooper stood with noses practically touching. Doggett radiated a power she wouldn't enjoy going up against, but Cooper had rank on his side. He wasn't backing down. "You can watch from the observation room, and that's pretty fucking generous of me, if you want the truth. But if you get within twenty feet of that man, I'll have your badge!" He suddenly seemed to remember who he was talking to and why, and softened a little. "Jesus, John. If this is our guy, and we do anything to compromise the case, then where will you be?" That did it. Doggett deflated a little and stepped back, shaking his head. "Who's going to talk to him?" "Johnston and Chang. Since they already had the Whitman case, Gordon has given them yours as well. If they don't get anywhere with him, we'll let Cohen and Gardner have a try." Doggett glanced at Monica. "What about you?" She shook her head. "I'm better off watching what transpires when others talk to him." She also knew from experience that it was a much better move politically to let the locals handle suspects. This instance was going to be tough, though. It was hard to concentrate on a suspect when you also needed to keep an eye on the guy beside you in the observation room. His comment in the forest kept running through her mind. Somehow, she had to find a way, a moment, to ask him why he'd said that. They wouldn't be alone in the booth, but she might still have a chance. Cohen appeared in the doorway. "They've brought him in. They're ready to get started." Doggett's face turned white, but he didn't flinch. Merely turned and waited for her to exit the room before he did. They walked down the hallway single file to where Gardner waited for them. The observation booth was small and dim. It would be a close fit for five people. They lined up against the glass, arms folded. Doggett stood beside her and she knew that if she closed her eyes, let herself give in, she would feel his pain as palpably as she now felt the sleeve of his shirt brushing against her jacket. So she kept them open as Gardner reached out and raised the blind. All the hair on the back of her neck, slowly rose and stood at attention. Harvey sat in a wooden chair facing the two detectives across a wide, battered wood table. He was a big man but sat quietly, his hands flat on the table before him as if he had nothing to hide. So why were all her nerve endings flashing red? He had answers for everything, and they were invariably polite. After a while his calm started to wear on her, and she became less sure of her original reaction. It was as if he was weaving some sort of spell. Everyone else seemed to be under it too. Johnston and Chang had tried every trick they knew in there, from hostility to confusion to friendliness to despair, but his manner never changed. They were starting to wear down, when Cooper seemed to raise himself from his lethargy. "Cohen. Think you should give it a try?" Both men nodded, and turned to leave. Cooper followed them. "Be right back. I'm going to see if we have any prelims from forensics." She nodded. Doggett continued to stare through the glass as Linda started leading the ever-patient Mr. Harvey through his whereabouts over the last four weeks for about the seventh time. She waited until the door closed, then turned and leaned against the wall beside the window so she could face him. "Detective Doggett?" He didn't seem to hear her, but as she opened her mouth to speak his name again, he tore his gaze from the other side of the glass and looked at her. "You called me John out in the forest. You can call me that now." She cleared her throat. "Thanks. Actually, that's what I wanted to talk about. Out in the forest." There was no innocent way to word this. Best just to say it. "Out in the forest, when you saw L-when you saw him, you said something about ashes. Do you remember?" He nodded slowly, swiveling his head back to watch the interrogation. "I had a dream. That when we found him, he'd turned to ashes." His voice quavered just a little. She noticed he didn't say "burned," then plowed on. "Do you remember anything else from the dream?" "I remember everything else. It was in the woods, in a clearing. Early morning. People dashing past me. Exactly like we found him." He was describing her dream. Her heart started to pound. She'd never had this happen before, never met someone-"Doesn't that strike you as strange?" "Doesn't what strike me as strange?" In the interrogation room Harvey leaned forward, gently tapping his index finger on the table as he spoke to Linda, their voices subdued. "That we found him exactly as you dreamed." "We didn't. He wasn't in ashes." "But other than that-" Doggett turned back to her, looking annoyed. "Other than that, the dream was exactly what I knew from the other three bodies: face down in the woods, miles from nowhere. Every body-in-the-woods I've ever been called out on, there were people running around. I don't know how you could expect me to dream of anything else." "But the ashes." He nodded, not quite as patiently as Harvey. "In the dream, as I saw his body, I heard a voice say, 'Dust to dust.' Since I'd fallen asleep in a church when I had the dream, it makes sense. Exactly why are you so interested in my sleeping habits, Agent Reyes?" Shit. She'd muffed it. He was obviously one of those people who had a rational explanation for every odd happening, and weren't interested in hearing about anything else. The police world was full of them. "Do you fall asleep in church often?" He almost smiled. "I try not to, but sometimes it can't be helped. Especially if a case pulled me out of bed late Saturday night." She wanted to smile too, but hid it. So many of those show-me-then-maybe-I'll-believe-it cops were God- fearing souls, and she had never been able to figure that one out. How can you refuse even to acknowledge the possibility that there are things out there like precognitition and intuition, and yet wholeheartedly subscribe to the notion of an all-powerful Being who created the universe from nothing and hovers out there still, reading our minds and knowing our hearts and waiting for us to screw up in exactly the ways He already knows we will? Cooper came back, shaking his head at the questions in their eyes. "Nothing." "What's taking them so long?" Doggett growled. "I mean, the tests are coming back clean. They've practically stripped his cab down to the chassis. They've gone over the trunk until Martha Stewart couldn't find a speck of dust if she tried. Nothing. No fiber, no dirt, no tools. Even the tires look clean." Doggett swore. "Granted, that's just sketchy. The final results will take weeks. But I don't have to tell you it isn't looking good." "How long can we keep him?" Monica asked. Cooper frowned. "Given the severity of the crime, we can stall. Work slowly, tell the DA we aren't finished with his apartment yet, stuff like that. But I'd say we'd be lucky to get 72 hours unless we charge him." "And we have nothing to charge him with," Doggett said. He seemed so calm. Monica wondered what had happened to the fire-breathing cop she'd seen that morning when Harvey's name first came up, but the next words out of his mouth gave her the answer. "I don't think he's our man." Monica's eyebrows went practically to her hairline. She'd shoved the sense of oppression she'd felt when she first saw Harvey to the edge of her consciousness while she talked to Doggett, but it was still there, waiting to break out and swamp her again. She turned and looked into the room. Through the open door opposite she could see Linda and Johnston talking to Gardner. Harvey sat quietly at the table as if he had all day. Then, as she watched, he turned his head and looked at her. Her heart leaped madly, taking her stomach with it. She gasped and stepped away from the glass, even though she knew he couldn't possibly see her. So, why was he staring through the glass, staring through her? A tiny smile curved his mouth and she could almost hear him saying, "Tsk tsk tsk. Don't go digging where you aren't invited, little one." Linda stepped into the room and gestured to Harvey. He stood and walked toward her, dwarfing her tiny frame as he approached. They both disappeared through the doorway and Monica reached out a shaking hand to steady herself against the wall. "You're right," Lt. Cooper was saying. Apparently, neither of them had been paying any attention to her and she was glad. She took a deep breath and looked at them. "Right about what?" She asked. "About why I don't think it's Harvey," Doggett replied. "And that is?" Doggett rubbed his face. "Have you been listening to that conversation in there?" No, she was ashamed to admit. Not really. Between fighting the stench of evil that hovered around Harvey, and dancing in the ashes with Doggett, she'd missed most of what had gone on. She tried to cover. "What is it that you think is relevant?" "He has alibis, Agent Reyes. He can explain every place he's been and give the names of people he's been with. He plays Bingo every Friday night, for Christ's sake. Now, it looks like we aren't going to have any forensics to tie him in there either. And the longer we sit around here waiting for him to flip on something he ain't going to flip on, the further away the real guy gets." "But what about the witness? He saw Harvey's cab." "The witness lives here in the city. Maybe Harvey pissed him off last week and he's looking to get even." Her amazement must have shown on her face, because he held up a hand. "I'm not saying we should cut him loose just yet. I'm saying I'm finished here." Lt. Cooper scowled. "What are you up to?" Doggett opened his mouth, then shut it, finally looking more like a grieving parent and less like a cop. "I'm going home," he said softly. "I should be with my wife right now, even if she doesn't notice I'm there." Monica flinched. That was too much information, although Linda had already told her something similar. "You'll be in my thoughts," she told him. He nodded. "Thank you, Agent Reyes." "Monica." He ducked his head at her. "Monica." He opened the apartment door, then almost slammed it shut and ran back down the stairs. A hum of voices spilled into the hall, and the place was filled with light. Obviously, the relatives had been called. He knew Ben had sent two of their squad members to the apartment that morning to break the news to Karen while he was still talking to Lt. Foster up in Connecticut. Now, dusk was coming on and if he wanted to see his wife, he was going to have to wade through hugs and tears and hot casseroles. Slinking down the hall, he peered into the living room. There were about eight people ranged around on chairs and the sofa, talking softly and sniffling into tissues. Karen was not among them. Ruth looked up and saw him, and stood from her chair. She came to him and he accepted her embrace. "Where's Karen?" "I talked her into taking another sleeping pill." Her eyebrows nearly touched. "I'm worried, John. She isn't handling this well." He opened his mouth to ask her what the hell she expected, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I lost a child too, and a husband. I know grief. I see it in her, but I see something else too. I see blame. It's going to make her sick, if it hasn't already." "You think she blames herself for this?" "Either that, or-" "She thinks I blame her." Ruth looked up at him, her eyes shrewd yet kind. "Do you?" He couldn't answer that, then he saw he didn't have to. Ruth touched her fingers to the corner of her eye. "Give her some time, and yourself a little too. Your feelings are too raw right now. But while you're waiting, there's someone else who would like to see you." "What do you mean?" Ruth smiled and again wiped her eyes. "In the kitchen." She gave a gentle push against his chest. "Go on." He walked toward the kitchen, trying to think who would get such a reaction from Ruth. She seemed almost pleased, or as if she knew he would be pleased. But there was no one who would please him now to see, except his son. Unless- His steps quickened. He entered the kitchen to see someone bent over in front of the open stove. "Melanie?" He whispered, afraid if she heard him she'd vanish like another dream. She stood up, and he caught the fire of her hair before she saw him and launched herself forward, flinging her arms around his neck. "Oh, Johnny, oh, dear God." She pressed her face against his chest, a few sleek strands of her pageboy getting caught against the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered, as he encircled her with his arms and held on, feeling her start to shake and the sting of tears in his own eyes. All day, he'd held himself together through will alone, but with her he didn't have to pretend because she'd see through it anyway. "When did you get here? How?" "Ruth called me, just after your officers left. I drove up." "The kids?" She pulled away and looked up at him. "They're with Larry. God, Johnny, I'm so sorry. Why didn't call me sooner? I could have been with you." Tears spilled down her cheeks. He pulled her back up against him, grateful she had come. She felt so small and fragile, huddled against him, it was a surprise how much solace she gave. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to worry you about something you couldn't help. Have you talked to Karen?" She nodded. "A little. She's holding together, but just barely." He wanted to ask if she'd mentioned him, but suspected what the answer would be. Since their conversation the first morning they'd barely spoken, as the pain pulled her toward her mother and him in toward himself. It was as if that talk had never happened, and they'd gone back to the accusations of the night before. He had some vague notion that he should try to speak to her, but Ruth had said she was blaming herself, and he didn't lie well enough to tell Karen she was wrong. Melanie pulled away from him and headed for the cupboard. "Do you want some coffee?" He shook his head. "Been drinking it all day." Her eyes took on an uncertain cast, as though she wanted to know something and wasn't sure how to ask. "The detectives this morning said something about a suspect." "Yeah," he said, turning toward the kitchen table and pulling out a chair for her. When he sat down, the first thing he saw was a drop of epoxy on the wood surface, a bump in its smooth top. He dug at it with a thumbnail, knowing what Karen would say if she saw it. Maybe one day he would learn to spread newspapers before he and Luke worked on one of the planes- His hand stopped moving. Why bother? Let the fucking glue sit there. "Yeah, we spent the afternoon talking to a guy, but it was a waste. Looked like a good lead, too, but nothing panned out." "So they let him go?" "Not yet. They're going to hold him for a few days, check some stuff out. But I think they're wasting their time." Her badge got her into the holding cell with little fuss and less bother. She approached Harvey slowly, watching him sit motionless in his chair with "I've been waiting for you" written all over his face. It was hot, hot enough the air in the tiny hall seemed to press against her. She stopped just short of the bars separating them, and folded her arms. He spoke first. "You look like you're ready for battle." She dropped her arms, trying to find a sign of weakness in him that she could focus on and gain the upper hand. There was none. His eyes were a strange, amber color that unsettled her more than anything else, so she concentrated her gaze on his forehead. "I just wanted to talk to you for a minute." Her voice came out surprisingly strong, with none of the hesitance she'd expected to hear. Good. She lifted her chin. "Try and figure out how you've managed to fool everyone so completely." Harvey smiled and stood. She gulped, then silently cursed herself. Don't show fear. "Not completely enough," he said, continuing to smile. "I'm still here." "They'll let you go soon." "Too soon, Agent Reyes?" How did he know her name? She automatically ducked her head, looking to see if her badge was still in view. No, she'd tucked it in her breast pocket. You're a frickin' federal agent, she told herself. Start acting like one. She pulled a tape recorder from her jacket pocket. "Mind if I turn this on?" "Be my guest." Once the little wheels started turning, she looked back up at him. "Mr. Harvey, what do you know of the crimes we're investigating here?" "Quite a bit, now. You learn a lot after having such nice chats with detectives for six hours." "Do you resent that? Being held without charges? Having to answer the same questions over and over?" He shrugged. "Not much I can do about it. You're the cops." "You seem pretty philosophical." He moved his head, juust a fraction of an inch, but it was quick enough she didn't have time to react and for a second found herself staring into those golden eyes. They seemed to glow and she felt herself falling into them, unable to speak or move. Sweat began to form along her hairline. "They have their job to do, and I have mine." Trapped in his gaze, she struggled to get away, finding her voice at last. "And that is?" He replied in a whisper. "You know what it is." He was now only inches away, and as he curled one hand around the iron bars, she realized the heat was coming from him. She backed away and saw him smile again. The smile annoyed her and she grabbed the anger. She needed it. Curling her fingers around the tape recorder until she could feel the tiny hum of its working, she squinted at him. "I have my ideas." He nodded. "I imagine you do. But are they based on anything you can take to court, or just those funny feelings and dreams you get every so often?" Adrenaline flooded through her, turning her knees to jelly, her resolve of moments ago now in ashes. "Why are you doing this?" It came out a whisper. "Doing what?" "All of this." "I told you. It's my job. We all have orders to follow." "Whose orders? Is someone making you do this?" He chuckled. "Yeah. The devil made me do it." "Who are you?" The laughter stopped, and he regarded her with extreme patience. "Agent Reyes, you know who I am. You've been following me for years." His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She almost screamed, the heat of his grip was so great it felt as if her hand were being thrust into a fire. He pulled on her arm until her face was right against the bars and said softly, "Go home. You're wasting your time here. Go back to New Orleans. I'll see you soon enough." He let go, thrusting her back. She looked down at her wrist, expecting to see the red, mottled flesh of a burn. It was unmarked. "See me where?" Spreading his hands wide, he smiled at her like some enigmatic shepherd overseeing his flock. "Wherever. We seem to end up in the same places, you and me." All she could do was nod, needing to get out before he saw too much. "I guess we're finished, then," she said, holding up the recorder and hitting the stop button. "We're never finished." He turned and walked toward the cot at the back of the cell. "Pleasant dreams, Agent Reyes." She got through the outer door without looking back and leaned against it for several seconds, breathing hard. Raising her hand, she hit the rewind button on the recorder and stopped it after a few moments, then depressed the play button and held it up to her ear. Nothing. She fiddled the volume wheel. Still nothing. She rewound and played, forwarded and played, went back to the beginning and played. Nothing. The tape was blank. VII Doggett exited the limousine and stood looking up at the stone facade of his parish church. He held out a hand to Karen, who barely touched his fingers as she climbed out of the car. She seemed to have shaken off the devastation of the last three days, rising to the occasion of appearing in public before their friends, but she continued to avoid him. Ruth accepted his hand and joined them. They stood a moment on the sidewalk, each one waiting for the other to take the first step toward what awaited inside. He moved, reaching out to clasp Karen's elbow. As if on a signal, Ruth came around and took her other one and thus fortified, they started up the steps. Inside it was dark and suddenly quiet, the space beyond the foyer filled with the silent, waiting forms of more people than he ever dreamed he knew. They each in turn paused a moment at the basin, dipping their fingers in the holy water and signing the cross. The touch of it was strange upon his hands, as though all the times he'd done it before had been in another life, the feel of the liquid cool against a different body, not his. He wasn't sure where the last three days had gone. While the rest of them diddled with Harvey at the station house, he'd gone back out, knocking on doors, showing his son's picture, asking question after question until his voice dropped to a whisper and oculdn't be raised. Then he went back to the park and combed the lot, the grass. Walked through the trees at the edge, knowing there was nothing there to see. He'd driven to Danbury twice, practically alone on the 684 at three a.m., no one but himself and a few produce trucks. He'd walked the dirt by the glow of his maglite, and waited where they'd found Luke for the sun to rise on the spot again, surprised when the gray mist parted to reveal he was the only one there. Melanie had quietly taken charge at the apartment, working with the funeral home and addressing the hundred questions neither he, Karen, nor Ruth could form the words to answer. She was staying with a college friend a few blocks away, showing up every morning while he and Ruth ate their breakfast alone. He followed Ruth and Karen up the aisle. Before them, banked by candles and watched over by a marble statue of the Virgin Mary, stood a coffin, steel gray and far too small. He turned his head away, concentrating on getting Karen into a pew and sitting down beside her. She clutched her mother's hands in both of hers, leaving him alone and uncertain what to do when he felt a touch on his shoulder and looked up into his sister's eyes. "May I?" she asked, indicating the space beside him. He scooted over a little closer to Karen, who moved away, and Melanie slipped in beside him, tucking her hand into his. Father Andrews appeared before them, looking dazed. He glanced over at the coffin and Doggett thought he saw in his face the same surprise at its littleness that he had felt. The priest cleared his throat and began to speak, and Doggett looked around. Where was he? What was this place? Hadn't he always come here before and found peace, no matter what horrors the week had thrown his way? Hadn't he always been able to leave the ugliness behind and gain comfort in these walls? Why wasn't it working now? Why wasn't He doing His job? On the wall to his left hung a crucifix, a life- sized Christ nailed and suffering on the cross. "For God so loved the world, He gave his only begotten Son- " No. He couldn't give. No parent would do that. They might have the child ripped from their torn and grasping hands, but they would never give. It went against everything we are taught, everything we feel without being told. What sort of father are You? Had he said the words out loud? He held his breath, waiting. Melanie sat focused on Father Andrews, her left hand in his and her right resting lightly on his wrist. Karen's head was bowed, a rosary clenched in her fist. No. No one had heard him. Nobody except the One who needed to- There was movement in the aisle. Music filled the air. Six men, Raul among them, gathered slowly around Luke's coffin and lifted it to their shoulders. It was over. So quickly. They were taking him away. Nausea washed through him, leaving him weak. The coffin began its slow movement from the church and now Melanie was tugging at his hand. He stood, steadying himself against the pew in front. He moved into the aisle and let Karen and Ruth file out in front of him, then followed the slow procession to the back of the church. Once outside in the too-bright sunshine, he pulled Melanie aside first. "I'm not going to the cemetary." A look of surprised concern crossed her face. "Why?" "I can't do-I just can't. I'm going home. I haven't slept in three days." "Should I come with you?" He shook his head. "Stay with Karen. I'll see you tomorrow. When do you have to leave?" Melanie sighed. "I want to stay a few days, but Susie has a special program at her daycare on Wednesday and-" "You have to be there." She blinked. "Are you sure you don't mind?" He put an arm around her. "Those special programs are rare, Mel. Don't ever miss one." Tears pooled in her eyes and she nodded. "I'll see you in the morning, then. Try to sleep." They walked down the steps and he stopped beside Karen, who was talking to some neighbors he hadn't known would be there. Mel waved and kept walking, headed for Raul, who stood waiting beside a dark blue Ford. The neighbor backed away from Karen and he caught her sleeve before she moved to get back in the limo. "I'm going home," he said. "You can't." "I can, and I am." "John, you can't run out on your son's funeral. How would that look?" "What the hell do I care how it looks?" He whispered fiercely. Her eyes widened. "I'm sorry. I just-have to go home." I can't watch them put my child in a hole. I can't stand to know that there will be six feet of earth between him and me. Karen said nothing and he thought maybe she understood, then he saw she had something to tell him. He waited. She stood in the open door of the limousine, her gaze focused on the sky beyond his left ear. "I'm going to stay with Mom for awhile," she said. "Why?" "You know why." He took a deep breath. "I don't think that's a good idea. We have to talk. We haven't talked since-" "Since when, John? Don't say since Luke disappeared." "I know it's been longer than that. But there are things I need to tell you. I've barely seen you." "I've seen you. In my thoughts, in my dreams, you're always there, and you've been telling me every minute. I hear you loud and clear. You're the quiet man, John, but you scream with your eyes. I can't bear to have them screaming at me any more." This was his chance. This was the moment where he had to say he didn't blame her. She stood there, waiting for him to gather his senses. The silence stretched between them and in it he heard the screaming too. Then, she turned away and climbed into the car. She closed the door, the limo pulled away. He stood on the curb and watched it go, followed by a slow line of cars fall that disappeared down the street. The worst part wasn't that she was leaving, or that she was leaving now. It wasn't even that they both knew she wouldn't be back. The worst part was that he didn't care. The last car hit its headlights and fell in line. Doggett turned and stared at the church's stone façade, then started back up the steps. Ignoring the basin this time, he went straight into the nave. It seemed bigger now, the pews no longer crowded with friends. His steps echoed on the stone floor, and sunlight slanted through a stained glass window, turning the light to red and gold. The candles still burned at the front of the pews; Mary still stood sentinel over Her flock's pleadings and prayers. He turned left and stopped at the foot of the crucifix. Jesus gazed at him, His head sagging a little between His shoulders. Blood and tears poured down His face as He accepted the agony of all the world. He hadn't wanted to. "Let this cup pass from me," He had said. But where had it gotten Him? Where had it gotten any of them? Knowing your child is safe in the arms of the Lord is poor consolation when all you can think about it how you'll never again hear his laugh, or feel that little hand grasping yours. "Both my parents died too young," he said softly, speaking to those tormented eyes. "My sister lost a baby she didn't even get to name. My wife is in some secret hell I don't know where to begin looking for, and now You've taken my s-" his voice cracked and he bowed his head a moment. "Every day I see more misery than most people will in a lifetime. I see broken bones and broken bodies, broken promises and broken lives. But through it all I continued to believe that it still had meaning. I had to believe that or I couldn't go on, and I had to go on. We were trying to build a life together, the three of us." He looked up. His eyes were dry, unlike the tear- streaked face of Christ. The statue wept, but he couldn't. "If this was a TV show, I'd be giving You my big Emmy-nomination scene now, where I rail against You and Your bright ideas, and tell You to kiss my ass. But this isn't television." He reached between the buttons of his dress shirt and caught the collar of his tee. Hooking his index finger around it, he pulled it down and took the St. Michael's medallion in his left hand, giving it a swift yank. For a moment felt the chain cutting into the back of his neck, burning before it broke. He held the medal out toward the statue's feet, letting the chain dangle between his fingers, then let go and looked up as it hit the stone floor with a tiny, hollow clink. "I won't be back." Monica hung back from the procession, having told Raul there was something she needed to do here. When John went back inside, she didn't follow him, knowing whatever he did in there was private. She found a shadow to stand in a few doors down and was still there, waiting, when he came back out into the empty street and flagged down a taxi. She hailed one and followed him, not surprised when he climbed out and disappeared inside a bar on East 91st Street. After paying her fare, she waited a few minutes, then went inside. It took a bit for her eyes to adjust, then the long oak bar, its myriad of bottles and a half-dozen back booths began to take shape in the gloom. He was standing at the edge of the bar, handing the bartender a bill. He replaced his wallet, picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and glass setting in front of him, and walked over to the farthest booth. She chewed on her lip, watching him go. Every female inch of her demanded that she follow and see if she could help, but the detective inches knew better. If she sat down to face him now, she might end up with that bottle aimed at her head. This was more of what he'd done inside the church. Why else would he have let go of that woman at the funeral-the redhead he'd been hanging onto so tightly she was amazed the girl's fingers hadn't cracked. She'd known she was his sister well before they got close enough for her to see the resemblance. He had let his guaard down with her in a way he wasn't even showing to his wife. When was the last time he'd let it down even half as much? Hard to imagine. She'd always felt great admiration for people who could keep everything bottled up inside, mostly because it was something she could never do. Time and again she'd sworn to keep her mouth shut, only to have the promise shatter within moments of being uttered. It was a stupid admiration, she knew. Such a show of strength was misleading because the stoic outside hid a crumbling interior that didn't become visible until it all caved in. That's what she was waiting for. Her last cigarette had just burnt down between her fingers, when his head slowly tilted forward to rest between the two bottles. He drank the way he did so many other things: methodically and surely, with a specific purpose in mind. Now that he'd achieved that purpose, she would need help to get him home. She pulled out her cell phone. "Hertado." "Hey, Raul, it's Monica." "Well, hey. Where are you? It sounds noisy." "I'm at the Gotham Tavern on 91st. Your partner needs a favor and I can't do it alone." She didn't have to explain any further. "I'll be right there." The bartender laid his towel down and came out from behind the counter. He'd just gotten to John's table when Monica worked her way across the room and slid into the other half of the booth. "You with him?" The bartender asked. "I thought you were sitting over there." She nodded. "I was. I have a friend coming. We'll get him home." The man shook his head, not too puzzled. He'd likely seen stranger things. "I didn't want to give him that second bottle, but even more I didn't want to tell him no." "It's all right. He's been through a lot this week." "Drinkin' won't solve it." He gave her a little smile. "That probably sounds funny, comin' from a guy like me." She smiled back. "Not at all. He looked at John, back at her, then shrugged and returned to his post. Monica reached out and lifted the empty glass from John's hand, having to tug a little. She took it and the bottles over to the bar, then went back and sat down, turning a little so she could see the door. Raul lifted him over one shoulder and staggered up the steps to John's building. Monica had dug the keys from his pocket while they were in the taxi, and she held the door open then followed him to the elevator. John's sister had told Raul at the cemetary that Karen wouldn't be there, so she kept the keys out to unlock his apartment door. They eased him onto his bed and stepped back, Raul rubbing his neck. "He's one big sonofabitch," he muttered. She could see him grinning in the dim light through the curtains. They returned to the front door. "Thanks," she said. "No problem. Why don't you let me stay? You can go back to your hotel." She hesitated. How to explain why she needed to stay? "If he wakes up, I think it might be easier for him if he doesn't have to face someone familiar. I'll just hang around a few hours and then go." Raul sighed. "Far be it from me to argue with a Fed." He reached for the door, then looked back at her. "I hear you're leaving tomorrow." "Yes. You folks are looking at a serial killer, not a Satanist, and you have as good a handle on things as anyone would. You don't need me, so we may as well stop wasting the taxpayers' money." "Maybe-" Raul paused and stuck his hands into his pockets. "Maybe I could meet you at the airport? Have a cup of coffee?" "I'd like that." "I'll call you tomorrow then." He smiled, then just as suddenly turned solemn again. "He'll probably never know you were here, so I'll say thanks." "There's no need. It's just another part of our job." "Helluva way to make a living." He opened the door. "Good night, Monica." "Good night, Raul." She closed the door and went back to John. He lay where they'd left him, and offered no resistance as she removed his jacket, tie and shoes. Returning to the living room, she settled down in a corner of the sofa to wait. Give him a while, make sure he isn't going to be sick, then lock the door and leave. VIII Something jerked her from sleep with the force of a blow. She jumped to her feet, whacking her shin on a low table of some sort and remembered where she was just as the sound of breaking glass filled the air. Cussing, she stumbled down the dark hall, feeling her way to the open door the noise was coming from. She peered around the corner. The draperies had been torn from their hooks and moonlight filled the room, outlining John in silver as he levelled the bat in his hands at a small group of model airplanes on a dresser. The bat plowed through them, sending all but one sailing on mute, doomed flight. John turned, shouldering the bat, then swung at one hanging in front of the window. The bat whistled and the plane went down but he never slowed, pivoting on one foot to sweep clean the night table beside the bed. The force of the swing knocked him off balance and Monica moved forward, knowing surprise and his unsteadiness were the only ways she'd get the bat from his hands. He stumbled, letting go with one hand to catch himself against the bed. She grabbed the bat as it hovered in mid-air, wrenching it from his hand and flinging it into the hallway and out of his reach. She held up her hands where he could see them. "John. It's Monica. You're at home. No one else is here." "Get out." The words were so slurred she barely understood them. He turned, his gaze lighting on the dresser and its sole remaining plane. A terrible sound swelled in the room and she realized it was him. He leaped forward, his hands aiming for the plane, and suddenly she needed to save it. She grabbed his arm with both her hands and swung him around to face her. His other hand came with him, striking her cheek. Her eyes burned and for a moment she staggered herself, but didn't let go. The look on his face changed from anger to a second of surprise, then both expressions dissolved in a wash of agony and he fell to his knees in front of her. She knelt, reaching out to lay cautious hands on his shoulders, ready to duck if a fist came her way. "Let it go, John." She whispered. "You have to let it go." His fingers latched onto the sleeve of her jacket. "Oh, God," he moaned, his voice the whimper of a lost and frightened child. She pulled him up against her, stroking his hair and rocking a little, as seven days of anguish and impotence and loss washed over them both, leaving them trembling and drained. He woke up crouched on the floor, his cheek against something that smelled like flowers. He felt like an elephant had shit on his head. Opening his eyes slowly, he found himself looking at Luke's dresser. Its top was nearly bare, the mirror shattered. Bits began floating back. Shouting and swinging, the bat in his grip. The crash of breaking glass and even that not enough, then hands upon his and a soft voice in his ear. He'd collapsed and she had gone with him, offering what comfort she could as he tried to understand good-bye. Slowly, he turned his head and looked down. The scent of flowers came from her hair as she slept on, curled into his side with her temple against his shoulder. Shit. He'd known last night was coming; that was why he'd sent Melanie home. He hadn't wanted anyone here. Apparently, things hadn't quite worked out that way, and now this stranger had seen moments he wouldn't remember for years. He eased his arm out from behind her, driven to stealth both by her presence and the pounding in his head. She moaned but didn't wake, and he propped her up carefully against the footboard of Luke's bed and stood, weaving a little. What had he done? Luke's precious planes lay in splinters on the floor, the "Enola Gay" crumpled against a pair of battered shoes by the chair. A sob started in his throat and he choked it back as he saw that one plane remained at the dresser's edge. "The Spirit of St. Louis" had nearly fallen prey to the rampage, but something had stopped him in time. He turned and stared at Monica. She looked almost fragile, all hunched up and sleeping, but last night she had got a hand over a madman. That memory brought heat to his face. He needed water and soap and time to think, that's what he needed. Once he finished in the shower, he'd try and apologize to her. But when he came out, she was gone. She had awakened when he first moved, but decided to pretend sleep. Those first few minutes wouldn't be easy for him as he saw the fruits of his night's labor, and she didn't think he'd appreciate going through them under someone's watchful gaze. So she'd stood and stretched once he disappeared, and headed for the front door as the water started running in the shower. She couldn't wait to reach her own bathroom; although still on the green side of thirty, her body wasn't meant for spending a night sitting up against the foot of a bed. The clock now said two-fifteen. She needed to leave if she was going to meet Raul in time for coffee. Maybe the plane ride would be long enough to figure out what of this case she was going to put in her report, and what would go unsaid. Her conversation with Harvey would remain between the two of them. She had no proof of his claims, and as the days went by her own memory of the event grew hazier. There were already moments when she wondered whether it had happened at all, or had merely been another vivid dream. Sometimes it was hard to tell. But whether he'd really said those things or not, she remained convinced he was their man, and it surprised her that John had let go so readily. He might have scoffed at her visions if she'd mentioned them, but every cop worthy of the title gets gut feelings, and her gut still told her Harvey belonged where she had left him, in that cell. Of course, if he really said the things she thought he'd said, perhaps she'd have another chance. That idea was not exactly comforting. "Then again-" she said aloud, stopping when the phone rang. "Reyes." A moment's silence, then a voice edgy and uncertain. "It's John. Doggett. I was hoping to catch you before you went to the airport." She sat on the edge of the bed, smiling into the phone. This was unexpected. And good. "Well, you did." "You left before I could thank you." "I thought it was better that way." "Well," silence, then, "thanks, Monica. You're a good friend to have around." She could guess what it cost him to realize that, and wanted to say that his secrets would remain secret. She settled for, "Let's keep in touch, okay?" "Okay." "You know, you'd make a good fed." He chuckled softly. "Is that a suggestion?" She waved a hand in nonchalance, even though he couldn't see it. "Sure." The hand fell. "You would, though." "I'll remember that. Have a safe flight." She hung up, still smiling. He may not have been her first one-night stand, but he would be her most memorable. When she turned to pick up her briefcase, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were suspiciously bright as she studied the dark-haired girl staring back. "Then again," she resumed the conversation she'd been having when the phone rang. "You took this job because you wanted to help people. Sometimes that means more than just catching the bad guy." IX Doggett stood a moment on the balcony, breathing the soft spring air. Behind him on the floor, in various stages of packing, stood the boxes of his life. Filling them was slow work, because it seemed like every other thing he lifted carried a memory and his hand would linger, the object hovering before his face as thoughts took hold. Mercifully, more often than not they brought a smile. The buds had just started straining on the branches when his phone rang exactly four Saturday mornings ago. It was Melanie. "Hi, Johnny! Is it spring there yet?" "It's thinking about it. You?" "Oh, we're always way ahead of you. The cherry trees will be swamping DC with blooms any day now." "You sound pretty cheerful." "I have good news!" He sat down on the sofa. She could keep him on the phone longer than anyone else on the planet. "I'm listening." "Larry's getting promoted!" He slapped his thigh. "Well, hot damn. Our very own Lieutenant Colonel. Put him on." "He isn't here." She paused a moment, and he could tell by her breathing that there was more news where this came from. "He's taken the kids to get passport photos taken." Doggett's stomach cringed. Melanie didn't say anything, so he did. "He's being transferred." "Yes." "Where?" "Okinawa." "Shit. For how long?" "At least five years. Probably longer." "Ahh, hell." "I'm sorry, Johnny. But it's such a huge step. He's wanted it for so long." Doggett finally realized what she was doing. "No, Melanie. I think it's great." "Do you really?" She asked. What she meant was, Can you handle being alone over here? "Of course I do." Of course I can. "I'll come see you at Christmas." She gasped. "Do you think you could?" He grinned. "If my new boss will let me." Dead silence. "See? You aren't the only one with good news." Melanie squealed loudly enough he had to hold the phone away from his ear. "The F.B.I.?" "I report to Quantico in six weeks." He yanked the phone back from his ear again. When it was safe to return, he continued. "I was hoping to bunk with you guys until I found a place." "I have a better idea." "What's that?" "Take the house." Now it was his turn to be speechless. "You aren't going to sell it?" "You know we want to live here after Larry retires." She was starting to pick up speed as she took his idea and ran. "Oh, Johnny, you have to stay here. I would feel so much better knowing it's you living here, and not some sub-leasing stranger putting their feet on my Craftsman coffee table." "How do you know I won't put my feet on your coffee table?" "Because you know what I'll do to you if I catch you at it. And then there's Betty." He felt all the blood drain from his face. "You wouldn't." "I can't take her with me!" He could picture her pacing in her sunfilled kitchen, the phone tucked under her shoulder as she waved both hands in the air. "She'd never survive the voyage." "She won't survive me." "Don't be silly. She's just a fern." "'Just a fern?' You're the one who named her." "Oh, Johnny, this is going to be perfect." He groaned, but it was the good-natured sigh of a big brother who still thought the sun rose and set on his baby sister's smile. He didn't welcome the idea of her being so far away, but living among her things might make it easier. So he'd put in his notice and called Karen to tell her he was leaving. The divorce wouldn't be final for another two months, but there was really nothing left to decide and no reason to stay. She had wished him luck and he wished the same to her, then silence came between them and she said good-bye first. He'd held on to the phone for a minute, wondering as he often did if there were magic words out there and what would happen if he said them, or if maybe any word could be magic just because saying it made it so. The wind sucked the drapes out through the open door and he turned to go back inside. "The Spirit of St. Louis" sat on the end table, waiting to be packed into a boxful of styrofoam peanuts he'd bought especially for her. He touched the wing and bent down to see her from eye level. She was a good-looking plane, especially at that one joint where Luke's fingers had slipped and it ended up a little crooked. He wondered sometimes why this was the plane that remained. Monica would say it was Captain Lindbergh, who had himself lost a son, extending a comforting hand across the years, but the only hands he remembered were hers, grabbing him just in time. Another breeze stirred his hair and he stood up to slide the door shut, then paused. It was a beautiful day, hard-won after a bitter winter whose darkness seemed greater than just short days and long nights. Luke had been Damien's last victim. He had either left town or been arrested somewhere. His new job might offer opportunities to find the bastard that he'd never have in NYC, and he planned to take advantage of every one. The street was quiet. Everyone must be at the park or even outside the city. It was that sort of day, warm and very green. The fish were biting by now. He looked around at the boxes, arguing with himself for about three seconds that he needed to stay here and get this done. But then he decided the boxes would probably still be waiting when he got back, and headed for the closet where his tackle was still gathering dust. It was barely ten o'clock. He could drive up to their stretch of the river, toss out a line, and maybe Luke would scare some fish his way.