Danny saw the girl again.

As the subway train eased out of the Coliseum station, he looked up,captivated by her frozen smile, her vacant stare, and the fact that she neverspoke.

Never.

She was dead.

Her throat had been cut and her body stuffed into a plastic garbagebag hidden in Golden Gate Park.

She was two years old and her name was Tanita Marie Donner. Twoeleven-year-old girls from Lincoln Junior High found her during a science classfield trip.

“She looked like a little naked doll,” Natalie Jackson, one of thegirls, told a San Francisco TV station.

That was a year ago. The nightmares were now less frequent for theschoolgirls. For most San Franciscans, Tanita’s murder was fading from memoryalthough her face still stared from bus shelters, store windows, and bumperstickers, an image as familiar to the Bay Area as the Gold Gate or theTransamerica Pyramid. For a time, it embodied San Francisco’s anguish. Ablurred, grainy blow-up of a color snapshot, Tanita timidly showing her tinymilk-white teeth as Mommy coaxed a smile. Two pink butterfly barrettes heldback her brown hair. She was wearing a cotton dress with lace trim, and crushingher white teddy bear to her chest. Her dark eyes shining like falling stars.

REWARD screamed in bold, black letters above her head. Below weredetails of when and where Tanita was last seen alive. Twenty-five thousanddollars was offered for information leading to an arrest in her murder. Notakers.

Tanita Marie Donner’s killer was still out there.

A skeleton crew was onduty in the newsroom of The San Francisco Star when Danny Becker waskidnapped.

Tom Reed, a crime writer, was finishing a short hit on a seventy-twoyear old rummy stabbed with a nail file by a fifty-two-year-old whore. Somedive in the Tenderloin. The whore was watching the A’s game on the tube abovethe bar. The rummy wanted her to work her break. She was feeling bitchy, andwanted to finish her beer and her nails. His fingers went where they shouldn’thave and he bled to death at her table. Nobody noticed for half an inning.Turns out the guy had helped build the Golden Gate. He was the seventiethhomicide of the year. Reed summed up his life in two tight graphs, then puncheda command on his computer terminal, sending the story to Al Booth, theassistant metro editor working in the bullpen.

Reed downed the remainder of his tepid coffee. Three hours into hisshift. Could he stick it out today? Hungover. Again. Rubbing his temples,surveying the crap pinned to the half wall of his cubicle: Police numbers, ayellowing article on his winning his second national award four years ago forinvestigative reporting, a photograph of his wife, Ann, and Zach, theirnine-year-old son who wants to be a report. Like my dad.

Here was his life, or the illusion of it. Reed’s sources rarelytalked to him these days. His award-winning work was forgotten. It was comingup on six months since Ann took Zach and moved to her mother’s. His life wasdisintegrating, and like an animal gnawing at a wound that refused to heal, hereturned to the clipping file and the story that initiated his disgrace. Thecase of Tanita Marie Donner.

Reed had led the Star’s coverage of her abduction and murder,right up until the suicide, the lawsuit, and his suspension. It was nearly ayear since he last wrote about Donner and the man he believed had killed her.The case was unsolved and the paper, stinging from the scandal andembarrassment, was now content with superficial coverage of it. But Reedcouldn’t leave it alone, exposing himself to the headlines he had virtuallymemorized.

Sydowski and his father had good seats at the Coliseum. Thirty rows up from first. But the gamelacked zeal. Entering the eighth, with the A’s up by seven over the Yankees,was not exciting baseball.

Sydowski was stiff and hungry.

“Hey, old man,” he said in Polish. “I’m going to get something toeat. You want anything?”

“Sure, sure. Popcorn,” his father said.

Sydowski patted his father’s knee and headed for the concessionstand. Sydowski had not wanted to come to the game. He accepted tickets becausehis boss insisted. Sydowski’s old man loved seeing the A’s at the Coliseum, butwould never ask to be taken because he figured the job kept his son busy.

Standing in line, Sydowski reminisced about the old days. WheneverBoston played the A’s, he would drive across the Bay Bridge to Oakland to payhomage to Carl Michael Yastrzemski, a three-time American league battingchampion. Yaz took his third title by posting.301, in an era where pitchersdestroyed batting averages.

That was perseverance.

That was 1968. The year Oakland got the A’s and the San FranciscoPolice Department got Wladyslaw Sydowski.

Had it been that long?

“You know you can take your pension any time, Walt,” his boss,Lieutenant Leo Gonzales, often reminded him.

Sydowski couldn’t. Not yet. What would he do?

His wife, Basha, had died of Parkinson’s six years ago. The girlswere grown, had their own children, and had moved away. He had John, hiseighty-seven-year-old father, to look after. His old man was something. APolish potato farmer and barber he had kept his family alive in a work campduring the war by cutting hair for Nazi officers. Sydowski’s old man taught himhow to listen, how to read people. Now John lived happily alone at Sea BreezeVillas in Pacifica, tending a vegetable garden, following the A’s. He refusedto move in with Sydowski, who lived by himself in the Parkside house where heand his wife had raised their daughters and where he now raised championcanaries.

“Sir? That’s four dollars.”

Sydowski smiled, showing two gold-crowned teeth as he dug out somecash. The teenage girl smiled back. At six-foot-three, with a solidtwo-hundred-pound frame, dark complexion, and wavy salt-and-pepper hair,Sydowski was a handsome man.

He knew the hotdog would take a toll on his chronic heartburn, butwhat the hell? He smothered it with mustard, relish and onions as the oldquestions surfaced. What would he do if he retired? He was a cop. A homicideinspector. It was his life. To some, he was one of the SFPD’s best; to othershe was “the arrogant Polack cocksucker.” While he was traditionally assigned tobreak in new detectives, he maintained the detail’s highest clearance rate.Senior clicks told rookies Inspector Sydowski knew killers because he was one.

It was near the end of the war, Sydowski was what? Eight or nine?His family was working on a farm in southeastern Germany when he came up on adrunken Nazi soldier raping his twelve-year-old sister behind a barn. Sydowskigrabbed the soldier’s Luger and held it to the sweating man’s temple, forcinghim to kneel and beg for his life. Then he pulled the trigger, scatteringmaster race brain matter against the pigsty.

That was another life. Sydowski had erased the memory of it, orthought he had. Somehow the rage he felt then, rage he thought he would neveragain experience, had returned when he was given the case of a two-year-oldgirl. The worst part of the job was always the murders of babies. Looking downat their tiny bodies, knowing they never had a chance, that this world hadfailed them, and it was his job to avenge their deaths. Remembering how hewould go home brokenhearted, kiss Basha and the girls, and tell them it wasanother routine day.

Over the years he had managed to remain detached from his cases, enoughso that he could do the job. Although he won most, he accepted losing some. Hehad no choice. He couldn’t solve them all. But the abduction and murder ofTanita Donner was different. It was a year ago. He was the primary and hecouldn’t close it. At one stage, he felt he was close. Now he had nothing. Thething refused to be solved and it ate him up. Leo had suggested he let fresheyes go over it, that he concentrate on other files for a time. That didn’tlast. He had given a piece of his soul to the Donner case. How could he forgetabout that baby for one goddamned second?

Tom Reed drove southfrom downtown in a staff car, a Ford Tempo, bearing The San Francisco Star’sred, white, and blue banner and the logo: WE’VE GOT SAN FRANCISCO’S STORY.

Talk about cruel irony. He wanted to do an anniversary piece onTanita Marie Donner’s abduction and murder. To set the record straight. Toredeem himself. Now this happens. In Balboa.

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Passing a lumberingmotor home from Utah on 101, he couldn’t shake the Donner story and a millionother questions. If today’s case was real, would the paper leave him on it? Couldhe handle it again? Sure. He had nothing left to lose. He had alreadysacrificed his family to the Donner story.

Dropping his last fare of the day at City College, Willie Hampton sighed at the wheel of his cab andbegan humming a tune from South Pacific. Old Willie couldn’t restrainhis bliss. In three hours, he would strap his vacation-starved butt into theseat of an Oahu-bound 747 and leave the driving to the hacks who didn’t lookback. Take me to Pearl and step on it, Willie chuckled. Gonna get me a lei.

Seaman Hampton of the U.S.S. California would pay hisrespects in person to the boys of the Arizona. He would pin on hisDistinguished Service Medal and let them know he never forgot. No, sir. Then,for three weeks, he would ride at anchor. Willie switched off his radio and washeaded for the shop when he spotted a fare near Balboa Park at San Jose andPaulding. A curbside.

No dice, pal.

Willie looked again. The guy had a kid, a little girl draped overhis shoulder. Maybe she was sick or something. What the hell? But only if itwas on his way. Maybe keep it off the books.

Willie pulled over.

“Logan and Good.”

That’s Wintergreen. The man didn’t look like a rez of that war zone.He had dark glasses, was stone faced. The kid was sleeping, long blond hair.Balloon still tied to her hand. Must’ve come from the park. Okay, it was on hisway.

“Hop in.” Willie reached back, popped a rear door. The man placedthe kid down to sleep, her head in his lap. “Too much fun for your princesstoday?” Willie said to his rearview mirror.

“Yes.”

Half a dozen blocks later, two SFPD black-and-whites, with lightswig-wagging, screamers yelping, roared by Willie in the opposite direction. Hestifled his usual comment on San Francisco’s criminal vermin. His fare haddropped his head onto the rear dash.

Aww, let ‘em sleep.

Tiny ponies in heartsgallope d across Danny’s cotton pajamas, smelling of shampoo. Maggie touchedthem to her cheek and wept.

Night had come. If she didn’t get Danny into bed and read him astory now, he would become cranky. Maggie tried to rise, but couldn’t move.

She must be dreaming. She had to be dreaming.

Sitting in her darkened studio, looking at the park, the swans inthe pond, the water shimmering in the light of the turn-of-the-century streetlamps. The distant din of the strangers downstairs. Maggie’s painting wasnearly finished. She’d been working on it that morning when Nathan called, hisvoice small, breaking. She’d never heard him like this before. Was he drunk?

“Maggie? Maggie. Something bad has happened.”

“Nathan, what is it?”

“The police, the FBI, are going to be there soon.”

“Police? FBI? Nathan! What’s happened? Is Danny hurt?”

She heard a muffled, coughing sound.

“Nathan!”

“He’s gone, Maggie…”

“Nathan, where is Danny!” Her hand shook. Danny was dead.

“A man took him-“

“No! Nathan, no!”

“I chased him. I stopped the train and ran. But I couldn’t catchhim. The police are looking everywhere-I swear I’ll bring him back. I’ll bringhim…I’ll be right there, Maggie. I’ll be right there.”

She sank to the floor, cradling the receiver to her breast. Anyonebehind her would have thought she was holding a baby.

This is how Maggie’s dream started.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was Gene Carr, the doctor from down the street. Nathan golfedwith him at Harding Park. Gene was with men in suits. Police. Saying theirnames, showing identification. Please sit down, Mrs. Becker.

What is it?

Gene holding her hand.

This is a dream. She knows what they are going to tell her.

Danny is dead.

Do you understand, Mrs. Becker?

No.

Your child was abducted by a stranger.

Shaking her head, wiping her eyes.

No.

They were mistaken. This didn’t happen to nice families.

No.

Nathan would never allow it. Danny was a special child.

Everyone exchanging glances. Solemn faces. It was no mistake.

It was a mistake. It was.

Punching someone, shoving the words back down his throat. How dareyou tell me this? Get out of my house. Get out now.

Gene and the police holding her.

No, you lying bastards! Where is my baby? You bring me my baby!

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Walter.” FBI Special Agent Merle Rust implanted a chew ofSkoal between his right cheek and gum. “How’s your old man keeping these days?Down in San Mateo, isn’t he?”

“Pacifica. Got a garden, he’s fine. And you, Merle?”

“Thought I’d hang it up this year, but the job has a way ofinterfering with your life sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Sydowski sipped his coffee. “I have no life.”

They were in the Beckers’ kitchen with Ditmire, Turgeon, Mikelson,and Ray Tilly from General Works, who had the lead on the case.

“Let me introduce my new partner,” Sydowski said. “Inspector LindaTurgeon. Joined Homicide today from Vice.”

“Turgeon, Turgeon?” Rust was remembering. “You Don’s girl?”

Turgeon nodded, helping herself and Ditmire to coffee.

SFPD Officer Don Turgeon was working Chinatown twenty years ago whenhe was shot and killed shielding a tourist in the cross fire of a gang war.Linda, his only child, was ten years old at the time.

She decided at his funeral to become a police officer.

“I knew Don. He was a good cop,” Rust said.

“From vice,” Ditmire said. “Then you don’t know the Donner file?”

“I haven’t read it yet, I just-“

Sydowski moved toe-to-toe with Ditmire. “What do you know about anything,Special Agent Ditmire, three years out of Club Fed?”

Ditmire stood his ground with Sydowski.

“I know the press is outside, probably chanting your name.”

Sydowski inventoried Ditmire top to bottom. “Picking up where youleft off, huh, voychik?”

“Fuck him, Walter,” Rust said. “Lonnie, don’t irritate theinspector. I told you he killed a man for doing that.”

Killed a man. Turgeon looked at Sydowski. Mikelson and Tillychuckled. Rust sent a stream of brown tobacco juice down the garbage disposal.“Now that we can feel the love here, let’s get humpin’:”

Mikelson had arranged through Pacific Bell to run a tap on theBeckers’ phone to immediately give them the address of any in-coming calls.Mikelson’s crew would also record all conversations. A phone tap was also setup at Nathan Becker’s Nor-Tec office in Mountain View where an FBI agent waitedto answer any calls. And Angela Donner, Tanita Marie’s mother, allowed policeto put a tap on her phone in Balboa, in case she received any suspicious calls.

The security cameras on the BART system did not keep tapes, sodetectives were interviewing BART station workers and BART Police from everystop from the Coliseum to Balboa. They had dozens of witness statements frompassengers to go through. The FBI was running down everybody at Nor-Tec, alongwith family friends, acquaintances, checking histories, criminal records. Theyhad searched the house and yard three times using canine units. Alerts withDanny’s picture went to Bay Area airports, bus and train depots, cab companies,and police departments. U.S. Postal inspectors monitored the Beckers’ mail andboxes in key areas. Bay Area courier services were alerted. Garbage pickup inBalboa and Jordan Park was halted. Summaries of abductions around the Bay andacross America over the last year were ordered.

After several separate interviews with Maggie and Nathan, they wereconvinced Danny had been taken by a stranger.

“Do you think Donner and Becker are linked?” Turgeon asked.

“It’s too soon to think anything,” Sydowski said.

“If nothing comes tonight,” Tilly said, “the Beckers will make aplea for Danny in a news conference tomorrow. The mayor’s office is consideringa reward. So is Nathan’s company. We’ll give the TV people some recenthome-video footage of Danny. It may kick something out for us.

The sketch artist arrived. Mikelson and Sydowski took him to the denwhere Nathan was waiting. Sydowski sat at the edge of Nathan’s oak desk, nextto a small, gold-framed picture of Danny on his mother’s lap. Both were laughing.Sydowski set it aside gently, then checked his watch. For more than an hourNathan Becker struggled for the sketch artist, trying to describe the face ofthe man who kidnapped his son. So far, it had been fruitless. Nathan wasgrowing angry.

“Try to relax, Mr. Becker,” Mikelson said.

So many faces. They flowed together. Nathan remembered few detailsother than the beard. The BART people hadn’t seen the man as clearly as Nathanhad. The kidnapper likely knew about BART’s security cameras and avoided them,Sydowski reasoned. He suspected that he was a stalker who had waited for hisgolden opportunity But why Danny Becker? From Nathan Becker’s account, everyoneconcluded that his glimpse of his son’s kidnapping had lasted half a second. Itwas a needle in a haystack. Nathan’s frustration and anguish increased.

The phone in the study rang.

“Okay, Mr. Becker, let’s go.”

They rushed to the living room. Additional phone lines had beeninstalled. Two were new numbers, two were extensions. Pacific Bell would havethe caller’s address in seconds. The phone rang again.

“Nob Hill!” Someone shouted the address of the call.

Tape recorders were rolling, a SFPD hostage negotiator put on aheadset to listen in. He had a clipboard and pen, ready to jot instructions toNathan. The room was silent. Nathan looked at the negotiator. He nodded, andNathan answered on the third ring.

“Hello…” He swallowed. “Oh. Hello Mr. Brooker.” Nathan shook hishead.

Sydowski went to the bank of telephones, slipped on a headset andlistened to the call. An officer, already listening in, had scribbled thecaller’s name on a pad: Elroy Brooker, Nor-Tec’s CEO.

“I just heard what happened, Nathan. Two FBI agents just left myhome. I’m so sorry. How are you and Maggie holding up?”

“We’re praying,” Nathan sniffed.

“Be strong, Nathan. Never give up hope.”

“Did the agents tell you anything?”

“They asked a lot of questions about you and the project. If youwere a gambler, or ran up debts you couldn’t repay, if you were capable ofselling information about the project.”

“Yeah?” His voice wavered between anger and disbelief.

“I told them to go to hell and find your boy. You’re one of our toppeople. Outstanding in every way.”

Nathan had regarded Brooker as a bumbling, spineless relic.

“Listen, Nathan, I won’t tie up your line. I’m going to call theboard now. I think we can pull thirty, maybe fifty thousand from our corporatedonations account. It’ll be at your disposal, a reward, ransom, whatever ittakes to see your son is returned safely. As you know, Ruth and I have ninegrandchildren. Our prayers are for Danny, Maggie, and you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brooker.” Nathan hung up. The recorders stopped. Heput his face in his hands.

“Mr. Becker, we should work on the composite.” Mikelson said.

Nathan moved his jaw to speak, looking into his empty hand.

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I should have been watching him.He’s our little boy. He’s the same age as that murdered little girl. Whatif…what if… Oh please, I have to go and find my son.”

Nathan bolted for the door. Ditmire grabbed him. Sydowski helped,and they held Nathan until he finally broke down and wept.

“I visited my baby’sgrave this morning.” Angela Donner felt the eyes of her weekly bereavementgroup upon her. It was always hard when her turn came.

Don’t be ashamed, embarrassed or afraid. We’re here together. Thatwas the group’s philosophy. Still, it was difficult to face them. Angela waspainfully self-conscious. She was an overweight, twenty-one-year-old, living onwelfare with her father, who had lost both his legs below the knee to cancer.She couldn’t help being uneasy when it was her time to talk. She apologizedwith a smile.

“Poppa went with me. We brought fresh flowers. We always do.”

Angela fingered the pink ribbon, bowed around the folded,grease-stained, take-out bag she held on her lap, like a prayer book.

“Today, when we got to Tanita Marie’s spot-it’s pretty there in theshade of a big weeping willow-I started pushing Poppa’s chair, he points andsays, ‘Look, Angie. There’s something on her stone.’ And I could see it. Thewind blew this bag up against it. Poppa wanted to complain to the groundsman.But I said no.” Angela caressed the bag, then squeezed it.

“I took the bag and folded it. I took the ribbon from the flowersfrom our last visit and tied it nice round the bag and saved it. Because of allthe hundreds of stones in the children’s cemetery, this bag came to my baby’sgrave. It came for a reason. Just like all of the babies in this city, mine wasmurdered.”

The room’s fluorescent lights hummed. Angela stared at the bag inher plump hands. The group listened.

“But, what’s the reason? Why was my baby murdered? I was a goodmother. I loved her. Why did someone take her? How could somebody be so bad?Poppa says somebody who would kill a baby must be dead inside already. But whycan’t the police find my baby’s killer? He’s still out there. He could killanother baby.” Her voice grew small. “I know it’s been a year, but sometimes,at night, I can still hear her crying for me.” Angela held the bag to her faceand wept softly.

Lois Jensen left her chair, knelt before Angela, ad put her armsaround her. “Go ahead and let it out, sweetheart. It’s all right.”

Lois knew the hurt. Two years ago, her thirteen-year-old son Allanwas shot in the head while riding his bike through the park near their home.Lois was the one who found him. She knew the hurt.

Dr. Kate Martin made a note on her clipboard. Her group wasprogression. Manifestations of empathy, comfort, and compassion were nowcommon. Not long ago, Lois, who was married to a lawyer in Marin County, wouldrefuse to open up as each of the others articulated their grief. Now, throughAngela, Lois was healing. Death, the great equalizer, had taken a child from eachwoman. Now, like shipwrecked survivors, they were holding fast to each other,enduring.

Dr. Kate Martin had endured. Barely.

While writing, she tugged at her blazer’s cuffs, hiding the scarsacross her wrists. She watched Angela cherishing her take-out bag. For Kate, itwas leaves, saved from each visit to her parents’ grave.

Kate was eight when her mother and father were late returning homefrom a movie. Waiting and playing cards with their neighbor, Mrs. Cook. Apolice car arrived at the house. The old woman put an age-spotted hand to hermouth, Kate stood in her robe, barefoot, alone in the hall. Mrs. Cook talked inhushed tones with the young officer at the door, holding his hat in his hand. Somethingwas wrong. Mrs. Cook hurried to her, crushing her against her bosom, with asmell of moth balls, telling her there had been a horrible, awful car accident.

“You are all alone now, child.”

Kate was sent to live with her mother’s sister Ellen, her husband,Miles, and their three sons on their pig farm in Oregon.

She hated it.

They were strangers who treated her as the dark child who had broughtthe pall of human death into their home. She was given her own room andeveryone avoided her. Her only happiness came once a year, when, only for hersake they reminded her, they’d stop work and pile into the family wagon todrive to California to visit the cemetery where her parents were.

Uncle Miles loathed it. “It costs too damn much money and serves nopurpose, Ellen.” He complained during their final trip together.

Throughout the drive the older boys taunted Kate.

“You never smile. Why don’t you stay in San Francisco. You piss usoff.” Quentin, the oldest, was fifteen and love killing pigs.

“Yeah. Why don’t you go and live in the stupid graveyard, you likeit there so much? Huh?” Lewis, Quentin’s sidekick, was thirteen.

Aunt Ellen told the boys to stop. At the cemetery, after Kate visitedher parents’ headstone and gathered leaves, they started back to the car. Theboys fell behind Kate and started up again.

“we’re going to leave you here.” Quentin grinned. His eye spottedthe dark earth of a freshly dug grave nearby. He nodded to his brothers. In aninstant they picked her up. Quentin held here ankles, his brother had herearms. “No Quentin, Please!” Her leaves floated to the ground. The boys carriedher to the open grave.

They dropped her into the grave and looked down on her from itsmouth, laughing and showering her with dirt. “Welcome home Kate.” She lay onthe cool dirt, watching them. Dead silent. Aunt Ellen screamed and screamed asUncle Miles lifted her out.

“You are all alone now, child,”

Uncle Miles had laughed it off. A joke, Kate, only a joke. She wasten. Aunt Ellen studied the horizon. When they got back, Kate took her sewingshears into the bathroom and sliced them across her wrists. She ached for hermother and father, wanted to be with them. She closed her eyes and lay in thetub, remembering the grave.

Quentin, who liked watching her through the bathroom keyhole, foundher. Just in time, Aunt Ellen knew Kate had to be rescued. So for the next fouryears, Dr. Brendan Blake had helped Kate climb out of hell. And at fourteen,she decided to become a beacon to those bereaved of light. There was enoughmoney in her parents’ estate for her to attend Berkeley.

Now at thirty-five, Kate Martin was a tenuredprofessor at San Francisco Metropolitan University’s Department of Psychiatry,where she was the focus of a small academic sensation. It was rumored that herresearch into the impact on parents bereaved of their children throughunnatural death could lead to a university bereavement studies center.

For nearly a year, fifteen volunteers, all parents of childrenwho had been killed, met on campus every other Saturday to discuss theirprivate torment. The corporeal and psychological toll of each child’s death wasalso measured in journals the parents keep.

Kate looked fondly at Angela Donner. The study wasborn with the murder of her-two-old daughter, Tanita Marie. Police had toldKate about a non-profit support group that was working with Angela Donner. Kateoffered counseling, to help her cope with Tanita’s murder. Then she becameconvinced more in-depth empirical studies were needed on the impact of childrenwho had died unnaturally.

She submitted a proposal for a research project, butthe university’s bureaucracy moved at a glacial pace. Despite cutbacks, she knewfunding existed. She lobbied the research committee. Eventually the committeemembers threw up their hands and found her some money-a fraction of what she’drequested-but enough for one year. Through the police, victims’ groups,personal ads, and notices posted around the campus, she found volunteersubjects for the project.

Now, with less than eight weeks remaining, when thestudy was beginning to bear fruit, the plug was going to be pulled. Kate wasconcerned. Patterns were emerging. She’d observed three, possibly four, distinctcycles, and in one case, an extremely unusually phenomenon that exceeded guilt.She was on the verge of understanding it and needed another year. But she wouldnot get another cent from the university. Despite accolades from somecolleagues, her request for more funding was denied and her work deemedredundant.

“Previous studies have clearly shown us the cycles youclaim to have found, Katie.” Dr. Joel Levine, the dean of psychiatry, advisedher to wrap up her research, as he cleaned his glasses with his tie. “You can’tperpetuate this artificial healing process for your group. It’s not fair tothem. Some in the department believe you’re using your subjects as acornerstone for a bereavement center. Write your paper, or a book, then moveon. Go out on a date. You know, you’re far more attractive than you allowyourself to be.”

Kate’s face reddened with fury, the same way it did atthe faculty Christmas party, when the eminent Dr. Levine, married father offour children, groped her breasts and suggested they slip away to “fuck likerabid mink” in the back seat of her Volvo.“Go to hell,” she hissed beforeslamming his office door, startling an undergraduate in the hall who droppedhis books.

Tom Reed was ninety minutes away from deadline when he returned to the star’snewsroom.

Bruce Duggan, the weekend night editor, leaned back inhis chair, entwining his fingers behind his head. His glasses rested atop hisforehead, which had encroached upon his hairline. His black eyes peered from awrinkled face that had settled into a permanent frown after twenty-five yearsin news. “Anybody else get the father, Reed?”

“No. It’s our exclusive. Cops sealed the house. Thefamily is holding a press conference tomorrow.”

Duggan thought, “Put the father up high. The art isstrong. It’s going A-1. Wilson filed a sider on Donner and some background foryou. I’ll ship it to you. Work in the Donner murder. Is there a link?”

“Nothing official yet.”

Duggan replaced his glasses and resumed working at hiscomputer. “I’ll need it fast to make first edition.”

At his desk Reed entered his personal code and histerminal came to life, requesting a story. He typed “KIDNAPPED.” A blackblinking cursor appeared, ticking off seconds on a blank screen.

Several floors below in the a paper’s basement, a crewof pressmen readied the Star’s Metroliner presses. Less than an hourafter they started rolling, sixty circulation trucks would rumble from theloading docks into the night, delivering a pound of information to threehundred thousand homes in the Greater Bay Area.

Reed’s story would be on the front page, above thefold.

The third paragraph of the story described policecombing the area, that an expanded full-scale search for Danny and his abductorwas to resume Sunday at sunrise. Reed studied his notes for the strongestquotes from Nathan Becker, flagging the exclusivity of the interview:

The distant horn of a tug echoed from the bay as Tom Reed walked across the Starparking lot. Cool Pacific breezes carried the stench of diesel and exhaust fromthe freeway overhead. The green ’77 Comet he had bought after Ann left waitedlike a lonely, faithful mutt.

Reed lost his awe for San Francisco- the lights ofCoit Tower, the financial district, the pyramid, the hills, the bridges, theBay.

He ran a red light entering Sea Park, a community ofuphill mansions whose views rivaled Russian Hill and Pacific Heights. Itbordered a small park dotted by stone tables topped with permanent chessboards.Old European men brought their own worn pieces here to play friendly games andreminisce. Beyond the houses were rows of condos. A sedate community. GleamingJaguars, BMW’s and Mercedes lined the streets. Precision clipped shrubs andhedges hid the pong of tennis balls, the splash of a private pool, andthe occasional whispered investment tip.

Reed parked near the three-story Edwardian house wherehe lived with five other men. The owner, Lila Onescu, was a Rumanian grand damewith gypsy blood who lived in a condo two blocks away. After Ann left withZach, Reed couldn’t bear living alone in their house. A buddy told him of LilaOnescu’s place, a jewel in Sea Park, well kept, quiet. A hundred bucks a weekfor a room on the second floor where he would share a bathroom and kitchen withtwo tenants. This was his home.

Reed creaked up the staircase, welcomed by the typednote taped to the door. “Where is the rent? L. Onescu.” He was two weeksbehind. He would give her a check tomorrow he promised, fumbling for his key.

His room had three bay windows overlooking the MarinaDistrict and the Pacific. A dorm-style single bed with rumpled sheets wasagainst one wall. A mirrored dresser stood against another near an ornamentalfireplace. A small desk sat opposite the bed, and a tattered, comfortable sofachair was in the middle of the room, which had hardwood floors and faded greenflower print wallpaper. Reed’s framed degree, his two awards, a Starfront page, and silver-framed pictures of Ann and Zach, were leaning on thefireplace mantel, hastily placed in the hope they would be collected at amoment’s notice. A stack of newspapers tottered a few feet from the floor nextto the dresser. It had started growing the day he moved in-three weeks afterAnn moved out of their bungalow in Sunset. When she left, their house hadbecome a mausoleum for their marriage. He had to leave, or be entombed. Theyagreed to rent their house.

Reed went down the hall to the kitchen for ice. In hisroom, he poured some Jack Daniel’s, striped off his clothes, casting them ontothe pig-sized heap in the corner, slipped into jogging shorts. He opened thebay windows and watched the twinkling lights of the Golden Gate.

All he ever wanted in this world was to be a reporter.The dream of a kid from Big Sky Country. His dad used to bring him a newspapersix days a week, The Great Falls Tribune. He’d spread it open on theliving room floor and read the news to his mother. When he was eleven, hestarted his first Trib route. Trudging through the snow, shivering inthe rain, or sweating under the prairie sun with that canvas bag, nearly blackwith newsprint, slung over his shoulder like a harness. Dad had knotted thestrap so the bag hung just so, like an extension of himself. He would read thepaper as he delivered it, dreaming of seeing his stories in print. He had fortycustomers and every day, by the time he emptied his bag, he’d have read theday’s entire edition.

Life’s daily dramas enthralled him. He became a newsaddict and an expert on current affairs. In high school, he graduated from newspaperboy to cub reporter, writing stories for the school paper. He was accepted intoJ-School at the University of Missouri, where he met Ann, a business major withbig brown eyes and a smile that knocked him out. She was from Berkeley andwanted children and her own shop to sell the children’s clothes she woulddesign and make herself. That was a secret, she told him.

He wanted a family, too, but he wanted to establishhis career first and maybe write books, the last part was a secret. If you talkabout writing books, you’d never do it.

They were married after graduation. A few weeks later,he got a job with AP in San Francisco. Ann was happy to move back to the BayArea, where she would be near her mother. And Reed was determined to provehimself in San Francisco. He hustled for AP, breaking a story about the RussianMafia. He was short listed for a Pulitzer, but lost out. The San FranciscoStar then offered him a job as a crime reporter at twice his salary.

Ann got an administrative post at one of SanFrancisco’s hospitals, at night, she worked on her business plan and clothingdesigns. He traveled constantly, worked long hours and was rarely home. Theyears passed. Starting a family seemed impossible.

Then boom. Ann was pregnant. He was stunned.Unprepared. She had forgotten her pills when they vacationed in Las Vegas. Hehinted that she’d done it purposely. Not true, she said. They didn’t want toargue. In the following months, they retreated, withdrew into themselves. Annwelcomed the coming of a baby, Reed braced for it.

When he witnessed the birth of their son, he felt adegree of love he never know existed. But soon, he grappled with his ownmortality. It frightened him, overwhelmed him with the realization that he hadlittle time in his life for accomplishments. He was a father. He feared hewould fail fatherhood. He compensated the only way he knew: by striving throughhis job to leave Zach a legacy as a man who had made his mark. Someone Zachcould be proud of. Consequently, the Star became his mistress andfamily. It seemed Ann and Zach became people he appreciated only when needed.They shared the groceries and the furniture. On the surface, he was like anyother young husband and father. In truth, he only gave of himself when it wasconvenient. It was cute how Zach imitated him and wanted to be a reporter, justlike his daddy. It was reassuring how Ann understood that he never had time forthem. But something was crumbling, little by little, day by day. Reed was blindto what had happened, oblivious to Ann’s achievement of single-handedly gettingher small shop of the ground while raising Zach alone. He had become a strangerforcing them to survive without him.

His fuckup last year on Tanita Marie Donner’s murderbrought it all to the surface. He had deceived himself about priorities. Whathe invested every day in the pursuit of vainglory could be had by anyone forfifty cents. But the price exacted from his family and himself wasincalculable. Now he was alone in his room with everything he had thoughtvaluable: his awards, his jobs, himself, and a pile of newspapers threateningto spill across the floor.

How could he have been so stupid?

What had he done to Ann? To Zach? He was so sorry. Hehad to call them. Had to tell them. Right now. He heard the chink of glass ashe rose to go to the phone and nearly fell down. It was three-thirty in themorning. He was drunk. Forget it. Staggering to bed, he noticed the MetroUniversity envelope sticking from his jacket pocket. Scanning the latter aboutDr. Martin’s bereavement research, he scoffed and tossed it. Then he sawanother envelope in his jacket, from the photo department. The borrowedsnapshot of Danny Raphael Becker. Someone had slipped it in his pocket with anote suggesting he return it to the Beckers in person. He looked at it for along time. Well, this was one story he wouldn’t be fucking up. Tenderly, hepropped up Danny’s picture on the mantel next to the little framed photographof his son, Zach.

The phone jangled. Half asleep, Reed grabbed it.

“You up Reed?”

“No.”

Silence. Reed squeezed the receiver. “Who the hell isthis?”

The caller sighed “You sober, Reed?”

Myron Benson’s voice rattled him out of drowsiness.Since the fuckup, the metro editor no longer acknowledged Reed in the newsroom.Why was he calling? Bored tormenting him with probation? Did he reach adecision on Reed’s fate? Reed hadn’t seen today’s paper. Did he screw up? Wasthat it? Was Benson going to fire him now?

“What do you want?”

“Read your story today. Good job getting the father.”

Reed waited for the “but”

“I want you to cover the Becker press conferencetoday.”

Reed sat up. “Duggan told me last night you pulled meoff the story”

“Changed my mind. For now, you will now be involved inour coverage. I want to see where this abduction thing is going.”

“Well, I have a few theories.”

“Shove ‘em up your ass. I want solid reporting.Understand?”

“I understand.” That you’re a fucking prick.

“I also want a feature on Dr. Martin’s bereavementresearch at the university. I read her letter. Tie it in with the Becker case.”

“Right”

“And Reed, any incompetence will be noted.”

Like pulling wings off of flies. You loving thisBenson?

Quit moping and do something about it, he decided aftershaving and dressing. He had under an hour before the press conference. No timefor breakfast. He snatched two bananas to eat on the way. Remembering to grabthe snapshot of Danny Becker from the mantel brought him face-to-face with Ann,Zach, and his own guilt.

Quit moping. Do something.

He checked his watch

He punched the number, it had been weeks since theyhad talked. What if she called a lawyer? How would he begin? I love you andZach more than anything and I want us back together. He now realized he may bewrong and was ready to admit it.

It rang twice.

“Hello?” Ann’s mother said.

“Hello, Doris.”

“Oh, hello Tom.” No Malice. Doris was not aninterfering mother-in-law. She was always pleasant to him.

“I see you been busy.” Doris was a faithful Starreader.

“Yes.” Not knowing what to say, he said, “I hopeyou’re well.”

“I’m fine, Tom. And you.”

:Me?” He saw the empty Jack Daniel’s bottle. “I’mokay.”

“It’s so terribly sad, don’t you think?”

Was she referring to the kidnapping, or her daughter’smarriage to him? She continued. “That little boy, Danny Becker. His mother andfather must be sick with worry.”

“I’m sure they are.”

The extension clicked.

“Tom…?”

Ann’s voice was balm to him. For he accepted that hecould have been wrong and wanted to tell her. She and Zach were his life. Heknew he could not live without them and he wanted to tell her. But he didn’t.

All he managed was, “Hi Ann.”

“Hi. How are you doing?”

“Well, I’ve been better. How are you doing?”

“We’re fine.”

“Do you guys need anything?”

“Nothing.”

“How’s the car running?”

“The transmission feels funny.”

“It was starting to slip just before you…” Hestopped himself before saying: just before you left me. “Take it to Otto’s. Thewarranty’s still good.”

“Okay.”

“Want me to make the appointment?”

“I’ll do it.”

A few awkward seconds passed.

“I read your story today about this horrible kidnapping.If anything ever Zach…”

“They’re going hard on the investigation. I’m headingto a press conference. Ann, I want to see you, to talk about things.”

“It’s Zach, isn’t it?”

Zach? He was puzzled. “Why do you say that?”

“I thought he might have called you. He’s been havingnightmares.” Her voice became a whisper. “He misses you.”

“He misses me?”

Reed seethed with conflicting emotions. What did youexpect, Ann? You paint me as some evil leper because I enjoy my job. You yankhim out of the only home he’s known, take him away from his friends, hisneighborhood. He’s probably scared to death of this kidnapping shit. He’s gotto get up at five-thirty every morning now to be driven across the goddamnedbay to school. He’s had to miss soccer, which he lives for. You throw hislittle world into a goddamn blender. He misses what you took him away from: hishome.

Hold everything.

He was wrong. Only a fool would blame Ann. Blameyourself, Reed.

“I miss both of you,” he said.

“Then why haven’t you come to him?”

“When you moved to Berkeley I took it to mean that youdidn’t want to see me. I swear that’s what I thought you wanted. I had to fightthe urge to see you. I used to park down the street from your mother’s house,hoping to catch a glimpse of you.”

“You did?”

“I don’t know what the rules are, Ann.”

“Zach came home from school one day, asking about youand when we were going to stop being mad and all move back home.”

“He cuts through the crap, doesn’t he?”

They both chuckled faintly, leaving Zach’s questionalone.

“Ann, I want to get together. I have some things Iwant to say.”

“Well, Zach’s been waiting to visit you at the paper.Why don’t we drop by and have lunch sometime this week?”

“It’s a date. Do you think he wants to talk to me fora bit?”

“Sure, just a minute.”

Ann put the receiver down. A few seconds later Tomheard the pounding of Zach’s sneakers approaching the phone.

“Dad?”

Reed felt something in his throat. “You being good,Zach?”

“Yup.”

“Are you being nice to Grandma?”

“Yup.” Then he whispered, “I even remember to leavethe toilet seat down after I go to the bathroom.”

“Wonderful.”

“Dad, are we going to move back home?”

“We’re working on it. We’re working on it, okay?”

“Dad, you want us all to move back home, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Me, too. Mom does, too. I heard her telling Grandma.”

“That’s good. I’m glad. Anything you want to talkabout?”

“That little boy that got kidnapped yesterday, I sawhis picture in your paper. Is that boy dead?”

“Nobody knows. The police are working real hard on thecase.”

“But the police are going to catch the kidnapper,right? They’re going to catch him before he takes more kids, right, Dad?”

Reed ran his hand over his face. “Zach, your motherand I love you, more than you ever know. Do you hear me, son?”

“I guess.” His voice was weak.

“And it’s all right to be a little nervous and extracareful to always not to talk to strangers. But Zach, don’t go crazy in yourhead over it. Don’t confuse it with what’s happening with us. Okay? Mom and Iare working on moving back together.”

“But when, Dad? I want to go home….” Zach’s voicebroke into a gut-wrenching plea that nearly winded Reed.

“I don’t know when, son.’

Zack was crying softly.

“Zack, it’s all right to be sad. I’m sad, too. But youhave to be strong and patient for Mom and me. Can you do it?”

“Uh-huh, I’ll try.”

“we’ll do everything we can. Now, I promise I willtalk to you again real soon.” Reed looked at his watch. “Tell Mom I will callher. Now I have to go, son.”

Reed hung up and hurried to his Comet.

Danny Becker woke up afraid and hungry. This strange place smelled bad, likeanimal cages at the zoo. His mouth tasted funny. “Dad!” Danny waited. Nothing.“Mommy! Where are you?”

Danny listened. Still nothing.

Something was wrong. He had his shoes on. Mommy neverlet him sleep in bed with his shoes on. His breathing quickened. He was soscared, sitting here on the smelly old mattress. The room was lit by a naked,dim bulb casting long shadows on the concrete walls. One tiny window had barson the inside. Newspapers covered the glass. Danny noticed a cup of milk, plateof cookies and a sandwich on the floor.

He cried as he ate. The sandwich was peanut butter andjam. Not nice like Mommy makes. The jam was dripping off the sides. The cookieswere cream cookies, the fat ones. He remembered being on the subway with Daddywhen he got bumped out the door and fell. He was lifted up from behind by handsthat were strong like Daddy’s. But they weren’t Daddy’s. They held him funny.At first Danny thought it as a game because they were going somewhat fast. Butwhen the person carrying him stumbled, he said a bad word. Danny tried toscream, but a stinky wet cloth smothered his face.

Danny had to pee. He replaced a half-eaten cookie onthe plate, stood up, and looked around. He had to find the bathroom. He went tothe door, reached up, gripped the knob, and turned.

It opened.

The hallway was dark. A shaft of light from a TVilluminated a stairway, and distinct, rhythmic squeak-creak sounds camefrom above.

Sniffling, Danny tiptoed up the stairs. He heard abark. A little blond dog waited for him at the top of the stairs.

It was brighter on the next floor and the bathroom wasnear the stairs. Danny entered and left the door open so it would be known hewas doing the right thing. The dog waited for him at the door. He was friendlyand licked Danny’s hand.

The TV and the squeak-creak grew louder asDanny entered the living room.

“…here’s the pitch; it’s a slider inside. Strike!”

Fifty thousand fans at Dodger Stadium roared. Dannyturned and took in the room. It was barren. Torn rags and soiled sheets andtowels covered the windows. No Mommy. No Daddy.

The walls were filthy. A large table, cluttered with abig computer, papers and maps was pushed to a corner.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“…the Giants are looking good here in LosAngeles…”

Baseball. The TV was on a tall stand in the middle ofthe room.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

A strange man faced the set, rocking back and forth ina rocking chair. His back was turned to Danny.

“I want my mommy and daddy,” Danny said.

The stranger ignored him.

“…but so far they’re giving L.A. a drubbingtoday…”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Strewn on the floor beside the man were newspapers.Seeing something familiar. Danny inched closer.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Danny saw his own picture in one paper. He saw Daddy’spicture too-he looked worried and sad. Danny shuddered.

Who was that man in the rocking chair? He took half astep backward.

“Home field isn’t helping the Dodgers, Frank…Excuseme, Billy. We’re going to the network’s San Francisco affiliate for an updateon the kidnapping of Danny Becker.”

Danny’s mouth dropped when he heard his name. His eyeswere rived to the set. What was happening?

A man on the TV said, “Good afternoon. I am PeterMcDermid with an EyeWitness News special update.” Danny blinked, staring athimself on TV.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“Three-year-old Danny Raphael Becker was kidnapped…”

What is kidnapped?

“…from his father yesterday while they were ridinghome on San Francisco’s Bay Area Transit System subway from a baseball game atOakland’s Alameda County Coliseum. It is believed a man abducted the boy fromthe Balboa Park BART Station. Danny is still missing. Police say his family hasreceived no ransom calls and that they have no suspects, no useful descriptionof Danny’s abductor. Today they are intensifying their investigation. Onehundred additional police and one thousand volunteers are helping in the searchfor Danny. He is the only child of Nathan and Magdalene Becker.”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

The picture of a little girl appeared beside Danny’s.He knew her. It was the girl he saw on the subway. The one who never smiled.

“A disturbing aspect in Danny’s case is that ithappened nearly one year later, and in almost exactly the same area wheretwo-year-old Tanita Marie Donner was taken from her home. She was murderedthree days later in Golden Gate Park.”

Murdered? Is that when you are dead? Is that murdered?

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“An unprecedented investigation involving the FBI andSan Francisco police has yet to find Tanita’s killer. Police refuse to say ifTanita Donner’s murder and Danny Becker’s abduction are linked. But EyeWitnessNews has learned the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, expert in profiling serialcriminals, is again assisting.”

“There has been an outpouring of support for theBeckers. We go now to a news conference called by Nathan and Magdalene Becker.EyeWitness News reporter Jennie Duffy is there. Jeannie, give us a sense of theimpact the Becker abduction has had.”

Jennie Duffy stood before a row of TV cameras. Beyondthem, a table with a small mountain of microphones and portable tape recordersrose before two empty chairs.

“Peter, the people I’ve talked to are horrified. Theabduction of Danny Becker is every parent’s nightmare. They say this kind ofthing isn’t supposed to happen in their neighborhood. It’s something thathappens in the movies, but not here. They’re taking precautions. Neighborhoodwatch parties are being formed, children are not allowed anywhere alone, andstrangers are regarded with suspicion. A blanket of fear has fallen over SanFrancisco.”

“I talked to a relative of the Beckers’ and he told meDanny’s parents will offer a substantial reward for Danny’s safe return. Andthe family just released to reports a home video of Danny at his cousin’sbirthday party. Taken two weeks ago. Here’s a bit of that now. Danny’s thesmaller boy wearing a red shirt.”

Danny’s cousins, Paul and Sarah appeared on TV withhim. Paul kicked a soccer ball to Danny. Sarah was skipping.

The man in the chair stopped rocking, and turned hishead slowly to Danny, allowing him to see only half of his face.

Danny took another step backward and searched the roomfor a door. He wanted to leave. Now. The man resumed rocking. Squeak-creak.

On TV, a man and a woman seated themselves before themicrophones. Transfixed, Danny clasped his hands together, blurting, “Mom, mymommy!”

Squeak-creak.

The press conference room was electric with emotionunder the lights. Silent, except for the soft flashes of still cameras and the whir-clickof their rapid-fire motor drives. Nathan and Maggie held hands, sat with theirheads bowed, struggling to begin. Maggie brushed her eye. No makeup. Nathan wasunshaven. They had not slept.

“I’m sorry,” Nathan said. “This is difficult.”

They faced some one hundred reports, photographers,and camera crews. Relatives, friends, and police officials lined one wall.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“Take your time,” somebody said.

Nathan nodded. The cameras flashed and whirred.

“Danny is all we have” Maggie began. “To the personwho has our son, we say please bring Danny back, please let him go, that’s allwe ask. We beg you. Please.” Tears streamed down her face, making it shiny. Thecameras flashed, reporters made notes.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Nathan looked toward his family and friends. “We wantto say to the person who has Danny, our only child, please don’t harm him. Weknow you must be hurting to have taken Danny. Our son, Danny. We are nowsuffering together and only you can make things better. We beg you. Danny isjust a little boy, please let Danny go. Please.”

Nathan brushed his eyes. “We are willing-“ he stopped.With the help of our friends, we are willing to pay thirty-five thousanddollars for information that brings Danny home safely. If the person who hasDanny finds it in his heart to return Danny to us, you will receive everyconsideration. Please bring Danny back safely. Please.”

Several reporters started with questions. Nathan stoppedthem.

“That’s all we can say. Thank you.”

“Mr. Becker, a few short questions?” implored onereporter.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“I’m sorry. Please, it’s all we can say now. Thankyou.”

“Waiiiittt!” Danny’s arms shot toward his mother andfather. “Come and get me please. I’ll be good. I promise. Mommy. Daddy.”

They left.

The chair stopped and so did Danny’s breathing.

The man stood, switched the set off. Danny scrambledto his feet and hurried to the kitchen, afraid to look behind him. He heard thepaws of the dog, following him. He could see a door in the kitchen. He reachedup and grasped the handle. It wouldn’t move. He kept trying. “Home.” He pulledmightily, and kicked the door for not cooperating. The dog yelped. What if heasked the man nicely?

“Home. Please.”

Nothing happened.

Danny looked over his shoulder-the man was across theroom, leaning over the big table with all the papers.

“Home. Please!” Danny sobbed.

The man raised his head, as if hearing Danny for thefirst time. He turned and faced him, smiling. He looked friendly. Danny noticeda silver cross hanging from his neck. The man squatted, held out his arms,inviting Danny to come to him.

Danny didn’t dare move. Something was funny about theman’s eyes. They were big and wide the way Daddy made his eyes go when he wasZombie Man. The man stepped closer.

“No! You leave me alone. Stop!” Danny shouted.

He ran for the basement stairs. The dog scamperedafter him.

Too small to run down them, Danny sat and bouncedalong each stair on his bottom as quickly as he could, racing to the room wherehe woke, slamming the door behind him, hurrying to a corner. Nowhere to hide.

The door’s handle turned. The man entered and smiled.Danny pushed himself against the corner. “Leave me alone! Go away!”

The man drew nearer, his black shadow looming againstthe wall. Towering over Danny, gazing down upon him from a few feet away.

Danny wanted to push himself through the wall, ballinghis hands into fists, clutching them together against his chest, terrifiedsomething bad was going to happen.

“Go away! Go away!”

The man dropped to his knees, stretched out his arms.

“Oh Raphael! Holy Rescuer, Holy Guardian! Years I havesuffered. Years, I have atoned. Years I have waited and now you have come! Youhave come!”

Edward Keller was enraptured, arms outstretched, palmsto heaven.

“Oh Raphael! The prophet’s words are true. ‘Through meyou enter where the lost are sent.’ Raphael. The resurrection has begun!”

Keller bowed before Danny.

Danny cried harder than he ever had in his life.

An hour after Danny Becker’s mother and father pleaded for his safe return, SanFrancisco’s top detectives gathered in Room 400 at the Hall of Justice onBryant. Over the years the room had sucked up the sweat, the fury, and the verysouls of investigators avenging the dead whose lives had been taken by evil,perpetually manifesting itself in every wicked force imaginable from crackcocaine to the Zebra, from the Dai Hen Jai to the Zodiac.

Enlarged photos of Danny and Tanita gazed from thecorkboard Inspector Gord Mikelson had wheeled into place. Beneath their faces acity map was pierced with tiny flap pins. Pink for locations in the Donne case,blue for Becker. Each had a related file. Notebooks were opened. Reports andwitness statements were circulated.

“Right off, we’ve got one unidentified suspect andlittle else on Becker. No calls, letters, demands. No body,” Mikelson said.

“Not yet,” someone muttered, alluding to statisticsthat show that if an abducted child was not found alive within forty-eighthours, the child was likely dead.

“We will have none of that shit here. Understand? Ortomorrow you are working a fucking koban giving directions to a hayseed fromBoise.” Lieutenant Leo Gonzales, head of the Homicide Detail, unwrapped animported cigar and squinted at the talent in the room. Among them wereSydowski, Turgeon, and FBI Special Agents Rust and Ditmire. Gonzales made eyecontact with everyone, including Captain Miles Beck, Deputy Chief ofInvestigations, Bill Kennedy, and Nick Roselli, chief of inspectors. Many inthe room were unfamiliar with the Donner case. Adhering to the city’sno-smoking rule Gonzales did not light his cigar, though he yearned to.“Although we’ve got no body, we are concerned with the obvious similarities toDonner, Walt’s file. Now listen up.” Gonzales nodded to Mikelson. “Go, Gord.”

“We have nothing unusual in the twenty-four hoursbefore Danny Becker’s abduction. We canvassed their route. A couple of peoplebelieve they saw a man follow Nathan and Danny onto the bus. Their descriptionsare vague, but generally fit with Nathan’s. But we really don’t have anythingstrong in that department.”

“What about a composite?” Inspector Art Tipper said.

“The father got a glimpse of the bad guy at Balboa,but his description is unclear. We’ve got the police artist and Beth atComputer Enhancing working something up.”

“The game, anything there?” Tipper asked.

“Working on it with guys across the bay,” Sydowskisaid.

“We’ve got, hold it”-Milkelson checked his notes-“atlast count, one hundred sixty phone notes to sort through, about the samenumber of E-mail tips. We expect it all to go up because of the newsconference. We’ve dozens of re-interviews and we have to go over the family’sbackground again.”

“Let’s hear it, Gord.” Gonzales wanted Mikelson tooffer what his gut told him. “Give it up.”

“The Beckers stuck to their routine in the twenty-fourhours before the kidnapping. The impulse on Nathen Becker’s part was to takeDanny to the game on public transit and not to drive his BMW on the weekend,which he loves doing. That was an impulse. Only someone who was stalking themwould know. I think our guy is a stalker.”

“That’s what you think?” Gonzales said.

“I believe our guy knows the Beckers inside out.Probably studied them for weeks, months even.”

Gonzales wanted checks for any strange vehicles nearthe Becker home and a run through parking citations for the area.

Okay, Walt”-Tippet turned to Sydowski-“is the guy whotook Becker our missing link in the Donner file?”

“Wait. For the benefit of everyone coming to thisfresh, walk us through Donner, Walt,” Deputy Chief Kennedy said.

“I want to measure Becker against Donner from squareone.”

Sydowski knew the case history by rote. “Angela Donneris a single, young welfare mother. She puts her daughter, Tanita Marie down fora nap in the playpen of the fenced rear patio of their ground-floor suite inBalboa almost one year ago. When Angela goes to answer the phone, someone grabsTanita, unseen. No witness, no physical evidence at the scene. No ransom call,no letters. No demands. Nothing. Three days later, two girls on a science tripfind her about eleven a.m. in Golden Gate, in a garbage bag, under a tire.”

“Time of death and location, Walt?” Inspector BrucePaley asked.

“Coroner puts it at eight hours before she was found.She was killed the night before about three in the morning.”

“At the park?” Paley asked.

“No. Her stage of rigor indicates she was not killedthere. She was held for three days, then killed and dumped.”

“What about the baby’s farther?”

“Checked out clean. Her throat was cut with a small,tooth-edged knife. Some details of her death are hold-back,” Sydowski said. “Wehad nothing, no weapon, no witnesses. Nothing, except suspicions about FranklinWallace. We lit the ‘hood, ran everybody in a twelve-block radius of the girl’shome. Wallace came up, among others. He was a short-order cook, married, andhad a four-year-old daughter. He lived near Tanita, read Bible stories to herand kids at his Sunday school day care, He also had a ten-year-old convictionin Virginia for molesting a five-year-old girl. He made our suspect list, alongwith others in the area. We questioned Wallace superficially through a routine canvass.We never went hard on him. He was alibied and we had nothing at the time, whichwas days after the case broke.

“Quantico’s profile leaned strongly to a two-personteam, which was bang on when we got a break later. A patrol officer chasingdrugs in Dolores found Tanita’s plastic diaper and these two Polaroids hiddenunder some bushes.” Sydowski passed around enlarged copies of the twosnapshots. “This material is also hold-back.”

One picture showed Tanita alive, naked, being held bya man wearing no shirt. The man’s head has been cut out of the picture. Thesecond photo showed a different man with tattoos on his forearms, wearing ablack hood and gloves, holding Tanita, her little eyes open wide.

Turgeon covered her mouth with her hand.

Sydowski continued.

“We’re still working on the tattoo’s. Looks like he’sdone time. The man in the first picture is Wallace. His prints were on Tanita’sdiaper. We’re certain two men were involved with Donner. Fits the profile. Isuspect the diaper and picture were trophies they kept.”

“Why’s that?” Tippet said.

Sydowski nodded to the FBI agents. Rust answered.

“Because the killer is usually aroused by reliving orfantasizing about any aspect of the act. Look, the material is not in andresidence. Our boy is smart to hide it in a public place. Makes it tough tolink him to the crime. He can return to the pictures and enjoy them. He likelysavored the baby’s scent from the diaper, it was a clean one. The killer wasthe dominant team member who literally cut Wallace out of the fantasy byremoving his head from the picture.”

“Didn’t the guy try to set up Wallace somehow?” Paleysaid.

“Yeah, he fucked us over good,” Sydowski said.“Everything happened at once. Right after we found the stuff in Dolores andbefore we could nail Wallace, Tom Reed at the Star got an anonymous callsaying Wallace was the killer, that we had pictures of him with the girl andthat he had a record in Virginia. We figured the killer must have seen our guyfind the pictures. How else would he know? Reed called Virginia, whichconfirmed Wallace’s record for child molesting. Reed confirmed from neighborsthat Wallace lived near Tanita and had her in his toddlers’ Bible classes. Thenhe called me for confirmation that Wallace was our suspect. He got nothing, Iassure you.” Sydowski stared at Ditmire. “then Reed went immediately toWallace’s home, confronted him with what he had. Wallace never knew we had thepictures, the diaper, his prints, his records, until Reed told him. He deniedto Reed that he was involved, then blew his brains out with a shotgun when Reedleft. We never got to question Wallace hard about the diaper, the pictures, hispartner.”

“We fucked up there,” Rust jumped in. We are going tosurveil Wallace, wire his phone, watch his mail, hoping it would lead us to themasked man. Tom Fucking Reed got in the way.”

“What about Reed’s tip? Did he tape it?” Paley asked.

“No. It was cold, out of the blue,” Sydowski said.

“Reed’s tip had to be Wallace’s partner,” Sydowskisaid. “I think it was the killer. I think he panicked when he saw us discoverhis trophies and, fearing Wallace would finger him, tried to set him up.Something like that. Wallace’s widow told us Wallace got a call about an hourbefore Reed arrived. The call scared him, but he refused to tell her who itwas, She thought it was Reed saying he was coming over, but Reed told us henever made an advanced call. Wallace and the other likely plotted to grabDonner for a day or two with the aim of returning her. It’s been done before.But it goes wrong and she ends up in a garbage can with her throat cut. Ourtattooed guy is likely a hard-core skinner who manipulated Wallace, then tripsup the case.”

“We never publicly said Wallace was a suspect?” Paleysaid.

“No Wallace was dead,” Gonzales said. “We want toleave his partner in the dark. So we publicity doubt Reed’s story. It may notbe nice, but we’re chasing a child-killer.” He paused. “Merle, Lonnie, you gotanything?”

Ditmire leafed through his notes.

“Nathan Becker is a computer systems engineer withNor-Tec in Mountain View, head of a project for the U.S. military. The CIA toldus this morning that it would not rule out a terrorist act as one plausiblescenario here.”

“But we have no demands,” Sydowski said. “And doesn’ttradition show that responsibility for acts of terrorism is usually claimedwithin twenty-four hours?”

“Not in every instance, Walt,” Rust said.

Ditmire continued with the results of a VICAP check.“Two recent child abduction-murder cases around Dallas-Fort Worth in the lastthree years. And for the same period, there has been one in Denver, Seattle,Detroit, Memphis, and Salt Lake City. We’re getting files on them. We’ve gotagents posing as kids and agents posing as pervs, baiting whatever is outthere. That’s it for now.”

Gonzales nodded. “Claire, any hint of cult, our humansacrifice?”

Inspector Claire Ward an expert on cults, had beentaking notes.

“Too soon to say, Lieutenant, I’d like to look at theevidence from the Donner case again.”

“Walt will help you there,” Gonzales said. “All right.We are going to chew up every shred we’ve got on this, understand?Every-fucking-thing. The heat on this one is intense.” Gonzales stood up,looked at his watch, then ended the meeting. “You’ve got your assignments. Youall know the words to the song. This is a green light. All overtime isapproved. We go hard into the backgrounds. We re-create the day. We check andrecheck every tip.” He tucked his unlit cigar in his inside breast pocket.“Questions?”

None.

“Turgeon, please see me in my office,” Gonzales said.

Papers and reports were collected as the investigatorsfiled out of the room. Turgeon followed Gonzales to his office several doorsaway, where he fished through a top desk drawer, then placed her newidentification in her hand.

“Sorry, Linda. I should’ve gotten this to you lastweek.”

Turgeon looked at the laminated photo ID which read: Inspector Linda A. Turgeon. San Francisco Police Department. Homicide Detail.She ran her finger over the shield bearing the city’s seal. It depicted asailor, miner, and a ship passing under the Golden Gate. Above it, a phoenixrose from flames. Below was the city’s Spanish motto. Oro en paz, fierro enGuerra.

“You know the jingle,” Gonzales said.

“Gold in peace. Iron in war.”

Turgeon’s heart swelled. Her father’s gold shield washome in a jewelry box, with her favorite picture of him smiling in uniform ather. She was eight, wearing his cap, smiling up at him. She blinked severaltimes. I did it, Dad. I did it, she thought.

“Welcome to the dark ride,” Gonzales said”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Gonzales cleared his throat. “I knew Don in the earlydays.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, we walked the Mission together. For a spell.”

Turgeon nodded.

“Linda?”

“Yes.”

“You done him proud, real proud.”

Vassie Laptak, the choirmaster for Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows RomanCatholic Church, tapped his baton crisply on the podium’s edge, halting “TheLord is Risen.” He pushed aside his wild, maestrolike strands of ivory hair andstudied his sheet music.

The North American Choir finals in San Diego werethree months off. Our Lady was a contender and with God’s help they could win.Victory would mean an audience with The Holy Father in Rome. Vassie lay awakenights imagining how it would be. Our Lady’s singers were spiritually dedicated,but today his number-three contralto, the dwarfish spinster who cleaned thechurch, was off.

“Florence, dear, you are not feeling well today.” Hereviewed his sheet music on the dais.

Florence Schafer flushed. “Why I’m fine, Vassie.Really.”

Agnes Crawford, the choir’s star soprano, put her handon Florence’s shoulder. “Are you sure, Flo? You look pale. Would like somewater? Margaret, fetch some water for little Flo.”

Florence loathed that name. Standing at four feet, sixinches, she was, in the clinical sense, a dwarf.

“Please don’t bother. I’m fine.”

Vassie regarded her sternly through his fallen locks.

“I wasn’t concentrating, I’m sorry.”

“Very well.” Vassie sighed, nodding for the organistto resume. Pipes and voices resounded through the stone church, but Florence’sattention wandered again.

She admired the statue of the Blessed Virgin in thealcove behind Vassie. The Queen of Heaven, in the white gown with a golden hem,arms open to embrace the suffering. She was beautiful, mourning the death ofher child. As she sang, Florence recalled her own grief and the part that diedso many years ago. Philip, the young man she was going to marry, was killed ina house fire. She had wanted to die too. The night of his death, she visitedher parish priest. He helped her find the strength to live, she never loveanother man. For years, she considered becoming a nun, but instead devotedherself to her church and her job as a city hall clerk before retiring afterforty years.

Florence lived alone, but was not lonely. She hadBuster, her budgie. And there was her hobby, true crime, mystery, and detectivestories. She walked in Hammett’s footsteps, Pronzini’s, and others. Onvacations, she took famous murder-scene tours, visiting police museums. She devourednovels and textbooks. She clipped articles, filing them meticulously. To whatend, she didn’t know, For each day of her life was marked by the three chinaand three sterling silver spoons she used for tea, which she took in themorning, afternoon, and evening as she read, Three times daily, as a steamplume rose from the kettle, she pondered the meaning of her life, wonderingwhat God’s purpose was for her. It had become her eternal question.

She now knew the answer.

And this afternoon she would act on it.

After choir rehearsal, Florence prepared to clean thepews. She went to the utility room at the rear of the church and tugged on thechain of a bare bulb. The room smelled of disinfectant. It had a largejanitor’s sink, bottles of furniture polish, wax, rags, pails, all neatlyorganized. Florence closed the door, and checked inside her bag. Everything wasset. If it happened again today, she was ready. She slipped on her apron,collected a rag, some polish in a pail, and went to work cleaning pews.

“And how are you this blessed afternoon, Flo? I heardthe choir from the rectory. The gang sounds wonderful.” Farther McCreeny smiledas she gathered old church bulletins from the first pew.

“Very well thank you, Father. And you.”

“Tip top, Flo. Tip top.”

You may say so, Father, but I know you’re bearing aheavy cross.

Reed spotted Ann and Zach in the Star’s reception area.

“Could you cover for me?” Reed, standing to leave,said to Molly Wilson, who followed his attention to his wife and son.

“Sure.” She was typing. “Just remember you’ve got theprofessor coming and I’m leaving soon for an FBI interview about Becker.”

Passing a hand through his hair, tightening his tie,he was suddenly nervous.

“Hi, Dad.” Zach leapt up. He must’ve sprouted anotherinch. He was wearing a Giants’ ball cap backward, sweatshirt, jeans, Nikes, anda beaming smile.

“Hey, big guy.” Reed hugged his son.

“Are you sure you’ve got time today? You’re not toobusy?” Ann observed the hectic newsroom.

“Naw,” He walked them to an empty room. “You lookgood, Ann.”

She was letting her chestnut hair grow out. Dressed ina pastel silk jacket, matching pants, and pearl necklace, she embodied asuccessful business woman. In her fresh-scrubbed face, her soft lips, hersculpted cheeks, and lovely brown eyes, Reed saw the woman he fell in lovewith-a love evinced in their son.

The glass walls of the office faced the Metro Desk andtwo dozen cubicles where reporters worked at their computers. The family sat atan empty round table. Reed gave Zach a brown envelope.

“What’s this?”

“A present.”

Zach pulled out an action color eight-by-ten ofGiants’ left fielder Barry Bonds sliding into home. “Wow! Thanks, Dad.”

“It’s nice, Tom.”

“So, Zach, tell me how you’re doin’.”

“Well, I don’t like getting up so early so Grandma candrive me to school. I don’t like going over the bridge so much.”

“The school’s break is coming fast, son.”

“And I miss playing with Jeff and Gordie.”

“Meet any new friends in Berkley?”

“Not really.”

“Zach, if there’s something you want to get off yourchest then now’s the time to tell us,” Reed said.

Zach put the picture down, keeping his eyes on it.“Know what the kids at school say?”

“Tell us what the kids at school say.”

“They say my mom left my dad because he was washed upas a reporter after making a man kill himself because of a screw up.”

Reed swallowed hard.

“That’s not true,” Ann lied.

“Is that what you think too, Zach?” Reed said.

Zach shrugged and met his father’s gaze. With hismother’s eyes, flawless skin, he emanated innocence. “I told them my dad foundthe guy who killed the little girl and the police didn’t like it. I told them Iam going to be a reporter, too.”

Reed was awed by his son. After all he had put himthrough, his love survived. Unyielding. Unconditional.

“You still got to put in more time at being a kid.”

“Know what else they say?”

“What else?” Ann asked.

“They say that when your folks split and move out,they never get back together. No matter what they tell you, it never happens.”

“Son, look. I know it’s tough,” Reed said. “But you can’tput much stock in what kids say. Listen to your heart. We want to move backtogether, that’s why we’re talking about it. And that’s better than not talkingabout it, right?”

“I guess.” Zach looked at them. “But someone’s in ourhouse.”

Ann touched Zach’s hand. “A nice businessman fromTulsa and his wife. They are only renting. It’s still our house.”

Zach looked at his father. “Dad, is there anotherkiller out there killing little kids?”

A curve ball.

“Nobody knows, but the chance of it happening to youis like being hit by a golf ball. That’s why it’s such a big deal. Know anybodywho’s been hit by a golf ball?”

“No.” Zach giggled.

Ann smiled. “Didn’t you have something else you wantedto ask?”

“About the Kitty Hawk?” Zach wanted a model ofthe carrier.

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, yeah. Dad, can I sit at your computer.”

“Sure, come with me.”

“All right!”

Bending over his terminal, Teed typed a quick commandon his keyboard, clearing his screen. Zach plopped into his father’s chair andwatched.

“Yo, yo, handsome.” Molly Wilson glided around thecubicle and crouched beside Zach. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. You’re gettingto be a big guy. How’s school?”

“Okay.” Zach liked Wilson. She smelled good.

“Molly, Zach wants to hack around on the machine,”Reed said. “Could you please watch him so he doesn’t crash the newsroom?”

“That’s a pretty big assignment, but I think I canhandle it, Dad.” She offered her perfect-teeth smile, then stood and, whileglancing toward Ann alone in the interview room, whispered, “You’re lookingdominated, Tom.”

How dare she say that with his son present? She lovedto rile him, loved to tease. “I’m going to the FBI in a few minutes,” she said.

“We’ll be done before the. Behave yourself and havefun, son.”

“Okay.”

Wilson bent over Zach, her nails clicking on thecomputer keyboard. “Want to surf the Internet?”

Reed returned to Ann, shutting the door behind him.

“Molly’s very pretty.”

“She’s a flirt, Ann. And I’m a married man.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Well, wallowing in self-pity has its benefits.”

“How’s work going here?”

“I’m getting by, but they’ve got me on a short leashthese days. How’s the business?”

“We’re getting more orders. My loan is almost paidoff. I think I’m going to have to hire another part-time clerk.”

“I brag about you to the people here who’ll still talkto me.”

Ann blushed a little. “Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s something I should have told you.I just…I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Ann.”

“Have you?”

“I realize what a jerk I’ve been. I was wrong about alot of things. I can’t explain it, but I know I’m not the same guy.”

“How do I know that, Tom?”

“You don’t.” Reed stared at his hands, debating withhimself as he twisted his gold wedding band. Ann still wore her diamond.

“I took a walk at the Golden Gate one night, a fewweeks after you left. Let me tell you, when you’re on the threshold of losingeverything, when your feet are dangling over the abyss, life’s prioritiesbecome clear.”

“You were going to kill yourself if we didn’t get backtogether, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“No, I was speaking metaphorically.”

“Were you?”

“I am not that much of a coward. I am telling you thatyou did the right thing, forcing me to live alone with the bad guy. Now, I…Iwant to, I am hoping we can try again.”

She regarded him for a long time. “I don’t know if Ishould believe you.” She pressed her hands flat on the table.

“You damn near destroyed me. The way you treated us.It was as if we were nothing to you, like this place was the universe and youwere its self-righteous self-centered king. Never wrong. I loathed you for it.I am so confused and scared. You’re telling me things, but it could be yourself-pity talking. Are you still drinking?”

“Alone in my room at night. It fills the void, helpsme sleep.”

She wanted to believe him, he could read it in hereyes.

“We can’t go on like it was before. I refuse to acceptyou back if nothing’s changed.”

“I’ve never stopped loving you. And this job”-Reednodded at the newsroom-“it’s no longer my life.”

Ann said nothing.

“I’ve given a lot of thought to something you wantedme to do.”

“I’ve wanted you to do a lot of things.”

“I’ve been thinking that maybe I would take a leavefrom the paper, stay home and work on a novel.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

They watched Zach playing on the computer.

“He misses you,” she said.

“I miss both of you.”

Reed looked at his wife.

“I have to think, Tom. I have to think abouteverything.”

Reed squeezed her hand and nodded.

Dr. Kate Martin sat in the reception area of The San Francisco Star,twisting her briefcase strap. She looked at her watch again.

Relax. Relax. Relax.

She expected to see Mandy Carmel, the Star’stop feature writer. Her articles on SIDS babies and Bay Area children with AIDSwere so well written, so compassionate.

Still, waiting here, it was difficult to put herselfat ease.

Twice before coming she had picked up the phone tocancel. She didn’t do it. Despite all the risks, her blatant violation ofuniversity policy and the potential harm a story could have on the volunteers,she was determined to see this through. She had tried in vain to find thefunding needed to extend her research. The university, thanks to Levine, hadrejected her. The state denied grant money. Corporations politely refused her.And national victims’ support and lobby groups, which applauded her work, werecash strapped. Press attention was her last hope.

A sensitive article by Mandy Carmel would either savethe program or bury it.

She took in the crisp current edition of the Staron the table before her. The latest on the kidnapping screamed from the frontpage: WHERE IS DANNY? She thought of his parents, of his abduction, and thequestions it raised about Tanita’s murder. It underscored how imperative herresearch was. She had to do this.

“Dr. Martin?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“Tom Reed.” He held out his hand to greet her as shestood.

Tom Reed!

She recognized him from the face-slapping footagewhich TV news stations had recently replayed. Her skin prickled withapprehension.

He was about six foot. His khaki pants, pinstripe,button down shirt, and tie complimented his medium, firm-looking build.Mid-thirties. His tan set off his smile. His short brown hair was a littleunruly. Behind wire-rimmed glasses were intense, blue eyes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“I assumed I was to meet with Mandy Carmel?”

“Mandy’s been on a leave to Europe and won’t be backfor six weeks. Your letter was passed to me.”

“To you? But why? I thought-“

“We can talk in there.” He nodded to the boardroomnearby.

The room barely contained the mammoth table andleather executive chairs. The walls featured the Star’s three Pulitzersand framed news pictures. The earthquakes, the Oakland Hills firestorm. Amother giving birth. A weeping cop cradling his dead partner.

Reed slapped his notebook on the table. Martindeclined coffee.

“Be blunt, Doctor. You’re upset that I’ve beenassigned to this?”

“To be blunt, yes.”

“Why?”

“Your part in the Donner case and the suicide concernsme. An article about my research might be best suited for a reporter accustomedto handling sensitive issues. It involves parents who’ve lost childrentragically. You’re just a crime reporter.”

“Just a crime reporter? Sensitivity is a quality aliento people like me, is that what you mean?”

“No, I mean, I-“ This was not going well. “I thinkI’ve made a mistake coming here.” She stood to leave.

“Your work deals with victims of tragedy, itssurvivors. Right?”

“It’s somewhat more complex than that, but yes.”

“I deal with victims, too, and probably in greaternumbers than you’ve ever experienced. So I resent having to prove to you that Iam qualified to write about your work.”

“I am protective of the sensitive nature of myresearch.”

“But the bottom line here, Doctor, is you want tomanipulate us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Set aside your work. You need us to keep your programafloat. That’s why you’re here. It’s obvious from your letter. It dictates thetype of story you want us to write, in accordance to the conditions you’velisted.” He withdrew the letter from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and read:“You may interview only the subjects I’ve selected and I have editorialapproval.” Reed stared at her. “What do you think this is, the churchbulletin?”

Martin closed her eyes. Leave. Leave now, she toldherself.

“I don’t know who in the business you’ve dealt withbefore, but it just does not work this way.” He let her letter fall on thetable.

“And just how does it work, Mr. Reed?”

“If we do a story, we’re going to examine your groupand your research, not promote it. You say your work is valid. How do we knowthat? You could be with a corporation poised to establish such programs in achain of clinics and are looking for a story as a source of advertising. Thathappens. You could simply be seeking personal glory in your field. We don’t know.You came to us.”

“I resent what you’re implying. You don’t know me ormy work.”

“And you don’t know me, or mine. You send us ablueprint of what you want and glide in here on a cloud of academic arrogance.You see me and your jaw drops like you’ve stepped in something disgusting.”

This was a disaster. Martin sat down and consideredcanceling everything. She had handled this poorly. The program was doomed nomatter what she did. She cupped her chin in one hand, studied the dramatic newspictures, then Reed. He had a dangerous, exciting air. Judging by his passion,he was likely as committed to his work as she was to hers. She drummed herfingers against her cheek. “Perhaps I’ve become too comfortable in the ivorytowers of academe, Tom.”

He chuckled. “If we had a couch in here…” Reedscanned the room.

“Yes?”

“I’d tell you my miserable problems. The last fewweeks have been tough ones for me, Doctor.”

“Kate. Call me Kate. How about that coffee?”

“Then we’ll rewind the tape and take it from the top?”

“Agreed.”

On good days, warm memories of his wife yielded Sydowski sufficient will topropel his life another twenty-four hours. On bad days, like this one, when hefelt alone and could not accept the fact that she was gone, he contemplated hisGlock.

Take the eternal sleep and find her. Be with her.

What time was it back east? The luminescent hands ofhis watch glowed 1:29 A.M. Three hours later where his daughters lived. Toolate to call. Wearily he found his way through the darkness. He knew his house,every tick and creak of it. In the kitchen, he snapped on the light and heatedsome milk for cocoa.

It had been six years since he saw the monitor aboveBasha’s hospital bed flitter, then flat line. The young doctor and nurserushing in, telling him to leave. Battling against a killer no one couldstop-not even him.

The beast slowly ravaged Basha’s nervous system withmuscular rigidity, condemning uncontrollable tremoring upon a gentle woman whohad dance at her daughters’ weddings. It consumed her by degrees, devouring apiece at a time. She could not feed herself, she could not have intelligibleconversations, she could not go to the bathroom without help. Ultimately shewore diapers. The final insult: she could not be trusted to hold her infantgrandchildren. She watched through her tears and he cared for her. A couple oftimes he swore her bed was empty, she barely visible under the rumpled sheets.Carrying her emaciated body, her fragility terrified him. She weighed nothing.She was dying in his arms.

Waiting in the hospital hallway the night they triedto save her, a strange thing happened. Sydowski heard her call his name. Once.Her voice was young, strong, wondrous. He was amazed. No one else heard her.How could it be? He remembered his daughters beside him, wailing. Then theyoung doctor, the one with an earring in his left lobe, appeared from Basha’sroom and was standing before him.

“I’m very sorry, sir. She’s gone. We did everything wecould.”

Something was indestructible cleaved inside, forcinghim to hold his girls to keep them from coming apart. The young doctor touchedSydowski’s arm and those of his daughter.

The milk for his cocoa had come to a boil.

They would sit in the living room. She would beembroidering something for the babies. He’d be reading. Often he would discussa case with her and she’d make a suggestion about an aspect he overlooked. Herespected her insights. For he had one true partner, it was she.

Since she died, he felt uneasy being home alone. Thegirls’ rooms were empty reminders of happier days. He shuffled around theplace, chasing after her scent. It was still in the house, the fragrance oflilacs. Once he found a strand of her hair in her vacant side of their closet.His immediate reflex was to put it in an evidence bag, as if he could solve thecrime of her death. Instead, held it in his palm and wept.

He pursued death for a living: tracked it, waded intoit, bagged its aftermath, and arrested the guilty. Professionally and mentally,he was prepared for every case, but nothing, not the course work, not thestreet time, not the scenes, prepared him for Basha. Death had turned on himand raked its claw across the web of his existence, leaving it in tatters. Hecould not reconnect. He had fallen into a black hole and feared he would neverfind his way out. Maybe he was dead too? Maybe this was his hell? Deathhaunting him with the memory of his wife in the faces of corpses. The murdershe could not clear. Tanita Donner. The slash across her little neck. The flies.The maggots. Her eyes. Her tiny, lifeless eyes. Open. Staring at him. Pleading.What had she seen in the last moments of her life?

Enough of this.

Get past it. He was alive. Among the living. And hewas hungry. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out some egg bread, sweetbutter, onion, and fresh kielbasa he bought at the Polack deli in the mission.He’d pay dearly with heartburn later, he told himself, biting into his sandwichand sifting through the Chronicle’s sports section. The Giants weredoing well, sitting atop the division with a.651. Outperforming the A’s. He’dtease the old man.

He’d never understand Johnny Sydowski’s Polishstubbornness. Eighty-seven-years old, living alone by the sea in Pacifica. Whydid he refuse to move in with him here? It would be easier to get to the ballgames at the Polish Hall. They could share a beer and enjoy each other’scompany. The old man liked it where he was, so what the hell? Sydowski foldedthe paper, finished his sandwich, and his cocoa, put the empty plate and mug inthe sink before leaving to check on his birds.

His love for breeding and showing canaries blossomedafter a friend gave Basha a singing finch as a gift twenty years ago. He likedits song. It made him tranquil. He bought more birds. His collection thrived.He joined bird fanciers’ societies, entered competitions, and built an aviaryunder the oak tree in his backyard.Basha made curtains for the windows and itlooked like a tiny cottage from a fairytale. Inside, the paneled walls wereadorned with ribbons, trophies, and mementos. Would he make the Seattle shownext month? He pleasantly accepted the drive up the coast. It depended. If theyfound Tanita Marie Donner’s killer. Or Danny Becker’s body.

The velvety cooing of sixty canaries soothed as heinspected their seed and water supply. Tenderly, he picked up a nest of fourfledglings, fife fancies. Seven days old and looking good. No bigger than atoddler’s finger. Delicately Sydowski placed one in his hand, caressing it withhis pinky knuckle while its wee beak yawned for food. He felt its warmth, itsmicroscopic heart quivering and he thought of Tanita Marie Donner and hermurderer.

Did he feel the warmth of her delicate neck, her heartpulsating?

Sydowski was exhausted, could barely keep his eyesopen. He returned the fledglings, locked up the aviary, returned to the house,trudged upstairs, and went to bed, hoping to fall into a sound sleep before hisheartburn started.

A cobra with its hood flared and fangs bared coiled around Virgil Shook’s left forearm,while a broken heart engulfed in flames burned on his right. Terror andtorment.

The twin forces of Shook’s life were manifested in thetattoos conjured up by a killer in exchange for sex years ago in a Canadianprison. The cobra’s head swayed gently, ripe to strike as Shook ladled chickensoup for the destitute shambling along the food line at the shelter of Our LadyQueen of Tearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on upper Market. Whispers andblessings mingled with clinking cutlery and the tap of hot food dispensed ondonated plates.

If these broken, rotten burdens only knew who theywere blessing. If they only knew who he really was. It was sweet. Shook inhaledthe aroma of his power with that of roasted meat as one by one they came beforehim extending their plates, bowing their heads.

Like them, Shook haunted the city’s streets and cameto the kitchen often. Today he was upping the ante in his game with the priest.Today was Shook’s first as a volunteer. Oh, how he loved it. Here he receivedsanctuary, blessings, and absolution.

He was savoring the irony of it, seeking his confessoramong the crowd when he glimpsed a little treasure. A tiny temptress. Shookgauged the object of his attention. Four years fresh from the womb, he figured.She arrived before him, holding her bowl. He swam in her pure blue eyes,plunged his ladle-deep into the urn. His lips stretched into a predatory grinawakening the scars on his cheeks and revealing a jagged row of prong-liketeeth.

“What’s your name, sunshine?”

“Daisy.”

“Daisy? My I love to pick daisies.”

The little flower giggled. Accepting her bowl, herfingers brushed his. A butterfly’s caress that thawed his blood. Best notflirt, short eyes. So tender. He knew what she craved. So tender. Best flyaway.

Shook bit down on his lip. His migraines were hittingagain.

A brain-rattler had knocked him on his ass last week.The need to love again was overwhelming. It had been nearly a year since thelast time. Since Tanita. Now, Danny Becker’s kidnapping made it dangerous to gohunting. How much longer could he take this? He was tiring of his game with thepriest. He needed to hunt, to prove the city belonged to him. Scanning theshelter, he located Daisy among the far flung tables and indulged in a bold,ravenous stare, assessing the possibilities until he was nudged by thevolunteer beside him.

“You’ve got a customer,” Florence Schafer said meekly.

Shook quickly filled the bowl for an old sod beforehim and was thanked with a “God bless you.” Shook ignored him.

He looked down at Florence, she was familiar. Runninghis eyes over her miniature frame, he could smell her fear. He was curious. Whyhad she acted so strangely when they sent her to help him on the serving line?Not once had she turned to him. Pious little cunt. Maybe he would give her alesson in humility. It would be memorable. If only she knew of his power, knewwho he really was.

There was only one who knew.

From time to time a knowing moment would flickerbetween Shook and the cold, hard eyes of those released from Q. it was thelook: con to con. But even their icy perception was never total. Only thepriest knew, and could not break the seal of the confessional. He absolvedShook of his sins, but could tell no one of his crimes. He was bound by theoath he swore to God.

Shook reveled in tormenting his confessor, reveled inspitting in the face of his God.

Who possesses the real power? Who could take his pickof San Francisco’s lambs, orchestrate the Sunday school teacher’s suicide,baffle the blue meanies and manipulate everyone?

The priest knew exactly who Shook was and he trembledin his knowledge.

“Hello, Florence. Lovely to see you today.”

Shook’s ears pricked up at the sound of FatherMcCreeny’s voice. Ah, he had arrived as expected. Grazing with the flock.Demonstrating his devotion. Standing head and shoulders above the others,dispensing God bless you’s while piling his plate with food.

McCreeny stood before Shook. Emotion drained from hisface and his troubled eyes feigned kindness. At last he said: “God be with you,my son. Bless you for helping us.”

Shook remained silent, taking his time to scoopchicken soup into McCreeny’s bowl, placing it gently in the priest’s hands in amanner suggesting the reverse of the sacrament of communion.

“And God be with you, Father.” Shook smiled widely,showing McCreeny his hideous teeth.

Wintergreen Heights was Cleve’s home since his old man had walked three years ago. Helived here with Daphne, his alcoholic, welfare stepmother and half-brother,Joey, a sniveling puke. He was free of Joey today. Daphne was sober and keepingthe sniveler inside because he had the flu.

Cleve kicked up his skateboard and glided to the rearof the project. He loved how the rolling of his wheels resounded off of thefive towers around the courtyard. Time to sweep the neighborhood. The Heightswere his and he was going on patrol to see what he could see.

Wintergreen Heights was one of the city’s notoriouscommunities. Once an island of hope, it had deteriorated into a pit of despair.Every home had been burglarized, every person victimized. Anyone calling 9-1-1could count on waiting ten rings before counting on police. They rarely flewthe colors here, but when they came, they came by the hundreds.

Surfing down sidewalks, passing the crack house, Clevewas on the lookout for a little of this, a little of that, and was deep intothe Heights when he saw that that guy with the boat again. His place lookedlike a shithouse. Paint blistering. Weeds and shrubs were trying to swallow thething. His garage was open. The guy was in there, working on his boat up on thetrailer.

Cleve stopped.

His mind squirmed with questions: what was that guydoing with a boat like that down here? It looked like a classic. Cleve rolledup to the man.

“Nice boat.”

The man looked at him and Cleve saw two distortedversions of himself in the man’s sunglasses.

The man just kept on working. Cleve eyeballed him. Lotof lines on his face, looked wasted in his grease-stained T-shirt and jeans.Needed to shave. A breeze was lifting hi salt-and-pepper hair like a nest ofsnakes. He was inside the boat, working like a surgeon on the motors. Clevesmelled gas and heard the chink of a wrench against metal. He stood ontiptoe and peered into the hull at the boat’s massive engines, twin Mercs.

“Your craft must slash waves big time!”

The man didn’t answer.

Cleve stepped back. “What’s the bank on it?”

The man was silent.

“Is it like, an antique or what? It’s all wood. Ithought boats these days were fiberglass, like my Cruz Missile.”

The man’s ratchet clicked as he replaced a spark plug.Cleve was in love with the boat. Its dark polished wood gleamed, the sunsparkled on the windshield, the chrome trim fittings, and running lights. Thehuge wheel was white, matching the leather seats, which had a blackdiamond-patterned inlay. Tiny American flags drooped from tilted chrome flagposts fixed aft.

“Seriously, man, what’s the top end?”

The ratchet clicked, another plug was replaced.

“Where do you launch it?”

The man said nothing.

Cleve went to the stern, shook his head at the speedprops, raised his eyebrows after reading what was written above them. Inelegant, gold-reflecting script was the word: Archangel.

“What’s the name mean? Religious or what?”

The ratchet clicked faster, then he tossed it into a toolboxand jumped out of the boat, gathered the tarpaulin, pulling it over the boat.Cleve hurried to the opposite side and helped. The man didn’t object.

“The reason I came over here is because I saw somelocals scoping your craft here a couple of nights ago,” he lied.

A rope whipped around the bow as the man tied it downquickly.

“I told them the man who owns this craft is not a manto be messed with. They said they’d be back and do a number.”

The man tied down ropes at two more points.

“The way I see it is me and my buddy, we could guardit for you for a fee, which you wouldn’t have to pay if anything happened.”

The man stood on the trailer, stretched over the boat,and snapped down the tarp’s fasteners near the windshield.

“What do you think?” Cleve said. What was that?Thought he heard a child’s cry coming from the house. A little kid. Cleve knewa bawling brat when he heard one. He listened for a second cry. Nothing. Weird.Maybe a dog.

The man hopped down, walked around the boat, tyingdown the canvas. It took a couple of minutes.

Cleve was offended. “Hey, mister!”

The man collected his tools, wiping each one.

“The boat’s going to get trashed!” Cleve knocked hardon the bow with his skateboard. Loud enough for the man to stop what he wasdoing. Cleve felt the air tighten, as if someone had just pulled back thehammer of a gun.

The man’s face was serious as a headstone. Clevetightened his grip on his board, seeing himself in the man’s glasses.

He stood over Cleve and said, “A vigil is kept overthis vessel. Nobody has harmed her and nobody will harm her.Understand?”

Cleve nodded coolly.

The man held a finger an inch from Cleve’s face. “Itis not a boat,” he whispered. “It is a divine chariot!”

Cleve nodded.

“You think twice before you try to shake me downagain! Now, get your welfare-sucking ass off my property!”

Cleve stared hard at the man before leaving.

Edward Keller weaved a thirty-pound, forged steel chair through the eyeletsrigged to the doors of the garage beside his house, bolted with three“ burglar-proof” locks then activated the silent alarm.

Archangel was secure,awaiting its mission.

The overgrown grass covering the scrap of yard behindthe house was bordered by a fence and neglected hedge, obliterating theadjacent yards. An old alcoholic couple lived, if you could call it living, tothe left. The abandoned crack house to the right was condemned by cityinspectors. Police rarely showed up here where most people were too scared,stupid, or stoned to be nosy.

It was ideal for his needs.

Using a false name, Keller had bought the property fora pittance after discharging himself from the institute. Shrubs covered thebarred basement windows, junk mail carpeted the barely visible front yard.

Keller’s keys jingled as he unlocked the two deadbolts of the metal door to the rear of the house. He shrugged off the littleneighbor kid. The nosy little criminal didn’t know what he’d heard. Kellersmiled. His mission was blessed. His house was his holy fortress predestined touphold the will of God. No one could get in. And no one can get out.

Inside, he found deliverance from the sun in the cooldarkness. He bolted the door, descended the creaking stairs to the basement,the cocker spaniel scampering after him. He unlocked the room. Littered withdirty plates, glasses, fast food bags and wrappers, it smelled of urine. DannyBecker was asleep on the rotting mattress.

Protector of humankind.

Keller studied his face. The dog watched as he kneltbeside the boy, closed his eyes, lifted his head to heaven and gave thanks.

The angel Raphael.

He was cleansed in the light.

Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus.

Keller left, keeping the door open. The sleeping pillshe had ground into Danny’s pop would wear off soon. He had work to do. Climbingthe basement stairs, he heard a noise and froze. The dog growled. What wasthat? A scratching coming from a darkened corner. Could it be that little punk.No. Something lurking in the dark. Something with claws. He switched on alight-suddenly the thing came out of the corner at him. A rat. A large rat,it’s mangy fur scraping along the wall before it disappeared into a crack inthe wall.

It fascinated him. He squatted and whispered into thecrack.

“Vermin, if you contaminate my temple with your foulpresence again, I will taste your blood.”

Keller blocked the crack with a wooden milk crate.

Upstairs, he checked the front and rear doors. Eachrequired two keys from the inside to open. Satisfied they were sealed, he wentto the bathroom and showered. In his stark bedroom, he put on Levi’s and asweatshirt. From his night table he lovingly withdrew the silver crucifixchain, staring at the suffering Christ.

His will be done.”

Keller kissed the crucifix and slipped the chain overhis neck. He went to the kitchen and made a tomato sandwich and black coffee.He gave the dog a cookie. In the living room, a bookcase stood in one cornerjammed with the works of Conrad, Blake, Eliot, the Huxleys, texts onphilosophy, theology, death, resurrection, and angels.

When he first held Danny Becker in his arms, Kellerfelt the flutter of angels’ wings.

He selected the obscure work by Oberam Augustine Reingaertler,titled Struggle for the Light: The Truth About Angels and Devils, thensat wearily in the rocking chair. He read a passage, said to be centuries old,from a poem by a blind monk for a bereaved mother:

Four men with droopy eyes glowered at Sydowski and Turgeon from the computer screen.Each was a Caucasian in his late forties. Dark rumpled hair. They could havebeen brothers.

“Best composites I could get.” Beth Ferguson’sconcentration was glued to the screen.

She was the police artist who helped develop theSFPD’s computerized image-enhancing system for missing children, criminals, andsuspects. She kept her auburn hair in a beehive, popular at the time of herwedding. Partial to Beechnut gum, she snapped it absentmindedly. Turgeon lovedher earrings, tiny silver handcuffs.

Beth’s office was cluttered with computers, monitors,and sketches. She could remove the face-tight masks of some suspectsphotographed by security cameras. Her success rate at producing likenesses waseighty-six percent. Enlarged, facially aged pictures of JFK and Elvis adornedone wall.

“Now, without beards.” Beth tapped her keyboard,making the four men clean shaven. Their heads rotated. Beth swiveled to anothercomputer, hit some commands, and the screen showed each man’s full-bodycomposite, with her estimates of height, weight, body type, hair, and eyecolor.

“I put him a six feet even, 160 to 180 pounds, mediumbuild, dark hair and dark eyes.”

Beth yawned. She had put in several seventeen-hourshifts drafting sketches from witness descriptions until she saw the suspect inher dreams. And, as she had done thousand times over the past year, shereviewed the fuzzy Polaroid of little Tanita Marie Donner, alive and naked,held by a man wearing a black hood and black gloves. It took every degree ofclinical coolness Beth could muster to extract details from the fragment oftattoo visible on the man’s forearm. All she could glean was a bit of flame.She was frustrated by the hood. Too loose fitting. Had the man been wearing atight-fitting ski mask, she could have produced vital facial attributes. Thismorning, when she felt had done all she could, she called Sydowski and Turgeon.

“Before I go any further,” she said, “I’ve got badnews and worse news.”

“Worse news first,” Sydowski said.

“I can’t compare the Donner suspect in the Polaroidwith the suspect in Danny Becker’s kidnapping. I’ve tried everything, Walt.Whether these two creeps are the same guy or not is anybody’s guess.”

“What’s the bad news?” Turgeon said.

“Because of so many different perspectives anddescriptions of Danny Becker’s abductor, my composite is weak. Thirty percentaccuracy tops. Watch. I’ll take the most common characteristics of thesefellows and give you your suspect, or fifty percent of him.”

Beth typed a command, the four faces were instantlyreplaced on the computer screen by one. A saggy-eyed, grim-faced Caucasian witharching eyebrows in his late forties and bearded. He was a man either hauntedby remorse or devoid of it, Sydowski thought.

“Did you also take ten years off of this guy for us?”he said.

Beth sighed. “I did. Wasn’t easy. Took two days. I’drate it at thirty-five to forty percent. Here goes.” Her keyboard clicked.

“Why make the guy ten years younger?” Turgeon asked.

“That’s when Franklin Wallace was doing his time inVirginia.”

Slowly, from top to bottom, the display terminal gavebirth to a new image of the suspect. His face had fewer lines, was less heavyset. His eyes, while droopy, were somewhat more buoyant and his hair wasthicker. Beth split the screen and presented two pictures of the youngersuspect, one showing him bearded, and one showing him clean shaven. The printerhummed, offering crisp, perfect color pictures of both composites. “There yougo.”

The gold in Sydowski’s teeth shined as he gatheredcopies of Beth’s work into a file. “I owe you, Beautiful.”

“Just close these cases, Walt.”

Lois Jensen poured water into the cafeteria-sized coffee urn and clicked her tongue at Dr.Kate Martin fussing for the third time over the spread of fruit, cheeses, andcrackers.

“Don’t fret, Kate, Its going to be fine.”

“I need a written guarantee, Lois.” Martin bit herlip.

During the year her study group had been meeting, shehad always been in control. The pain exposed in this drafty old campus studyroom remained here, eventually evaporating like the tears that accompanied it.But that was going to change. She had relinquished command of what shecherished in order to save it.

She and Lois had arrived early to set up refreshments.Both were dressed more formally than usual-Lois in a peach, summer-knit sweaterset and white skirt, and Martin in a silk blouse, hound’s-tooth-check blazerand matching skirt.

“Lois, are we doing the right thing?”

“We’re doing the right thing. We’ve all been doingwell. Even Keller. Is he coming? Is he aware the Star is going to behere?”

“I couldn’t reach him. The number he gave me didn’twork. He’s never missed a session. I’ll alert him at the door.”

“Most of us supported this step, Kate. It’s necessary.At worst, you’ll reach others who need help and they are out there. Especiallynow with another child kidnapped.”

“But I fear the potential damage. Some of the groupdidn’t want to participate tonight. I’m getting cold feet.”

“We’ve all lost a child. Telling a reporter about itis not tantamount to the experience. If the university revokes your tenure, youcan always set up your own shop, underwritten by a tissue company. I’ll be yourfirst client.”

They were still laughing when Tom Reed arrived withanother man who had a camera around his neck and a bag over his shoulder.

“Right on time, Tom,” Martin greeted them.

“Dr. Martin, this is Henry Cane, a photographer withthe Star.”

Martin introduced Lois. They talked over coffee untilothers arrived, then Martin took Reed aside.

“Four have decided not to come. Three will be here,but won’t speak. Six will talk and allow their names and pictures to be used.”

“Including Angela Donner?”

“Yes.”

“Is that her?” Reed indicated a young woman, whosethighs stretched her brown slacks. Her white blouse had a large bow at theneck. Her stringy dishwater-blond hair was pinned up with two pink barrettesthat looked familiar to Reed. She was at the refreshment table.

“How’s she doing?”

“Good days and bad days. The Becker abduction is asetback. Coming up on Tanita’s anniversary. Opens a lot of wounds. Especiallywhen the press links the cases. She still lives with her father.”

Reed contemplated Angela Donner. If he could her storyin the paper, it would break the city’s heart. Tanita’s case still held compellingelements: grandfather dying of cancer, while her mother copes on welfare andher killer walks free.

“Poor Angela.” Martin blinked. “Tolstoy couldn’t havedreamed of a more tragic figure. Well, there’s Edward Keller…”

Oh…?”

“I couldn’t reach him. He doesn’t know about tonight.I don’t how he’ll react because-“ Martin Stopped. “Off the record?”

“Sure.”

“He’s an eccentric.”

“This is San Francisco.”

“He’s an eccentric’s eccentric.”

“I see.”

“Oh there he is. Excuse me.”

Reed looked across the room at Keller. Late forties,early fifties, about six feet, firm, lean build. His beard and thicksalt-and-pepper hair did not hide the lines etched in his face. Dressed infaded jeans, a navy pullover sportshirt, and a worn, gray sports jacket, Kellerhad an air of ardent independence, as if a dark fire raged inside. Reedrecalled that the suspect in Danny Becker’s kidnapping had light hair, a beard,and a slim build, according to the new composite drawings the cops were on thebrink of releasing. Reed stopped himself with a warning: you are not playingthat game again.

Listening to Martin, Keller was concerned and looked directlyat Reed. Keller nodded, then said a few words. Martin returned.

“Edward does not want to be identified for thearticle.”

“That’s fine.”

Keller took a seat, regarding Reed suspiciously.

Martin took a deep breath. “Time to get started.”

She introduced Reed and Cain, reminding the group oftheir presence, and offering anyone who’d had a last minute change of heart toback out. Reed and Cain requested that those consenting to be identified sittogether. Reed jotted down their names.

“Lois, you volunteered to go first.” Martin smiled.

Lois nodded, hesitated, then laughed. “I’m sorry.”

“Ease into it.” Martin nodded.

Lois collected her thoughts. Her face was placid,intelligent.

“It was a gorgeous day and I was making Allan’s lunchwhen he insisted on riding his bike to the park-you know how children can be.His friend Jerry had found a sparrow’s nest. I said, you’ve got ten minutes.Sure, Mom, he said. I’ll be right back. I’ll be right back. I knew he wouldkeep his word. So after, oh I guess about half an hour, I was getting a littlepeeved. That’s when Jerry came to my door. He was covered in dirt and lookedfrightened. And I thought, gee, he must’ve had a bad fall. I looked for Allan,but I didn’t see him. Then Jerry’s mouth started to move, but nothing came out.I realized that he was actually covered in blood.

“I looked for Allan. Didn’t see him. I demanded thatJerry tell me where he was. Poor Jerry couldn’t speak. He started to cry,pointed to the park. He got on his bike, rode to the park with me runningbehind him. We arrived. I saw some children standing over another child who waslying on the ground, twisted in his bike. As I ran, I knew that the bike lookedlike Allan’s, but I couldn’t see Allan among the children, so I thought that hemust have run to get help for this fallen child. I was starting to mentally togo through my first aid training, I still had a dish towel in my hand, when I lookeddown on the child, a boy. I knew he was dead, I-“

She wept. Reed made a note. Cain’s camera clicked.

“I’m okay.” She smiled. “When I saw that it was Allan,something happened.”

Reed noticed Keller nodding emphatically.

“My child, my only child was lying there on the grass,his eyes closed as if he were asleep. He looked so at peace. He had been shot,here.” Lois touched the right side of her head about an inch above her ear. “Hewas shot and his blood was everywhere, spreading on the ground under his headin a widening halo, a perfect halo. The most brilliant red I’ve ever seen. Iknelt beside him. The children were saying something to me, but their voiceswere distant. That’s when the miracle happened. Before my eyes, I saw Allan’sface change. I swear it changed there as he lay on the grass, to the tinywrinkled expression that fused my heart the moment he was the born. Then itchanged to joy from the day he took his first steps, then fear from the nighthe was convinced a monster lived in his closet. Happiness from the ChristmasSanta brought him his first bike, then shame from the day he came home from hisfirst and only school brawl. Embarrassment on the day I saw him holding handswith a girl. Finally, it turned serene, showing perfect contentment. I cradledhim in my arms, and the next thing I remember a police officer was touching myshoulder and the paramedics were trying to take my boy away from me.”

Lois paused.

Sniffles and coughs went around the group. Keller’shead was bowed, his eyes were shut tight, his hands clasped. Praying? Reedwaited for Martin’s reaction. She wasn’t watching Keller.

“For about a year after that I went through themotions of living. Bill and I retreated into ourselves. He didn’t want to talk.I wanted counseling together. He didn’t. And I couldn’t go alone. I feltbitter, angry for being punished unfairly, I felt abandoned, helpless,worthless. I contemplated suicide, divorce. That’s when I saw Kate’s notice inthe Chronicle about her research. I decided to volunteer and told Bill Ihad enrolled in a hobby course at the university. He thinks my ‘course’ hasdone a world of good, It has. Tonight I’ll tell him what I’ve been doing.”

Reed knew the case. Bobby Ray Walker, a truck mechanicwith a history of mental problems, was the sniper who shoot Lois’s son. Walkerwas serving a life sentence in Folsom for the murder.

Reed asked Lois how Martin’s research group had helpedher.

“It’s helped me come to terms with losing my child.I’m able to function now. I’m able laugh at a good joke, eat a hearty meal,sleep through the night. I certainly don’t tell every person I meet the detailsI’ve told you, but I can deal with talking about it without falling to pieces.I still feel uneasy seeing a funeral procession. I’ll never fully recover fromlosing Allan. No parent is ever, ever the same after losing a child because apiece of you dies, too. This group has helped me survive my loss. We’ve allhelped each other and Kate has been our guide. Some people cannot endure such ablow alone. The feeling of guilt, rage, blame, loss, futility are overwhelming,almost fatal. At times I thought I was losing my mind. Hearing my son’s voiceat night, smelling his scent, seeing him in malls, in my dreams, feeling hiskiss on my cheek.”

“How is this group different from others?”

“Some are politically motivated. Some seek vengeance.Eye for an eye. There’s nothing wrong with that, if that’s what you feel inyour heart. I was a member of such a group during Walker’s trial. At the time Iwas embittered. I believed Walker should be executed. I no longer feelvengeance in my heart. Feeling that way won’t bring Allan back. This group isdifferent because it is not a public auction agency. It is research. Theobjective is to study our bereavement, our pain and anguish with the aim ofunderstanding it, healing. We’ve been helped tremendously.”

The others followed with their stories, each accountas heart wrenching as the previous one. Reed’s eyes burned as he listened andtook notes. What was happening here? As a hardened crime reporter he had seenenough tragedy for twenty lifetimes. This was getting to him. Why? Because he’dresearched most of these cases, or that he’d actually covered some? He didn’tknow. He questioned himself, what he did for a living. Fear of the pain he mayhave wrongly caused Franklin Wallace’s wife and daughter gnawed at him. Hethought of Ann and Zach and what he had almost lost in his own life.Self-loathing, self-doubt, and confusion haunted him in the eyes of thesegrieving parents.

Sitting there, Reed felt sadden. Alone. Utterly alone.

He noticed Keller staring at him as he heard Martinsuggesting the group take a break.

“I think it’s going well, Tom. Don’t you?” Martinsmiled. He agreed, then excused himself to go to the washroom.

Relieved that the washroom was empty, Reed positioned himself at the urinal.Keller swung through the door and took the one next to him.

“Do you believe in God, Mr. Reed?”

Reed laughed. Given the circumstances, the questionwas absurd. He shook his head.

“Is that your answer?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you believe in God, Mr. Reed?”

“Look, I know it may be awkward having me here. Butyou should know that I appreciate the opportunity.” Reed washed his hands.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“What I believe is irrelevant.”

“Lois Jensen believes. Some of the others are on theirway.” Keller bent over the adjacent sink, opening the faucets. “We try to helpeach other in our assemblage.’

Assemblage? Was he going to break into Scripture now?

“I’m helping them spiritually through the pain. ‘Throughthe valley of the dark sun.’”

The valley of the dark sun. Reed knew the old poem: “Awatery Death” by Ledel I. Zoran.

Keller splashed his face. “I believe you are here totest me.”

“Test you? I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

Keller continued splashing his face. His voice had aneerie resonance as he recited: “Between the dream and the day comes thespecter.” Tiny water rivulets slithered down his face. “Are you the specter,sent to destroy my work?”

“Your work?” Reed was puzzled, somewhat uneasy. “No.I’m not the specter. I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Excuse me.” Reed tosseda crumpled paper towel into the trash.

Keller returned to his house in Wintergreen Heights, deactivated the alarm,unlocked the locks, went to his bedroom, took the silver crucifix from thenightstand, and slipped it around his neck. In the living the room, from thecluttered worktable, he removed a huge worn Bible. It was two centuries old.The pastors at his children’s memorial service had given it to him.

“God’s love never dies. Accept it and your childrenshall always be with you.”

He plopped in his rocking chair, Bible on his lap, andread. Reflecting on his clash with Tom Reed. The fool. Mocking his revelation.But it didn’t matter. He had succeeded in battle. Passed another test, abidedin the Lord, and emerged triumphant. It was the Will of the Creator.

Not the Reverend Theodore Keller’s version, but Thetrue Divine Will revealed in the purifying flames of his burning church. Godhad pulled back the curtain of Edward’s destiny that night, whisperingrevelations in his young ears.

His father’s congregation couldn’t afford to rebuild,forcing the Reverend to move down the highway and down in stature to a smallerCalifornia town where they existed on handouts from the faithful. It washumiliating for Edward, going to school, knowing the clothes he wore and thelunch he brought were not provided by God, but by farmers, merchants,widows-the parents of his classmates.

Edward’s loathing for his father festered and he vowednot to follow his impoverished, sanctimonious life. At seventeen, he discardedhis parents, and up and left. He hitchhiked to San Francisco and he put himselfthrough collage, working nights at a bookstore, weekends at a contracting firmin North Beach. He studied philosophy and business, graduating near the top ofhis class, not knowing what he would do with his life.

One day he returned to the overgrown site of hisfather’s razed church. Amid the weed-entombed foundation, he realized hisambition. He would build churches. Many of California’s churches were aging. Amarket existed.

Keller obtained a loan and was soon offering poorparishes new churches with long-term payment plans. His pitches wereattractive. His knowledge of theology, philosophy, and his son- of-a-preacherapproach ingratiated him with church leaders.

It also captivated Joan Webster, the only daughter ofa minister in Philo. She astounded him, distracting him during his firstmeeting with Reverend Webster. She possessed a celibate air of fresh-scrubbedwholesomeness. He wanted to be with her. He gave her father a ridiculously gooddeal and personally supervised the construction of the new church so he couldbe near her.

Joan thought he was intelligent, handsome, unlike anyof the local young men. He was a builder, a dreamer who could sweep her awayfrom dusty old Philo to the lights of San Francisco.

They courted for a year, then married and moved to abungalow in Oakland. Joan was loving, fulfilling her role as duty-bound wifeand mother, bearing them Pierce, Alisha, and Joshua.

Keller’s business flourished, becoming one of thestate’s largest church-building firms. They bought a huge Victorian in SanFrancisco with a postcard view of the Golden Gate bridge. There, they livedbehind a deteriorating veneer of happiness. Keller preoccupied himself withmaking money, renegotiating contracts, making most congregations beholden tohim for decades. He was addicted to the power. His passion for his businessovershadowed his love for his family.

Whenever Joan tried talking to him, he stifled herwith a Biblical proverb. As time passed, she urged him to take one of thechildren with him on business trips. He rejected the idea. They would be in theway. Jeopardize a contract. Their discussions evolved into prolonged,late-night arguments, with Joan insisting he spend more time with the children,or there was no point in maintaining the facade of family. She would leave him.

Resentfully, Keller acquiesced.

One at a time, he took the children on business trips,but he was so stern with their conduct that they dreaded going with him. Joanknew he was uncomfortable having the children with him, but she believed shewas rescuing her family from disaster. Clinging to the hope he was a lovingfather imprisoned by his work, she suggested he spend a day alone with thechildren, away from business. Renting a boat to go bird watching and picnickingat the Farallons would be a memorable outing.

That weekend, he loaded Peirce, Alisha, and Joshuainto the Cadillac and drove down the peninsula to half moon bay.

Keller rocked in his chair, Bible in his lap, strokinghis beard.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

That weekend.

His children. The storm. The whale. Sinking. Darknessswallowing the children. His children.

Dawn, hugging a rock. Someone lifting him. Warmth. A motordroning. Antiseptic hospital smells. Someone calling him. Joan’s face. Edward!Where are the children? Telling Joan what happened. Her face. Breaking. Herbroken faced seared into his soul.

My angels! My angels! Edward, where are mychildren, please!

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Keller set the Bible aside.

Time to resume his work. He went to the basement.

“Home. I want my mommy and daddy,” Danny Becker moanedfrom the floor were he was scribbling with crayons in a fat coloring book. Thedog sat dutifully at his side. The room was foul. Danny’s clothes were soiled.He had wet himself. Keller went upstairs, ran a hot bath, pouring Mr. Bubbleinto the water.

A watery death.

Keller knelt at the tub. The cocker spaniel paddedinto the room, then Danny appeared, gazing longingly at the water. It was asign. Keller smiled, began removing Danny’s clothes, then hoisted him into thewater. He unwrapped a bar of soap. Danny was docile, enjoying the warm waterand bubbles. Noticing Keller’s silver crucifix, he reached up and held it inhis tiny hand for inspection.

Sunrise.Fog shrouded the city.

Inspector Linda Turgeon came out of her neat house onupper Market and deposited herself into Sydowski’s unmarked Caprice Classic.

“Good morning.” She yawned, accepting the steaming7-Eleven coffee cup he handed her. “Thanks.”

“Sleep well?”

“Not a wink.” She placed her copy of Perry WilliamKindhart’s file with his on the seat between them.

Traffic was light on Market, which would take themdirectly to SoMa, Kindhart’s most recent address.

“What’s your take on Kindhart?” Sydowski said.

“He’s our best potential connection to Donner. Amolester who did time with Wallace in Virginia. We know Wallace did not actalone and that Kindhart was in San Francisco during the time of Donner’sabduction and death.

“But in the picture, the hooded guy holding Donner hasa tattoo. Kindhart doesn’t.”

“Mr. Tattoo is the only guy we know of, right now.Maybe others are involved. Maybe Kindhart has nothing to do with it, but he mayknow something. Like who the tattoo is. I think we’d be remiss if we didn’tgive Kindhart a good shake to see what falls out.”

Sydowski nodded approvingly.

Turgeon was pleased. They were on the same frequency.Partners.

The fog was lifting when they glided into downtown. Atthe edge of the Tenderlion, the streets were strewn with used condoms andhypodermic needles. A few hookers were still working. One hiked her shirt,squatted, then urinated on the sidewalk at Market and Larkin.

“Will you look at that.” Sydowski shook his head.“Somebody otta call a cop.”

Turgeon burst out laughing. “So you do have a sense ofhumor,” she said.

“Damn right. I’m a fun guy. Ask anybody.”

“I did.”

“Did a little background checking, did you?”

“Mm-mmm.”

“What’d you come up with?”

“You live alone in Parkside. You raise birds. You’vecleared more files than anyone else in the detail’s history. You’ve refusedpromotions because the job’s in your blood. The Donner case haunts you and youprobably won’t retire until you close it.”

“Anything else.”

“People tell me you’re an arrogant Polack hard-ass.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt.”

“They also say that after Brooks, you’re the finestHomicide dick at Golden State’s ever seen.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt, to remind Leo.”

“But there’s a disturbing side to you I am curiousabout.”

“I may take the Fifth, here.”

“Is it true you killed a guy, shot him?”

Sydowski grew pensive. “It was during the war. I was akid.”

“What happened?”

He gazed out the driver’s window. “I’ll tell youanother time?”

“Sure.”

“What about you? I don’t see a ring-you married?”

Turgeon peered into her coffee cup. “Came close.”

“Yeah”

“An architect.”

“An architect?”

“Met him after his house in Marina was burglarized.”

“Thank God for criminals.”

“We lived together for a year, talked about kids, thefuture. Everything was rosy. We set a date. You know the tune.”

“This were the violins come in?”

“Wanted me to leave the job. It was too dangerous forhim. He wanted me to quit the force, stay at home, look after the cats. He wasasking too much. To quit would be denying what I am.”

“And what’s that, Linda?”

She looked at him. “A cop. I’m a cop like you,Walter.”

“Like your old man. You mean.”

“Yeah. I mean, my biological clock is ticking down andI still want to get married, have kids. But it’s just that when my dad wasmurdered, I vowed to be a cop and now I am one. I can’t give it up.”

They left it at that as they rolled into SoMa, Southof Market.

“They used to call this ‘south of the slot’ for thecable car line that ran through here.” Sydowski said.

“You’re betraying your age, Walt.”

“Used to be a helluva neighborhood.”

SoMa was now the realm of machine shops, warehouses,Vietnamese restaurants, and gay bars. Latinos who fled Central America’sbloodbaths made their home here in decaying tenement houses, which were thequarry of visionary developers who bitched over cell phones about SanFrancisco’s sunshine codes and zoning laws. Red tape kept SoMa on life support.They wanted to pronounce last rites.

Kindhart’s building had risen from the rubble of the1906 quake and fire, a small hotel that evolved into a bordello, a shootinggallery, then a fleabag apartment complex. All it offered now was a view of theJames Lick Skyway, Interstate 80, the Bay Bridge, and Oakland.

Sydowski and Turgeon climbed the creaking stairs tothe creaking stairs to the third floor and pounded on Kindhart’s door. It was5:45 a.m. No answer. Sydowski pounded again, harder.

“Mr. Kindhart?” he called loudly.

Sydowski continued pounding. Down the hall a dooropened, and a one-armed man stepped from his apartment.

“Knock off that shit,” he growled.

Sydowski flashed his shield. “Mind your own business.”

“Fucking pigs.” The man’s door slammed.

Sydowski resumed pounding.

“Who the fuck is it?” a deep voice snarled fromKindhart’s unit.

“Police, Mr. Kindhart, we’d like to talk to you.”

“Fuck off. I won’t talk to you.”

“We’re investigating a case. Won’t look good if yourefuse to cooperate, Mr. Kindhart.”

There came a string of unintelligible cursing, amattress squeaked, empty bottles clinked, then more cursing, locks wererattled, and the door opened. Shirtless, unshaven, torn Levi’s yielding to hispot belly. He held the door defensively, reeking of alcohol, assessingSydowski, then Turgeon.

“May we come in?” Sydowski said. “We’d like to talk toyou.”

“What about?” One of Kindhart’s lower front teeth wasmissing, the survivors were rotting.

“Franklin Wallace,” Turgeon said.

“Franklin Wallace?” Kindhart scratch his whiskers.“Franklin Wallace?”

“Prison. Virginia. Think hard,” Sydowski said.

Lying was futile. Kinhart surrendered his door, wentto the kitchen of his studio apartment, put on a kettle for coffee, sat at histiny kitchen table, and lit a Lucky Strike.

“Hurry it up, I gotta go to work.” He exhaled, rubbinghis eyes.

Turgeon looked around. Sydowski joined Kindhart at thetable.

“What kind of job you have, Perry?”

“You know the fucking answer to that. So why are youhere?”

A handful of pornographic magazines dropped on thetabletop contained color pictures of naked children in obscene posses with men.

“This is a violation of your parole.” Turgeon said.

“That’s unlawful seizure, I know my fucking rights,hon.”

“You have rights.” Sydowski casually slipped on hisbifocals, wet his thumb, and flipped through his notebook. “You’re acarpenter’s apprentice at Hunters Point, Perry?”

“What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Work with lots of other guys, family men withchildren.”

Sydowski turned to Turgeon. I think they’d understandthe term ‘predatory pedophile,’ don’t you, Inspector?”

“We could always show them picture of one.”

Sydowski smiled.

Kindhart’s kettle piped. He made black coffee forhimself only.

“Tell us about the last time you saw Wallace,”Sydowski said.

“Why should I? You’re just going to report me.”

“We are going to report you, but whether we tell thejudge you helped us with our investigation, or obstructed it, is up to you.”

Kindhart squinted through a pull of smoke and slurpedhis coffee. “I shared a cell with Wallace in Virginia and looked him up when Igot here. Being a Sunday school teacher he was plugged in, figured he couldhelp me get a job. I saved his ass inside. He owed me.”

“A real job, or something in the trade?” Turgeon said

“Look, I just take pictures, that’s all I do.”

“What about the three cousins, the little girl inRichmond, Virginia?” Turgeon said

“I just took pictures. They wanted me to.”

“And the two five-year-old girls last year in the Mission?”

“I told you I just take pictures when they want me to.They love to have their pictures taken. I don’t date them like Wallace did. Idon’t know anything about that shit with that little Donner girl last year andwhy he offed himself. I had nothing to do with it.”

“We never suggested you did.” Sydowski said.

“Right. Like I don’t know why you’re here.” Kindhartshook his head. “Ever since that boy got grabbed, it’s been all over the news again.I just take pictures, that’s all I do. I don’t date them.” Kindhart draggedhard on his cigarette, then pounded the magazines with his forefinger.“Besides, they’re all little prostitutes anyway. They know exactly what they’redoing. Always coming to the people who know. Wallace and his friend hadterrific insights into them.”

“What’s his friend’s name?” Sydowski asked.

Kindhart shook his head and took a pull from hiscigarette. “Only met him once out twice. I think he was from Montana or NorthDakota. Some far-off place like that.”

“Describe him.”

“Describe him.”

“Race?”

“White. A white guy.”

“Height.”

“Just under six, average.’

“Age?”

“Late forties, I’d say.”

“Anything specific you remember about him?”

“No…” Kindhart stubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah.Tattoos. He had tattoos. Snake and fire, or something, here.” Kindhart brushedhis forearms.

“Where does he live? Where does he work?” Sydowskisaid

“Don’t know.”

“How did you know him?”

“Through Wallace. He was Wallace’s friend.”

“He do time in Virginia, too?”

“I don’t remember him, but he was a con.”

“How do you know?”

“Walked the walk. Talked the talk.”

“Where’d he do the time?”

Kindhart shrugged.

“Where’d you meet him?”

“Bookstore off Romolo. I was there with Wallace whenhe came in and started talking.”

“He like to date children?”

“Wallace said he did.”

“Ever take his picture while he was on a date?”

“No fucking way. I hardly knew the guy.”

Sydowski dropped a print of the Polaroid showingTanita Marie Donner sitting in the lap of the hooded man with the tattoos.“Who’s that man?” Sydowski asked.

Kindhart picked it up. Examined it, then put it down.“That’s Wallace’s friend.”

“How do you know?”

“The tattoos.”

“Who took the snapshot?”

Kindhart shrugged.”

“You used a Polaroid last year with little girls inthe Mission, didn’t you, Perry?”

Kindhart didn’t remember.

“Tell you what”-Sydowski closed his notebook andsmiled-“you better come over to the Hall with us while we get a warrant to tidyup your place here.”

“I told you I had nothing to do with Wallace and thatgirl.”

I’m sure you’re being truthful and won’t mind tellingus again after we wire you to a polygraph?”

“A fucking lie-detector?”

“you have a problem with that, Perry?” Sydowski asked.

“I want to call my lawyer.”

Sydowski slowly folded his glasses, tucked them intohis breast pocket, and stood. “You know what I find interesting?” He toweredover Kindhart. “I find it interesting how an innocent man with nothing to hidenever thinks of calling a lawyer. Now why would you need a lawyer, Perry?”

He didn’t answer.

Sydowski leaned down and whispered into his ear: “Did TanitaMarie Donner get to call a lawyer?”

Kindhart said nothing.

“Did Danny Raphael Becker get to call a lawyer,Perry?”

Sydowski clamped his massive hand firmly around theback of Kindhart’s neck and squeezed until it started hurting.

“Don’t worry, voychik. You can talk to yourlawyer about the big bad SFPD and your right to prey on children. And I’ll talkto the construction workers at Hunters Point about baby fuckers, skinners, andall around pieces of shit. Sound good?”

The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he smiled.“Good. Now, if you don’t mind. I think we should be on our way.”

BOY’S ABDUCTION HAUNTS MOTHER OF KIDNAPPED-MURDEREDBABY GIRL.

The head of The San Francisco Star’s lead itemskylined above the fold across six columns, over a four-column color shot ofAngela Donner in Tanita Marie’s room, hugging a teddy bear. A large familiarposter of Tanita dominated the background with REWARD emblazoned above Tanita’sface. “Murder” was, by chance, at Angela’s eye level. Photos of Tanita andDanny Becker accompanied the story by Tom Reed. It began:

Padding to the porch for her morning paper, Nancy Nunn looked for Jackson. Where wasthat dog? Reaching for her paper, she surveyed the street for her five-year-olddaughter’s cocker spaniel, hoping to spot him, snout to the ground, sniffinghis way home. Gabrielle yearned for him. She and Jackson had been inseparablesince the Christmas morning she found the blond, long-eared pup under the tree.Then one night last month he vanished from the backyard.

Gabrielle was shattered.

The next day the family plastered missing-rewardposters throughout the neighborhood. Nancy and Ryan, Gabrielle’s older brother,knocked on doors. Paul, Gabrielle’s dad, drove for blocks, with Gabriellecalling for Jackson from the car. Where was Jackson? Paul was not convinced heran off. But what else could have happened? Whatever, it didn’t matter. Theyhad to do something. Certain Jackson was not coming back, Nancy and Paulplanned to surprise Gabrielle with a new pup for her sixth birthday in twoweeks.

No fog this morning.

Nancy checked the street once more for Jackson,groaning at The San Francisco Star’s headline. It was CHILD ABDUCTOR MAYSTRIKE AGAIN, FBI FEARS with the kicker, “Man Who Took Danny PsychologicallyScarred.” She bolted her door and went to the kitchen.

Nancy rarely read news stories. Taking care of herhusband, a firefighter, and their two children while holding down a part-timejob left her no time to digest the pound of information slapped on her doorstepeach morning. She took the Star for the coupons.

Danny Becker’s kidnapping had made Nancy vigilant,especially when Paul was at work. She looked in on Gabrielle and Ryanfrequently while they slept, rechecked the locks of their house, remindingherself the Sunset was a safe neighborhood, the best place in the city to raisekids. She was coping as rationally as could be expected, remembering howearlier, talking to Paul about it, she sought something positive in DannyBecker’s abduction.

“Maybe now police will catch the killer. Maybe thisnew case gives them a lead and they’ll find Danny safe.”

“Police?” Paul scoffed. “Like with the Zodiac, Nance?The cops never caught him. Don’t hold your breath for the police to stop thisguy. A.45 in the head is what it’s going to take. And it won’t come from thecops, it’ll be some kid’s old man.”

Nancy was grateful Paul restrained himself from displayinghis Remington, out of respect for her abhorrence of guns. While the Sunset waslargely unscathed by crime, she now found comfort in the fact her husband, aformer U.S. Marine sergeant, still kept his gun.

This morning, in her kitchen, Nancy read the latestnews about the abduction. Offer more reward money, she thought. Somebody inthis city knows where Danny Becker is.

The kitchen phone rang. She got it.

“Hey there, Nance!” said Wendy Sloane, her neighborand best friend.

“Hey yourself.”

“They still haven’t caught the creep yet. The Chronfigures he’s a parolee from a prison for child molesters. What’s the Starsay?”

“He’s playing some kind of fantasy in his head andhe’ll strike again. Hi, handsome.” Ryan, Gabrielle’s eight-year-old brother,came yawing into the kitchen, pajama clad, and hugged her. “Can you start yourown breakfast while Mom’s on the phone?”

He pulled a box of cornflakes from the cupboard.

“Paul home?” Wendy asked.

“No. He’s working. What are your two up to, with noschool today?”

Wendy had two girls. Charlotte was nine and Elaine wasseven.

“Fretting about the birthday parties coming up.Joannie Tyson’s is in a few days and then Gabrielle’s because they think she isprettier than Joannie and Joannie’s party is going to be so big.”

“Lady, your daughters are cruel.”

“They’re running around deeply concerned about what towear and who’s going to be there to impress.”

“You’re raising a pair of debs. How proud you mustbe.”

Both women laughed.

“Nancy, you’re still taking Gabrielle to Joannie’sparty, right? You’re not going to overreact to this kidnapping crap?”

“I considered not going, but I don’t want to scare thekids. Besides it would be rude not to go to Joannie’s party, then expect her tocome to Gabrielle’s.”

“There you go, girl.”

Nancy could hear Wendy’s smile and it warmed her toknow they were friends. They had met at the Bette Food Value Mart inStonestown, where they were part-time cashiers. When they learned they livednear each other in the Sunset, they became pals. Wendy was a big-hearted Texanfrom Austin who adored country music and joked about writing her own tune,“Livin’ ‘n’ Lovin’ in the Fogbelt.” Her husband, Rod, was a welder who drank abit. But he did have two saving graces. He brought home a regular paycheck and hecould two-step. “I’ll hang on to him. Until a better dancer with a biggerpaycheck comes along.”

Nancy and Wendy chatted every day on the phone androutinely packed juice, snacks, a thermos of coffee, the kids, and walked thefew blocks to the playground between Moraga and Lawton. They gossiped whiletheir children played. Today was a playground day.

“Meet you there in an hour,” Nancy said.

“You got it.”

“Wendy…?”

“Yes?”

“Bring your copy of today’s Chronicle?”

“Oh, you old worrywart! Sure, I’ll bring it.”

Don’t give in to a siege mentality, Nancy toldherself. Be realistic. Keep an eye on Gabrielle and Ryan. That’s all she had todo.

In the living room, Nancy inspected the newflower-print dress she had made for Gabrielle’s birthday party. She stayed up laterto finish it. It was draped over a sofa chair. Tracing her fingers over herfine needlework, she smiled, then returned to the kitchen where Ryan wasstarting on a second bowl of cornflakes.

“Can I join scouts today, Mom?”

“We’ll talk about it later, okay? Get dressed whenyou’re done. We’re going to the playground.” She kissed the top of Ryan’s head.

After showering, Nancy slipped on a pair of old Levi’sand a Blue Jays T-shirt. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail while herfull-length mirror reflected a figure women envied and men enjoyed.

Gabrielle’s room was the freshest smelling room in thehouse. At times Nancy was certain she detected the lingering fragrance of babypowder. Were her senses deceiving her? Or, was it merely part of the bittersweetexperience of watching her daughter grow up, knowing that one day she would begone? Nearly six years old and already peering over the edge of the next.Recently, a poster of Leonardo DiCarprio had replaced one of Big Bird. Taped tothe wall above Gabrielle’s night stand was a snapshot of her hugging Jackson.It broke Nancy’s heart.

Sensing a presence, Gabrielle stirred, then woke.

“Hi, sleepyhead.”

Gabrielle rubbed her eyes.

“Time to get up. We’re going to the playground.”

“Know what, mom?”

“What?”

“I dreamed Jackson was in my bed, licking my face!”

“You’ll always have him in your dreams, sweetheart.”

“In know. But it’s not the same as for real.”

“We’re going to see Letty and Elaine, so rise andshine.”

Gabrielle Nunn joined the chorus of shrieking girls spinning in the tub of thecarousel. Its ancient organ huffed a mazurka and Gabrielle was the happiest shehad been in weeks, almost forgetting that her dog Jackson had disappeared.

It was Saturday. Joannie Tyson’s seventh birthdayparty at the Children’s Playground in Golden Gate Park. A monster bash.Thirty-two kids. A tiny Be-In. The summer of cake and ice cream.

Gabrielle was wearing the flowered print dress hermother made especially for her six birthday, a few days away, but Gabrielle hadpleaded to wear it today. Her mother gave in. Then Nancy Nunn plaited herdaughter’s auburn hair into French braids. Gabrielle’s favorite. Now, whirlingand laughing with friends Tracey Tanner, Millie Palmer, and Rhonda King, whomeverybody called Help-Me Rhonda, Gabrielle was having a perfect day.

A dream day.

Round and round she went. Her stomach tingling as ifan ecstatic butterfly were fluttering inside. She wanted to ride the carouselforever. But when they finished their third successive tour. Nancy Nunn, whowas watching the girls, feared a fourth ride would be risky, given the amountof cake and ice cream they downed earlier.

“Can we catch up with the others now?” Millie Palmerasked.

Between the cake eating and the present opening, theparty had separated into small groups, each chaperoned by an adult.

Some had gone to the Troll Bridge, some to the MouseTower. Wendy Sloane had taken Letty, Elaine, and three other girls to theFarmyard.

“Can we go to the Mouse Tower, Mrs. Nunn?” TraceyTanner asked.

“No, the Farmyard!” Rhonda King said.

“Before we go anywhere, ladies, who has to go to thewashroom?”

Millie and Rhonda shot up their hands.

Nancy herded her foursome to the nearest washroom.Millie and Rhonda each found a stall. Nancy put Gabrielle and Tracey before themirrors to check their hair. Soon Millie came out of the stall to wash herhands. Minutes passed. Rhonda was taking a long time.

“Rhonda?” Nancy called, trying the stall door. It waslocked.

“Oh, Mrs. Nunn, I don’t feel good,” Rhonda moaned. Theother girls looked at each other. “I feel like I’m going to-“

Rhonda retched and vomited. The girls grimaced.

Rhonda coughed violently.

At Nancy’s insistence, Millie, the group’s smallestmember, scooted under the stall and unlocked the door. Rhonda was on the toiletin tears, her panties around her ankles. Humiliated. Nancy held her tremblinghand, dabbed her tears with a crumpled tissue, brushed her hair from her eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

“Gross,” Tracey said.

“It’s going to be fine, dear,” Nancy assured Rhonda.“Tracey, please get me some paper towels soaked in cold water and some dryones. Girls, stay by me while we help Rhonda.”

“But Mom, it’s so gross!” Gabrielle complained.

“Stay here, Gabrielle,” Nancy ordered over hershoulder while helping Rhonda pull up her underwear. “Rhonda sweetie, thishappens to every little girl, so don’t you worry.”

Tracy gave Nancy the paper towels. None of the girlsteased Rhonda about her nickname as Nancy cleaned her up. They stood by forsupport, except for Gabrielle. The acrid order overwhelmed her.

Gabrielle did not want to be sick herself. Lured bythe carousel’s organ puffing a new polka, she took it upon herself to waitoutside the washroom. She stood alone, watching the revolving animals, thedreamy horses, the chariots, the rocker, the turning tub. Mom should bepleased. After all, she was a big girl. A smile was blooming on Gabrielle’sface when suddenly a shadow fell over her.

“You are Gabrielle?”

A tall man with a beard, dark glasses, and a ball capsmiled down in her. She didn’t know him, but he had a friendly, soft voice. Hadto one of the dads for the party, she guessed.

“You are Gabrielle Nunn whose dad is Paul, afirefighter, and your mom is Nancy.”

Gabrielle didn’t realize she was nodding.

“Let’s talk over here.” The man took her aside,glancing at the snapshot in his hand, giving it to her. “This would be yourpup?”

Gabrielle’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped open.

“Yes! It’s my dog, Jackson! Where is he?”

“In my truck.” The man nodded down the hill toward theparking lot. “Your folks wanted me to bring him to you for your birthdaysurprise. Happy birthday, Gabrielle.”

“But it’s Joanie’s birthday today. Mine is in a fewdays.”

“Boy did I mess up. I’m sorry. Gabrielle. Please don’ttell anybody. Please.” He looked around. Everyone near them was watching thecarousel. “I gotta go before anyone sees me,” he said, holding out his hand forthe snapshot.

“Gabrielle!” her mother called from the washroom.

“Just waiting by the door, Mom. I feel better here.”

Gabrielle pulled the picture to her chest.

She was disarmed. Whatever innate shield she hadagainst strangers evaporated as she thrilled not with doubt but delight in thebelief Jackson was nearby. If she could just hold him again.

“Wait, mister. Can’t I just see him? Please?”

The man rubbed his beard thoughtfully.

“I won’t tell anybody, I promise. Please?”

“Just a quick secret peek?”

“Gabrielle!” Her mother’s voice echoed from thewashroom along with Rhonda’s whimpering.

“I’m okay, Mom, I’m just waiting outside the door!”Gabrielle called. Then to the man she whispered breathlessly: “Oh please, let’shurry!”

“Okay. Count to ten, then follow me quickly to mytruck. Don’t let anybody see you. Just a quick, secret peek.”

The man walked away.

Counting to ten, Gabrielle heard Rhonda retch. Hermother was going to take forever in there. She could cuddle Jackson in secretand be back before her mother missed her, if she hurried.

Gabrielle followed the man from the carousel, down thehill to the parking lot.

Behold the Seraph’s face.

The Angel appeared in the distance. A celestialvision.

Edward Keller stood at his truck, driver’s door open,Gabriel nearing him. Smiling. Empowered by God. The Angel-child. Immortal.All-knowing. Radiant with the glory and the calm.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord!

Keller was overcome, blinking back tears.

From inside the truck’s cab, Jackson saw Gabrielleapproaching and barked. The rope around his neck was knotted to the passengerdoor’s arm rest. Keller had long ago removed the door’s inside handle and lockbutton. The passenger door could not be opened from the inside.

Gabrielle ran to the truck.

Keller stepped aside, leaving a clear path to Jackson.

Gabrielle hesitated, a tiny wave of unease ripplingthrough her. She wanted to hold Jackson so badly it hurt, yet something was outof place. She didn’t know what it was. Like the time she glimpsed a solitarytuft of black mingled with Santa’s white hair at the Stonestown Mall. She didn’tknow what to do, so she kept it a secret. What about now? She was not worriedabout the kidnapper, like her mom, because this man was her dad’s friend. Shewas sure about that because Jackson was right there. She just didn’t want toget the man, or herself, in trouble. She glanced back at the carousel.

“Maybe I should tell my mom?”

“I suppose, but it would ruin the surprise.”

Jackson yapped, and wagged his tail. He was so cute.

“My other door’s broken there. Won’t open. Go on inthis way and see your pup. Never seen a dog in more fierce need of a hug.”

Jackson panted, moving as close to her as the ropepermitted.

“Okay a quick hug, then I’ll go back and keep it asecret.”

She crawled into the cab along the bench seat andembraced Jackson, nuzzling his face, giggling as he licked hers.

“I missed you so much. You naughty doggie running awayfrom me!”

Leaving the door open, Keller slipped in behind thewheel, and casually kneaded the dog’s neck.

“My name’s Ned Jenkins. I live in the other side ofthe park. I found your little fella in my garage the other day.”

“In your garage?”

“Yes ma’am. Seems he got himself pinned under a pileof junk. Luckily there was a big old bag of dog cereal I left there. My old dogFred died awhile ago.” Keller saw little traffic in the corner of the lot.“This fella’s got a lot of spark. He tore into the cereal, kept himself alive.Seems like a real nice little guy and he’s no worse for wear.”

Gabrielle gave Jackson a bone-crushing hug.

“Thanks for letting me in on the surprise, Mr.Jenkins. I better get back now. It’s going to be hard waiting for my birthday,but I promise to keep our secret.”

Keller didn’t move. He produced a worn copy ofJackson’s missing-reward poster the Nunns had put up weeks ago.

“Your notice here says there’s a reward?”

“Yes. Fifty dollars. It’s at home at my house.”

Keller thought. “Well since Jackson’s return is nosurprise anymore I might as well get my reward. What the heck?”

Gabrielle didn’t understand.

“But it’s at my house and Dad and Ryan went to CoitTower.”

“I’m sorry, Gabrielle, I forgot to tell you that yourdad was meeting me at your house. I told you I know him from the station.”

But wasn’t this supposed to be a surprise?

“Look, we’ll drive to your place, tell your dad aboutmy screw-up. It will be all right, don’t worry. Paul will get a laugh. I’malways messing up at the station. Then I’ll get my reward and your dad willdrive you back to the party here.”

Gabrielle looked toward the carousel.

“You were telling the truth about the reward, weren’tyou?”

She nodded, hugging Jackson to her chest.

“I want to pick it up now because I’m going out oftown on business tonight and I’ll be gone for a long time.”

Keller slammed his door, started the engine,surprising Gabrielle, flooding her mind with confusion. Before she knew whatwas happening, the truck rolled out of the lot and down Kezer Drive.

“This will only take a second. You’re safe with me.”

“But I just don’t know.” In a whisper, more to herselfthan to Keller, Gabrielle said, “I don’t want to get into trouble.” She buriedher face in Jackson’s neck, squeezing him until he yelped. She caressed him asthey left Golden Gate Park.

I don’t want to get into trouble.

“Gabrielle!”

All of the saliva in Nancy Nunn’s mouth dried up asfear slithered down her throat.

“GABRIELLE!”

Nancy came out of the washroom with Rhonda, Tracey,and Millie expecting to find Gabrielle at the entrance. But she wasn’t there.She was gone.

Again Nancy took a speed-of-light inventory of thearea. No sign of Gabrielle. Nothing.

“Maybe she went to the Troll Bridge, Mrs. Nunn?”Tracey said.

“Maybe she went to see the others?” Millie said.

Not my kid. My kid knows better to wander from me likethis.

Nancy grabbed Millie’s hand, then Rhonda’s. She madeTracey jumped when she ordered her to take Rhonda’s free hand. Nancy’sterrified heart was on the verge of bursting through her chest. She scoured thecarousel. The organ was playing a funeral march, the revolving animals mockingher with accusing silence.

Why weren’t you watching your child?

“Mrs. Nunn, you’re squeezing my hand too tight. Ithurts!”

Nancy questioned people nearby. “Have you seen alittle girl in a flowered dress?”

Puzzled stares. Heads shaking.

“She was standing here! You must have seen her!”

Eyes stared at her as if she were insane.

“My little girl is missing, somebody help me please!”

“Nancy, what’s going on?” It was Wendy Sloan. Worried.

Her group of girls huddled around Nancy and the others.Smiles dying on their faces.

“Nancy!”

“G-Gabrielle’s gone.”

“What?”

“She’s missing. We were in the washroom together. Shewandered out ahead of us. A few seconds ahead. She’s gone. Wendy, I don’tknow-“

“Nancy, she can’t have gone far.”

“I–I don’t…I should have been watching. If anything.Oh God.”

“Stop it.” Wendy grabbed Nancy’s shoulders. “We’llfind-“

Two teenage girls stood awkwardly next to Nancy,uncomfortable, not comprehending exactly what was happening.

“We saw a little girl in a flowered dress near thewashroom.”

“Where is she?” Nancy barked.

One of the girls flinched.

“She was talking to a man-“

Nancy’s stomach heaved. “Where did she go! Where!”

“Well, I think-“

“Hurry up!” Nancy’s voice was breaking.

“The man went that way.” One of the girls’ pointedtoward the parking lot. “Then the little girl followed him. Two minutes ago.”

Nancy jumped as if something had exploded under herfeet, running to the parking lot. A man wearing a green John Deere ball cap, inhis early seventies, was shutting the driver’s door on his camper.

“Please help me. My little girl’s missing. She camethis way, wearing a flowered dress. Have you seen her?”

“I don’t think so. We just got here, right, Mother?”

Seeing Nancy distraught, the white-haired woman on theother side of the camper approached her and took her arm.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“My daughter’s been abducted. A man led her this way afew minutes ago. Oh, help me!”

“Arthur, quick, find a policeman!”

The man headed dutifully to a pay phone.

Nancy searched parked cars, frantically screamingGabrielle’s name. The woman followed helplessly. Across the lot, a tall,well-dressed man stepped from a Mercedes and jogged to Nancy.

“Lady, what’s wrong?”

“My daughter’s been abducted by a man who brought herthis way. Please, have you seen her?”

“I did see a little girl walking around here a fewminutes ago.”

“Yes!”

“Hair braided, her dress kind of pinkish?”

“That’s her! Where did she go? Tell me, please!”

He looked intently over Nancy’s head at the lot andKezar Drive. He had been in his car, talking business over his phone.

“I saw the little girl talking to a man at a batteredold pickup truck. There was a little blond dog inside the truck.”

“What?”

Nancy covered her mouth with both hands, her mindreeling with a thousand horrors. Jackson. Jackson was a little blond dog.Remembering Paul believing Jackson didn’t run away. Somebody stole him. I don’tknow why but I know for damn sure he didn’t run away.

Apprehension swept over the man’s face as he steeledhimself.

“She got into the truck with the man and he droveoff.”

Nancy’s head spun. The woman caught her, steadyingher.

The man realized he could do something. “I’ve got aphone. I’ll call 9-1-1! I’ll drive around after the truck, lady, wait here!”

Nancy fell to her knees, seeing nothing, hearingnothing, feeling nothing, not even the strange older woman who’s arms held herso tightly they kept her from falling off the earth.

Standing at the living room window of her stucco bungalow, Eva Blair was curious about thestrange truck that had stopped in front of the Walker place across the street.Nobody got out of the truck. The engine was idling. Looked like a man and-Evacould just make out a little head-a child. A bearded man talking, no, arguing,with a child. It was none of her business. She was being an old busybody.

But something strange was going on.

Eva could just make out part of the truck’s rearplate. California. “B” or “8” or “E”. It was a battered old pickup. A Ford,according to the tailgate. The man seemed angry. There was a glint of metal inthe cab. A knife? Did the man have a knife? Goodness! What in the world was hedoing? Now he was tossing something out the window. She should call the police.The truck was filthy, neglected, a disgrace.

The engine growled and the truck sped away.

An ominous feeling came over Eva and she decided, forgood measure, to jot down what she could remember of the truck. She slipped onher bifocals, left her house by the front door, and started across the streettoward the spot where the truck had stopped. Something was on the sidewalk.

Eva gasped. A mound. A small, fluffy, heap of…hair.Human hair, beautiful chestnut hair. She bent over to examine it closely,gasping before hurrying back to her house to call the police.

The hair was dotted with fresh blood.

God be praised .

Keller had left Golden Gate Park without a hitch.Gabrielle was as quiet as a lamb, hugging her pathetic mutt.

“You are a radiant Angel.” He could not take his eyesfrom her.

“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins.”

Keller had been checking his rearview mirror every fewseconds since they left the park. No hint of trouble. Time to shift things intohigh gear. “Say, Gabrielle, it’s pretty hot. Want a soda?”

“Yes, please!”

Keller fished through a canvass knapsack behind theseat, producing a can. “I’ll open it for you.”

“Thank you.” Gabrielle took the can from him, gulped ahuge swallow. It was cold. She let Jackson lick some from her hand. “Baddoggie.” She wagged a warning finger at him. “Don’t you ever run away from meagain!”

“I bet you believe in God, say your prayers everynight?”

She nodded as the truck jerked over a pothole.

“Goodness. You spilled some on your dress. We’ll haveto stop so I can clean it for you.”

Gabrielle looked at her dress and saw no stain. “Idon’t think I spilled any, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Yes, you did. I’ll get it for you, as soon as I finda safe place to stop. Up there looks good.”

Keller spotted a house with a FOR SALE sign. It lookedempty. Neighborhood was quiet. He had to do this now, couldn’t wait any longer.It was still several miles to Wintergreen Heights. He stopped in front of thehouse and left the engine running.

“I really didn’t spill any, Mr. Jenkins. Honest. Ilooked.”

“You spilled some down your chin.” Keller grunted,reaching into the knapsack and pulling out a plastic bag with a damp face clothinside, reeking of medicine.

Gabrielle touched her chin. It was dry, but before shecould do anything, the stinky wet cloth was over her mouth, forcing her tobreathe through her nose. She struggled, kicked, and tried to scream. Jacksonbarked. Gabrielle dropped her Coke. It spilled and hissed on the floor. Kellerheld the cloth firmly against her face, staring into her fluttering eyes as shefell asleep.

Jackson barked fiercely.

“Shut up!” Keller said, removing Gabrielle’s dress andleotards, stuffing them into the knapsack. Rummaging in the pack, he pulled outa pair of child’s shorts and a Forty-niners’ T-shirt. In seconds, he hadslipped them on Gabrielle, along with a ball cap.

Then he pulled a pair of scissors from the knapsack,leaned Gabrielle forward, and began snipping off her chestnut braids.

The dog growled, leaping at Keller, biting at hishands. Damn! Keller caught his forefinger between the razor-sharp blades, andmost of the hair in his hand went out the window. The wound was deep.

Damn it!

At that instant, Keller saw an old woman watching fromher living room. What did she see?

Keller stomped on the gas, the engine roared, tirespeeled, stones flew in anger. How could he have been so careless! He poundedthe steering wheel, driving his rage like a rocket. Try to relax.

His heart thumped. It was happening. As it had beenprophesied. To the ignorant, the girl was a little boy who’d fallen asleep. Buthe knew the truth. The Divine Truth.

Slow down to the limit before you attract moreattention, he told himself. Come on. The old woman saw nothing. What was thereto see from her angle across the wide street? Nothing. She saw nothing: a manstopping to look at a house that was for sale. Nothing.

But the hair? What if she called the police?

Was he doubting his mission? His revelation?

He was cleansed in the light of the Lord. He mustnever cease believing he was blessed. That’s right. He had put more than adozen blocks behind him now and was beginning to relax, focusing on his routeto Wintergreen. The angel was sleeping. Good. Keller looked at the dog. Themutt could lead the police to him. He could sacrifice it with the scissors. Hecould it right now. He could pull into a back alley. It would take threeseconds, then he-

Traffic had come to a dead halt. The rear bumper ofthe Honda in front of Keller rushed at him. He hit the brakes in time to avoidcrashing. The two lanes ahead were merging into one. Cars inching along. What washappening? He saw a flash of red emergency lights.

Police! A roadblock?

Keller’s tongue swelled. He began sweating. Therearview mirror reflected a clogged river of vehicles, a virtual parking lot.He could try escaping by driving along the sidewalk. No, that would guarantee apursuit.

He was trapped. Keller squeezed the wheel. No. Notthis way.

You promised to help me. Do not forsake me.

The Angel was sleeping.

“Got the number two song in the Bay Area coming up,but this just in from the newsroom.” The radio in the convertible VW Golfcreeping alongside Keller was cranked to distortion. The young redhead alonebehind the wheel was oblivious as she puffed on her cigarette. “A five-year-oldgirl was reportedly abducted less than thirty minutes ago from the children’splayground at Golden Gate Park. Her name is Gabrielle Nunn. She has brown,braided hair and is wearing a flowered dress. Police say she may have beentaken by a man.” The radio faded away.

No. Not this way. Stay calm. He reached under the seatbetween his legs for the Smith amp; Wesson, purchased last year from a crackdealer in the Mission.

Numbers filed. Untraceable, like the wind, my man. TwoC’s.

Keller slipped the gun casually under his left leg. Hethought of the phony license he got on the street, along with fake birthcertificates, credit cards, library cards. When he required it, he could beanybody he wanted. God will provide, his father would say.

Ahead, a charter bus belched black smoke, its bigdiesel rattled as it crawled, clearing a line of sight. Keller first saw anSFPD black-and-white blocking one lane, then another. Then the ambulance and amangled car flipped on its roof. He saw the firefighters with the jaws-of-lifeclattering like a ravenous metal-eater to get at the bloodied person trappedinside. An accident. Okay. Keller sighed.

Suddenly a cop stood before him on the road, directingtraffic.

“You!” The officer pointed at him. His motorcycle wasnearby. A Harley Davidson. Impossible to outrun. He was an imposing trafficbull in dark aviator glasses, leather jacket, leather boots, and a leatherutility belt with a holstered gun.

“Hold it right there!”

Keller eyed the officer as he approached.

Not this way. He refused to let it end here. He feltthe hard barrel of the gun under his leg, and kept both hands on the wheel. Thecopy made leathery squeaks as he walked. His stern face telegraphed a clearmessage: Do not fuck with me, sir.

The dog barked and Gabrielle stirred. Her eyelidsflickered. Do not forsake me. A droplet of sweat rolled down Keller’s backbetween his shoulder blades.

“What’s the problem, officer?”

“Sir, are you aware your left front tire isunderinflated?”

“No, I wasn’t aware.”

Just then the officer’s portable radio crackled withsomething unclear. He snatched it, and requested a repeat of the transmission.Keller slid his hand under his left leg, fingering the gun.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

Again, the officer could not make out the radiomessage.

“Been crapping out like this all day,” he complained,cursing city bureaucrats. “Sorry, sir. Get that tire pumped.”

“No trouble, officer.”

The cop gave Keller a polite salute and waved himthrough.

It went according to his prayers. According to theprophesy. Thank God! Praise Him! He gazed upon the sleeping Angel. Behold theSeraph. Behold Gabriel. God’s messenger now belonged to him.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.

The highway curled breathtakingly close to the cliff edges above the Pacific, its crestingcobalt waves pummeling the rocks while embracing the beaches below.

The view soothed Sydowski whenever he drove toPacifica and today he needed soothing. His visit with his old man left him withsouvenirs. He flipped down the visor mirror again. The cuts on his freshlyshaved face had coagulated. He winced, pulling at the bits of tissue paper. Thethings a son will do to make his old man happy.

Sydowski had found his father sitting on his bed inhis shoebox bungalow at Sea Breeze Villas, staring sadly at the Pacific.

“What’s the matter Pop?” he asked in Polish.

“They won’t let me cut hair anymore. They say I’m tooold.” Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Is that so? Where’s your kit?”

“The old whore took it.”

“Pop, don’t call Mrs. Doran an old whore.”

“Well, she’s not a young one.”

Sydowski marched to the carpeted, lilac-scented officeof Mrs. Doran, Sea Breeze’s chief administrator. A kind, attractive woman inher fifties, Elsa Doran managed her “camp for golden kids” with the sternnessof a drill sergeant. Always happy to see Sydowski, her eyes sparkled and sheloved calling him “Inspector.” But the sparkle vanished when he asked her forhis old man’s barber’s kit.

“Mr. Sydowski, your father’s senility is a concern. Ican’t allow him to cut hair and give straight-razor shaves. He could injuresomeone. We’d be sued.”

Sydowski made it clear to Elsa Doran that he would notlose an argument with her over his father’s scissors and razor.

“Give me his kit, or I pull him out.”

She sighed, and retrieved the kit from a locked deskdrawer. He thanked her and returned to his old man.

“How about a trim and a shave, Pop?”

John Sydowski’s eighty-one-year-old face brightenedand he sat his son before his dresser mirror, draping a towel around hisshoulders. They talked sports, birds, politics, crime, and vegetables as he cuthis hair, then lathered his face for a shave. Sydowski loved how his father’sunit smelled of aftershave, like his old three-chair shop in North Beach. Heloved the feel of his old man’s comb through is hair, the clip of the scissors.For a warm moment he was a kid again. But when his old man neared him with therazor in his shaking hand, Sydowski’s stomach quaked. No way out of it, so heclosed his eyes, feeling the blade jerk into this skin again and again as hisfather scraped it across his face.

“See. Only a nick or two.” His old man beamed when itwas over, removing the towel stained with Sydowski’s blood before slapping onthe Old Spice. Sydowski damn near passed out from the sting.

“Thanks, Pop,” he managed through gritted teeth, goingto the bathroom to put toilet paper on his wounds.

They talked over tea, then his old man grew drowsy andfell asleep. Sydowski covered him with a blanket, kissed his head, gathered thekit, and returned to Elsa Doran’s office. She stared at Sydowski’s face indisbelief.

“Don’t’ ever give him his kit again,” he ordered,handing it to her. “If he fusses about it, call me.”

Elsa Doran understood, locked the kit in her deskdrawer and smiled up at Sydowski as he left. “What you did for John was verytender, Inspector.” Her eyes sparkled. “Very tender.”

Now, returning to San Francisco on the Pacific CoastHighway, Sydowski reflected on the case. He and Turgeon had squeezed a leadfrom Perry Kindhart. After they got a warrant, they tossed his apartment, butfound nothing tying him to Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker. Then IDENTdissected it. Zip. No prints, hairs, or fibers. Nothing, until they checkedKindhart’s Polaroid camera and came up with a latent belonging to FranklinWallace. The camera had been wiped, but one print was missed-a lost right-thumbprint screaming to be found. It didn’t prove a thing, but it was leverage.

“Let me get this straight, Perry,” Turgeon said. “Youhad absolutely nothing to do with Tanita Marie Donner or Danny Becker.”

“That’s right.” Kindhart stubbed his tenth LuckyStrike in the ashtray of the Homicide interview room at the Hall of Justice.Turgeon and Sydowski went at Kindhart, who played the relaxed con, wise to theprogram. He knew they could hold him for seventy-two hours before having tocharge or release him. Earlier, on the drive to the hall, Kindhart decidedagainst a lawyer. “You’re right, I’ve got nothing to hide. Some guys can’tfunction in the morning.”

Sydowski sat across from Kindhart in the interviewroom, letting Turgeon do most of the asking. Kindhart was taken with her, she’dstruck a rapport with him, letting him believe he had the upper hand, wascontrolling the information. Like a practiced snake charmer, she skillfullycoaxed his tongue from his mouth and let him wrap it around his own throat.Kindhart would roll over-all he needed was a little nudge. When the ramblingsof Kindhart’s empty stomach grew distracting, Sydowski began talking about hispassion for cheeseburgers from Hamburger Mary’s. Hunger was a powerful motivator.

“How ‘bout I send out for a couple of cheeseburgersand some fries, Perry?” Sydowski offered. Kindhart accepted. Enthusiastically.

Sydowski and Turgeon left. When they returned,Sydowski had his nose in the report from the search of Kindhart’s apartment.

“Sorry, Perry, we got sidetracked. We’ll order thoseburgers soon as we clear something up here.” Sydowski kept his face in thefile, sifting papers.

“What’s to clear up?”

“Perry, we found Franklin Wallace’s prints on yourcamera.”

“That’s a fucking lie.” Kindhart looked at Turgeon.

“And, Sydowski continued, with a bluff, “the labreports aren’t back yet, but the snapshots you saw of Tanita with Wallace andthe hooded tattooed man, were likely taken with your Polaroid.”

“Bull-fucking-shit.”

“And there’s the note,” Sydowski threw out anotherbluff.

“What note?”

“Wallace’s suicide note.”

“What does it say?”

“It’s not good, Perry. That’s all we can tell you. I’msorry.”

Kindhart was dead silent.

Sydowski locked his eyes on him and waited. Kindhartlooked at Turgeon, at her beautiful, patient face. She waited. Kindhart’sstomach grumbled. He lit another Lucky Strike and blinked thoughtfully. Thewheels were turning.

Here it comes, Sydowski knew.

“Did that little fuck try to implicate me? After whatI did for him in Virginia? Is that what this is about?”

“Where were you on the Saturday Danny Becker waskidnapped from his father off BART?” Turgeon sat down.

“Modesto. I told you.”

“Can you prove it?”

“People saw me there.”

“Where were you last year when Tanita Marie Donner wasabducted, then found in Golden Gate?” Sydowski asked.

“I can’t remember. I think I was in town.” Kindhartdragged hard on his cigarette, squinting.

“Uh-hh.” Sydowski slipped on his glasses and studiedthe file. He let a minute of silence pass, then said, “Before we go on here,Perry, there are certain rights we have to advise you of. I’m sure you knowthem.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted as he continued in a friendly tone.“You have the right to remain silent-“

“Hold every-fucking-thing.”

Sydowski stopped. “Are you waiving your Mirandarights?”

Kindhart nodded. Sydowski wanted him to speak becausethe room was wired, they were recording the interview.

“We have to be clear, Perry. Are you waiving yourrights?”

“I’m waiving my fucking rights because I was notinvolved with those kids. I don’t know what you think you got on me, but it’snot what you think. It’s not the truth.”

“Then tell us the truth, Perry,” Turgeon added.

Kindhart’s breathing quickened and he eyed both ofthem. “Franklin wanted me to join a party. Just the three of us. Me, him andhis new friend. He said they were going to pick up a little date, play for aday, then let her go.”

“When was this?” Turgeon asked.

“Around the time the Donner kid went missing.”

“What was the date?” Sydowski asked.

“I don’t know. I figured it was the Donner kid.”

“Why?”

“Gabrielle.The girl’s name is Gabrielle. Her mother kept screaming her name,”seventy-three-year-old Fay Osborne from Ottumwa, Iowa, said as Tom Reed wrotequickly in his notepad.

He had taken Fay and Arthur, her seventy-five-year-oldhusband, a retired farmer, aside.

“This is a son-of-a-bitchin’ thing to do to a littlegirl.” Arthur repositioned his John Deere ball cap each time he patted hissweating head with his handkerchief. Reed hid the Osbornes from the otherreporters who swarmed Golden Gate Park.

The Star had sent Reed, Molly Wilson, and twophotographers to the park. Other staff were en route. Wilson was at thecarousel with the two teenage girls who saw the kidnapper, getting theiraccounts just before police took them away for statements.

Reed was having trouble hearing Fay and Jack Osborneover the TV news helicopters and satellite trucks roaring into the parking lot.Local stations were taking the story live. Shielding her eyes, Fay regarded ahovering chopper. The cradle-to-grave tribulations of a life bound to Iowa soilwere written in her face, eyes, and sturdy hands. Probably attended churchevery Sunday, Reed figured.

“Her mother kept saying that it was all her fault fornot watching her daughter more closely,” Fay said.

“You see anything strange in the parking lot beforethe mother ran up to you?”

“No. But this man approached us after seeing herupset.”

“Where is he now?”

“Gone. After helping the mother, he ran back to hiscar phone, called the police, then drove off, trying to follow the pickup truck.”

“Did he say anything before he left?” Writingfuriously, Reed stopped looking at the Osbornes.

“He had been talking on his car phone when he saw alittle girl come into the lot, and trot up to a parked pickup truck and talk toa man who had a dog in the cab. They only talked for a few seconds, then shegot in and they drove off.”

Reed never took his eyes from his notes as he wrote.“Did he get the truck’s plate number?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What did he say this man in the pickup looked like?”

“He said he had a beard, light-colored hair. In hisforties or fifties.

Reed froze, and stared at the Osbornes. “A beard andlight hair?”

Fay Osborne nodded. Reed’s mind spun with suspicion.

Beard. Light hair. Like the guy who took Danny Becker.Like the born-again kook from Martin’s bereavement group. He had a beard andlight hair. Right. And so did 100,000 other men in the Bay Area. Slow down. Whydid he think he was a detective? Didn’t he learn from the Franklin Wallacefiasco last year?

Reed finished with the Osbornes, went to the carousel,and took Wilson aside. “What’d you get?” he asked.

“Great stuff.” She flipped through her notes. “Hername is Gabrielle Nunn. From the description I got from the two girls who sawher talking to a man before she went missing. I’d say he’s the same creep whograbbed Danny Becker from BART.”

“Me, too.”

“Gabrielle was here for a friend’s birthday party, ahuge one, something like thirty kids. She’s waiting alone outside the washroomwhen she talks to this man in a ball cap and dark glasses. Nobody remembers theguy’s face, only that he was bearded with blondish hair.”

“Just like Becker on BART. Ball cap and dark glasses.”

“Gabrielle talks to the man, follows him to the lot.Her mom, Nancy Nunn, comes out minutes later. Can’t find her. The teens tellher about the man. Mom runs frantically to the lot. And get this! The wholething may have been caught on amateur video!”

“No shit?” Reed checked to ensure no other reporterswere eavesdropping. “How did you find out?”

“I overheard a guy tell a detective that he wasvideotaping his kids on the carousel about the same time. He said maybe hecaught the guy on tape.”

“He give the tape to the detective?”

“Yes, he took it before I could interview him.”

“Good stuff. See if we can get a print from it. Myguess is they’ll release it anyway.”

“Right. You get anything?”

Reed told her about Fay Osborne and the businessmanwho followed the pickup. Suddenly, Wilson remembered something and reachedexcitedly into her purse, pulling out a snapshot.

“One of the mothers from the party gave me thispicture of Gabrielle. Taken an hour ago. What an angel. Five years old. Herbirthday is next week. Her mother was freaked over Becker’s kidnapping, andwith Donner being found here, she was afraid to bring Gabrielle to the partytoday. Her mother made that dress. What a little angel, huh?”

“She’s cute all right. Anybody say anything about adog?”

“Yes, hold on.” Wilson handed Reed the snapshot andflipped through her notes. “Here, Jackson, Gabrielle’s cocker spaniel pup. Ranoff or something from their home about a month ago.”

“It fits.”

“What fits?”

“That this could’ve been premeditated. The guy tookher dog, then uses it today to lure her away.”

“Yeah, that would work.”

“Call the desk. We should send someone to the Nunnshome in the Sunset, talk to the neighbors.”

“Your house is in the Sunset, Tom.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never heard of this family.”

“Excuse me!” A grim-faced SFPD officer was unreeling ataut yellow police line around the carousel area, as other officers clearedpeople from the scene. The plastic ribbon sealed off the carousel enclosure,then stretched along the path Gabrielle had taken to the parking lotencompassing the lot itself, protecting the entire scene.

“Shit, Tom. They usually do this for homicides.”

“Likely a grid search, in case the bad guy droppedsomething.”

Drew Chapman, one of the Star’s photographers,joined them, clicking off a dozen frames.

“Chappy. Where you been?” Wilson said.

“Deep in the west end. A group of suits were pokingaround the scene where they found the murdered baby last year. The Examinerand Merc were there, too. Not bad for pix.”

“Cops put on the white gloves?” Reed asked.

Drew shook his head. “I don’t think they found dick.”Drew nodded to a group of detectives nearing the area and raised a camera tohis face. “Those guys there.”

Reed recognized Rust and Ditmire, along with Turgeonand Sydowski, walking outside the tape at the far side, stopping to talk withthe uniforms, instructing them to do something.

Drew fired off a few frames. “We overhead them saysomething about a press conference at the hall later. I don’t know about youguys, but I think it is all linked. I think we got some twisted, fucking,serial, child-killer.”

Maybe, Reed thought, considering the names as a connection.Danny Raphael Becker. Gabrielle Nunn. What an angel. Raphael. Gabrielle.The Angel Gabrielle. Gabriel. Raphael. Angels.

In Room 400 at the Hall of Justice, a funeral mood descended upon those watching GabrielleNunn’s abduction over and over again. In color, slow motion and reverse. Theysaw it on the same big-screen TV the homicide dicks used to watch ball games, DirtyHarry movies, and Dragnet reruns.

Vaughan Kreuger, a mechanic from Buffalo, wasvideotaping his four-year-old twins on the carousel with their mother whenGabrielle was taken from the playground. He volunteered his tape to a detectiveat the scene. Given the circumstances, the Kruegers didn’t want it.

Nancy Nunn wept. For her, it was a perverse ballet-thehorses, the rocker, the chariots carrying laughing children, safe children.

Nancy’s husband, Paul, and her friend Wendy Sloanewatched with her. Sharon Cook and Brenda Grayson, the two teens who sawGabrielle talking to a stranger, were also there. Watching beside them wasJanice Mason, a lip reader from Gold Bay Institute for the Hearing Impaired.Next to her, Beth Ferguson, the sketch artist, was making notes and outlines.Turgeon, Rust, Ditmire, Gonzales, Mikelson from General Works, Kennedy fromInvestigations, Chief of Inspectors Roselli, and a guy from the districtattorney’s office were among the group, hoping for a break.

Give us a lead, something. Anything.

Kreuger and his camera were at the opposite side ofthe carousel from Gabrielle and the stranger. It was difficult to see anythingexcept the strobe-like glimpses of swimming, formless color.

“Wait! I see her!” Gabrielle’s mother pinpointed thespot on the screen. The officer operating the VCR halted the tape, reversed itin freeze-frame mode, one frame at a time. Thirty seconds went by. Nothing butblurry people. Two grandmothers. Then strobe-style nothingness.Dark-light-dark-light-dark-light.

“I don’t see anything,” one detective said.

“I saw her! She’s there!” Nancy said just as GabrielleNunn appeared on the screen.

“Freeze it, Tucker!” Kennedy sat upright.

Nancy gasped, choking on her tears, pressing herfingers to the screen. It was not a clear frame, it did not betray details ofher face, mouth, or eyes, but it was Gabrielle. No question. A grainy, static-filledjerky frame of the soon-to-be six-year-old standing alone in the dress hermother had made for her birthday.

Sydowski studied the color Polaroids of Gabrielletaken at the party. Paul Nunn helped Nancy sit down and the tape continued inslow motion. Gabrielle vanished. The camera’s angle changed, and caught heragain, but she disappeared. Dark-light-dark-light-dark-light. She reappearedcompletely in focus as a shadow fell over her. A man. It was a man’s back. Theimage was jittery. A profile appeared, snowy, out of focus, void of details,but for a beard, ball cap, sunglasses.

“That’s him!” Sharon Cook, one of the teens, pointedat the TV.

“Definitely!” Brenda Grayson said.

The Nunns could not identify the man trapped byKreuger’s video camera for one second of real time. The stranger had somethingin his right hand and was showing it to Gabrielle before he was cut out of theframe. A postcard, or picture. Miraculously Gabrielle’s face focused as shetilted her head, accepted the picture, and spoke.

“Jackson! Where is he?” Janice Mason from theinstitute read Gabrielle’s lips, just as the tape ended.

Sydowski saw the veins in Paul Nunn’s reddened neckpulsing. He exploded. “He stole the dog for this! Planned it! Sonofabitch! I’llkill him!” Nunn buried his face in his large hands.

Earlier, Paul Nunn told the detectives he suspectedGabrielle’s pup was stolen from their backyard a month ago because he found thegate open and bits of raw hamburger in the pen. Now, more evidence mocked themfrom the big screen. They were hustling an IDENT unit to comb the Nunn’s yard.Sydowski thought as Officer Tucker cued up the best frame of the kidnapper forBeth Ferguson to sketch. Sydowski caught her attention. She gave her head asubtle negative shake that told him she had few attributes from the footage forcomposite. Sydowski knew it. So did the others. A fuzzy rear to near profile ofa baseball cap, dark glasses, and a beard wasn’t much to work with. But it wassomething, and if anyone could extract more physical detail about the guy fromthe teens, Beth could.

Sydowski turned to his copy of the telex from theRoyal Canadian Mounted Police, apologizing for the delay getting a file andphoto of the one possible suspect from the Canadian prison system. His name wasVirgil Shook, which fit with the “Verge” reference from Kindhart. Shook had theright kind of tattoos in the right spots. But they didn’t have his file, sheet,or pictures yet. They had absolutely nothing on Shook. It was a nationalholiday in Canada and the Mounties were having computer problems. Rust wasurged to use the FBI and State Department’s pull and call the U.S. Embassy inOttawa for action.

Sydowski studied the grainy contours of Gabrielle’sabductor on the TV screen, weighing and measuring every dancing photoelectron composinghis image. His heartburn flared; fear and anger raged in the pit of hisstomach. Was he now closer to the thing he had been hunting, the thing that hadscarred him? The tape clicked and whirred. The stranger with Gabrielle was justa man. Flesh and blood. Fallible. Conquerable. The suspect’s ghostly image onthe video was a solid break, but it came at a high price. He looked uponGabrielle Nunn’s mother and father being escorted away with the teens to helpBeth with a composite.

“We’ve got a shitload of work to do and no time to doit.” Leo Gonzales told the detectives at the table. Alerts had gone outstatewide, a grid-search of the playground at Golden Gate was underway, andexhaustive background checks with the Nunns, Beckers, and Angela Donner to finda common thread, anything that might link the families. And they’d go back tothem on Vigil Shook, once they had his damn file. Until then, absolutelynothing was to be made public about Shook. Not yet. He might run. But theywould find him. The FBI would dissect his crimes and compare them with the SanFrancisco cases. They would find his friends, climb his family tree, lean hardon Kindhart. Phone taps, mail monitoring, and surveillance for the Nunn home,canvass their Sunset neighborhood-they knew the drill. They would hold a newsconference, release the blurry footage, details of the kidnapping, and make apublic appeal for help.

“You all know what’s at stake here. Do whatever ittakes,” Gonzales vowed to the group.

Why? Why?Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Nancy Nunn was overwhelmed. Where was Gabrielle? Whatwas he doing to her? Oh God. Please watch over her.

All my fault. It’s all my fault. Why wasn’t Iwatching her? What was he going to do to her? OhGod, would she ever see her again? Golden Gate Park. That’s where they foundthe baby girl last year. Murdered. Oh God. The accusing eyes of the carouselhorses.

I’m okay Mom, I’m just waiting at the door.

The man was a Caucasian, late forties to mid-fifties.He had a full beard, bushy blondish hair, medium build, about 170–190 pounds,six feet to six feet, two inches tall. Beth Ferguson estimated as she worked ina nose, ears, and mouth that might match those of the man the teens had seen.He wore a long-sleeve shirt; the girls couldn’t see any tattoos. They keptrepeating, reciting details. Nancy and Paul sat with them, studying the sketch,struggling to remember if they had ever encountered the man who took Gabrielle.Nancy prayed.

God please help me. Please don’t harm her. She’s justa little girl, an innocent little girl. We should be looking for her. My childhas been abducted. Why didn’t the world stand still? Why wasn’t everyonelooking for her? I have to find her-

Nancy bolted to the hall, where she was stopped by thethrong of detectives leaving the conference room, running square into one ofthem. He was calm, compassionate. She felt his large, strong hands steady hershoulders gently. He smelled of a trace of Old Spice. Nancy’s father wore OldSpice. The hall fell silent except for Nancy’s sobbing as she looked up at thedetective, her voice breaking.

“Bring her home to me. Please bring her home to me.”

Sydowski’s blue eyes watered with understanding. Heknew her suffering-he would carry it with him as a crusader carries an amulet.It was his solemn promise. She read it in his face, the face of a good man. Heembodied her hope. Her only hope.

“I promise you, Mrs. Nunn, we will do everything wecan on this earth to find Gabrielle.”

Tears rolled down Nancy’s face as her husband took herin his arms, comforting her. “If he asks for money, we will pay it.” Paul Nunnsaid. “Whatever he asks for. We’ll sell the house.”

Sydowski nodded.

Two other detectives ushered the Nunns away for morequestioning before taking them home.

Turgeon and Sydowski said nothing in the elevator orduring the walk to the car. Nothing anyone could say would be worth a damn.They were alone with their thoughts and the case. Turgeon started the Caprice,had slipped the transmission into reverse when Gord Mikelson ran up to them.

“CHiPS just locked on to a truck, could be our guy.”

“What?”

“Bearded man driving a battered pickup with a girlabout six or seven wearing a dress. They have a dog in the cab. Near thePresidio, northbound towards the bridge. CHiPS bird has got him and MarinCounty’s rolling. The guy hasn’t made us yet!”

“Punch it, Linda!” Sydowski switched on the policeradio.

The Chevy roared, leaving fifty feet of smolderingrubber at the hall, emergency lights wigwagging and siren screaming.

San Francisco’s skyscrapers and the surging whitecaps of the Bay wheel slowly underthe California Highway Patrol chopper approaching the south end of the GoldGate Bridge near the Presidio.

It had been assisting the San Francisco police in theabduction investigation, hovering over Golden Gate Park, the Sunset, andRichmond districts. It had returned to its Oakland base to refuel when itsradio crackled. An off-duty CHiPS patrol car spotted a pickup matching thedescription in the Nunn kidnapping, northbound on 101 near the Palace of FineArts. The chopper lifted off within forty-five seconds of the call.

The suspect truck was a Ford, the driver Caucasian,bearded. Passenger was a girl, five to eight years old, her head barely visiblefrom the rear. A small dog was in the cab. The cruiser couldn’t get closer forthe truck’s tag without being noticed.

Traffic on 101 near the Golden Gate looked like a setof toy cars from the air. The CHiPS chopper nearly invisible, lingering aquarter mile or so south. The spotter locked onto the pickup throughhigh-powered binoculars. The truck was now on the bridge.

Police radios sizzled with dispatches as cars fromseveral jurisdictions headed to the area. No stop would be made on the bridge.Too risky. It would happen at the viewpoint exit on the north side. The suspectwas considered dangerous and possibly armed.

They would hold him for the SFPD.

Weaving through traffic on the Golden Gate, Turgeonand Sydowski monitored the takedown on their radio.

“Yeah, we’ve got him,” huffed a CHiPS officer. “Noproblem here. No weapons.”

Turgeon and Sydowski arrived minutes after the arrest,with Turgeon blasting the siren, jolting slow-moving rubberneckers out of theirway. Half a dozen officers were at the scene, four cruisers with front doorsopen, emergency lights pulsating, surrounded the pickup, radio calls competingwith the chopper above.

An officer was talking to a man in the backseat of onecar. In the front of another car an officer talked with a little girl, while ablond dog panted in the rear seat behind the cage. Motorists slowed to gawk. Afew tourists nearby watched with worried, puzzled faces as officers searchedthe interior of the pickup’s cab. Sydowski clipped his shield to his jacket andgroaned. Also watching were TV news crews and newspaper photographers.Reporters were talking to people, taking notes.

“Those guys are fast.” Turgeon shook her head.

The Chevy’s Michelin radials screeched as they skiddedto a halt next to the pickup. Sydowski had his door open before the car stoppedand a highway officer glanced at his shield.

“San Francisco PD?” The officer shouted over thechopper.

“That’s right,” Sydowski said, noticing the stripesand the name plate of Sergeant Marvin Miller.

“This is Inspector Turgeon,” Sydowski said. “Mind ifwe talk to these people?” Turgeon went to the car holding the driver, Sydowskiwent to the car with the little girl, opened the cruiser’s passenger door, andsquatted beside the girl. She was terrified.

“Excuse me, officer.” Sydowski did not take his eyesfrom the girl. “Hi there. I’m Inspector Sydowski. I’m a police officer, too.”

She nodded.

“I bet this has got you pretty scared, sweetheart?”

She nodded. Her chestnut brown hair was in a neatponytail, tied with a pink bow. Her face darkened. “Was Daddy driving too fast?He says police will stop you if you drive too fast.”

“Well, that’s true,” Sydowski said. “People shouldn’tdrive too fast. You’re a pretty smart girl to know that. Can you tell me yourname and how old you are?”

“My name is Jennifer Corliss. I’m seven years old andI live at 7077 Brownlington Gardens. Where’s my daddy?”

The dog barked. A retriever pup.

“This your dog, Jennifer?” Sydowski asked, reachinginto his jacket for the Polaroids of Gabrielle Nunn.

“His name is Sonny Corlis. He lives with me and mydaddy and mommy and my little brother, Ethan. Where’s Daddy? We have to go now.Mommy and Ethan are waiting at the cabin.”

Sydowski held up that morning’s birthday partysnapshot of Gabrielle for Miller. Not even close.

“Daddy’s right over there, Jennifer.” Sydowski noddedto his left. “We’re going to take you to him in a minute. Meanwhile, why don’twe let you sit with Sonny, while we talk to your daddy, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sydowski and Miller started for the second cruiserwhere Jennifer’s father was being questioned.

“Say, you Sydowski, from Homicide?”

“Yup.”

A smile grew on Miller’s face. “The legend himself. Ithought I’d recognized you from the news.”

Turgeon stopped Sydowski before he got to the car.

“I don’t think he’s our boy, Walt.”

“Uh-huh. Well that’s not Gabrielle Nunn back there.”

Turgeon’s face was taut. “Mr. Corliss is not thrilledwith this attention. He’s pissed off.” Turgeon looked at a business card.“Thoren J. Croliss, executive with a downtown investment group.”

Sydowski saw Corliss several yards away, out ofearshot outside the police car leaning against its front right fender, armsfolded resolutely across his chest, ignoring the officer talking to him.Corliss was in his late thirties, early forties. Trim build, thick sandy hair,and a beard, tanned chiseled cheeks. Faded jeans and a navy Ralph Lauren poloshirt. Wayfarers hung from his neck. A man who was always in charge. A man whosealed deals on squash courts, knew his way around most foreign capitals. A guywho carried a phone with him everywhere. Likely called his lawyer already,Sydowski thought.

“He’s demanding to speak to somebody in charge.”Turgeon said.

“Oh, is that right?” Sydowski said.

“We ran his name and made some calls,” Miller said.“He’s clean. Checks out. Just picked up his seven-year-old daughter, Jennifer,from school and they’re on their way to the mother and son at their cottage atBel Marin. That’s their dog, too, a retriever. They fit the damn descriptioncirculated. We told him that. Told him the situation.”

Sydowski rubbed his chin, told Miller his people madethe right call, then nodded to the reporters.

“Marvin, anybody here talk to the press yet?”

“No. It’s your show.”

Sydowski turned to Turgeon. “You up to it, Linda?”

“What have you got in mind?”

“What have you got in mind?”

“Talk to those guys and set the record straight. Tellthem we stopped a subject matching the description in the Nunn kidnapping.Don’t give Corliss’s name or any details about the abduction. We’ll give themmore at the press conference later.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“Talk to the old man here. Send him on his way.”

Turgeon was uneasy. A few minutes ago, Sydowski washolding Gabrielle Nunn’s traumatized mother, staring into her eyes. She didn’tlike the way his jaw was fixed, the way he regarded Corliss.

“Don’t rough him up, Walt,” she joked.

Sydowski shoved a Tums into his mouth.

Four hours after Gabrielle Nunn was kidnapped, scores of reporters crammed into the Hallof Justice cafeteria, which was serving as a press room. Flanked by a number ofSFPD brass, detectives, and officers from various jurisdictions, the chief tookhis seat and prepared to tell San Franciscans a monster was preying on theirchildren. He sipped some water, cleared his throat, and leaned into themicrophones heaped on the table before him.

“Five-year-old Gabrielle Nunn of San Francisco wasabducted by a man a short time ago while at a birthday party at the Children’sPlayground in Golden Gate Park. The suspect drove away with her in a pickup truck,a battered, dark-colored Ford, late 1970’s, plate beginning with a ‘B’ or ‘E’or ‘8’. We suspect the same man also kidnapped three-year-old Daniel Beckerfrom his father on BART near Balboa Park and are investigating any link to lastyear’s kidnapping and murder of two-year-old Tanita Marie Donner.”

Blazing TV lights accentuated the chief’s green eyes.Speed winders whirred with sporadic camera flashes.

“We have some aspects of Gabrielle Nunn’s abduction wewill make public. A month ago, the Nunns’ blond cocker spaniel pup, Jackson,disappeared from their home in the Sunset. We believe the dog was taken byGabrielle’s kidnapper, who used it today to entice her to go with him.”

“Another vital lead comes from a family who wasvideotaping their outing at Golden Gate Park today when Gabrielle Nunn waslured away. They recorded Gabrielle’s abductor. We’ve enhanced the tape andwill show it to you. We have since produced a composite of the suspect.Everyone will be given copies of the video, the composite, pictures ofGabrielle Nunn, and her dog.”

“We’ve expanded our investigation into these crimes byestablishing a formal task force consisting of the SFPD, FBI, stat, and otheragencies. We have a dedicated tip line for any information on these crimes. Andthe mayor’s office has increased the reward for information leading to anarrest in any or all of the cases to $200,000. Anyone with any informationshould call us.”

The chief nodded to an officer. Suddenly, an enlargedcolor picture of Gabrielle Nunn stared at reporters from the screen overhead.It was one of the Polaroids taken at the party. Gabrielle, eyes bright, andoblivious to the horror looming.

“What a cute child,” said a reporter near Tom Reed.

An angel. That’s whatWilson had called her.

Suddenly the computer enhanced face of Gabrielle’sabductor emerged beside her. A Caucasian, in his late forties, early fifties,bearded, with snakelike strands of blondish hair writhing from under a ballcap. His mouth was like a slit. Large, dark glasses hid his eyes, concealingwhatever force was propelling him to hunt her, take her, and ram another stakeinto San Francisco’s heart.

Seeing his face next to Gabrielle’s was chilling.

Reed examined the composite.

Something was familiar. What was it?

The officers rolled a large monitor and VCR to thefront.

The chief said, “Now, we’ll show you the videotape.The sequence we’ve edited lasts about twenty seconds. We’ve removed the sound,isolated Gabrielle and the suspect with identifying circles.”

It was incredible. A hissing snowstorm filled themonitor before the dark-light strobe revolutions of the carousel appeared andthe abduction of Gabrielle Nunn was carried out, in slow motion.

It was surreal.

Reed took notes.

The footage was blurry, jittery. Gabrielle and herkidnapper were trapped in halos. It was still difficult to discern the manunder the ball cap, glasses, and beard. The tape vibrated, was out of focus.Even in slow motion, his face was indistinct. Then he turned, the cameracaptured his slightly distorted profile. It froze.

The rapid-clicking of the still cameras broke thesilence.

“That’s our best image of Gabrielle’s abductor,” thechief said.

Reed examined the monitor. Something gnawed at him.The screen was glowing with the suspect’s computer composite.

Then the video monitor.

The composite.

The monitor.

He swallowed. Hard.

The man. His beard, his nose, the shape of his head,his build.

Edward Keller.

He resembled Edward Keller, the religious nut from thebereavement group. Reed never forgot the people he clashed with. Keller wasirrational, telling him how he lost his three children in a boating accident.But Reed could not find any news clippings of Keller’s tragedy. Why? Was Kellera liar? An eccentric? Quoting ancient poetry and Scripture, babbling about his“ divine revelation” and his “blessed reunion with his children”.

Didn’t the FBI’s profile say Danny Becker’s kidnapperwas traumatized by a cataclysmic event involving children?

His blessed reunion with his children.

Children.

Are you the specter sent to destroy my work?

You can rescue them if you truly believe you can.

Reed found Sydowski among the stone-faced dicks liningthe wall. Should he put him on to Keller? But what if he is wrong? What ifKeller was just a nut, sick with grief, and Reed sicced the police on him.Especially now? Didn’t Dr. Martin say the anniversary of the tragedy wasapproaching, always a difficult time for grieving parents? The last time Reedhad galloped after a hunch, a man committed suicide, and Ann and Zack left him.Reed tapped his pen against his pad. But two children had been stolen.

The chief was taking questions. Reed had missed mostof them, coming out of his thoughts to catch a stunner.

“… you found a bloodied body part in the Sunset andit belonged to Gabrielle. Is that true, Chief?”

The chief was not pleased. “Your information isinaccurate. We found some of Gabrielle’s hair. We believe her abductor cut itto alter her appearance. It is not uncommon in abduction cases.”

“What about the blood?”

“We haven’t determined if it’s the abductor’s orGabrielle’s. And I can’t disclose details on the hair.”

“Chief, what about the stop made on the Golden Gate?”

“False alarm. Somebody who resembled the description.”

“There’s a rumor that a fugitive child-killer fromCanada is a suspect and is under surveillance.”

“We have a number of people we’re checking out. Wehave no Canadian fugitives under surveillance.”

“Did you arrest a suspect and let him go?”

“No. We brought in a few people known to us forquestioning.”

“Do you have any leads on the suspect in the video?”

“None.”

“Any ransom calls, demands, or contact from thekidnapper?”

“Nothing.”

“What about the Becker case, any contact?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you think the children have been murdered? Are youdealing with a serial child-killer?”

“We have no evidence to suggest any homicides. Untilthen, we work on the assumption they are being held somewhere.”

“Why do you think the cases are linked?”

“The similar patterns. Bold, daylight, strangerabduction in each of them. And in the Becker and Nunn cases, the suspect’sdescription is very similar.”

“Any theories on the motive behind the cases?”

The chief turned to FBI Special Agent Merle Rust, whotook the question. ‘Our psychological profile suggests the suspect’s motivationstems from a traumatic event in this life involving children, abuse, atragedy.”

“Sexual abuse?”

“Possibly.”

“Chief, anything linked to cult or Satanicinvolvement? What about a terrorist link to Nathan Becker’s defense contractcomputer research?”

“Nothing on all counts.”

“What do the abducted children have in common? Howdoes this man come to chose Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

“We have had some leads, but we can’t reveal them.Now, before we close here, I just want the people of the Bay Area to know thedangerous situation we’re facing here. Parents should be vigilant with theirfamilies at all times and report anything suspicious. Thank you for coming.”The chief was peppered with questions as he made his way out.

Reed broke from the pack and caught up to Sydowski.“You got a moment, Walt?”

Sydowski led him down the hall until he found an emptyoffice.

“Make it quick.” Sydowski closed the door behind them.

“That footage really the guy?”

“It’s him. We showed it to Danny Becker’s father.”

“It is the same guy in Tanita Marie Donner’s murder?”

“Don’t know.”

“What about the guy you brought in the other day?”

“I told you, he was a shit-rat who gave us a lead tocheck.”

“What’s his name?”

“Can’t tell you. We’re still checking.”

“Do you think Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn aredead?”

“I don’t know.”

“What have you got, Walt? What’ve you really got?”

“Not much. A fuzzy description. Gabrielle’s hair.”

“You think this guy’s going to strike again?”

“Off the record? This entire conversation neverhappened.”

“What conversation?”

“I think he will strike again. We’re trying to trackhim, anticipate his next move. But we’ve got dick to work with.”

Reed nodded, and mulled his next thought.

“I’ve got to go,” Sydowski said.

“Wait, Walt.” Reed swallowed. “What if I recognizethis guy?”

Sydowski’s face grew into astonished anger. “Don’tfuck with me!” He stabbed Reed’s chest with a finger. “Has this fucker beencalling you?”

“No. No. Nothing like that.”

“What are you talking about, then?”

“His beard. He looks like someone I met once, but I’mnot sure.”

“You’re not sure.” Sydowski bristled. “Let me tell yousomething. If you know this guy, if you have any information about him, thenyou better tell me now.”

“Well, it’s just-“

Sydowski held a warning finger under Reed’s nose.“Because if you are sitting on information just for the sake of a goddamnstory, we’ll come after you harder than we did on Donner. And this time I’ll beleading the fucking charge.”

“He just looked familiar, vaguely familiar. Likesomebody I may have met once, but I just can’t place him.” Reed lied and backedoff.

“His description fits any one of about two hundred andfifty thousand men in the Bay Area.”

“I was just trying to get some background on theinvestigation. This is such a huge story.”

Sydowski shook his head incredulously, his facereddening. “You’re wasting my time. We’ve got a child murder and two stolenchildren and to you guys it’s just a game, just a huge story.”

Sydowski was seething. “It’s so easy for the press,isn’t it? You get us up there, hit us with questions that make you look asinineno matter how we answer. You do your stories and you go home. Not us. We haveto find this fucker, have to breathe, eat and sleep with what he’s done and maydo again. It gets personal for us, so don’t come around me playing yoursmart-ass give-and-take games.”

“We’re affected by this as much as you.”

“Ever see a murdered baby’s corpse? You know what thatdoes to you? You ever have to escort a mother to the morgue to identify therotting remains of her two-year-old daughter? Then hold her as she cries sohard you swear she’s breaking apart in your arms?”

Sydowski’s eyes were glistening. “Do you know thisasshole, Tom?”

“I guess not.”

“All right. Then unless you got something substantialto tell m, don’t bother me any more.” Sydowski left the room.

Reed went to the window and stared at the city.

The San Francisco Star’s afternoon meeting broke and weekend editor Blake MacCrimmon carriedhis note-filled yellow legal pad across the newsroom.

The city’s psychopath had stolen another child.

MacCrimmon had called in six reporters on overtime forthe story. The Star was coming out with a huge package-MacCrimmon hadcleared four inside pages. Deadline was two hours away, but that was not thesource of his unease. It was the story. When he saw the shaky footage ofGabrielle Nunn’s abduction, his skin stung; something that hadn’t happened tohim since he covered Vietnam. He had four grandchildren who lived near GoldenGate Park. He stopped at Tom Reed’s desk.

“Your story is going to be our main news hit on front.Lead off with something like: ‘Fears that a serial killer is stalking childrenafter a man abducted a five-year-old girl Saturday, days after a three-year-oldboy was kidnapped.”

“How long can I run with it?”

“Forty, fifty inches. Put the footage of the bad guyup high.”

“No problem.”

“I’ve got Molly camped out on the Nunns’ doorsteptonight, in case of a ransom call, or the family talks to the press. We’ll sendthe night guy to relieve her later.”

“What else have we got going?”

“A Jack Thorne column. It captures the mood: nervousparents keeping their children close, city sharing the Beckers’ and Nunns’anguish. Color on Gabrielle, her family, the dog connection, the suspect’spsych profile, a summary of the three cases, that sort of thing.” MacCrimmonadjusted his glasses. “Anything you think we should add?”

Reed noticed a back issue nearby with his feature onthe bereavement group. Again, he thought of Edward Keller. Maybe he should tellMacCrimmon about his hunch, ask to be freed to quietly investigate Keller. Thenagain, maybe not.

“You have something on your mind, Tom?”

“No. Sounds like a solid package.”

“Story’s drawing global interest. Other papers inBritain, Japan, and Canada are sending staff here.” MacCrimmon checked hiswatch, then patted Reed’s shoulder. “Better get busy.”

Two hours after she had given an emotional news conference on her front lawn, Nancy Nunnwas in her bedroom, sedated. Turgeon was still on the phone. Sydowski set hiscoffee aside, as he steadied himself to see Gabrielle’s brother, Ryan, aftersomebody told him the eight-year-old had questions.

Ryan was downstairs with Nancy Nunn’s friend WendySloane and her daughters, Charlotte and Elaine. The family room had therequisite paneling and indoor-outdoor carpeting. A small bar with three swivelstools stood empty at one end, with a Giants’ pennant and a neon beer signglowing from the wall behind it. Closed tonight. There was a well-worn couchand loveseat set before a big-screen TV. It was a room where a family couldsnuggle up in front of a movie, or play monopoly, or laugh, or be happy, oranything safe and mundane.

But not tonight.

Tonight it was a sanctuary for the three childrenhuddled on the floor watching a movie. The children were sitting on sleepingbags. Plastic bowls overflowing with popcorn were next to them, untouched.Wendy Sloane was on the sofa, dabbing her face with a crumpled tissue. She sawSydowski, then looked away. She had seen enough of police to last her the restof her life; moreover, she would never forgive herself for teasing Nancy abouther fears.

Sydowski grunted amicably as he sat with the childrenon the floor, introduced himself, and invited them to ask any questions thatmight be on their minds.

The girls were silent, watching the movie.

Ryan turned to Sydowski, his eyes cold and dry.

“Is my little sister dead?”

“We don’t know, Ryan. We just don’t know.”

“How come? You’re a detective right? You’re supposedto know.”

“We haven’t found anything, not a single piece ofanything you could think of that would prove Gabrielle has been hurt.”

“But the news said you found her hair and stuff.”

“We think the stranger cut her hair so people wouldn’trecognize her from her picture. We’re going to make a new picture of her. Itdoesn’t mean she has been hurt.”

Ryan’s face brightened a bit. “That means she couldstill be all right somewhere?”

“Exactly, but with shorter hair.”

“And that’s really why there’s going to be moresearching tomorrow with a helicopter and dogs and everything? Not becauseyou’re looking for her dead body, like the TV news said?”

“That’s right. We’re looking everywhere for yoursister and for anything to help us figure out what happened to her, so that wecan find her. So far, no matter what anybody else tells you, there is nothingto prove Gabrielle has been hurt. You got that straight from me. That’s my wordas a San Francisco Police Inspector. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Excuse me, Walt.” Special Agent Merle Rust took Sydowskiaside. “IDENT’s finished with her bedroom. Came up with nothing, zip. WE shouldgive it a quick once-over.”

Sydowski agreed, patted Ryan’s shoulder, then leftwith Rust.

It was like walking into the bedroom of a doll’shouse. The two men dwarfed it, casting huge shadows on the walls.

Rust squatted, examining the contents of Gabrielle’sdresser, while Sydowski sat on her bed. Soft pastel, patterned wallpaper withtiny bouquets covered the walls. The ceiling borders were painted a lilacshade. Beautiful, Sydowski thought. A framed piece of embroidery reading:“Gabrielle’s Room” hung above the bed. A multicolored crayon drawing of Jackson,Gabrielle’s puppy, hung on one wall. This was the room of a happy child, likethe rooms of Tanita and Danny.

As Rust sifted gingerly through Gabrielle’s dresserdrawers, Sydowski ran his fingers over the flowers printed on her comforter.She had been here hours ago. Sleeping, dreaming. Safe. He touched her pillow,traced the frills of the cotton pillow case, and picked up a stuffed pink bear.

“Snuffles,” Rust said.

“Huh?”

“Snuffles, Walt. According to her dad, it’s herfavorite possession, after her pup.”

Sydowski touched Snuffles to his nose, inhaling asweet child’s scent. Rust opened Gabrielle’s closet, crouched down, andinspected the items jammed into it, starting with Gabrielle’s shoes.

“Why in hell are you doing that?” Paul Nunn asked fromthe doorway. “What could you possibly hope to find?”

Rust and Sydowski exchanged looks.

Nunn’s eyes were still wet and he was exhausted fromhaving endured hours of police interviews. Rust stopped, but remained crouched.

“Paul,” Sydowski began, “everybody has secrets. Evenchildren.”

“Secrets? What secrets?”

“Gabrielle may have been approached by her abductorbefore. He may have tricked her into keeping it secret. He may have given hersomething, a little gift.” Sydowski nodded to Gabrielle’s drawing of her dog.“Maybe she hid a drawing, or wrote something.”

Nunn absorbed Sydowski’s rationale. “But we’ve toldher and Ryan never to talk to strangers.”

“He may not have been a stranger to her. He may havelearned something about you and Nancy to trick her. If he took her dog, thenhe’s working from a plan.”

Nunn rubbed his stubble, then the back of his neck.

“She’s a good girl, she always tells us everything.”

“You don’t know that,” Rust said.

“What about her hair? You found her braids and therewas blood.”

“Well,” Sydowski said, “it’s exactly like we’ve said.We suspect he cut her braids off to change her appearance. She may havestruggled and he likely cut himself. If he tossed her hair in the street likehe did, it means he was likely in a hurry or afraid he was being watched. It iscommon for the stranger to want to alter the child’s appearance right away.”

“Why didn’t you tell the press about the suspect?”

“What suspect?” Sydowski said.

“Virgil Shook. I heard some of the detectives talkingtonight.”

“He’s a loser we want to check out. We’re waiting forhis file from Canada-that’s where he’s from. We’re checking out a lot of peopleas fast as we can. You should keep his name to yourself.”

“Why? If he’s got my daughter, you should tell thewhole world and splash his face across the news.”

“We need every edge we can get. We don’t want thekidnapper to know what we may find out about him. It could blow up in ourfaces.”

“That what happened in the Donner case last year withthat guy who committed suicide?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Is this Shook guy connected to that baby’s murder andmy girl?”

“There are similarities in all three cases. That’s allwe know.”

Paul took a deep breath, his shining gaze going aroundthe room tenderly. His little girl’s room, where he tucked her in, read herstories, brushed away her fears, promising to keep her safe. And now his littlegirl’s room was somehow violated by the presence of these men-these men who’dlooked upon corpses of children, and into the faces of killers. These men who’dtouched death, touched evil, were now touching his little girl’s privatethings. They had invaded a hallowed region and somehow fouled it.

“Do what you have to do.” Nunn left, bumping intoInspector Turgeon, who smiled at him before entering and closing the door.

“What’s the latest, Linda?” Sydowski said.

“IDENT picked up the prints of a pervert from one ofthe stalls in the girl’s bathroom at the Children’s Playground. Belong toDonald Barrons. He doesn’t look like the composite. We’ve got two people whocan put him there about one hour before the abduction. Vice is grabbing him.Barrons likes to expose himself to little girls.

I thought somebody checked him clean on Donner andBecker,” Sydowski said.

“Maybe we should be more thorough this time,” Turgeonsaid.

“Shook’s file arrive yet?” Rust asked.

“The Mounties promise it by tonight.”

Rust cursed.

“That’s it?” Sydowski said.

“IDENT’s back at daybreak to do the yard and theneighborhood. More searches with volunteers at Golden Gate. DMV’s still workingup a pool of suspect vehicles based on the partial plate.”

“What about the tip line?” Sydowski said.

“I called them. Hundreds of calls, kooks, crazies.They’re checking everything, but there aren’t enough bodies, so it’s going totake awhile.”

Sydowski nodded. No one spoke.

The room became quiet, except for Rust siftingdelicately through Gabrielle’s clothes. They had nothing. Two children stolenfrom their parents in broad daylight and they had nothing to give them a degreeof hope. Sydowski slipped a Tums into his mouth.

The whipping of the chopper over Golden Gate Park thundered on the TV, thenfaded as the somber voice of Metro-TV News reporter Vince Vincentdescribed the kidnapping and hunt for Gabrielle Nunn.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“And tonight, at their Sunset home, Gabrielle Nunn’smother, Nancy, made a heart-stopping plea to her daughter’s abductor…”

The story cut from the carousel at the park to Nancyand Paul.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Keller yawned as Vincent summarized the case, howpolice linked it to Danny Becker’s kidnapping and the unsolved abduction andmurder of Tanita Marie Donner last year. The composite of Keller flashed on thescreen followed by the dramatic, blurry home-video footage of Gabrielle talkingto Keller.

Keller stopped rocking.

There was a description of Keller’s truck, then themissing poster of Gabrielle’s dog, details of her severed braids, a pictureshowing how she would look with shorter hair.

“I saw this man stop and seemed to be struggling witha child in his truck. I thought it was so strange,” Eva Blair recounted toreporters what she had witnessed near the Walker place that afternoon. “It wasunusual, so I called the police.”

Forensic experts searched for clues in the spot whereGabrielle was taken, in the parking lot, and in the secluded area where theyfound Tanita Marie Donner. Police were in Dolores Park where evidence in theDonner case was found last year. Someone in a pickup was stopped at the GoldenGate Bridge. Garbage collection was halted in Golden Gate Park and around theSunset. Trash bins were emptied, their contents prodded by officers in overallsand surgical masks. Scores of volunteers, mothers and fathers with theirchildren, walked across sections of Golden Gate Park searching for clues.Police officers and cadets went door to door with pictures of Tanita Donner,Danny Becker, Gabrielle Nunn, and the suspect’s composite. The reward for goodtips on the cases was raised to $200,000, and the SFPD and FBI had formed amultiagency task force to investigate.

A task force?

Keller swallowed. His throat was dry. Almost raw.

So be it. His mission was sanctified.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

The abductions have shaken the Bay Area to its verycore.

“It’s every parent’s nightmare.” Charlene Munroe toldreporters as she, along with her ten-year-old daughter and twelve-year-old son,combed Golden Gate Park’s wooded areas. “We helped in the search for DannyBecker. I’m a mother, too.” Charlene swept aside some grass with a stick, thencalled her children, who had ambled a few yards from her. “Stay close to me,guys! I just hope this works out for the best.”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Vince Vincent went on about the intense investigation,the rumors about a psychic being called and contacts with police who facedserial child murder cases in Atlanta, New York, and British Columbia.

Keller switched his set off. Scattered around him werethe early editions of the major Bay papers. He had read every word, studiedevery picture, graphics, locator maps, everything on the case.

Let them search.

It was late, but he was not tired. He went to theworktable, looked through the heap of journals, binders and notes, stopping tostudy the time-worn snapshot of his three children: Pierce, Alisha, and Joshua.Laughing. A few weeks before they drowned.

They never found the bodies.

So let them search. For Raphael. For Gabriel.

They’ll never find the bodies. The Truth was revealedto him. His children were not dead. They were waiting to be reborn in celestiallight. Only God’s Angels could rescue them, transfigure them. Then togetherthey would walk in the Kingdom of God. How could police know his DivineMission? They were mortals. How could they comprehend what was preordained?

They could never know the Divine Truth as he did.

It had been revealed to him. He had been chosen. Hewas the enlightened one who would show the world God’s wonder. Edward Kellerhad been ordained; he was the light beyond sorrow, the light beyond the veil ofdeath, destined to fulfill a Holy Mission.

He was cleansed in the light of the Lord.

Soon everyone would know God’s love, His name, Hisglory.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.

The Angels, soldiers of God’s merciful love, were sentto him.

Keller smiled, for it was true. He had found thefirst.

Danny Raphael Becker, Raphael of the Powers. Healed byGod. Chief of the Guardian Angels. Guardian of Mankind. Protector of Children.

And he had found the second, concealed as GabrielleNunn. Gabrielle. Gabriel. God’s ambassador to earth. The Angel who heralded thecoming of the Messiah. Gabriel had come to him. She was the messenger. She washis.

She was in the basement with Raphael.

It went according to his prayers.

Thanks to be to God. Praise Him.

Keller found the silver crucifix and slipped it aroundhis neck. Then he reached for the binder with the names of his eldest son,Pierce, and the third Angel, caressing his meticulous notes inside. One moreAngel to complete the choir. One more to complete his Holy Mission. One moreand God would initiate the transfiguration. He would find his children. Be withthem. Bring them back. Nothing could keep him from his holy destiny now.Nothing. He held his crucifix in a white knuckled grip. He’d come too far,endured too much pain. Nothing must go wrong now. Suddenly he heardsomething--

Screaming? Yes. Screaming.

Hysterical screaming from the basement where theangels were.

Something as big as an elephant was inside Gabrielle’s head beating to get out.It hurt.

She tasted something horrible in her mouth, likevinegar and medicine. Open your eyes. Can’t. They’re too heavy. Maybe they’restuck shut. Lying on something soft. A bed? Where is she? It didn’t smell likeher room. Her house. It’s smelly here, like something rotten, like a scaryplace. Where was she?

Squeak-creak.

Where is she? What happened? The party. JoannieTyson’s birthday party at the park. The carousel. Butterflies in her stomach.Rhonda King throwing up. Gross! The man outside the bathroom. Jackson. He foundJackson. A quick secret peek in his truck. Want a soda? You spilled somebut-the wet cloth-can’t breathe-Jackson barking-the cloth drippingmedicine-fighting-kicking.

Squeak-creak. Squeak. Creak.

Don’t open your eyes!

Something-someone touched her cheek. A soft warm hand.Small.

Please. Please. Please. Don’t hurt me.

She had to open her eyes. Had to. Okay. A little boy.On his knees looking down at her. A boy who was smaller than she was, staringat her. She blinked at him and sniffed. The boy looked sad.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Gabrielle Nunn. Who are you?”

“Danny.”

“Where am I? Have you seen my dog, Jackson?”

Danny didn’t answer.

“Where’s Mr. Jenkins? He knows my dad.”

Danny just stared at her.

“Where is this place?”

Danny said nothing.

Gabrielle sat up and looked at him until a tiny lightof recognition glimmered on her face. “You’re the little boy on TV, the one whogot kidnapped-you are!”

“Where’s my daddy?” Danny said. “Can I go home now?”

Newspapers covered the basement window. It looked darkoutside. Were those bars, like jail? A dim bulb hung from the ceiling, like inGabrielle’s dad’s garage, painting the grungy, cracked walls in a pale light.Where’s the TV? Were there people who can take her home? Where was Jackson?Where was Mr. Jenkins? She was confused. She didn’t like this place. There werethree mattresses, ripped, with stuff coming out of them. They smelled. Whythree? The door was closed. Garbage and stuff plastered the floor. Yech!

“Danny,” she asked, “who lives in this place?”

He just sat there, his face dirty and white, like hewas sick or sleepy or something.

“I don’t like this place. I want to go home now,” shesaid.

Danny offered her a chocolate-covered, vanilla creamcookie.

“It’s got a bite already.” She didn’t touch it.

Danny bit into the cookie.

Gabrielle knew she was with the boy who got kidnappedand had his picture on TV everywhere. The boy everybody was looking for allover the place. Suddenly she realized a terrible thing.

She was kidnapped, too!

“Danny, where is this place?”

He just stared.

“What’s going to happen to us now?” she asked.

Danny’s fingers were sticky from the cookie. He wasreally littler than she was. His chin crumpled and his eyes clamped shut and hebegan crying in a ragged voice like he had been crying forever. Gabriellewanted to cry, too, but something inside took over. Big kids look after littlekids, they told you in school. Gabrielle put her arm around him.

“Don’t cry, Danny.” She sniffed. “My daddy will takeus home.”

“I want to go home, now.”

“Me, too. I wonder who lives in this place?”

Danny pointed a tiny finger to the door. “The man whotook me.”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak. He was out there!

Gabrielle’s stomach bounced. Gooseflesh crawled alongher arms.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

She hated Mr. Jenkins, whoever he was. He had trickedher. He lied. Where was Jackson? He must have stolen Jackson from her. He was abad man. She was in trouble now. Her mommy and daddy told her never talk tostrangers. No matter what. But he had Jackson and said he knew Daddy. Nomatter what. She broke the rules and it was all her fault. Mom and Dad weregoing to be mad. She had to tell them she was sorry she broke the rules. Theywould come and get her if she told them everything. Maybe she wouldn’t be intoo much trouble. Gabrielle knew what she had to do. She had to tell her momand dad. But how?

Telephone.

If you ever get lost, Gabrielle, just call home.

She would call home right now.

“Where is the phone, Danny?”

He pointed to the door. “Out there.”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

She was scared. She looked around the room again.

“Danny, you sure there’s no phone in this room?”

“Out there.”

Gabrielle stood, she was a little dizzy. Maybe sheshould just sit here and wait. No! She had to do it. She had to, so shewouldn’t be in trouble. She had to phone home. And she had to pee.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

The grease-stained burger boxes and bags crumpled asshe moved to the door. What if the man was watching from a spy hole, ready tocome in at any second? The wrappers, napkins, empty drink cups, boxes, and bagsrustled. Something squished. Yuck. A half-eaten burger. Stale ketchup bledunder her shoe. In the far off corner some wrappers were moving.

By themselves.

Gabrielle froze.

The bags moved a little, trembling like something wasgnawing on them. Gabrielle watched. Maybe it was Jackson? What else could itbe? It had to be Jackson. Gabrielle cut a path to the corner.

“Here, pup,” she cooed, lifting a large bag just as agiant rat with ketchup dripping from its mouth flew at her, coming so close shefelt its tail slap against her palm!

Gabrielle screamed, jumped back, falling.

A vanilla cream cookie whizzed by the rat’s head.

“Go away!” Danny shouted, reaching into his bag foranother.

Gabrielle scurried to Danny. Together they firedcookies at the rat. It had touched her. She was scared.

The door swung open.

Mr. Jenkins. Only, he didn’t look so friendly now. Abig silver cross was swinging from his neck. He spotted the rat, disappeared,and returned with a baseball bat.

“Vermin!” he screamed, bring the bat down swiftly,missing the rat. It squealed, the bat went clank and garbage scattered.

He yelled, swinging the bat down again.

The fierceness of the man’s attack frightened thechildren more than the rat did. His eyes were huge, popping out of his head,the white parts as big as eggs. His hair wild like a nest o angry snakes.Spittle clung to his beard.

Keller swung again, making a wet, squishing sound. Helaughed, his bat dripping with the blood of the rat. Gabrielle screamed. Kellerlooked at her.

“It is done,” he said, moving toward the children.

Keller’s expression changed. Raphael and Gabriel werebefore them. He saw their auras.

The light of one million suns shone upon him.

His rage was replaced by rapture. Like a victoriousbattle-weary soldier, he laid his foe at the throne. The bloodied, pulpycarcass, fur and mangled intestines, lay inches from Gabrielle and Danny.Gabrielle stifled her sobs, trying not to look.

“W-We want to go home, now. Please Mr. Jenkins,” shepleaded.

Keller did not hear her.

“You have come, Gabriel. God’s emissary. You have cometo me!”

“Please, Mr. Jenkins! Let me phone my mommy anddaddy!”

Remembering the bat, Keller lifted it to his face,examining the blood with fascination.

“I am cleaned in the light of the Lord. I have tastedthe blood of my enemies. None shall defeat me, for my mission is divine and Iam truly invincible.” He moved his fingers over the blood-slicked club. “I amcleansed in the light-I have tasted the blood of my enemies.”

“My mission is divine. I am truly invincible.”

Gabrielle pulled Danny tight to her.

Keller went upstairs to the bathroom and ran the bathwater.

God had answered his prayers.

One more angel and the choir would be complete.

Then the transfiguration would begin.

Wiping the tears from his face, he stood and kissedhis crucifix.

It was time for the second baptism.

If Virgil Shook worshiped anything in this world beyond himself it was the Zodiac,the personification of power.

The Zodiac was the hooded executioner who had murderedfive people in the Bay Area during the late 1960’s and mocked police in thecryptic letters he wrote to newspapers. His cunning eclipsed the best minds ofthe SFPD and the FBI. He owned the city, mastered its fear, yanking it by aleash at his leisure. The Zodiac was a visionary, a seer who knew that when hedied, his victims would be his slaves and he would be a king in paradise.

They had never captured him. Shook signed.

For a time last year, like the Zodiac, he had sippedfrom the cup of power. He had enjoyed Tanita, the little prostitute. Loved herto death and forced the city to tremble in the wake of his omnipotence. He hadmanipulated Franklin Wallace, outsmarted police, and taunted the priest withhis confessions, spitting in the face of his God, compelling him to genuflectto the power of The One.

That was then. Now the city was under the spell ofanother. A new player was reaping the harvest of Shook’s work and Shook wasenraged.

Who did this new fuck think he was?

Shook snapped off the late-night TV news afterabsorbing the reports of Gabrielle Nunn’s abduction in Golden Gate Park. Thehorror in Nancy Nunn’s face had seared him. Her pain should have been his torelish. Yet he watched mournfully from afar, like a starving wolf contendingwith the mark of a new predator.

Shook paced his dirty flophouse room, oblivious to theopera of sirens piercing the foul of night air of the Tenderloin. If he wasgoing to be immortalized like the Zodiac, it was time to up the ante. Time toteach the challenger a lesson in a way even more thrilling than it had beenwith poor little Franklin Wallace, when he plucked him like a harp, savoringthe danger of it to the point of arousal.

The Ayatollah Komeini glowered at Reed.

EYE OF THE HURRICANE. AMERICANS HELD HOSTAGE AT THEU.S. EMBASSY IN TEHRAN. EL SAVADOR TEETERING, MOUNT ST. HELENS SPEWING ASH ANDROCK. SOVIET INTERVENTION IN AFGHANISTAN. All there in black-and-white,bleeding on the front page.

1980.

All there except for Keller’s tragedy. Wrong page?Reed checked the skyline. Wrong date. He hit the advance button on the Minoltaand whisked through time along a microfilm torrent of photographs, headlines,and advertisements. The take-up reel buzzed. It was late.

He stayed at the paper after reading the old Starclip on Edward Keller’s boating tragedy. Alone in the news library searchingthe past. Reels of microfilm newspapers and opened news indices were piled nextto him, signposts to Keller’s case. The Star’s clippings were a start.He was also going through the Chronicle and the Examiner fortheir takes, looking for something extra, any vital piece of information thatwould…what? Connect Keller to the kidnappings?

He had a beard and looked like the guy in the fuzzyhome video footage. And there was something strange about Keller, somethingthat just didn’t sit right.

Be careful, Reed. This ain’t no movie. Hunches aremean, wild horses. You rode one last year and ended up with your ass gettingstomped. The memory of Wallace’s widow slapping his face still stung. Wallace’slittle girl clinging to her father’s leg hours before his put his mouth arounda double-barreled 12-gauge.

“Leave my daddy alone!”

You’d better be damned careful. The reel clicked andstopped. This is it. BILL RODGERS WINS THE BOSTON MARATHON. MOUNT ST. HELENSERUPTS. Photos of an anguished President Carter and the wreckage of U.S.Helicopters in the desert where eight Americans died in the failed rescue ofthe hostages. And Keller’s story. A small item, inconspicuous. Below the fold:

Sydowski was wide awake. The numbers of his clock radio blazed 3:12 A.M. fromhis night table. He tugged on his robe, made coffee, and shuffled to the aviaryto be with the birds.

He deposited himself into his rocker, a Father’s Daygift from the girls, running a hand over his face, feeling his whiskers as hesat in the dark, listening to the soft chirping.

Turgeon had volunteered to stay with Mikelson,Ditmire, and the crew keeping an all-night watch at the Nunn home. For all thesleep he was getting, he might as well have stayed, too. He fingered hisbeeper. Linda would page him if anything popped.

Damn. This was a ball-breaker.

The out-of-focus video footage was good, but it wasn’tenough. They had squat. No good calls. No solid leads. Virgil Shook’s file wassupposed to arrive today. That should help. They had zip on Becker and Nunn.DMV was working up a list of all Ford pickups and the California partial tag.They were certain the severed braids they found were Gabrielle’s. Beyond thatand the footage, they had no physical evidence on Becker and Nunn.

IDENT would hit the Nunn house and neighborhoods atdaybreak, concentrating on the dog’s pen, comb it for anything. More than twodozen detectives were dissecting each family’s background for a commondenominator. Why were these children selected? Was it random? Becker was stalked;Nunn was lured in a calculated plan. But the guy risked getting caught. If hewas fearless, he was on a mission, and when there was a mission, delusionfueled it. What kind? Nothing surfaced to lead them to terrorists. Nothing tolead them to a cult, or human sacrifice, according to Claire Ward with SpecialInvestigations. The families’ religious backgrounds varied. Angela Donner wasBaptist, the Beckers were Protestant, the Nunns, Anglican. No common thread,except their Christianity. And those faces.

Angels faces.

Tanita Marie Donner. Peering into that bag. What hedid to her was inhuman. Was it Shook? Was he their boy? Was he now out ofcontrol? Tanita may have been stalked. Taken in broad daylight. But he killedher, left a corpse, left pictures, left his mark, and called the press. Why? Tomock the police? Was he just practicing with Tanita?

Practice makes perfect.

Sydowski was alert now. Might as well go to the hall.

In the shower, he thought of the children. What abouttheir birth months? Signs of the Zodiac. The Zodiac? He patted Old Spice on hisface after shaving, pulled a fresh pair of pants over his Fruit of the Looms.He chose the shirt with the fewest wrinkles, a blue Arrow button-down, ploppedon his bed, and laced up his leather shoes. The Zodiac had taunted police withhis mission. Sydowski took a navy tie from his rack, knotted it, then strappedon his shoulder holster, unlocked his Glock from the safe on the top closetshelf. He checked it, slipping it into his holster. He hated the thing, it wasso uncomfortable. He put on a gray sports coat, rolled his shoulders. Gave hishair a couple of rakes with a brush, reached for the leather-encased shield,gazing at his laminated ID picture and his badge. A lifetime on the job.Twenty-six years of staring at corpses. He looked at the gold-framed pictureson his dresser-his girls, his grandchildren, his wedding picture. Basha’ssmile. He slipped the case into his breast pocket and left.

On the way to the hall, he stopped at his neighborhoodall-night donut shop. A few nighthawks huddled over coffee. Jennie, themanager, was wiping the counter with an energy that, at 4:30 A.M., was painfulto witness. Her face told him he looked bad. “You’re working too hard, Walt.You getting enough sleep? A growing boy needs his sleep.” She poured coffeeinto a large take-out cup. “You need a woman to take care of you.” She spoonedin sugar, a couple of drips of cream, snapped on a lid.

“You think so?”

“I know so. You’re early today. Bert ain’t made nochocolate yet. I’ve got some fresh old fashions though. Warm from the oven.”

“Fine.”

She dropped four plain donuts into a bag. Rang up theorder. “It’s a shame about them kids, Walt.”

A moment of understanding passed between them.

“You’ll crack it, Walt. You’re a wily old flatfoot.”

Sydowski slid a five toward her. “Keep the change,Jennie.”

At dawn, awhite van squeaked to a stop at Gabrielle Nunn’s home and four sober-facedmembers of the San Francisco Police Department’s IDENT detail got out. Dressedin dark coveralls, they talked softly, yawning, finishing off coffee, andtossing their cups into the truck. A second van arrived with six more officers.They went to homes on either side of the Nunn’s, waking owners, showing themsearch warrants. Yellow plastic tape was stretched the length of seven houses,sealing front and backyards with the message: POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS. TheNunn home was the middle house. Before the day’s end, every inch in thesectioned-off area would be sifted, searched, and prodded for anythingconnected to the case.

It was no ordinary Sunday morning here. Something hadbeen defiled in the inner Sunset, where less than twenty-four hours earlierGabrielle had skipped off to Joannie Tyson’s birthday party, radiant in her newdress.

Her neighbors knew the nightmare.

They had seen the news crews, gasped for reporters,watched TV, and read the papers. This morning, they stared from their doors andwindows, shaking their heads, hushing their children, drawing their curtains.“I hope they find her. Her poor parents.” Something had been violated,something terrifying had left its mark, now manifest in yellow policetape-America’s flag of tragedy and death.

Ngen Poovong knew death intimately. But you couldn’ttell by looking at the shy eleven-year-old, standing at the tape with the usualcluster of gawkers and children. The horrors of Ngen’s life were not evident inhis face, his T-shirt, shorts, and sneakers. His secrets never left his home,which was two doors down from Gabrielle’s. Ngen did not know Gabrielle and Ryanwell. He had difficulty making friends, his English was so poor. His family hadbeen in San Francisco a short time. He watched the men in coveralls. Police.Never talk to police. He knew what the excitement was all about, but he wasfrightened. He glanced over his shoulder to this house and saw Psoong watchinghim from the window.

Do not tell them what you know.

Ngen said nothing. Just as he had done last night whenpolice came to their door, followed by the TV people. He remembered Psoongpeeking through the curtains, then turning to Ngen and his older sister, Min.“Something is wrong,” Psoong told them in their own tongue. “Police are goingto every door.”

Ngen and Min had not seen him this worried since theblack days when they were crammed on the boat, drifting hopelessly in the SouthChina Sea. “They are going to every house taking notes. They will be here soon.”

“Maybe they know?” Min said, pulling Ngen close.

“We must make no mistakes. Remember the rules.”

The rules were simple: Listen to everything. Watcheverything. Know everything. Say nothing. You are ignorant. Trust no one.Without the rules there was no survival. And Psoong Li, and Min and NgenPoovong were survivors.

Their families had met on a smuggler’s trawler,crammed with one hundred other people who paid 1,000 U.S. dollars a person forsafe passage from Laos to Manila. Four days out, pirates attacked. Ngen’sfather and mother were killed. So were Psoong’s parents. Min was raped. Psoongwas stabbed, but survived. Ngen wanted to jump to the sharks. Min became muteand stared at the sea. Psoong comforted the survivors, organizing the rationingof the little fresh water and rice that were left. He was especially kind toMin and Ngen, urging them to be strong to honor the memory of their families,to believe in their rescue. Psoong, Min, and Ngen became friends, forming asmall family, and Psoong shared the secret that his father had wisely sent hissavings to Psoong’s uncle in California, who had written that the bestcandidates for immigration to the United States were families with relativesliving there. Psoong had a plan.

He proposed that Min act as his wife and Ngen as theirson. Psoong was thirty-one, Min was twenty. With no documentation on theirages, they would lie to make it work. Afterward, they could go their separateways, if they chose, but for now it was a matter of survival. Min stared at thesea and agreed. There was no other choice.

“Good,” Psoong said. “No one will ever learn the truthif we follow our rules.” Failure would mean deportation and death.

“Remember the rules,” Psoong whispered to Min and Ngenthree days later when a Hawaii-bound Swedish freighter picked them up. Aftereleven months in a refugee camp, an American official granted them life when hestamped his approval on their applications to enter the United States.

In San Francisco, they lived in the basement ofPsoong’s uncle’s house for several months, maintaining their secret, remainingfamily. Then they bought an old two-story house in the Sunset with Psoong’sfather’s savings and the money they earned as office cleaners. They livedquietly in fear-fear that intensified when police came to them last night.

Remember the rules. We cannot go back. No one mustknow.

The two detectives were not in uniform, flashed theirbadges and Psoong let them in. They did not stay long after Psoong explained infaltering English that they knew nothing about the missing American girl. Whenthe detectives left, Psoong thought that was the end of it and managed a smile.His relief vanished less than an hour later when one of the officers returnedwith an Asian woman. She was fluent in five Asian languages, including theirs.

She was a pretty, young university language professorfrom Berkeley who could not be fooled. Right off she explained how the policewere not the slightest bit interested in them, only their help, which theycould give confidentially. After listening to her warm, friendly assurances,Ngen immediately wanted to tell her what he had seen.

The woman asked if they remembered seeing anything oddin the last month or so. Psoong and Min shook their heads. The woman showedthem a picture of Gabrielle. Yes, Ngen knew her and talked to her once ortwice. She was a friendly little girl who loved her dog.

“How do you know she loved her dog?” the detectivesaid.

The professor translated.

Ngen shot a look at Psoong. Remember the rules. The professorcaught the communication and placed herself on the couch between Psoong andNgen, showing Ngen an enhanced picture of Gabrielle’s kidnapper. For amicrosecond, recognition flickered in his eyes.

“Have you seen anything like this man around here before?”

Ngen swallowed and shook his head.

The professor knew the truth. “Are you certain?” Herpretty eyes held him prisoner. She would not let him look at Psoong.

“No,” Ngen lied.

The woman asked Min and Psoong a few more questions,then cards were left and requests made for calls if anything was remembered.This was a very serious case. A little girl’s life was in danger. Ngen noticedhow the tall detective searched his eyes for something.

Now, watching the police scrutinizing Gabrielle’syard, Ngen struggled to understand what was happening. More than twentyofficers in white coveralls, with radios crackling, were investigating theneighborhood. The enormity of Gabrielle’s disappearance hit Ngen. He could nolonger stand it. He hurried home and pleaded with Min to allow him to tell thepolice what he had seen. What if the kidnapper had stolen him? Wouldn’t Min andPsoong want help? This was the United States, people helped people here. Mincalled Psoong, who was at work. He came home, worry etched in his face.

“I, too, have thought about the matter. It is truethat I could not bear another tragedy, if this abductor were to take Ngen. Wemust help police catch him. But first we need assurances.”

Psoong called the number on the professor’s card andshe arrived with two new officers-Sydowski, a big man with gold in his mouthand his associate, a dark-haired young woman, Turgeon. Min made tea. Theprofessor assured them the police were only interested in the kidnapping of thelittle girl who lived two doors away.

“The little girl’s dog did not run away a month ago,”Ngen began.

“What happened?” Sydowski asked as Turgeon made notes.

The professor translated.

“A man took the dog in the night.”

How did Ngen know?

“I saw him from my bedroom windows,” the professor repeated.

Sydowski asked to see Ngen’s upstairs bedroom. Theysaw the small telescope on Ngen’s nightstand at the window. They remained calm.The bedroom’s large corner windows overlooked the Nunn’s backyard. Sydowskicould see two IDENT people kneeling in the dog’s kennel.

“Tell the officers everything,” the professor said.

Ngen loved to look at the stars and moon. They werehis hope when they were adrift at sea, and now his communion with his deadmother and father. The night the man came there was a three-quarter moon. Itwas about two A.M. because he had set his alarm to see the best view. All wastranquil in the neighborhood. Ngen could hear the Nunns’ air conditionerhumming. He was studying the moon when he saw a man walking down the backalley. He focused his telescope on him. He looked like the man in the policepicture. He unwrapped some meat and fed it to the dog, then walked away withthe dog to his truck, which was parked down the alley, and drove away.

Sydowski and Turgeon absorbed Ngen’s account.

“Did he get a license plate?”

The professor translated and the boy said something atlength, reaching for the star journal he kept, flipping through the pages.

He kept a journal? Sydowski couldn’t believe it.

At school they taught you to take license numbers ifyou ever saw anything bad. But he didn’t get the entire plate.

“The first three characters, B75,” the professortranslated.

“Was it a California plate?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of truck was it?”

Ngen didn’t know trucks.

“If we showed him pictures?” Turgeon asked, whiletaking notes.

The professor explained. Ngen nodded. “Yes, that wouldhelp.”

Sydowski wanted to know what kind of meat the man gavethe dog, and did Ngen see a store’s logo on any wrapping or packaging?

The professor translated. Ngen thought for a moment.It was hamburger in a white tray with transparent wrap.

“What sorts of things does Ngen write in his starjournal?”

The professor asked Ngen.

“Dates and times of everything he saw in the night.”

“Did Ngen make such notes the night he saw the mantake the dog?”

Yes, he did because it was so unusual.

“May we borrow the journal?” Turgeon asked.

The professor made the request. Ngen looked to Psoong,who nodded.

One more time, because this was so important, Sydowskiwanted to know what happened when the man approached the Nunns’ yard.

Ngen said the man threw some hamburger into the dog’skennel and the dog ate it without making a sound. Then the man opened the gateand the dog ate more from his hand. Then the man picked up the dog, took himunder his arm, and walked to his truck and drove off.

“Did the man throw the wrapper away?”

Ngen thought. Yes, he tossed it aside.

“Where?”

Somewhere in the alley near the yard.

“Again, what did it look like?”

The woman explained, then said something to Min, wholeft the room. She returned with three packs of frozen meat. Ngen touched apackage of sausages, packed on a white foam meat tray with clear plasticwrapping and a producer’s label with a bar code on one corner, with the date,weight, cost, and a product code.

Turgeon made notes. Sydowski reached for his radio andsummoned the head of the IDENT unit to Ngen’s room. The man arrived, his eyesdarting to the boy, the meat, Sydowski, then Turgeon.

“This is what we’re looking for, Carl,” Sydowski said.

Captain Carl Gray turned the package over in hishands.

“Sausages?”

“A meat tray and wrapper just like this one,” Turgeonsaid.

“The guy lured the dog away with wrapped hamburger,”Sydowski said. “If we could find the wrapping, label, and product code-“

“Right.” Gray came up to speed. “Then we could narrowwhere and when he bought it.” Gray reached for his radio. “I’ll call my teamfor a briefing. But it’ll be a needle in a haystack, Walt.”

“I know. It’s been nearly a month.”

Gray left, and while they thanked Ngen and his family,something ate at Sydowski, something he needed to know, so he told theprofessor to ask.

“Why didn’t you come forward yesterday?” the womansaid.

Ngen looked at Psoong, at Min, and the professor, whoimmediately knew the answer. They were scared.

Sydowski nodded.

Then Ngen looked directly at Sydowski and in a littleboy’s voice that was awash with emotion, spoke spontaneously, rapidly, forcingthe professor to struggle to keep up with him.

“They were scared that police would send them back,but he loved this country, it was his home and did not want to make troublebecause he knew that people who make trouble are punished. The day after thedog was taken, Ngen saw the little girl and how sad she was. He saw the signsin the neighborhood with the dog’s picture and heard her calling him everynight. He wanted to tell her that he saw a man steal her dog, but was afraid.”

Ngen began crying. Min comforted him.

“His heart ached for the little girl who loved her dogso much. Ngen knew what it was like to love someone and lose them. Now the girlis gone and he is terrified. It is all his fault. Had he spoken earlier, maybeshe would be safe. And now that he has spoken, maybe the kidnapper will comefor him? Please do not punish his family. He is sorry. Please forgive him!Please!”

The professor dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

Sydowski and Turgeon exchanged glances.

By Monday afternoon, Reed was atop Russian Hill, approaching a Victorian mansionoverlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. A gabled roof topped its three stories,twin turrets, and colossal windows. The open front porch was edged with ornatespindled railing, and the clipped lawn was rimmed by a wrought-iron,spear-tipped fence.

Would he find answers here? Anything that would bringhim closer to Keller? So far, the house was the only lead he and Wilson came upwith after digging all Sunday and this morning. No matter what they tried,quietly using their sources in a number of agencies, scouring the Internet,they could not nail a good address for Keller. He was invisible.

Even Professor Martin provided little help.Coincidentally, she popped by the Star that morning to thank Reed overcoffee in the cafeteria for the feature on her group. Reed made time for herbecause he wanted to know more about Keller, but he was careful not to tell herabout his suspicions. And if Martin had any, she kept them to herself.

“Tom, I just wanted to thank you. After your articleran, we received pledges of support and calls from bereaved parents searchingfor help. I thought your reporting and writing was sensitive.”

“Don’t thank me. Say, what did Keller think?” Reed wascasual.

“I don’t know. He’s so private. Why do you ask?”

Reed shrugged. “No reason. I mean, he really didn’tlike me.”

She was wearing a summer dress and sandals. Almost nomakeup. She was attractive, Reed thought. “I’m glad you left him out of yourstory. He has a lot of pain to deal with right now.”

“Don’t we all Kate?”

Reed’s cell phone rang. He had to go.

Standing to leave, he asked Kate to put him in touchwith Keller again. He wanted to apologize. She would, only she did not have anumber or address for him. It was curious. Maybe she had taken his number downincorrectly, or there was a mix-up. Anyway, none of the others knew him or wherehe lived. And something strange had happened.

“He stopped coming to the sessions after you visitedthe group.”

“Really? It was because of me?”

“I don’t know. It could be a number of things. I mean,I don’t know much about him beyond his loss of his three children. And I amworried because the anniversary is coming up. I’ve been trying to find him. Ibelieve he gave me a phony number to protect his privacy. If I locate him, I’lllet him know you would like to see him again. I owe you.”

Keller was following the path of his exalted mission.

Pursuing the third angel. The conqueror of Satan.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Snip. Snip. Snip.

The doubters were closing in. Snip. Snip. And he stillfaced many obstacles in his final step to the transfiguration.

He remained calm.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

The time has come to transform himself. Snip. Thedoubters had photographed his face and were searching for him. But he did notworry, trimming his hair, his beard, lathering his face. Soon all would knowhim as the enlightened one, the chosen one, anointed to reveal the celestialpromise of reunion with his children.

Along his glorious path, he never challenged themysterious ways of deified love. Michael Jason Faraday was the third angel, orso he thought, until the nine-year-old Oakland boy had moved to London with hisfamily a few months ago. At first Keller could not understand it. He wascertain Faraday was the third angel. The signs were correct. His age, his birthday.Keller had studied him, kept a vigil. But before he could make contact, he wasgone.

On the eve of the transfiguration, the third angelhad vanished.

What was the message?

It had to be a divine test of faith.

Keller had remained steadfast. Like Christ in thedesert. He did not succumb to temptation, to doubt. God would light his path todestiny.

And he did.

A couple of weeks from the transfiguration, the mortalidentity of the true third angel was revealed to him. It took Keller some timeto absorb the holy sigh. It became crystalline a few days ago, during hismorning reading of the Scriptures. He now knew who the third angel was. He hadlittle time to find him.

Keller finished shaving, then made a few phone calls,talking politely, jotting down notes. He put on a white shirt, tied, and suit,checked his old leather briefcase. It was empty except for one businesscard-that of Frank Trent, of Golden Bay Mutual Insurance. Trent was the man whohad handled the death claims for his children twenty years ago. Keller tuckedthe card in his breast pocket and took the briefcase with him before looking inon Gabriel and Raphael.

Mid-afternoon. They were sufficiently sedated. Helocked the basement door, then the house, and walked into the brilliantsunlight, a well-dressed, respectable-looking businessman on a Holy Mission.After twelve blocks, he hailed a cab.

Florence Schafer sat alone at the kitchen table, reading the morning papers. Herface turned ashen.

The families, friends, and supporters of Danny Beckerand Gabrielle Nunn displayed yellow ribbons across the city on doors, carantennas, in shop windows, on trees, billboards, and in schools. Volunteers whoanswered phone tips and went door to door with MISSING-REWARD flyers wore themas arm bands. When they came to her house. Florence agreed to hang one from hermailbox. A group of mountain climbers affixed a giant yellow bow on the southspire of the Golden Gate. It was the manifestation of collective anguish andhope the children would come home alive. Consequently, the San Francisco presscalled the investigation “The Yellow Ribbon Task Force.”

Days after Gabrielle’s kidnapping, the case remained frontpage news and the lead or second item of every local newscast. And when thePresident and First Lady offered sympathy to the families of “San Francisco’stragedy,” during a presidential visit to the city, Tanita Marie Donner, DannyBecker, and Gabrielle Nunn became household names across the country. Thenational press gave the story strong play.

Florence placed The San Francisco Star flat onthe table and sighed. Her reading glasses fell from her face, catching on herchain, and she massaged her temples. The kettle screamed to a boil. Feeling theweight of the world on her shoulders, she made a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea.What was she going to do? She had to do something. The faces of Tanita MarieDonner, Danny Becker, and Gabrielle Nunn beckoned from the paper. Buster, her budgie,chirped from his perch in his cage by the kitchen window.

“What should I do, Buster? I’ve called the policethree times and no one has come to see me.”

What had she done wrong? She had told the police sheheard Tanita Donner’s killer confess to God that he murdered her. She left hername and number. The last officer she talked to was like the others. He didn’tbelieve her, she could tell. He kept asking how old she was, did she livealone, and as a devout Catholic how often did she go to church, what kind ofmedication did she use? He thought she was an old kook. She knew. He doubtedher because she wouldn’t give him details or proof she heard the killerconfess.

Now she had proof.

Florence’s Royal Doulton teacup rattled on the sauceras she carried it to her book-lined living room. She found comfort in this roomwhere she enjoyed her crime books, but nothing in them had ever prepared herfor this. The real thing. She was scared.

Time to check it, once more. She could only stand tohear a little bit. Florence picked up the cassette recorder, and pushed theplay button. The tape hissed, then Father McCreeny cleared his throat.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” heurged the person in the confessional.

“It’s me again,” the killer said.

“Why haven’t you turned yourself in? I implore you.”

The killer said nothing.

“Are you also responsible for the kidnappings of DannyBecker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

Silence.

“I beseech you not to harm the children, turn yourselfin now.”

“Absolve me, priest.”

“I cannot.”

“You took an oath. You are bound. Absolve me.”

“You are not repentant. This is a perverted game foryou. I do not believe you are truly sorry. There can be no benediction.”

Silence. A long moment passed. When the killer spokeagain, his voice was softer. “Father, if I am truly repentant, will I receiveabsolution and the grace of Jesus?”

McCreeny said nothing.

“I need to know, Father. Please.”

Silence.

“Father, you do not understand. I had to kill her. Ihad to. She was an evil little prostitute. I had to do the things I did to herand the others. Their faces haunt me, but it is God’s work that I do. Franklinhelped me with Tanita. He was a Sunday school teacher. He knew the magnitude ofmy work. That’s why he helped me.”

“God does not condone your actions. You misinterpretHis message and that is what brought you here. Please, I beg you, surrenderyourself. The Lord Jesus Christ will help you conquer your sins and preparedyou for life everlasting.”

“We had to cleanse the little harlot of her impurities.We took her to a secret spot I know. Oh how she screamed. Then we-“

Florence snapped the machine off and clasped her handsin her lap. She couldn’t bear another word. She had heard every horrifyingdetail before. She knew what she had to do now.

She went to her clipping file and retrieved theyear-old article of Tanita Marie Donner’s case, staring at one of the newsphotos of SFPD Inspector Walt Sydowski. He was in the TV news footageyesterday, a member of the Yellow Ribbon Task Force. His face was warm,friendly, intelligent. He was a man who would understand. A man who knewTanita’s case, knew people. A man she could trust. She went to the phone andthis time, instead of calling the Task Force Hotline, she called the SanFrancisco Homicide Detail and asked for Sydowski.

“He’s out now. Like to leave a message?” some hurriedinspector told Florence, taking her name, address, and telephone number.

“Tell him I have crucial evidence in one of his majorcases.”

“Which case? What kind of evidence?”

“I will only talk to Inspector Sydowski.”

Florence enjoyed a measure of satisfaction at being incontrol of her information. At last, she was being taken seriously.

“He’ll get your message.”

She sat in her living room, staring at the tape andsipping her tea. Again, she studied the news pictures of the children, theircherub faces. Florence now understood the purpose of her life and no longerfelt alone.

“They are mine, just like Tanita is mine in paradise. My little NUMBER ONE.” Theprinted words bled in blue felt tip across a news feature on theNunn-Becker-Donner case torn from The San Francisco Star. “MY LITTLENUMBER TWO”, covered the article’s photo of Danny; “MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE”,obscured Gabrielle’s face. The note was signed “SON OF THE ZODIAC” and wasaccompanied by a Polaroid of Tanita Marie Donner on his lap. A picture no onehad seen before.

The items were sealed in a plastic evidence bag whichSpecial FBI Agent Merle Rust slid to Sydowski at the top of the emergency taskforce meeting at the Hall of Justice.

Sydowski slipped on his glasses; his stomach waschurning.

“It was intercepted this morning by U.S. PostalInspectors,” Rust said. “We just got word they caught an identical one forNunn’s parents an hour ago.”

“We’re lucky the families haven’t seen these,” Turgeonsaid.

“He send copies to the press?” Inspector Gord Mikelsonsaid.

“We suspect he hasn’t,” Special FBI Agent LonnieDitmire said. “No confirmation calls.”

Rust watched Sydowski crunch on a Tums tablet.

“What do you make of it, Walt? You know the file-is ithim?”

“It’s him.”

“What makes you certain?” Ditmire said.

“the hold-back is a neatly folded note in bluefelt-tip pen that he left in Tanita Marie Donner’s mouth. I told nobody aboutit.

“Gonna tell us what it said, Walt?” Rust opened hisnotebook.

“’My little number one.’”

Someone at the table muttered: “Fucking serial.”

“Any trace evidence on the note, Walt?” Rust asked.

The note was clean.

“Tanita Marie Donner’s mother got one of these Son ofZodiac things?” Lieutenant Leo Gonzales unwrapped a cigar.

“So far, no,” Ditmire said. “It was mailed three daysago at a box near the BART station at the Coliseum in Oakland.”

“Ain’t that a fucking coincidence?” Gonzales lit hiscigar.

“We’ll send this stuff to the lab for prints and saliva.”Rust tapped his Skoal canister on the table. “I would say it’s Virgil Shook.We’ve all read his Canadian file. His history gives him a pattern and hematches the profile. You agree, Walt?”

Sydowski nodded. The new Polaroid, the reference to“ MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE,” the article from the Star. It was Shook.

“Why haven’t we found him?” Nick Roselli, chief ofInspectors, closed his folder of Shook’s file.

“We’ve got people on that; we’re pushing streetsources hard. We’ll get him, Nick.” Gonzales clamped hard on his cigar.

“Better be goddamn now, Leo. The mayor’s office andthe commission are chewing new assholes for us.” Roselli’s gaze went round thetable. “If he grabs another kid before we have him, this city will neverforgive us.”

“Why don’t we splash him? Call a news conference andsplash Shook’s face to the world,” Ditmire suggested.

“He’ll disappear if we do that,” Sydowski said. “Hewants to play games like his hero. He’s going to stick around to see what wedo. If we can buy a few days, just a few days to find him-I’ve got a fewhopeful leads.”

Turgeon, already angry at Sydowski for not telling herabout the hold-back note, barely concealed her surprise.

“All right.” Roselli gritted his teeth. “We’ll give ita couple days and make a full court press on the street to find Shook. We’llfreeze every undercover operation possible and we’ll hammer the streets untilthe fucker pops up. But if he goes to the press with this shit”-he nodded tothe intercepted note-“we’re fucked.”

“What’s the status on everything else?” Roselli said.

“We like Shook for Donner, but we have nothing to puthim to Becker and Nunn, except for the stuff today,” Mikelson said. “Nothingback yet on the blood on Nunn’s severed braids. Shook also matches the generaldescription of the suspect in Becker and Nunn. But it’s not enough.”

Inspector Randy Baker, a young, bright Berkeleygraduate, said they were using the bar code from the meat wrapper found at theNunn home to pinpoint the store where the hamburger used to lure Gabrielle’sdog was purchased.

“And we’re using the partial tag we have on thesuspect pickup, cross-referencing it with owner’s registration, driver’slicense pictures, and specifics to create a suspect pool,” Gonzales said.

“If that’s it”-Roselli rolled up his file on Shook andslapped it against the table-“Then make a goddamn arrest and clear this file.”

Turgeon was silent leaving the meeting. She didn’tutter a word, walking to the parking lot with Sydowski. But once he started theunmarked Chevy, something inside her ignited.

“Why, Walt?”

“I’m sorry, Linda.”

“But why? Do you know how humiliating that was? Do youhave any idea? I thought we were partners. I requested to work with you.”

“You weren’t my partner then. At the time, I waspretty well working Donner alone. I had to protect the integrity of the case. Inever meant to hurt you.”

“But you could’ve told me about the note in hermouth.”

Sydowski said nothing. What could he say? He was anarrogant Polish cocksucker and he knew it.

Turgeon turned away from him, letting the street andthe minutes roll by. “What the hell are your ‘hopeful leads,’ Walt?”

“Well, I’m still hoping for them.”

Turgeon smiled. “You are a son of a bitch.”

“I am.”

“Where you taking me, your prick?”

“We’re going to visit Kindhart, on the job in HuntersPoint.”

“Think we can squeeze anything more from him?”

“Maybe. If you offer him sex, he might give us VirgilShook.”

She rolled her eyes.

The yellow ribbon affixed to Florence Schafer’s mailbox quivered in the Pacificbreezes sweeping up the rolling streets of Upper Market and over her framehouse. Turgeon pressed the buzzer. They waited. When the door opened, theirgaze dropped to a child-sized, bespectacled woman in her sixties.

“Florence Schafer?” Turgeon said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Inspector Turgeon.” She nodded to Sydowski. “Thisis Inspector Sydowski, San Francisco Police. You have information for us on acase?”

“May I see your identification?” Florence said. Shesaw their unmarked car parked on the street. None of her neighbors appeared atthe windows. Florence inspected their badges.

“Please come in.”

Turgeon took in the living room, raising her eyebrowsat Florence’s books. All were about crime. Sydowski went to Buster, who waschirping on his perch, preening his olive green plumage.

“He’s a beautiful Scotch Fancy,” he complimentedFlorence, accepting a china cup of tea and joining her on the sofa. She sat onthe edge so her feet could reach the floor.

“You know something about canaries, Inspector?”

“I breed them for showing, mostly Fifes.”

“It must be a relaxing hobby for a man in your line ofwork.”

“It can be.”

Turgeon took the nearby chair. The room had the fragranceof guest soap, reminding her of childhood visits to her grandmother’s home.Doilies under everything, even the King James Bible on the coffee table.Turgeon kept her tea on her lap. “Excuse me, Florence. I’m curious. Why so manycrime books?” she said.

“Oh yes, well crime is my hobby.” She smiled atSydowski. “May I please see your shield again, Inspector?”

Sydowski obliged her. It was obvious Florence washappy to have company. Too happy, maybe. Turgeon and Sydowski exchanged quickglances. They’d give this nutbar another five minutes.

Florence admired the shield with the city’s seal andmotto in Spanish. Oro en paz, fierro en Guerra. “Gold in peace. Iron inwar.” Florence said. “I know the city’s crest and motto. I’m a retired city taxclerk.”

“Florence,” Turgeon interrupted her reverie. “Youcalled Homicide and said you heard Tanita Marie Donner’s killer confess?”

“Yes, I did.” She returned Sydowski’s ID.

“You said you have evidence of that confession?”Sydowski said.

“Yes.”

“What sort?” Turgeon produced her notebook, but didn’topen it.

“He must never know it came from me. I’m afraid.”

“Who must never know?” Sydowski said.

“The killer.”

“We’ll keep it confidential,” he said. “What is yourevidence?”

“It’s on tape. I taped him confessing.”

Sydowski and Turgeon looked at each other.

“It’s on tape?” Sydowski was incredulous.

“I’ll play it for you. I have it ready.” Florence leftthe room to get it.

“Walt?” Turgeon whispered.

“I don’t fucking believe this.”

Florence returned with a micro-cassette tape recorder.She set it next to the Bible, turned the volume to maximum and pressed the playbutton. Sydowski and Turgeon leaned forward as it played, the voices soundingotherworldly, echoing through the church’s air ventilation system. For thefirst few minutes the priest argued with the confessor, saying that he couldnot absolve him because he was not convinced he was truly sorry, that if he wassorry, he should go to police and give himself up.

The killer remained lost in his own fantasy world.

“…we took her to a secret spot I know in theTenderloin. Oh how she screamed…Then we took her…”

Turgeon struggled with her composure as the killercheerfully detailed what he did to Tanita. She kept her head down, takingnotes, bile seeping up the back of her throat.

The priest was gasping, begging the killer tosurrender.

Florence was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

Sydowski was certain they were hearing Tanita MarieDonner’s killer, because the killer was the only person who knew the detailsthe confessor was reciting. Sydowski listened with clinical detachment to therecounting of a two-year-old girl’s abduction, rape, murder, and disposal. Likethe missing pieces of a shattered glass doll, every aspect came together,matching the unknowns. This lead broke the case. But it came at a price. Thekiller’s reference to “the others” made him shudder. Did this guy killGabrielle Nunn and Danny Becker? What about the intercepted notes to thefamilies?

MY LITTLE NUMBER ONE.

MY LITTLE NUMBER TWO.

MY LITTLE NUMBER THREE.

Was it a countdown? Were they going to find morelittle corpses?

The images of Tanita Marie Donner whirled through him,her eyes, her empty beautiful eyes piercing him, boring through the years ofcynicism that had ossified into armor, touching him in a place he thought wasimpenetrable.

In death, she had become his child.

But sitting there in Florence Schafer’s living room,his face was a portrait of indifference, never flinching, never betraying hisbroken heart. Dealing with the dead taught you how to bury the things that keptyou alive. The tape ended.

“Florence, can you identify the man on this tape?” hesaid.

I know his name is Virgil. I don’t know his lastname.”

Turgeon was writing everything down.

“He has tattoos.” Florence touched her arms. “A snakeand flames. A white man, mid-forties, about six feet, medium build,salt-and-pepper beard, and bushy hair.”

“Where does he live?” Sydowski said.

“I don’t know.” Florence looked at Turgeon takingnotes, then at Sydowski. Realizing the gravity of her situation, she said,“Please, please, he must never know I’ve spoken to you. I’m afraid of him.”

“It will be okay, Florence,” Sydowski said. “Now, isthere anything else you can remember that will help us get in touch withVirgil? Where he goes, what he does, who he does it with?”

Florence blinked thoughtfully. “He comes to the churchalmost daily, to the shelter.”

“At the shelter, does he mention the children, DannyBecker, Gabrielle Nunn? Talk about the news, that kind of thing?”

“Oh no.”

“Is he friends with anyone at the shelter?”

“Not really. He keeps to himself.” Florence sniffed.“Inspector, what if he has the other children with him? I pray for them. Youhave to catch him before it’s too late. You have to catch him.” She squeezedher tissue. “I saw him at the shelter two days ago. He should be around againsoon.”

Sydowski touched Florence’s hand. “Calling us was theright thing to do.”

Florence nodded. She was terrified.

“You are a good detective, Florence,” he whispered.

A warm, calm sensation came over her. Her search forthe meaning and purpose of her life had ended.

Buster chirped.

“May I use your phone?”

Some twenty-five miles south of San Francisco along Highway 1, Reed pulled into HalfMoon Bay, a drowsy hamlet caressed by the sea and sheltered by rolling greenhills, where farmers harvested pumpkins, artichokes, and lettuce. A brochurefor heaven, Reed thought, stepping from his Comet at the marina, the gullsshrieking in the briny air.

He strolled the docks, showing photocopied clippingsof Keller’s tragedy to locals. They looked at them, then shrugged and scratchedtheir heads. It was a long time ago. Nobody was around then. After half anhour, he decided to try the local paper, when a young, tanned woman he hadtalked to earlier jogged up to him.

“Try Reimer,” she said.

“Who?”

“He’s a relic. Been here so long, he ran charter fordinosaurs. If anyone would remember that story, Reimer would.”

“Where do I find him?”

She glanced at her watch.

“Gloria’s on Main Street. Go there and ask for him.”

“Thanks.”

Reed was optimistic. He had to be on to something withKeller. His instincts kept nudging him to keep digging. Before coming to HalfMoon Bay, he had driven to Philo, where Keller’s wife, Joan, had grown up.After checking the old Keller mansion on Russian Hill and reading Joan’s diary,he figured it was a logical place to go. But no one he talked to in townremembered her and he didn’t have the time to dig further. While eating a clubsandwich at a Philo diner, it struck him that before heading for Half Moon Bay,he should stop at the cemetery. Maybe Joan was buried there.

The groundskeeper was a helpful gum-snappinguniversity student. He listened to Reed’s request, then invited him into theduty office. “Keller, Keller, Keller.” The student’s fingers skipped throughthe cards of the plot index box. Except for Nirvana throbbing from his CDheadset, it was quiet and soothingly cool. “All right.” He pulled a card,bobbing his head to his music and mumbling. “Section B, row two, plot eight. Farnorthwest edge, lots of shade.”

Keeping a vigil at the Keller gravesite was a hugewhite marble angel. Its face was a sculpture of compassion, its outstretchedwings protecting the polished granite headstone. Over Joan’s name and those ofher children Pierce, Alisha and Joshua, their birth and death dates, theepitaph read:

Molly Wilson stood at The San Francisco Star Building’s side entrance,tapping her notebook against her thigh, watching the parking lot until shespotted Reed and ran to him.

“Tom! Don’t go upstairs! It’s Benson.”

“What about him?”

“I’ve never seen him like this. He’s pissed at you.”

“Where’s the news in that? The man hates me.”

“He’s white hot like he was last year over Donner.”

Reed stared at her. “What going on up there, Molly?”

“He wants to know what you are working on, where youare.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No. I did the best I could to cover. I told him youwere checking a lead on a suspect in the kidnapping. It seemed to work. Henever asked about you after that. That was yesterday.”

“You didn’t mention Keller?”

“No, I told you.”

“Okay, then what?”

“Today the rumors are flying from the hall that thetask force definitely has a suspect and Benson asked me about it. I didn’t knowanything, nobody at our place knew anything. You know anything?”

Reed knew nothing new. He was busy chasing EdwardKeller.

“When I told Benson we didn’t know about the suspectrumors, he went ballistic. He was furious that no one knew where you were. Hetried to find you, started calling people. When he got nowhere, it wasstraitjacket time. He wants to see you.”

Reed swallowed.

“Tom, I did the best I could. I’m sorry.”

“Where are you going now?”

“He’s kicked me over to the hall to chase the suspectrumors.”

Wilson removed her keys from her bag, then touchedReed’s shoulder. “Remember, Tom, he’s not like us. He’s not human. Keep repeatingthat to yourself and don’t let him get to you.”

Reed glanced up at the building. “He wants me fired,Molly.”

The smell of hot food wafted from the basement windows of Our Lady Queen ofTearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on Upper Market. Turgeon was talking onher cellular phone to an SFPD dispatcher who was directing four marked radiocars to the area.

“Tell them to take up compass points a block back, outof sight of the church.” She trailed Sydowski and Florence Schafer down thestairs through a rear metal door.

They came upon the kitchen, steamy and noisy with adozen volunteers grappling trays of food, dodging each other.

“Louey!” Florence called over the din. “He’s thekitchen boss.” Louey wiped a cleaver on his stained apron. He was in histhirties, had a three-day growth of beard, and the bleary eyes of an A.A.candidate. Florence introduced the inspectors saying they were looking forsomebody and everything was fine.

“How many exits to the basement here, Louey?” Sydowskisaid.

Three: the back, the front,”-Louey pointed to a farcorner with the cleaver-“and that stairway to the sacristy.”

“Thanks.”

“Anybody I know?” Louey said.

“Who?”

“The guy you are looking for.”

Sydowski glanced at Florence, who put her hand onLouey’s arm.

“You don’t know him. He’s one of my old friends. Theinspector just wants his help.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“We’ll let you in on it a little later,” Sydowski toldhim. Louey went back to work.

Sydowski went to the kitchen door to check the layout.It was like a bingo hall with two sections of row upon row of long tablesdivided by a middle aisle. A fire marshal’s certificate near the door put thecapacity at four hundred. Supper had begun. Less than two dozen people wereseated and eating. A few hundred more were queued at the serving tables at thekitchen end of the hall. Volunteers dished up meals and encouragement.

Sydowski decided to give it some time. He and Turgeonknew Virgil Shook’s general description and his tattoos. In a few minutes theywould join the volunteers casually walking the hall.

“If he’s out there today, we’ll have the uniformscover the exits. Linda and I will take him quietly while he’s eating.” Sydowskiremoved his tie and suggested Turgeon let her hair down. “We don’t want to looktoo obvious.”

The new note taped to Reed’s door was scrawled in unforgiving block letters:‘WHERE IS RENT? NO RENT, NO ROOM. L. Onescu.”

Reed had broken too many promises to Lila. His keydidn’t work. She had changed the lock. He set down the paper bag containing hissupper. Two bottles of Jack Daniels and potato chips. He searched his wallet.Thirty-five bucks. His checkbook was in the room. Damn.

He walked the two blocks uphill to Lila’s building,entered the lobby, and leaned on the buzzer to her condo. No answer.

“She’s not home, Reed,” a man’s voice echoed throughthe intercom. “Hey, I’m surprised you’re not at work tonight.”

Reed looked into the security camera.

“Long story. I’d rather not talk about it now,Mickey.”

“Sure.”

“Where’s Lila? She leave a key for me? I have moneyfor her.”

“Gone to visit a nephew in Tahoe. No key. Sorry, pal.”

Reed walked back, got his supper, sat in his car infront of Lila’s Edwardian rooming house, overlooking the Marina District, theGolden Gate, and the Pacific. It was night. He thought of bunking with theother tenants, or driving to a motel. He was exhausted. Maybe he would callsome of the guys at the paper, ask for a couch. He took a hard hit from thebottle. Staring at San Francisco’s blinking lights, he searched for the answerto one question: “How the hell did he get here?”

He was seething. It kept him awake, made him thirsty.What had happened? He was a professional, married to an exceptional woman,blessed with a fine son. They had a good life. They were fighting to save it.They owned a good house in a good neighborhood. He had never intended to hurtanyone in the world. He worked hard. He worked honestly. Didn’t that count foranything? Didn’t it? It had to. If it counted for something then why the fuckwas he in the street, swilling whiskey in the back seat of his 1977 Comet,watching the thread holding his job and sanity slowly unravel?

Wallowing in alcoholic self-pity, he looked at hissituation for what it was: circumstances. Benson had thrown a fit, Reed forgotto pay his rent, and was too drunk now to go somewhere for the night. No onewas to blame. He chose the car. Quit sucking on the bottle. Call it a bad dayand go to sleep. Deal with it in the morning.

The new white minivan parked in the shade of a eucalyptus grove on Fulton inBerkeley near the university was a rental from San Jose. For two days now ithad been an innocuous fixture across the street, three doors down from DorisCrane’s home. Her two-story house was framed perfectly in the van’s rearviewand driver’s side mirrors.

Edward Keller watched it with the vigilance of astatue.

Occasionally he would study his reflection. He hardlyrecognized himself-clean shaven, his pale skin was tanning. The dye he hadselected worked well, darkening his short, neat hair. He no longer saw himself.He had been transformed. He had been ordained, enlightened to show the worldthe wonder of God’s Love.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

After his divine work in obtaining the address fromthe hillbilly living in the Angel’s house in San Francisco, Keller went to thepublic library, and scoured the directories and other registries, learning muchabout Doris Crane in a short time.

She was widowed in 1966 and lived alone in the house,working part-time as a secretary in Berkeley’s law department. Doris had onedaughter, Ann, who had one son. He was nine years old.

Pierce Keller was nine years old.

Ann owned three children’s clothing stores in the BayArea. Keller suspected her marriage was troubled, because she and the Angelwere renting their home and living with Doris Crane. A blessing that had kepther loathsome, arrogant husband out of the way.

Keller had already met him.

Thomas the doubter.

The oaf could not grasp the meaning of his mission: helping the bereaved through the valley of the dark sun. At first, Keller didnot know Reed’s role, believing he was sent to destroy his work.

But the truth was revealed.

It was destined that they should meet.

Reed was the signpost to the third Angel. It wasrevealed to him in Zach Reed’s birth announcement. Keller found it in thepublic library’s newspaper archives, Zachary Michael Reed.

It was destined. His middle name was Michael. He wasZachary Michael Reed. Zachary, father of John the Baptist, who’s birth wasforetold to him by an Angel. John the martyred prophet who baptized Christ.

Michael the Archangel.

Finding Michael was challenging. For the past twodays, Keller saw nothing at the house, except for Doris Crane’s comings andgoings. Although he tried to remain calm and trust in the Lord, he worried. Solast night he took Doris Crane’s garbage. He probed it, finding a copy of atravel company’s itinerary for Ann reed. She had two round-trip plane ticketsto Chicago. The tickets were for A. and Z. Reed. She was attending a conferenceat the Marriott. They were scheduled to return this morning. Keller checked hiswatch. The plane had landed in San Francisco two hours ago. He was convinced hewould see the third Angel today. For Heaven continued to shower him withprotection.

Virgil Shook was the latest miracle. His arrest and shootinghad dominated the front pages of this morning’s papers. Shot him dead, somereports said.

In a church. It was preordained.

Sanctus. Sanctus. Sanctus. Keller’s mission was divine.

He was invincible.

Soon police would learn that the repulsive child abuserwas not the enlightened one. The incident was divine intervention, designed toshield Keller long enough to complete his work. He was so close to thetransfiguration.

Keller’s body tensed.

A cab stopped in front of Doris Crane’s house.

A woman got out of the rear passenger’s side, whilethe driver unloaded luggage from the trunk. The woman was in her earlythirties, attractive, very business-like.

Ann Reed.

She was tired, angry, as she rummaged through herwallet and called into the cab.

“Come on, Zach, wake up, we’re home.”

Keller held his breath.

Michael. The third Angel.

The drowsy boy dragged himself out of the car. He waswearing a Chicago Bulls T-shirt, baggy jeans, new sneakers. As his motherslapped bills into the cabby’s hand, the boy wearily grabbed a canvas travelbag and trudged into the house.

Keller watched.

His heart nearly tore free from his body.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.

Michael.

Commander of Heaven’s army! Conqueror of Lucifer!

Behold!

A prince in God’s celestial court!

Keller had gazed upon Michael the Archangel.

And he shone with the light of one million suns.

He was overwhelmed in the presence of divine majesty.Soon, he would realize his exalted mission.

The transfiguration.

The reunification with his lost children.

It was his destiny.

Keller clasped his hands together tightly, bowed hishead, touching his lips to his whitened knuckles.

Sydowski kept his promise.

Angela Donner cradled twelve white sweetheart roses inher arms, as if carrying a baby. Sydowski pushed her father, John, in hissqueaking wheelchair along the pebbled paths of the cemetery to Tanita Marie’sheadstone. Sydowski had vowed to make a pilgrimage to Tania’s grave with hermother and grandfather once her murder had been solved. It had. Her death hadbeen avenged. Her killer killed.

When they stopped at Tanita’s marker, the earlymorning sun was hitting the polished granite. It was emblazoned in the light.The grounds were silent but for the distant traffic, and John’s soft moans.Sydowski patted his shoulder.

Angela knelt, setting the flowers at the foot of thestone, kissing it as a breeze rolled through the oaks sheltering Tanita’s plot.Tears streaked her face as she caressed the epitaph tracing the sun-warmedletters of her daughter’s name. “You know, Inspector, I’ve been part of theuniversity’s bereavement group.”

“I know.”

“I have come to accept that my baby was a lambsacrificed for the sins of this world.”

Sydowski nodded. Angela continued.

“I see her everywhere in the faces of children. I achewhen I see mothers hug their daughters. I know my baby is with God. Probablymaking Him laugh. I have to carry that in my heart to survive.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you for working so hard. I know you reallycared. I just hope with all my heart you find the other children. Alive.”

Sydowski swallowed hard and closed his eyes. Wouldthere be two more deaths? Two more funerals with little coffins? He needed alead. Something. Anything. Sydowski’s pager bleated.

Sitting on Grandma’s front porch steps, Zach Reed could hear his mom on the phone to hisgrandmother. She was pissed, big time.

“I refuse to accept him treating us like this-Mom-no.”Grandma was working at the university. “I am not taking any more of this!”

Hearing his mom talk this way hurt. Everything wasbreaking, spoiling his dream of living together again in their home.

“Mom, I’ve given him a lifetime of chances-No! He wassupposed to pick us up this morning at the airport. He wasn’t there. No sign ofhim. Not a word. I know it’s a little thing but it always starts with thelittle things!”

His mother listened, then said: “I checked with theairline message center, our hotel in Chicago, and his place. Absolutely no wordfrom him. This is how he treats us! This is how committed he is!”

Zach hated this. Just chill, Mom, he pleaded silentlyfrom the steps, driving his chin into his forearm which rested on his knees. Hestared at his sneakers, new Vans, Tempers. He had tried to calm Mom down at theairport, where she sat steaming for an hour. Maybe Dad was on a story becauseof the missing kids?

“I don’t care, Zach,” she hissed as they waited on anairport bench. “That’s not the point. The point is he is supposed to be here! Apromise is a promise! That was how you measured a person’s worth, by the numberof promises they broke,” she said, blowing her nose into a tissue.

A few hours earlier on the plane, everything wasgreat. Mom was happy, telling him the surprise: Dad was picking them up at theairport. Maybe they would have lunch, talk about being together again, maybedrive by their house. Man, it was heaven. Soon he would be back with Jeff andGordie, catch up on things.

But it all fell apart when they came down at SanFrancisco International. No trace of Dad. Mom had him paged. Three times.

Now, sitting on Grandma’s porch, with everythingbreaking into a million pieces, he didn’t know what to do. He fished for hisfather’s business card from his rear pocket. It read: TOM REED, STAFF WRITER,THE SAN FRANCISCO STAR, and bore an address, fax number, and his directextension. It was a cherished possession. One Zach carried everywhere. Hestudied the blue lettering, stroking the embossed characters, as if the cardwere a talisman that could summon his dad.

Zach hated this separation cooling off crap. He hopedhis friends were wrong about your folks never getting back together once theysplit. Please be wrong. He looked hopefully up and down the street. Traffic waslight. All he saw was some doof by a white van a few doors down. Was he staringat him? Zach wasn’t sure. The guy was checking the air pressure on the tires.

The rumbling of a broken muffler cued him to hisfather’s old green monster stopping in front of the house.

“Mom! It’s Dad!”

Zach catapulted to the driver’s door, and gripped thehandle.

“Hey, son!”

“Dad, Chicago was a blast! We went up in the Sears Towerand I got to go in the cockpit on the flight home! Are we gonna drive by ourhouse? Are we gonna have lunch? And look, Mom got me new Vans, Tempers!” Zachopened the door for his dad.

“Hold on there, sport.” Reed climbed out of the car.

Zach threw his arms around his father, his smilemelting when he smelled a familiar evil odor. Zach stepped back, noticing hisdad’s reddened eyes, his whiskers, and the lines carved into his face.

“Guess you been working pretty hard on the bigkidnapper story, that’s why you missed us at the airport, huh?”

Reed looked into his son’s eyes for a long moment.

“Something like that, Zach.”

“Well, Mom’s pretty pissed at you.”

“She has every right to be.”

Reed saw Ann’s silhouette in the doorway, put his handon his son’s shoulder. As they went inside, Zach saw the white van drive off.

In the house, Zach did as his mother told him and wentupstairs to his room and closed the door. Loud enough for his parents to hear.Then he quietly opened it, lay on the floor and listened.

“Where the hell were you, Tom?”

“Ann, I don’t blame you for-“

“You promised us you would be there.”

“I know, but something came up on the kidnappings, I-“

How many times had he hurt her by starting with “butsomething came up.” Her face reddened under her tousled hair, her brown eyesnarrowed. She had removed her shoes, her silk blouse had come slightly untuckedfrom her skirt. Jesus, she was going to explode on him.

“You look like shit and you reek,” she said.

“It’s complicated. I can expla-“

“Were you with Molly Wilson, a last fling?”

“What? I don’t believe this!”

“You’ve been drinking again.”

“I never told you I quit. I never lied.”

“That’s right. You were always honest about yourpriorities.” Her eyes burned with contempt. She thrust her face into her hands,collapsing on the sofa. “Tom, I can’t take this anymore. I won’t take thisanymore.” Her voice sank to a whisper. “You told me you had changed, but youlied. Nothing’s changed.”

That wasn’t true. He wanted to tell her, but all hecould manage was: “Ann, I love you and Zach with all my heart.”

“Stop it!” She spat, pounding her fists on her knees.“Your words are cheap. They’re for sale any day of the week to anyone withfifty cents! But one thing you can’t do with them is hold a family together!”

Ann stood, grabbing a copy of the morning’s Starfrom the coffee table, the one with Virgil Shook’s shooting splashed on thefront. “It can’t be done see!” She ripped up the paper tearing Shook on thestretcher in half, tossing the pieces aside. “You can’t hold anything togetherwith paper.”

Ann sat again, her face in her hands.

He was stunned.

She had reduced him to nothing.

A zero.

Everything he had struggled to be, the thing by whichhe defined himself was demolished. His eyes went around the room, noticingtheir unpacked bags as he ingested the truth. Ann despised him not so much forhis trespasses, but truly for what he was. He searched in vain for an answer.He wanted to tell her he had been fired, tell her everything. How he washaunted by the accusing eyes of a dead man’s little girl. How he was fallingand needed to hang on to something. Someone. But he didn’t know what to say,how to begin.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I understand.”

He turned and left.

Watching from his bedroom window, Zach saw his father’scar disappear down the street, the Comet’s grumbling muffler underscoring thatpromises had been broken. Tears rolled down Zach’s face.

Dust and pebbles pelted acting Calaveras County Sheriff Greg Brader as he watchedthe four helicopters descend one after the other, his shirt flapping angrilyagainst his back.

It was supposed to be his day off. He was painting hisgarage at his home in San Andreas when his wife had called him to the phone. Itwas his dispatcher: The SFPD and FBI were flying out immediately because of apossible county connection to the kidnapping case in the Bay Area. Brader hadless than an hour to prepare.

While some small town cops may have gotten jittery atthe prospect of a profile case popping up in their yard, Brader was cool.Before coming to the county eight years ago, he had put in twelve years withthe LAPD, six of them in Homicide. Without changing his torn jeans and stainedT-shirt, he kissed his wife and got in his marked Suburban. He made calls overthe radio and cellular while driving directly to West Point, a sleepy villageforty minutes away.

Brader and his two deputies cordoned off the balldiamond and its parking lot, turning it into a landing zone for the SanFrancisco FBI’s new MacDonnell Douglas 450-NOTAR and larger Huey, which carriedthe FBI’s SWAT team. Sydowski, Turgeon, and a handful of others from the taskforce landed next in the two CHiPs choppers.

Special Agent Merle Rust and SFPF Inspector WaltSydowski were the contact people, along with FBI SWAT Team Leader LangfordShaw. Brader introduced himself, shouting over the noise of the rotor blades.

“You fellas best ride with me. My guys will bring theothers.” As requested, he had obtained a school bus for the SWAT Team and itsequipment. Other task force members rode with Brader’s deputies as they roaredoff in a convoy of three police cars and the bus.

“We’ll be there in under twenty minutes,” Brader saidafter making a radio call to his deputies at the property. “I’ve had two peoplesitting back on the house since you called.”

“What have you got?” Rust asked.

“As you know, the pickup is currently registered to aWarren Urlich. He’s a sixty-eight-year-old recluse, a pensioner. Makes extracash fixing cars and trucks; sells them, too. Neighbors say he never talks toanybody and he’s got so many vehicles on his property, they never know whenhe’s home.”

“What about the kids?”

“Like I told you when you were flying out, Urlich’snearest neighbor thinks she saw two kids on the place that maybe arrived recently.A little boy and girl. She was only sure they weren’t living there before.”

Rust and Sydowski exchanged glances.

Stands of pine, cedar, and sequoias blurred by theSuburban as it ate up the paved ribbon snaking through the Sierras of CavalerasCounty. This was where prospectors flocked during the gold rush in 1849. It washome to Twain’s celebrated jumping frog, clear lakes, streams, tranquility, andpeople who wanted to be left alone.

Cars and pickups in various stages of disrepair, junk,a yapping dog on a long chain, and ramshackle outbuildings dotted WarrenUrlich’s land, a three-acre hilly site with an abundance of trees.

The FBI SWAT Team set up a perimeter around therickety house, while the county deputies and some task force members formed an outerperimeter. Brader’s Suburban and the bus, which was the command post, werevirtually out of sight about one hundred yards from the house.

From the hood of Brader’s truck, Sydowski glimpsed abroken toilet and a pit bull with a bloodied rabbit carcass in its jaws, as heswept the property with Brader’s binoculars. He chewed a Tums tablet — hissecond since they landed — and steadied himself for the worst. He fearedanother deadly shootout like the one with Shook. He prayed for the children tobe alive, but if they were in this shit hole, they were ninety-nine percent forsure dead.

He passed the binoculars to Turgeon. She rolled thefocus wheel slightly, bit her lip, then handed the glasses to Brader.

Sydowski studied her protectively for a moment.

Inside the bus, SWAT Team Leader Langford Shaw maderadio checks with his people. Everybody was in position. Fred Wheeler, the unit’shostage negotiator, called the house over the FBI’s satellite phone.

Someone answered.

“Mr. Warren Urlich?”

“Yup.”

“Mr. Urlich, this is Fred Wheeler. I’m a special agentwith the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like to talk to you, sir. Wehave heavily armed people positioned around your home and would like you toplease walk slowly out the front door with your hands in the air now.”

Wheeler was answered with silence.

“Mr. Urlich, Warren?”

Nothing.

“Did you hear me, sir?”

“I heard you, I just don’t believe you. This a joke?”

“We’ll sound a police siren now.”

Wheeler nodded to Shaw, who signaled Brader and theSuburban’s siren yelped.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“We’ll discuss everything when you come out.”

As Urlich and Wheeler talked, SWAT team memberstightened on the house, peeking inside windows with miniature dental mirrors. Agirl of about seven or eight was playing with a doll near the back door. In aheartbeat, an agent grabbed her, clasping his hand over her mouth, removing herto the outer perimeter.

Shaw, listening on his headset radio, nodded, andwhispered to Wheeler, “We have a girl removed safely. She says it’s just theman and a boy inside now and the man has lots of guns and bullets.”

On the phone, Urlich — who did not know the girl wasgone — had not decided to cooperate with Wheeler.

“You make me kinda nervous,” Urlich said. “Can’t wejust talk on the line here? ‘Cause if it’s about them kids, I don’t knownothin’. That’s Norm’s business and I ain’t a part of it.”

“It would be much better, Warren, if we could talkface to face.”

Shaw had more information.

“The girl says she and the boy were brought to theproperty a couple of weeks ago.”

Urlich was getting impatient. “I told you I don’t knownothing about nothing.”

“I didn’t say you did. We just want to talk, maybe youcan help us on a serious matter. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding. Pleasecome out now, sir. Help us clear things up, so we can be on our way.”

Several seconds passed before Urlich said, “I’m comingout.”

Wheeler told Shaw, who alerted the unit. Nearly adozen FBI guns were trained on Urlich’s front door. It cracked open. A long,rifle-like object slowly extended from it. A white dishrag was tied to whatturned out to be a broom. A weathered man in his sixties, dressed in stainedoveralls crept out.

“Please put the object down, Warren.” A loudspeakerordered.

He obeyed, looking around for the source as his pitbull howled, leaping at his chain toward him in a futile attempt to warn him ofthe SWAT member who stepped from the front of the house and forced Urlich tohis knees, frisking and handcuffing him before escorting him to the commandpost.

Rust, Sydowski, Ditmire, Turgeon, Brader, and Shawtook Urlich aside. Urlich’s eyes went round the group. He seemed indifferent.Rust and Sydowski began asking questions. Urlich answered them, and before longthey realized they were on the right track, but at the wrong address. Thechildren, a five-year-old boy and his seven-year-old sister, were Urlich’sgrandchildren, his son Norman’s kids. Norman had lost a custody fight, and lastmonth he had abducted them from his “ex-bitch Marcie” in Dayton, Ohio, andbrought them here.

“This is what this show is all about, ain’t it?”

Inside the shack, they found two kid’s video-moviemembership cards for a store in Dayton and two juvenile library cards forDayton. Calls made to the store, the library, and Dayton PD were furtherconfirmation of a parental abduction, contrary to a court custody order. Thechildren would be returned immediately to Mom in Ohio.

Meanwhile, two agents who checked every wreck on thegrounds approached Rust. “No pickup, sir,” one agent said.

Rust turned to Urlich. “According to California’sDepartment of Motor Vehicles, you own a 1978 Ford pickup, license ‘B754T3’.Where is it?”

Rust held an information sheet before Urlich’s face.He leaned forward, hand still cuffed behind his back, squinting at the page.

“I can’t see. My glasses are in my bib here.”

Urlich was uncuffed. He slipped on his glasses,studied the page.

“Well, shit, I sold that thing months ago to somefella from San Francisco. For cash. Got a bill of sale in the house.”

“Why is this truck currently registered to you?”Sydowski said.

“Guess the registration never got changed like it wassupposed to.”

“What’s the buyer’s name?” Rust asked.

“I got it in the house, in my office.”

Urlich’s office was a cracked rolltop desk buriedunder mounds of auto magazines, newspapers, brochures, junk mail, notes, andphone books. Amazingly he reached into the heap and pulled out a slip of paper,smudged with engine grease. The pickup’s bill of sale.

Rust looked at it, cursed, and gave it to Sydowski.

John Smith had bought the truck.

“Says here he also bought a boat and trailer fromyou.”

“Yes. Northcraft with twin Mercs. Paid nine thousandfor the whole shooting match.”

“He said he was from San Francisco?” Sydowski wastaking notes.

“Yes.”

“Why come out here to buy a truck and boat?”

Urlich shrugged. “I only advertised the truck.”

“You advertised? In what?”

Urlich reached into the pile again, retrieving anautomotive buy-and-sell magazine. “I put all my stock in here.” He licked afinger, casually browsing through the pictures of cars and trucks, each bearingan information caption. “Goes all over Northern California. Here it is.” Hetapped the picture.

Rust and Sydowski stared at a profile photo of theFord pickup truck used in the abduction of Gabrielle Nunn from the Children’sPlayground of Golden Gate Park.

“You got a picture of the boat and trailer?” Sydowskisaid.

Urlich indicated his paper pile. “In theresomewheres.”

“You got any of the nine thousand he gave you left?”Rust said.

“Yup, why?”

“Can we see it?”

Urlich fished a jingling key chain from his coverallsand unlocked a drawer, then a metal strong box containing several envelopesfilled with cash. “Some is deposits on my stock.” He handed Rust an envelopecontaining several fifty-and hundred-dollar notes. They werefresh-from-the-mint bills with sequential serial numbers. They could yield thesuspect’s prints. And the Secret Service and Treasury people might be able togive the task for a point-of-circulation bank.

“Can you remember what this man looked like?” Sydowskisaid.

Urlich scratched his chin.

“Any distinguishing scars, tattoos, any memorablespeech patterns?”

“No,” Urlich said, before giving a vague, uselessdescription.

“He come with anybody?”

Urlich shook his head. “Said he hitchhiked.”

“Hitchhiked?” Sydowski took a note. “Any idea at allwhere he lived? Worked? His phone number?”

Urlich shook his head. “Nope. I see quite a few peopleand it was a long time ago.”

“Anything about him that sticks in your mind?” Turgeonsaid.

Urlich couldn’t recall anything.

“He say what he needed the truck for?” Ditmire said.

“Nope.”

“What about the boat?” Sydowski wondered. “He sayanything about it? He came for a truck and leaves with a truck and boat.”

“Now that you mention it, he was something of a holyman about the boat.”

“A holy man?” Ditmire said.

“Yes, he came for the truck and fell in love with theboat. He said it was destiny that he should find such a boat.”

“Destiny?”

“Destiny or fate, as I recall.”

“In what way?” Sydowski said.

“Well, I never advertised the boat. It was justsitting here, not really for sale and he spots it and starts on some Biblemumbo jumbo.”

“You remember any of it?”

“Just that it was about life and death, resurrection.”

“Resurrection?” Sydowski said. “He sees this boat andtalks about resurrection?”

“Guess it had something to do with why he needed theboat.”

“He say why he needed that boat?” Rust asked.

“Well … after that he sort of clammed up, it waslike he was talking to himself and suddenly remembered I was there.”

“Did he say why he needed the boat?” Sydowski pushed.

Urlich appraised Sydowski, Rust, and the others,chuckling at his memory before sharing it. “Said he needed it to find hischildren.”

To find his children?

The law men stared at each other, bewildered.

During the return flight to San Francisco, severalintense calls were made to the Hall of Justice and Golden Gate Avenue. Theentire task force was to meet within ninety minutes.

Zach forced himself to quit bawling like some sort of candy-ass wuss. Jeff and Gordie wouldlaugh at him, but it hurt. Everything was coming apart. His folks were reallysplitting. The kids at school were right. When your folks split and move out,they never get back together, no matter what they tell you.

Right after the big blowup with Dad, Mom went to herroom, and slammed the door. He heard her crying, wailing like he had neverheard before. It scared him. Her sobbing tore at his heart.

He didn’t know what to do. But he had to do something,had to grow up and do something.

He opened his school backpack and was shoving stuff init. He had made a decision. He was going to Gordie’s. He’d stay with his pal.He’d get away.

He stuffed his CD player, Batman comics, Swiss armyknife, penlight, Walkman, some underwear, and balled up some pants, socks,shirts, and a jacket into his pack. He dropped to his knees and carefully slidout the envelop he kept hidden under the big drawer in his room. It containedhis life savings: $117.14.

Zach hoisted the bag on his back, slipped out of thehouse, and trotted off, growing angrier and more determined with each step hetook along Fulton.

Mom and Dad were breaking a promise.

This is how you measured a person’s worth, by thenumber of promises they broke.

It just wasn’t fair.

He headed toward Center. He knew the way to BART. He’dtake it to San Francisco and then take a cab to Gordie’s house. They could callJeff and catch up on stuff, talk about old times. Maybe he could move in withGordie. Maybe there was some way he and Gordie could become brothers. Maybesign some court papers or something. Gordie’s mother and father never fought.Gordie’s dad was an accountant and was always home.

It was kind of nice being on his own. Before he got onBART, he’d stop at that hobby store along the way and buy that monster-sizedmodel of the U.S.S. Kitty Hawk. He could take it with him to Gordie’sand he could help him put it together. That would be cool!

He was on his own now. They didn’t need him around inBerkeley anymore. Zach sniffed as he waited for the light to change at anintersection. He glanced over his shoulder and noticed a white van a few carlengths away. Funny.

Looks like the same doof that was hangin’ out near hisgrandma’s place earlier. So what? Zach shrugged off his curiosity.

One cherry had tumbled into place.

Two more and they had a jackpot.

Sydowski loosened his tie as everyone settled aroundthe conference table in Room 400 at the hall. Most had to stand. Gonzaleswheeled a new chalkboard into place, in front of its predecessor bearing theblown-up faces of Tanita Marie Donner, Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn, and themap with its color locator pins. The new board had enlarged color photos of theFord pickup, the boat, and trailer.

They were on the bad guy’s trail.

The next cherry would be his identity.

And the next would be finding him with the kids.Sydowski sipped his coffee, bit into his chicken sandwich. He and the othershad returned from Calaveras in time to grab stale food from the cafeteriabefore the meeting. The pickup truck lead kicked it all into overdrive. Morepeople had been brought in.

“We’ve got new information, so listen up, we’ll behanding out assignments.” Gonzales stood at the new board, examining the newmaterial in his file folder. “The IDENT team left behind in Calaveras justlifted two latents from the new bills left over in the buy of the suspectpickup. They match the single latent we found on the wrapping of the hamburgerused to lure Gabrielle Nunn’s dog. We pumped them through the system. Zilch.”

“We are also checking all prints of anyone who hasever been bonded in the state — private investigators, armored car guards,state and federal workers, just to make sure we’ve covered everything.”

Adam McCurdy, chief of Investigations, interjected.“The chief will hold a press conference this afternoon to make a public appealfor information on the pickup and the boat and trailer, reiterating the reward.He will say that we believe Virgil Lee Shook is responsible for the murder ofTanita Marie Donner, but that we have nothing linking him to the abduction ofBecker and Nunn. He will state that the suspect in those kidnappings is stillat large. We’ll add whatever new information is pertinent.”

Gonzales nodded.

“We’re sending out alerts on the truck and the boat,targeting marinas.” Gonzales flipped through his file. “Treasury’s stillworking on the serial numbers of the new bills to determine point ofcirculation. So far they have narrowed it to a San Francisco bank. And, on thehamburger…” Gonzales found another data sheet. “A brick wall. Because thelabel was damaged, we could only confirm it as a purchase in the city. And, onthe boat and trailer: same as the pickup, no change in registration. Stillcomes up to Urlich.”

As Gonzales summarized the case, Sydowski finished hissandwich, slipped on his glasses, and made notes, his theories and hunchespercolating, extracting the essence of a vital angle he knew he had overlooked.It tried to surface during the chopper flight back from West Point, flailing inhis subconscious as the patchwork of vineyards, pastureland, orchards, towns,and urban sprawl rolled below. It was difficult to converse through thehelicopter’s intercom, leaving each person alone with his thoughts as theythundered back to San Francisco. Now, sitting in Room 400, Sydowski replayedthem, trying again to catch the key, hidden aspect that had been gnawing athim.

It had been so long since he talked with hisdaughters. He was consumed with the case. It was national news. The girlscalled him regularly, the red message light blinking at him from his machinealmost everything night when he got home. “Saw you on TV, Dad, hope you’retaking care of yourself.” Geneva, his firstborn daughter, sounded like hermother.

Then came his second daughter, Irene, forever the babyof the family. “Hey, Pop, I know you’re busy, call us when you get a chance.Oh, Louise wants to leave a message, go ahead, honey.”

“Hi, Grandpa! I saw you on TV, I love you.”

It was always too late for him to call back. He rarelyhad a free moment to check on his old man. And he was likely going to miss theSeattle bird show.

Sydowski glimpsed Turgeon taking notes intensely. Shewas wearing a powder-blue pullover sports shirt, navy Dockers, and glasses. Herhair was up in a bun, accentuating her pretty face, her youth. She could passfor a Berkeley grad at a lecture. But she was a veteran cop, a goodinvestigator with good instincts, and although he hadn’t known her very long,he was glad she was his partner. He found a degree of paternal comfort in herpresence.

Sydowski chided himself for drifting, the key aspectescaping him stemmed from the Donner file … a common denominator with Donner …Christ, it was at the forefront of his memory, sitting there slightly out of focus.Something Angela Donner had told him.

Gonzales moved the review along. “Now I’ll turn itover to Bob Hill of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico, Virginia. Heflew in this morning. Bob.”

A self-conscious smile of acknowledgement flashed acrossthe long face of the lanky soft-spoken supervisory agent. Hill was in his lateforties and had a gently cerebral air about him.

“As you know, I’ve been assisting on the profile inthis case since Danny Becker’s abduction, when the unit was contacted. I’d liketo caution you about putting all your eggs in one psychological basket. Theprofile is only a tool, as you know.” Hill was acutely aware many case-hardenedinvestigators view psychological profiling as mumbo jumbo. “But eachdevelopment helps us to sharpen it. May I use the board, Lieutenant?”

Gonzales helped reposition the board so everyone couldsee. Then Hill took a finger of chalk, and summarized the profile.

“Based on our reading of everything so far, you have aprofoundly wounded Caucasian, late forties, early fifties, traumatized by somehorrible life-altering event involving children. He either caused it, witnessedit, or was close enough to it to be affected. We could assume it involved hischildren. And given his age and the ages of the kidnap victims, it likelyhappened twenty to twenty-five years ago. He has likely sought some kind oftherapy, or help which failed to ease whatever psychological pain he hassuffered.”

A detective had a question. “Could this guy have beensexually abused as a child, and is grabbing the children as a form of payback?”

“Traditionally, that is the case inabduction-sexual-homicides with children. In fact, based on what we know of theDonner-Shook matter, I would say that’s what happened there. Predatory pedophilesusually seize their prey when no one is watching. Tanita Donner was stolen fromher home when nobody was around to see. But what you have with Becker and Nunnis rare, bold daylight abductions of young children from their parents incrowded, public places. Your guy is on a mission, he feels protected. He’s sofar gone in his fantasy that he thinks nothing can touch him. Andrei Chikatilo,the Russian serial killer who murdered fifty-three boys, girls, and young womenbetween 1978–1980, told police after his arrest that during his killing spree,he felt at times that ‘he was concealed from other people by a black hood.’Well, I believe our guy here is similar in that he thinks he is on a righteousmission.”

“What kind of mission?” someone asked.

“A religious one.”

“What makes you think so?”

“A couple of things. What we heard today from the manwho sold him the pickup and boat.” Hill glanced at his file folder of notes.“Mr. Urlich described the buyer as a ‘holy man’ who muttered about it being‘destiny’ that he found the boat, and rambled about ‘life, death andresurrection.’ That he needed the boat to ‘find his children.’”

The room fell quiet.

“And there is one other element that may or may not beanother indicator of your guy being driven by a religious fantasy and that’sfound in the full legal names of the children.” Hill printed them on thechalkboard: Daniel Raphael Becker and Gabrielle Michelle Nunn. “Raphael andGabrielle, if spelled this way” — Hill printed “Gabriel” on the board — “arethe names of angels.”

“Angels?” someone repeated.

Hill heard the comment as he placed the chalk in thetray.

“In Christian theology, angels are supernaturalintercessors for God. Our guy may think the children are angels of some sort. Ibelieve he looked for these children because they have ‘angel’ names, that hismission is directly connected to his personal tragedy, which he has eitherrelived or plans to relive with Becker and Nunn.”

Hill brushed chalk dust from his hand.

“If you find out who this guy is and learn hisbackground, you have a shot at learning what he has done, or plans to do.”

At that moment the elusive lead hit Sydowski fullforce.

You know, Inspector, I’ve been participating in theuniversity bereavement group.

Reed wrote about it in the Star. And Reed cameto him after the press conference on Gabrielle’s abduction, after seeing theblurry video!

Walt what if I recognize this guy? He looks likesomeone I met.

Reed had met Angela Donner’s study group, but no onein the task force had thought to investigate those people — people who hadsuffered traumatic psychological pain involving children!

“Zach?”

Why didn’t he answer her? Ann Reed pulled herselftogether, taking stock of the woman staring back from her dresser mirror.Tousled hair, tearstained eyes, the lines of her face.

“Zachary?”

She concentrated on hearing a response. Nothing. Giveit time.

What a pathetic sight she was. A grownthirty-three-year-old woman, mother of a nine-year-old son, a universitygraduate with her own business. And where was she? Living in the same roomwhere she played with Barbie dolls, looking into the same mirror she lookedinto when she was a child, dreaming of how perfect her life would be.

How had this happened? How had it all turned to shit?

“Zach, please come in here, we have to talk.”

No answer. Must be angry at her and his father. Couldshe blame him? They had put him through hell. Maybe he was jet lagged afterthis morning’s flight from Chicago and was napping. That was fine. She cravedsleep herself. But she had too much to do. She had to put this mess on a backburner and check her stores. She needed a shower.

Her mother was right, she thought, as the hot watersoothed her. She came down hard on Tom. She had overreacted. He was workinghard. The kidnappings were a big story, out of the ordinary. And the paperputting him on probation didn’t make it any easier for him.

The taps squeaked as she turned off the water.

Tom must be in agony.

Let him stew for awhile. She would call him tonightand they would decide where to go from here. She still loved him and waswilling to attempt a salvage operation. If he was.

“Zachary?”

Ann pulled on a pair of blue jeans, a fresh T-shirt,brushed her hair, then knocked softly on her son’s bedroom door.

No answer. Ann opened the door.

“Zach — ” Ann stopped dead. He was gone. “Where ishe?”

Calling his name, she searched upstairs, thebathrooms, the other bedrooms. Not a trace. Strange. He must’ve slippeddownstairs. “Zachary!” Where the hell could he be?

Ann stomped through the house. “Zachary Michael Reed!”He hated his middle name. She only used it to telegraph anger to him. No Zach.

She went outside, slamming the door behind her. He wasstarting to piss her off. Didn’t she tell him to go upstairs and stay in hisroom? She checked the garage. His bicycle was untouched. The front andbackyards. Nothing. Hands on her hips, she exhaled her irritation. She didn’tneed this. Not now.

Zach wasn’t in the street, or at the corner store withthe pinball machines he loved, or in the small vacant lot where theneighborhood kids played a half-block away. Two boys there, about twelve,clothes streaked with grease, were struggling to replace a chain on anoverturned bike. “Hi fellas.”

God was present .

Edward Keller felt the intoxicating heat of His love.It was overpowering — he was swirling in it, as he hurried through Berkeleyfor San Francisco, delighting in the celestial trumpeting that melted into hornhonking, waking him to the fact that his rental van was drifting towardoncoming traffic. Keller shrugged it off.

He had found Michael the Archangel. He had gazed uponhim.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.

The transfiguration was near, brushing against hisfingers. All he had to do was obtain Michael, the last angel.

The Lord would illuminate the way.

For God will send His angels to watch over them.And they shall embrace them and carry them to Heaven.

Waiting for the light to change at an intersectionwest of the campus along Center, Keller feasted obsessively on a thumbnail. Hewas planning his route to the Bay Bridge, when a miracle blazed like aprophet’s comet before his eyes.

“Sweet Jesus!” He couldn’t believe it! It was Michael!

Heaven’s warrior!

Keller managed only a glimpse, a mind-searing glimpseof nine-year-old Zachary Michael Reed, wearing a bulging backpack and crossingCenter. He was walking.

He was alone.

Alone!

Keller drove ahead for a block and tucked his van intoa parking space ahead of a larger cargo truck, out of sight. He adjusted hispassenger-side mirror, catching Michael’s distant reflection.

And behold the earth shook and God’s angeldescended from the skies. His eyes were like lightening, and any who opposedhim were struck dead.

The boy’s image grew with each step, quickeningKeller’s pulse. He was sweating. What should he do? What if Michael spotted himand became suspicious? He had to remain calm. In control, as he was with theothers.

I am cleansed in the light of the Lord.

The final challenge.

Michael stopped at a store, less than three carlengths away. Had he noticed the van? He couldn’t have. Keller adjusted themirror again. It looked like a hobby store. Michael peered into the window,then went inside. Where were the adults? Was he allowed to go into the storealone? Keller waited. No one else appeared. The boy was alone.

It was a sign.

He must act on it.

Dominus Deus sabaoth.

Keller scurried to the back of the van, watching thestorefront from its tinted rear windows. He quickly changed into a shirt, tie,dress pants, and suit jacket. The same outfit he used for his insurance man. Heknotted the tie, combed his hair neatly, and slid on a pair of dark aviatorglasses.

The van’s side door rolled open.

Anyone watching with a modicum of interest would haveseen a very serious, professional-looking man of authority stepping from hisnew van to attend to an important business matter. If they guessed he was acop, they would be right, Keller would tell them confidently if pressed. For inhis beast pocket he carried the leather-cased laminated photo ID and shield ofRandall Lamont, special investigator for the State of California, a personalityhe had created after sending fifteen bucks to a mail-order house thatadvertised in the back of a detective magazine.

But Keller knew no one was watching, or cared.

Except God.

And He was lighting the way.

“Inspector Turgeon? Inspector Sydowski?”

“Yes,” Turgeon said.

Professor Kate Martin stepped from the door of hercondo, indicating two sofas facing each other over a glass-and-rattan coffeetable, the centerpieces of her living room overlooking the Golden Gate andPacific. A hint of hyacinths lingered.

Although she was barefoot in Levi’s and along-sleeved, ratty flannel shirt, Martin moved with the swanlike elegance of aself-assured woman. But Sydowski’s deeper reading picked up the unease in hereyes. Her hair, pulled back with a navy barrette, was loosening. She corralledthe wild strands slipping in front of her face, revealing bright white flecks onher hands. She folded her arms across her chest. “I was painting a bookcasewhen you called.”

Turgeon and Sydowski saw the file folders stacked onthe coffee table. Martin had obviously stopped painting to scour through them.

“Sit down, please. Be comfortable. I’ve made someraspberry tea. Would you care for some? I have coffee, too, if you like?”

“Tea would be fine,” Turgeon said.

“And Inspector Sy-DOW-ski? I hope I’m pronouncing itcorrectly?”

“You are. No tea for me, thanks.” Then he thought ofsomething as she started for the kitchen. “Dr. Martin?”

She stopped and smiled.

“By chance, would you have any Tums?”

“I’m sorry, no. I do have Alka-Seltzer.”

“That’ll do, thanks.”

The hobby shop was small, its two rows of shelves were crammed with model ships,racing cars, fighters, rockets, trains, landscapes, paints, and brushes. Aneagle-sized P-51 Mustang was suspended in a dive by fishing line tacked to theceiling. Soaring near it was a British Spitfire, a Japanese Zero, and a Messerschmitt.The air was pungent with plastic, balsa wood, and airplane glue.

A sixty-year-old man, with thick sideburns drifting tohis jaw, a Caesar’s crown of white hair, and horn-rimmed bifocals, washunched over the glass counter, tinkering with a dragster. The two inches ofash on the Marlboro hanging from his pursed lips was dangling perilously overthe cockpit. His bowling-ball gut strained the buttons on his stained shirtwhen he straightened to eye the ID and shield of Randall Lamont.

“I’m looking for a boy, about ten years old, blondhair, backpack, sneakers. He was seen in this area within the last half hour.”Keller’s face was somber behind his dark glasses.

The old man dragged hard, squinted through a smokycloud and nodded to the corner. “Could be the fella you want, drooling over theKitty Hawk there. He just came in.” The man coughed. “Anything to dowith that gang shooting in Oakland?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the matter.” Kellersnapped his ID shut. He went to boy, who was kneeling before the bottom shelfand a huge boxed model of and aircraft carrier.

Keller crouched next to him. “Are you Zachary MichaelReed?”

Zack’s gaze darted over him, blinking before henodded.

“Your mother is Ann Reed and your father is Tom?”

Zach was suspicious. What was this? Who was this guy?Was this because he ran away? Was he one of those school cops Dad used to tellhim about, the kind that chased runaway kids?

“It’s all right. I’m Randall Lamont, a statedetective.” The man reached inside his jacket and showed him his badge.

A detective?

“I’m a friend of your dad’s. He’s a reporter with the Star.We’re friends from way back. I live in Berkeley.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Not at all.” Keller dropped his voice in aconfidential tone. “Zach, your dad sent me to find you. We’ve got a problem.”

“A problem?”

“It’s your mom.” Keller put his hand on Zach’sshoulder. “She’s had an accident.”

“What? So fast? How could — I just left.”

“Your dad went with her in the ambulance. I livenearby and he called me to find you.”

“Wha — I - what happened?” His voice was trembling.“Is she — ”

“Tell you on the way. You have to come with me to thehospital.”

Zach grabbed his pack. “Is she going to be okay?”

“I’ll tell you all I know on the way, son.”

They left the store, hurrying to Keller’s rental van.Zach froze when he recognized it. It was the same van he had seen parked nearhis grandma’s for the past couple of days. The guy unlocked the passenger doorand swung it open. Zach didn’t like those sunglasses. Wasn’t he the guy had seenhanging around down the street? Something didn’t feel right. But didn’t he sayhe lived down the street? Still something didn’t feel right.

“Why didn’t grandma come find me?”

“She’s on her way to the hospital, Zach.”

“Well, how did you know where to find me?”

“I saw the direction you left in just before your dadcalled me.”

A distant siren sounded his dad’s warning aboutstrangers.

Never go with a stranger, no matter how smooth theirline is. They may say I’m hurt, or Mom’s hurt, or there’s some emergency. Theycan make it sound real bad. And they’ll be the nicest people — they won’t looklike creeps. Trust your instincts. If you don’t know the person then don’t go,Zach. Don’t go!

“Are you scared because you don’t know me, Zach?”

That was it. But Zach didn’t know how to say thetruth. He looked at his feet, agonizing about his mom.

The man removed his sunglasses and smiled. A friendlysmile.

“Tell you what son, we can go back to the store, callthe hospital and leave word for your dad or grandmother to come for you. I’llwait with you if you like?”

Zach looked at him. “All right.”

Keller patted Zach’s head and they started back to thestore. No problems, no protest, which led Zach to conclude, this guy was forreal. A bad guy would not take you back. He’d try some scam to get you in tohis car while he had you on the street. He’d never take you back.

Zach stopped. “I changed my mind.”

“You’re sure, son?”

He nodded. “Tell me what happened.”

Keller bent down, eye to eye with him.

“It may be her heart. She collapsed after you left. Iguess she managed to get hold of your dad.”

Zach’s chin crumpled. “A heart attack?”

Keller put his hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know.Your dad didn’t tell me any more than that. We should get to the hospital, ifyou still want me to take you.”

He did.

“I think it’s my fault,” Zach mumbled, bowing his headto sob as he let Keller help him into the van and buckle his seatbelt.

“The whole thing with my mom and dad is my fault.”

Keller climbed behind the wheel, slipped on his darkglasses, turned the ignition, felt the engine come to life with gloriousvictory, and pulled away.

Zach had drawn his knees to his chest, hiding his faceon them under his arms, crying softly. Keller stole glimpses as he drove southon Interstate 80 to Oakland.

He radiates with the light of one million suns.

His face buried, Zach did not know where they weretraveling. “Is she going to die?” He sniffled from under his arms.

Keller did not answer. They approached the Bay Bridge.

“Mister, is my mom going to die?”

The new van hummed silently, save for the tires — rhythmicallyclicking along the freeway. Keller touched Zach’s shoulder.

Heaven’s warrior.

Keller kept his eyes forward. “What is it like to lookupon the face of God?”

Zach recoiled.

“Serpent slayer, chief of Heaven’s army.”

Zach’s mind gathered speed, his eardrums pounded intime with his beating heart, for suddenly he knew. He knew what happened.

Kidnapped. He had been kidnapped by a psycho.

“You are my light and my salvation.” Keller smiled. “Ipraise you, beloved of God.”

As the van moved west along the upper deck of thespectacular bridge to San Francisco, Keller reached under his seat for theplastic bag and the chloroform-soaked cloth.

Some days,when the mid-afternoon sun hit it just right, the Bay Bridge glowed like a portalto paradise. For an instant, its majestic span and spires changed from flatsilver to a surreal white against the blue-green waters of the Bay a fewhundred feet below.

Today, its beauty was lost on Tom Reed. For him, thebridge had become a tangible span of despair between everything he had donewrong and the futility of his future. It was his third crossing, and with eachtrip, his emotional freight increased, unraveling the worn thread by which hislife was swinging. Reed was rushing east on the lower deck and wondering howmuch more crap a man was supposed to stomach in one day.

His marriage lay in ruin, he was fired from his job,he was an alcoholic, or on his way to becoming one. He had caused the suicideof an innocent man and very nearly accused another. And now Zach pulls a firstand funs away. Nine years old and he takes off.

Could it get any worse?

Sunlight strobed through the bridge’s steel girders.Reed glanced over his left shoulder at San Francisco’s skyline, then at themesmerizing whitecaps below. Why not end it all? He had considered it when hearrived at his room in Sea Park after the blowup with Ann. It was a dumb-assnotion, supplanted by his need to get into his room and reacquaint himself withJack Daniel’s. Lila had not returned. So, he kicked the door. It opened withlittle damage on his second try. He’d pay for that move when Lila got back.

Reed collapsed in the sofa chair, his head pulsating.What was he going to do? Leave town? Chicago? He had some buddies at the Tribuneand the Sun-Times. He could beg for a job. He could see Molly tonightafter she finished her shift. She wasn’t the answer and he knew it.

Reed decided to take the care of his immediate needs: shaving, showering, and changing into better-smelling clothes, ignoring theflashing red light of his telephone answering machine until he finished, whichwas half an hour later.

The first call he played back was the most recent one.

“Reed, Walt Sydowski. Give me a call a soon as youcan.” He left his cell phone and pager numbers.

Sydowski? Reed sneered. Likely found out he had beenfired and wanted to relay condolences from the Homicide Detail. Sure, I’ll getback to you, Walt.

Next, came a panicked message from Ann: “Tom, is Zachwith you? I can’t find him! I think he’s — ”

The phone rang. Reed stopped the machine and grabbedthe call.

“Tom, do you have Zach?” Ann was hysterical.

“No, Ann, I don’t. What the hell is going on?”

“I can’t find him! It’s my fault. He ran away. He tookhis school backpack with some of his favorite stuff and his savings, about ahundred dollars. I’m so scared!”

Ran away? He must have heard us. “How long has itbeen?”

“An hour, forty-five minutes, I don’t know.”

“Did you call Jeff and Gordie’s parents?”

“But they’re in San Francisco.”

“That’s likely where he’s headed.”

“I’ll call them!”

“Call all the Berkeley cab companies. Call BART security.He may try to cross the Bay that way.”

“All right. I already called the police. They saidthey put out a description and will send a car over.”

“I’m on my way.”

Sirens .

Wailing. Yelping. Screaming.

It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real. It was a terrifyingdrug-fueled dream. Reed was numb. Detached. Alone in the shop, watchingeverything unfold. Detectives talking to him as models of World War II fightersstrafed them from above.

“Mr. reed, anything you can remember about Keller thatmight…”

His mouth wouldn’t work. What were his lines? What washe supposed to say? My little boy. My son. My only child has been taken. Whatwas he supposed to do? Faces in his face. Dead serious. Faces at the shopwindow. Police cars. Flashing lights. A crowd gathering. A TV news camera, no,two — three. Coffee-breathed detectives who wore strong cologne clasping hisshoulder.

“Mr. Reed, Tom, we need your help….”

Zach needs me. My boy. I did this. Zach. Keller, hishand on Zach’s shoulder.

Sirens. Wailing. Yelping. Screaming.

Sirens — the score of his profession. The choruscueing his entrance upon a stranger’s tragedy. And it was always a stranger, italways happened to other people. It never touched him. Oh, it grazed him in theearly days. But he grew skilled in his craft. He knew the bridges into theirpain, knew his way over the crevasses that would consume you if you failed inyour mission, knew how to cradle their suffering long enough to serve himself.

The city shares your grief. Now is the time to saythe things that need to be said, by way of tribute.

And in virtually every case, they would struggle tohelp. Stunned by their loss, they would recite an inarticulate requiem fortheir son, daughter, father, mother, husband, wife, sister, brother, or friend.Some would scrawl tearstained notes, or show him the rooms of the dead, theiraccomplishments, their dreams, their disappointments, the last things theytouched.

And would you be able to provide the paper with apicture?

Dutifully, they would flip through family albums,rummage through shoe boxes, yearbooks, wallets, purses, reach to the mantel forphotos. Drinking in each image before placing it tenderly in his trusted hands.But there were times a relative would see him for what he truly believed hewas. They knew.

Oh, the years-off-the-street, J-school profs andburned-out hacks could pound their breasts about the unassailable duty of ademocratic free press, safeguarding the people’s right to know, ensuring no onedies anonymously and secretly on American streets. But that constitutional crapturned to dust when you met bereavement face-to-face, took it by the hand, andpersuaded it to expose itself. You steeled your soul with the armor of achampion. The sympathetic, respectful reporter. Democracy’s champion. But atthe bottom of your frightened heart, you realized what you were: a driver ant,leading the column to the carrion, overcoming and devouring the mourners whoopen their door to you, those too pained to flee.

And before he left, they would usually thank him.

That was the joke of it. They would thank him. Forcaring.

He was shoved, prodded, and paid to succeed at this,and they thanked him. For caring.

Don’t thank me. I can’t care. I can’t.

But he would smile, professionally understanding, allthe while fearing he might never find the bridge back, for his ears rang withtormented voices chanting:

Wait until it happens to you. Wait until this happensto you.

Now it had.

He was paying the price for the sum of all hisactions. This was his day of reckoning. The toll was his son.

Zachary, forgive me.

Zach Reed’s heart hammered in his chest as he ascended from sleep to consciousness, racingthrough a mental systems check. It was all coming back to him, bubbling to thesurface.

He was not dreaming. He was waking to the nightmare.

He was kidnapped.

His mouth tasted salty. Kidnapped by some religiouscreep who talked about God. And this dungeon stunk big time. Oh boy, he was indeep trouble. Mom and Dad were going to kill him because he ran away, becausehe got sucked in by a weirdo. He had to get himself out of this mess becauseDad was going to kick his butt.

Squeak-creak.

What was that? Sounds of a TV somewhere. Where was he?He was lying on a bed. He opened his eyes. Two faces swam into focus, joltinghim alert. Kids.

These kids were familiar for some very bad reason.Zach heard the rocking noise above them.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Who are you?” the girl asked.

Zach went numb, like the time he was five and sawlittle Luke Petric get run over by an eighteen-wheeler, mowed down like a ragdoll, and all Zach could do was stand there screaming, his scalp tingling likeas if he’d been electrocuted.

The kidnapped kids, the ones everybody was lookingfor: Danny and Gabrielle.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

That was him! Above them. The man who took them wasupstairs. What was going to happen? It was getting hard to breathe. Somethinginside was overwhelming him, on the verge of breaking. Hang on. Calm down. Takeslow breaths. Just be cool. He wanted to cry for his parents.

He was only nine.

But he was the biggest kid in this place.

The boy and girl looked different from their happy,smiling pictures. Zach wanted to cry, but Danny and Gabrielle were looking athim. Like he was supposed to save them or something.

“Who are you?” Gabrielle repeated coldly.

“Zach Reed. How do we get out of here?”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“We can’t. Mr. Jenkins has got everything locked up.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Jenkins.” Gabrielle pointed at the ceiling.

“Well don’t worry, that doof is not going to hurt us!”

Danny started to whimper. “Can you take me home, now?I want to go home.”

Zach put his arm around him. “Don’t worry, Danny. It’sgoing to be okay. I’m gonna fix it so somebody comes for us.”

Garbage covered the floor — fast food bags, wrappers,and containers. The basement’s only window was barred and covered withnewspapers. Zach noticed the door was wide open.

“Where are we Gabrielle? San Francisco? You know whatstreet?”

Gabrielle shrugged.

“And are there any other people here?

“Just Mr. Jenkins. My dog Jackson was here, but Mr.Jenkins said he ran away. Did you see him? He’s a blond cocker spaniel.”

“No.”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Gabrielle burst into tears, triggering Danny’s sobs.

Zach didn’t know what to do, so he hugged both ofthem, fighting his own tears. “It’s gonna be fine. Shhh-shhhh. It’s okay.”

“He’s a crazy man!” Gabrielle sobbed. “He killed a ratand he’s always praying to us on his knees! He calls us by other kids’ names,shows us old movies of them and makes us wear their old clothes! I’m so afraid!We tried to run away, but he’s got us locked up, and he keeps making ussleepy!”

“Does he hurt you?”

“Gabrielle shook her head. “He just baptizes you.”

“What?”

“You’re going to get it soon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He puts you in the tub and dunks your head. Afterthat, he starts to call you by another kid’s name. He told us you’re the lastone he was looking for.”

“The last what?”

“Angel.”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Zach saw the door and thought. “Does he always leavethe door open?”

“Uh-huh. So we can go upstairs to the bathroom.”

Zach looked around for something, anything that mighthelp him try to escape. He was surprised to see a corner of his backpackprotruding from the stinking garbage. He fished it out.

The creep had never touched it. Zach dumped thecontents, grabbed his father’s business card, his cash, his portable videogame, then his tiny Swiss army knife. He opened it and ran his finger over thethree-inch, razor-sharp blade. He folded it and stuffed it in the crotch of hisunderwear. Bad guys always frisked you, but a guy never checked another guythere. He was not supposed to. It was like a world rule, or something.

“Does this house have a phone, Gabrielle?” Zach said.

“In the kitchen, on the wall.”

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

“All right.” Zach glanced at the ceiling and sniffed.“I’ve got a plan to get us outta here.”

Reed pushed his way through the throng of reporters, photographers, and TV crews waiting inthe lobby of the ancient fourteen-story Star Building in downtown SanFrancisco.

“Reed, is it true you know the kidnapper from a story?

This was real. It was happening.

“Has there been a ransom demand?”

Something was roaring in his ears.

“Did this guy take your son because you weresuspicious he abducted Danny Becker and Gabrielle Nunn?”

He couldn’t concentrate clearly.

“Any connection to the Donner case and Virgil Shook?”

His only thought was of his son.

“Can we have a picture of Zach?”

“I can’t talk now,” Reed managed.

Cameras flashed and TV lights burned as he shoulderedhis way in. Sydowski, Turgeon, Rust, and a half-dozen other police, shieldshanging from pickets and neck chains, surrounded him, ensuring no one else goton the elevator with them. It was closing when a security officer wedged hisarm between the doors.

“What the hell you doing, Butch?” Reed demanded.

The plump, gray-haired guard felt the hard glare ofthe detectives and he cleared his throat. “Uhmm, sorry, Tom. But orders are thatyou’ve been terminated. Barred from the building. Mr. Benson’s orders.”

“Back off,” Sydowski growled.

“Just doing my job. Good luck, Tom.” Butch saluted.

Zach Reed stared into his hand before closing his fingers around their ticket out of thisrat hole.

Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.

Zach crouched at the bottom of the basement stairs,primed to make his move. It was all planned. Gabrielle and Danny had goneupstairs to the bathroom. They were going to flush a whole roll of tissuepaper, plugging the toilet, then call the man.

Squeak-creak.

A TV was blaring upstairs. Good, that would help. Thetoilet flushed, gurgled. It flushed again.

“Mr. Jenkins!”

Good, Gabrielle. Good.

The squeak-creak stopped. Someone walked fromthe TV to the bathroom. A man’s voice over loud, rushing water cued Zach. Hepadded up the stairs, breathing quickly, panting. Had to be brave. Only gonnaget one shot at this. Adjusting to the light, his eyes widened at what he saw.Nothing had prepared him for this.

Enlarged pictures of Gabrielle and Danny covered theliving room wall. A worktable was cluttered with a computer, books, and papersthat had cascaded to the floor. The paint was peeling, blistering. Ignored.Windows were sealed with ragged sheets. The place was desolate. Something icy,something decomposing, reeking of death dwelled here. He spotted the threebinders, the printed names of Joshua, Alisha, and Pierce, paired with Danny,Gabrielle … and Michael.

Michael? How did he know his middle name?

Pasted to one wall were news clippings about the babygirl they found last year in Golden Gate Park. Some of them were his dad’s.Zach’s stomach knotted.

He’s going to kill us!

His eyes stung. The faces of his mother and fathercircled him. He was going to collapse. The ceiling was coming down on him. Stopit! Stop it! Stop it! Nobody’s gonna get you outta here but you. Quit being ababy. Quit it! Hurry up!

Fist balled, he found the kitchen, scoured it until hefound the phone. A wall phone with a long cord and the dial pad in the handset.He reached it easily, scanning the filthy counter for a magazine, a phone bill,anything with an address. Nothing. He swallowed.

The splash of water on linoleum echoed from thebathroom.

Hurry!

He couldn’t stop shaking. He sniffled, stretching thecord from the kitchen to the rear entrance. Wait! He tried the door. Nope.Locked solid. From the inside. Try the front door? No. No time. The cord waslong, allowing him to hide in the rear closet. Leaving the folding door openslightly, he opened his fist and by a shaft of light read his father’s businesscard.

Sydowski shouted Reed’s name again.

Why was he yelling his name, holding up his phone?

“Tom! Tom, it’s Zach!”

Zach?

But Zach’s kidnapped, how could he be calling? … Zach!

The impact of the call hit Reed like a bullet, nearlyshort-circuiting his brain. He flew across the newsroom, seizing the phone fromSydowski.

“Zach!”

“Dad?” He was crying.

Reed lost his breath. Had to think clearly.

“Zach, where are you?”

“I don’t know. I think we crossed the Bay Bridge.”

“Are you hurt?

“No, but I think he wants to do something bad to us.”

“Us?”

“GET A NUMBER, ADDRESS, AREA CODE,” Sydowski scrawledon the note he thrust into Reed’s face.

“Zach, is there a number — ”

“The other kids are here too, Dad. Gabrielle andDanny.”

“Zach, is there a number on the phone? Something withan address? Can you see any buildings you know? Run to a neighbor?”

Zach left the line and Reed heard him moving thehandset.

“We’re locked in and all it says on the phone is4-1-5.”

“4-1-5? That’s all it says?” Zach was in the city.

“We don’t have a tap up yet! He’s in the city. Tellhim to hang up now and dial 9-1-1. An address will flash for the dispatcher.”

“Daddy, I don’t know what to do.” Zach was whimpering.

“Zach, son, listen to me carefully — ”

“Tom, do it now!”

“Dad? He tricked me, Dad, he tricked me so good. Hesaid Mom was hurt and — ”

Reed gulped. “He lied. Listen — ”

“Now, Tom! Tell him to call 9-1-1 now!”

“Zach, listen to me. Hang up now and — ”

“Hang up! Dad, no! You come and get me!”

“Son, listen, hang up and dial 9-1-1! We’ll get theaddress!”

“Dad, you have to come get me, please!”

“Zach, listen to me! Do as I say!”

“Dad, don’t yell at me.”

Reed covered his face with his free hand.

If only he could reach through the Pacific Bell cablesand pull him to safety. If only he could touch him. He didn’t want to lose himthis time, this was his last chance. His only chance.

Sydowski was talking softly, forcefully, to someone onanother line then turned to him. “Goddamnit, Tom, do it now!”

“Zachary, you do as I tell you! Hang up and dial 9-1-1now!”

“Daddy, I’m afraid.”

“Do it, son, I’m going to hang up!” Reed sniffed.

“Dad, don’t. Daddy! Don’t, please!”

“I love you. Call 9-1-1 now!”

“Dad, he scares me, he going to do something to us!”

Reed squeezed the phone, clinging to the fiber-opticthread connecting him to Zach. The plastic handset cracked under his grip.

“You call 9-1-1 now, or I’m going to kick your butt.Do it!”

Reed slammed the phone down, his heart breaking as heburied his face in his hands. The newsroom was silent, except for a camera’sclicking, and Molly Wilson’s tape recorder being switched off. People hadgathered around Reed’s desk; men muttering curses, women covering their mouths.The lifeline to Zach had slipped through Reed’s fingers, paying out deeper intoan abyss with each second.

Wait until it happens to you.

Sydowski remained on his open line to the 911 supervisor.A minute passed, two, five. The newsroom had caller ID, but Zach’s call hadcome up blocked. Finally ten full minutes ticked by with no 911 call to theemergency line from Zach. It should have come within thirty seconds.

Something had happened. Something went wrong. It wasin Sydowski’s face.

“Tom.” Sydowski squeezed his shoulder gently. “Tom,the fact that Zach called is a good sign for many reasons.”

Reed waited to hear them.

“He’s alive. He’s thinking. And he got to a phone.”

“Why didn’t he call 9-1-1?”

Sydowski shook his head. “It might not have been safefor him to call again.”

“He could make that call in two seconds. I’ll tell youwhat happened — Keller caught him on the phone!”

“You don’t know that and you’re gonna eat yourself upplaying the worst case scenarios, so shut it off.”

“You tell me how.”

“Go home to your wife.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“She blames me for this and she’s right.”

“Tom, don’t beat each other up over this. It won’thelp.”

“I can’t go home without Zach. I promised I’d bringhim home.”

Sydowski’s eyes met Reed’s, acknowledging the unspokentruth. Given what they both knew about Edward Keller, the children had lessthan twenty-four hours.

“I’ve got to stay, in case he calls me again. I’llstay here all night and the next night, if that’s what it takes.”

“Okay. Just remember, he hasn’t defeated us. We’re notout of this, not by a goddamn long shot.” He patted Reed’s knee, then left himat his desk.

Molly Wilson approached Reed to console him, but Reedwaved her away. After that, no one dared go near him. He sat alone, waiting forhis phone to ring.

“Where’s Michael?” Keller demanded.

“I think he’s still in the room.” Gabrielle sniffled.

Keller rushed down the stairs and searched thebasement in seconds. Michael was not there. Keller bounded up the stairs.

“Michael!”

He searched the main floor. Not a trace. His eyeslocked on to the phone in the kitchen. It was off the hook! The cord stretchingout of sight!

He was on the fucking phone!

Keller smashed it from the wall, then grabbed Zach,who was cowering in the closet.

“Please, mister. Don’t hurt me. Please.”

“Who did you call?”

“No one, I — ”

“Who did you call!”

“I–I. Hospitals, my mom. I have to know if she is- ”

“Liar!”

“I swear, I was asking the number for hospitals. I …I …”

“You are lying to me!”

Reed spent the night in the Star’s newsroom, praying for Zach to call. Every halfhour, he phoned Ann’s mother’s house in Berkeley, on the safe phone the FBI hadinstalled, to see if Zach called there.

“Still nothing, sir,” the agent assigned to the linetold him.

“May I speak with my wife, or her mother?”

“I’m sorry, sir. They’re still sleeping. The doctorsays the sedative should wear off by mid-morning.”

Reed said nothing.

“Mr. Reed, we fully understand your concerns and wewill get you the instant we have something at this end.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“But sir, please check with us as often as you wish.”

“I will.”

Reed did not keep his vigil alone. Molly Wilson wasamong the newsroom staffers who waited with him, comforting him, assuring himZach would be found safe with the other children, although she dozed off a fewtimes. She was sleeping with her head on her folded arms on the desk next toReed, when Myron Benson appeared, briefcase in one hand, jacket draped over hisarm.

“Tom” — he nearly looked him in the eye — “I knowyou won’t believe this coming from me, but I apologize and hope with all myheart it works out well for you.”

Reed suspected Tellwood had put him up to this, butsaid nothing.

“I never liked you, Tom. I knew you resented me forlacking talent and I resented you for having an abundance of it. I was wrong.Anyway, you have more important things to deal with here. Good luck.”

Benson extended his hand. Reed contemplated it for amoment before deciding to accept it.

“What did the old man have to say to you, Myron?”

“He fired me.”

Reed was speechless.

Benson managed a weak smile before leaving.

Dispatches about the break in the case sizzled on police scanners. Reporters whocovered that morning’s new conference scurried to Wintergreen. Local TVinterrupted network shows with live reports from the curb. The house and entireyard were sealed. Identification experts from the FBI and SFPD, clad in whitehairnets, surgeon’s gloves, and coveralls — “moon-walking suits” — dissectedthe scene. The feds took the inside and the city team took the garage and yard.An FBI chopper equipped with Forward Looking Infrared able to trace body heat,even that of corpses, hovered overhead. The city guys covered every square footof Keller’s yard, using a probe and vapor detector, which picks up the presenceof body gases from decomposition. Military camouflage canopies were erectedover the area to hamper news helicopters from broadcasting the excavation ofbodies, should the task force find any.

The scene inside the house was chilling. Nothing couldhave prepared Sydowski for it as he suited up with Rust to go in.

“Never seen anything like this,” an FBI agent mumbledto them as they entered. Huge surveillance photos of the children wereplastered on the living room walls, which bled with quotations from theScriptures. A claw of colored wires sprouted from the kitchen wall where thephone had been. It was a violent testament to the menace, thought Sydowski,deducing how Keller must have smashed it when Zach called for help. Thesolitary rocking chair before the TV underscored Keller’s insanity. Rust wentto the worktable and thumbed through Keller’s journals, reading the criteria heused to select the children: angel names, ages matching his dead kids at thetime of their drownings. How he sought them through birth notices, traced theirfamilies through public records, studied, and stalked them. IDENT detectiveswere going through his computer.

Sydowski took the stairs to the basement room.

As he stepped off the last step to Keller’s basement,Sydowski was assaulted by the stench of excrement, urine, and garbage, andpulled up his surgical mask. The children were gone, yet he braced himself forwhatever awaited him in the room. Two FBI IDENT experts were working there,breathing through gas masks. They nodded to Sydowski as he entered, watchinghim take in the scene, the knee-deep garbage of half-eaten fast food andwrappers, the soiled mattresses, the rats, the barred, papered window, and thebloodstained baseball bat.

“It’s not human blood, Walt,” one of the IDENT guyssaid, his voice muffled from under his mask.

Sydowski nodded, blinking quickly. It was Golden GatePark all over again — the rain, Tanita Marie Donner in the garbage bag, thestink, the maggots, flies, the gaping slash across her doll’s neck, nearlydecapitating her. Her snow-white skin, her tiny body on the slab, her beautifuleyes imploring him, beseeching him, reaching into him. All these fucking yearson the job. All the fucking stiffs. It was supposed to get easier. Why wasn’tit getting easier? Were three more child corpses waiting for him somewhere? Wasthat the way it was going to play out? His stomach was seething, his heartburnerupting. Give us a break here. We’re so close to this guy. Sydowski grittedhis teeth. So close.

He returned upstairs to confer with Rust in the livingroom. A funeral atmosphere permeated the house. Everyone was working quietly,cataloging evidence, bagging and hauling it into a van which would deliver itto a plane waiting to fly it to the state forensic lab in Sacramento. Fewinvestigators spoke, those who did, used low, respectful tones. Rust was stillstudying Keller’s maps and binders, amidst the clutter. “”Are we too late,Walt?”

“I don’t know, today is the anniversary. Seems he’sgeared up to it. You going to look downstairs, where he kept them?”

“Right after we talk to Bill, here.”

Bill Wright, the FBI’s IDENT team leader, sighed,removing his gas mask, his reddened face damp with perspiration. “Well, we candefinitely put all three children in this house based on the stuff we’ve foundso far. Clothing. Hair. But the kids are gone. We’ve got nothing outside,nothing inside. We’ve gone through the attic, X-rayed the floorboards, walls.The last call made from this address was the one Zach Reed made to The SanFrancisco Star newsroom. The bills for the past three months show little.No receipts in his trash. We’re going to take the plumbing apart in case he flushedanything. But our guy’s fled, likely with the kids. I’d say last night, judgingfrom the oil and coolant stains in the driveway. We’ll keep the house for aslong as we need it to gather evidence for whatever comes up.”

“Thanks, Bill.”

Sydowski pulled Rust aside. “Keller lost his kids,late in the day, right?”

“Late afternoon, evening. The file put it between fourand nine.”

Sydowski checked his watch. “Gives us a couple ofhours, maybe.”

“Maybe.”

Outside, the air was electric with rumors that thepolice had found bodies. Reed was with the parents of Danny Becker andGabrielle Nunn, who also rushed to Wintergreen, jostled through the pressgauntlet, and converged on the police command center as TV news helicoptercircled overhead. Uniformed police had taken the parents aside to a secure areanear the bus to await some official word. Their perspective allowed them to seethe bagged evidence being removed from the house. Nancy Nunn sniffled,sharpening her focus on one clear bag. Gooseflesh rose on her trembling skin asshe recognized the flower print dress she had made for her daughter.

Paul Nunn caught his wife and struggled to quell herchoking sobs, his own voice cracking. “Is somebody going to tell us what thehell is going on here!”

Reed saw Ann arrive and hurried to her, plucking herfrom reporters, pulling her to the sanctuary for the parents as the chopperspounded above. Ann wept. The agent who brought her left, to get some answers.

“Tom, is he dead?”

Reed tried to get his wife to focus on him. “Ann! Wedon’t know anything. No one is telling us a word.” He hugged her.

“Something is happening,” Gabrielle’s father said,“because this morning we found Jackson — Gabrielle’s dog — scratching at ourback door, looking pretty frightened.”

“Why the hell is it taking so long to tell ussomething?” Nathan Becker demanded. “Officer, please get us someone! We deserveto know what is going on. What have they found?”

The uniformed cop nodded, turned away and spoke intohis radio.

Reed held Ann. He was numb with helplessness. Fear.What was he going to do if they started carrying out bodies? His son. His onlychild. Only yesterday, Zach had locked his arms around him, enthralled with thehope his mom and dad were going to move back to their house.

Daddy, you have to come and get me!

Sydowski emerged and ushered the parents away from thechaos and toward the relative tranquility of the bus.

“All we can determine is that Keller fled with thechildren.”

“Where?”

“We’re trying to determine that right now.”

“What about Half Moon Bay?”

“We’ve got people there.”

“When did Keller leave?”

“We think sometime in the night.” Sydowski then raisedhis hand. “We have nothing to show they’ve been harmed, outside of being heldin a foul, scary environment.”

“But the clothes?” Nancy asked.

“He’s likely changed their appearances, to make itdifficult to find them.”

Phones were ringing inside the bus.

What were they doing to find Keller, Paul Nunn wantedto know.

“We suspect he is going to put to sea, somewhere alongthe California coast. The Coast Guard is on full alert. We’ve got everyavailable search plane — ”

“Inspector?” an officer with his hand covering a phoneinterrupted. “Sir, it’s the Ranger Station at Point Reyes.”

George Hay sat at the counter of Art’s Diner in Inverness, eating a clubhouse sandwich.The front page of The San Francisco Star was folded precisely beside hisplate and he read while he chewed.

He was engrossed in the multiple kidnapping case. Itwas fantastic. Has to be a ball-breaker for the people on it, he figured,reaching for a French fry. All that glory. Sure. And all that career-bustingpolitical bullshit, too. He took a hit of coffee. Admit it though, you miss theaction, he told himself. Cases like that gave you a helluva rush. Yeah, hemissed it, like he missed not being in pain.

Damn, he winced, putting his cup down to massage hisleg.

Two years back, a carjacker’s bullet had shattered hisright thigh, leaving him with a partial pension, a bastard’s attitude, and apermanent limp after fifteen years with the San Jose Police Department. Asuccession of rent-a-cop security jobs and lost weekends sunk his marriage. Tohell with it. Allana was not the stand-by-your-man type; she was thekick-you-in-the-teeth type. George still had trouble believing that rightbefore she walked out on him he was actually contemplating knocking off anarmored car for her, thinking the money would keep them together. He shook hishead. That was when a buddy got him work as a U.S. Park Ranger in Point Reyes,the national seashore park, just north of San Francisco.

He spent his first months swallowing what bits ofpride he had left and going through the motions of his job. Gradually, heburied the things that made him an asshole and came to appreciate thetherapeutic qualities of the park. He was even good natured about the ribbinghe got from old police friends. “Collar any perps with pic-a-nic baskets,George?” He found a postcard-perfect cabin near Dillon Beach and was secretlytrying his hand at writing a police mystery. Instead of a drunk, he had becomea philosopher, a seaside poet. So fuck the world, old George was doing finewith the hand that was dealt him. There, his leg felt better. He gulped thelast of his coffee and tucked a crumpled five and two ones under his plate.“See ya, Art.”

A fat man, wrapped in a grease-stained white apron,peeked through the kitchen’s serving window, waving as he left.

George clamped a toothpick between his teeth andinhaled the salt air, limping to his U.S. Park Service Jeep Cherokee. A CoastGuard spotter plane roared in the distance as he climbed into the Jeep, grabbedhis Motorola mike, and checked in with park headquarters in Bear Valley, sevenmiles away.

“Forty-two here, Dell. Got anything? Over.”

“Pretty quiet, George, except for — Just a sec…”

That was Dell, always misplacing something. Georgepried a piece of bacon from between his teeth. Three hours left in his shift,then four days off. While Dell searched, George flipped through the papers onhis clipboard: faxes, alerts, and bulletins. Routine stuff about amendments tolaws, and regs dealing with the park, and the Gulf of the Farallons, overlooksfrom Sonora and Marin counties, Coast Guard notices. Usual crap. Ah, there itwas. The stuff from the FBI on the Keller kidnappings. George read it again,awestruck by the magnitude. Details on the boat, the trailer, the vehicles,background on Edward Keller, the children, that reporter. Helluva case. BetKeller took them to Half Moon Bay, where he took his own kids twenty years ago.He heard they had heavy surveillance going down there, Coast Guard, FBI, thestate boys.

“You still there, George?”

“Ten-four, Dell.”

“Okay. Lou at the Valente place called. Saw sometrespassing headlights late last night. Must’ve been kids partying on theproperty again. Wants you to check it out when you can.

“The spot down by the old cow path to the beach?”

“That’s it.”

“On my way. Ten-four.”

A great blue heron glided in the sunlight a few feet above, head extended forward,neck folded back on its shoulders, soft plumage drooping as it stalked preyalong the beach.

Lady of the waters. Keller smiled, looking up from hisworn Bible, eyes brimming with tears. He gazed at the afternoon sea: water madeholy by the suffering of Christ, you who are washed in this water, have hope ofHeaven’s kingdom.

I am the resurrection, the way, and the light.

The light, the light … under cover of the night. TheLord was with him, guiding him, thwarting Lucifer’s every attempt to interfere.Yes. After he had intercepted Michael’s phone call, Keller gathered the Angelsand took the back routes of the East Bay, driving here in a Taurus stationwagon he had prepared weeks earlier. It had Nevada plates and each rear windowwas curtained in black with a small silver cross affixed to its center. Kellerhad magnetic signs custom made for the driver and front passenger doors,reading: A amp; B MORTUARY SERVICES, CARSON CITY, NEVADA. The children, whowere sedated, slept in a large, oblong cardboard box in the wagon’s rear. Alongthe way, Keller stopped to pick up the trailered boat and switched the stationwagon to another rental van, which he hid in one of the double-sized garages ofa self-help storage facility in Novato. He drove to the park, launched the boatin darkness, concealing the van and the trailer in thick brush.

Keller knew Point Reyes from his pilgrimages. Yearsago, he had submitted a bid to rebuild the old mission church. “Upon this rockI will build my church; and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it. AndI will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of Heaven.” Three days after heput in his estimate, he lost his children. Out there, near the Farallons. “ButSatan shall not prevail, for God had given him the keys to the kingdom.” DivineDestiny.

Navigating by moonlight with the running lights off,Keller inched the boat safely around the Point Reyes Lighthouse, Overlook,Chimney Rock, and along some twelve miles of shore to this hidden cove nearDrakes Estero, where he had taken sanctuary for the night, anchored andtethered to the nook’s jagged rocks. Bitter, cold winds fingered into the cove,knocking the boat against the rocks. Keller did not risk a fire. Again, hesedated the children, leaving them to sleep aboard under blankets and tarps. Hecloaked the entire craft with camouflage netting. Keller did not sleep. Hehuddled nearby under a blanket, as the wind rocked the boat, reading Scriptureby penlight, keeping a vigil, counting down the hours, talking with God.

Now, afternoon had come. He could hear the childrenunder the blankets, waking groggily. Keller could not stand it any longer. Itwas time. For twenty years he had waited, suffered, repented, and prepared forthis day, this day of celestial glory and light.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.

Keller checked his watch. From their location, itwould take over an hour to reach the islands at the right moment. He hadmemorized the charts. Everything he needed was in the boat. He was ready. Whywas he waiting? It was time. But as he moved to the boat, his adrenaline-driveneuphoria had given way to exhaustion, fear.

It should have been you, you bastard!

Accept that you cannot change reality. You mustforgive yourself and move on.

The children are innocents.

The entire world knows your pain. Do not extend itto others who never harmed you.

Whoever committed this desecration shall be damnedall the days of his life!

It’s time, Edward. Your children are waiting.

Are you doubting Divine Will?

I am the resurrection and the life.

Your children are waiting.

Through his tears, Keller saw his son Pierce.

“Why are you doing this?”

Keller was in the boat, holding his hand, his smallwarm hand.

Pierce was alive! Here, talking to him.

The resurrection and the life.

“Please, don’t hurt us.”

Oh Pierce. Keller stretched out his hand, caressed theboy’s shivering head, his young hair. Enraptured, Keller wept, his heart risingand falling with the boat … the black waves rolling. His children screaming: Joshua, Alisha, Pierce. Like lambs in the night. The cold darkness swallowingthem, devouring them.

Joan’s body twisting in the attic.

Keller squeezed the child’s hand and scanned the cove.

Something humming, growling in the air. A search plane,far off, over the sea near the horizon.

Satan would challenge him to the end.

“You won’t win this time! It is destined,” Kellershouted at the sky. He glared at Zach. “Get back under the tarp! Now!”

Keller raced to the console, started the twin Mercuryengines, pulled a machete from under the seat, and sliced the tether lines. Thecoastal waters were heavy with afternoon traffic, pleasure crafts, charters,fishing boats, and commercial ships. He raked the back of his hand over hisparched lips.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus. Dominus Deus sabaoth.

Easing the throttle forward, Keller set off for theislands.

The spiresof the Bay Bridge, then the Golden Gate, passed below the FBI’s Huey helicopterafter it lifted off from Hamilton Navy Air Force base in Alameda near Oakland.It headed west over the Pacific.

Mid-afternoon. Visibility, excellent.

Langford Shaw, the San Francisco FBI’s SWAT teamleader felt the tension aboard. He glanced from his notes to his men, whilelistening over his headset to the play-by-play of the bureau, the Coast Guard,the Navy, and the task force in Wintergreen. It was a massive rescue operationand he was in charge.

Four years to retirement and fate drops this ball-breakingfucker in your lap. A fuckup here and you were done. Well, he was a veteranagent of many wars and he’d be damned if he would allow that to happen. Shaw’sface betrayed nothing, although his gut hardened when he got the call toactivate: the kidnapping case again. The FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team was enroute on a Lear from Quantico, but they were hours away. Until then, it was allon Shaw’s shoulders and those of his team.

Intelligence put Keller in a twenty-one-foot,twin-engine open craft with three child hostages somewhere in the Gulf of theFarallons, between Point Reyes and the islands. Each SWAT member was handedphotos of Keller, his boat, the children. The top theory said Keller would killthem at sea between four and six P.M., if he hadn’t already done so. What theyhad here was a life-and-death hot pursuit and Shaw expected to execute thefinal option.

The Coast Guard’s C-130 Hercules out of Sacramento andtwo Twin Otter auxiliaries were flying track crawl search patterns over thearea. The guard also had its HH-65 chopper with the rescue hoist and diversscouring the islands. The Point Brower, a 110-foot cutter, armed with athree-millimeter cannon, had long since put out from Yerba Buena, making forthe islands at twenty-five knots. Two high-speed, aluminum, diesel-powered“ loaders” were searching the region. A second cutter, the Point Olivo,was coming down from Bodega Bay. The guard offered to scramble two Falcon jetsfrom L.A. Shaw accepted. He then requested a U.S. Navy chopper pick up fouradditional SWAT team members at Hamilton, drop them at sea on the PointBrower. That would give him two sniper teams at sea level and another angleon the target, should they find him.

Shaw’s bird was the command post where everything wasbeing coordinated. Once more, he checked assignments, setting up the Huey’ssniper points. “Mitch, you’ll take starboard, and Ronnie, you set up on aft fora clear shot.” Shaw indicated Fred Wheeler, the negotiator, on the satellitephone to Professor Kate Martin, learning about Keller’s background and stresspoints. “Fred will try to talk him out of it, if he gets the chance. The restof you are assault, depending on how we unwrap this one.” Shaw switched fromthe chopper’s intercom to his team radio. “Roy, Doc! Call when you put down onthe cutter.”

As they passed over San Francisco’s shoreline, Shawwas called from the FBI’s office on Golden Gate Avenue with word that anotherbureau Huey, just in from L.A. on a maintenance run, was empty and available.Good, he wanted two more sniper teams picked up for a third angle. And he hadanother idea. “After getting my guys at Hamilton, pick up some task forcemembers on the house at Wintergreen. We could use them up here. Put a rush onit.”

Zach’s eyes adjusted to the dimness under the tarp.

The rumbling hum of the twin Mercuries pushing theboat, which leaped and skipped over the water’s surface, was deafening, rattlinghim alert.

That rotten taste was in his mouth again. His headhurt, his leg was throbbing, and he was hungry. Danny and Gabrielle were lyingon the deck with him, stirring, as the vibrations shook their bodies.

The boat was moving fast.

Ouch — something was sticking him in the groin — what?He reached into his underpants, remembering his pocketknife. He still had it.He tightened his fingers around it. Okay, he sniffed, don’t sit up, just take alook around, see what’s going on. What’s that? He looked down at what wascausing the painful pressure on his lower leg.

Heavy, yellow plastic rope was tied around his ankleand encased in a cast of silver duct tape. Zach followed the rope. It wascoiled in a nearby bundle, knotted and heavily taped to four cement cinderblocks. Danny and Gabrielle? It was the same with them; rope and tape aroundtheir ankles, tied to the blocks. Another line ran from the bundle away fromthe tarp. Holding his breath, Zack lifted the tarp slightly, following the linealong the deck to the front of the boat where it ended in a taped knot aroundthe creep’s ankle.

They were all connected. What was it for? Zachstruggled to understand. Suddenly, it hit him, harder than anything in hislife: The creep was going to kill them all!

Zach wanted his dad. Where was he? Don’t scream! Wherewere the police? Didn’t anyone care? Don’t move! Aren’t they looking for us?Think! Just think! Where are we going? Think! C’mon! He rubbed tears from hiseyes and felt — the knife! Yes! He felt the knife in his hand. Okay. He coulddo something.

He shifted closer to the rope and opened the blade. Itshrank next to the diameter of the heavy rope, like a steak knife against anoak tree. He sniffled and began sawing away. The tiny blade was sharp and cutinto the rope, but it was going to take forever. Damn! He might not have timeto cut Danny and Gabrielle free. He concentrated. He could stab the creep. No.The blade was too small. Panic washed over him. Think, Zach! Think!

Cut the rope and jump out? He could swim. For howlong? What about sharks? What about Danny and Gabrielle? He didn’t know. Hedidn’t know anything, only that he had to do something quick. If he tried hardenough, he could cut through one piece of rope. Which one? He moved closer tothe bundle, examining the coils. One line connected the cement blocks to thelines wrapped around the children’s ankles. Which one? He double-checked theweb of rope. Okay. Here goes.

He gestured to Danny and Gabrielle to keep still andquiet, then he gripped his knife and began slicing through the yellow rope.

From a thousand feet up, through the Coast Guard spotter’s bubble, it looked like ameteor speeding across the heavens, cutting a southwest path across thesparkling sea, leaving a fading trail of white water. Another check through thebinoculars to be certain. Twin outboards. Mercs. Northcraft. Affirmative.

“Air C-351, sighted the craft! Copy?”

“Roger, C-351. Coordinates? Over?”

“Got him running hard at … standby…”

The guard’s C-130 Hercules had locked on to Keller’sboat in the gulf about seven miles off Point Reyes, bearing southwest to theislands at forty-three knots.

Within six minutes, the guard’s rescue chopper, atfive hundred feet, moved in behind the boat, hanging back about a quarter milewhile the cutter Point Brower, with two FBI sniper teams aboard, nowwithin a mile, was coming from the south to intercept.

“We’ve got a visual,” Langford Shaw acknowledged asthe bureau’s Huey, pounding at maximum speed, came up fast taking the lead. Itheld at two hundred yards behind Keller’s boat, stern portside. Altitude: threehundred feet.

Through binoculars, Shaw and his chief observerchecked the suspect and the boat against enhanced photos from the hobby storesecurity camera and the buy and trade magazine.

“Move up another hundred yards,” Shaw told the pilotas he and the observer continued comparing pictures. “It’s Keller,” Shawconcluded. “And that’s the boat. Pull back a hundred.”

“No hostages,” the observer said, “Wait, I see — ”

“Sir,” blurted one of the snipers looking through hisscope, “edge of the tarp at eight o’clock!”

Part of a child’s sneaker was sticking out from underit.

The shakewas strawberry, Zach Reed’s favorite. He sat up in the hospital bed to take itfrom his father.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Zach’s mother continued stroking his hair. She hadnever left his side once the doctors and the psychiatrist finished looking athim. Danny and Gabrielle were across the hall with their parents. Every now andthen, they could be heard laughing, along with the sound of Gabrielle’s cockerspaniel barking.

“The children are fine. They’ve suffered some shock,exhaustion, dehydration,” one of the doctors told Ann and Tom. “We want them toeat. At this stage, pizzas, burgers, shakes, and fries are good medicine.” Hewinked at Zach, adding, “We’ll have them spend the night here resting. Let himsleep naturally when he gets drowsy. And Dr. Martin’s available anytime, ifanybody wants to talk some more.”

The doctor left, closing the door softly.

“Everything’s going to be okay, right?” Zach said.

“Sure, honey.” His mother brushed his cheek.

Zach set his shake aside and bit his lip, worriedabout the fall out for breaking all the rules, for talking to that psycho doof,believing his lies. Still a little juiced from everything, he thought about howcool it was going to be telling Jeff and Gordie about the choppers. But theidea went away. He had almost drowned. He was still frightened. And there werea lot of other things. Things he couldn’t understand. That nice lady doctor,the psychiatrist, Dr. Kate whom Dad knew, said she could help with that whenthey talked some more. She actually knew the creep and promised to answer allthe questions she could. She was smart. Even after their short talk, she seemedto know what was going on with Zach. She didn’t get him wrong. He was happy,but he was still a little scared; scared about his mom, his dad. Everything.Well, Doc Kate wanted him to talk about it with his folks, so here goes: “Imean, I’m sorry about all this mess, for running away from Grandma’s, gettingin that creep’s van. I made a mistake.”

“Oh, sweetie.” His mother crushed him in her arms.

“Zach, it’s not your fault.” His dad smiled. “You didgood, calling me like you did, son. Very good.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“No.” Ann touched her eyes with a crumpled tissue.

He stared at his parents. They looked different,older, relieved, like something had been decided.

“So are we going to talk about living together again?”

“I don’t think so.” Ann reached across the bed, takingTom’s hand, fingering his wedding band, looking into his eyes. “I don’t thinkwe need to talk anymore. I think it’s settled.”

“We’re moving back to our house? Together?” Zach said.

“Yes.” Ann smiled.

Zach hugged them.

“Hey,” Reed told him, “we’ll let you in on a secret.The President is going to be calling from the White House later.”

“The President? No way!”

“Come here.” Reed took Zach to the hospital window. TVsatellite trucks and news crews jammed the parking lot below.

“You’re big news, Zach.”

“Awe-Some! Wait ‘til I tell Jeff and Gordie!”

A quick knock on the door. It was SFPD Inspector LindaTurgeon. “Sorry to interrupt. Could I see you, Tom, about your statement?” Shesmiled at Ann and Zach. “How you doin’, sport?”

“Good. Great, actually.” He sucked on his shake.

Outside in the hall, Reed and Turgeon talked in aquiet alcove. A news conference with the children, parents, and police was setfor the hospital’s lecture room in ninety minutes. And tomorrow, Reed was to goto the Hall of Justice, to give his statement on the case.

No problem. He took Turgeon’s hand.

“Thank you, everybody, the FBI, the task force. Thankyou.”

“You and Zach helped break this.”

“Where’s Sydowski? I’d like to see him.”

“He wants to see you, too. Downstairs in the coffeeshop.”