As he climbed the ladder of Tower 3, a strange memory struck Ray Navarro. It was of his son. Ray had been sitting on their front porch after finishing the mowing, and a green blur had come zooming down the road. His little boy, in a bright green T-shirt, running full blast, and tugging along their cocker spaniel puppy, the dog’s legs struggling to keep up with those of his son, Ian. A son he would probably never see again.

As Ray placed one hand in front of the next, his wedding ring kept clanging against the metal of the rungs. The echoes of metal on metal trickled down the concrete walls of Tower 3 like water. Each high-pitched sound sent shockwaves of regret and doubt down through Ray’s soul.

He felt like the world was upside down, and he was actually climbing down into hell instead of ascending Tower 3 at Foxbury Correctional Treatment Facility.

The prison was actually an old work camp and mental hospital, which had recently been recommissioned as part of a pilot program for a private company’s experimental prison. All of the guards, including himself, had been warned about the unique working conditions inside Foxbury. The program was voluntary. He had known the risks, but the money was just too good to pass up. He had bills to pay and mouths to feed.

Ray Navarro pushed open the hatch in the floor of the crow’s nest and pulled himself up into the ten-by-ten space of the tower. The little room smelled like cigarettes, even though no one was supposed to smoke up there. A tiny window air conditioner squeaked and rumbled in the tower’s back wall. He shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The gun case was bolted to the left wall of the crow’s nest. With almost robotic, instinctual movements, he watched himself unlock the case, grab the 30-06 rifle, and insert cartridges loaded with just the right mixture of chemicals and shrapnel, fire and steel, needed to blow a one-inch hole in a person’s flesh. He had always excelled in the use of high-powered, long-range weapons. A pistol and a tactical shotgun also occupied the tower’s gun cabinet. He was rated as an expert in their use as well, but he had taken to the 30-06 like a boy’s hand to a well-oiled baseball glove.

Ray Navarro extended the rifle’s bipod and started searching the prison yard for his first target.

The scope’s line of sight slid effortlessly over each man’s face. He noticed a pair of the prison’s celebrity inmates. Leonard Lash, the infamous gang leader awaiting execution, and Oren Kimble, the madman responsible for a mall shooting five years ago. Then his eye stopped on two of the guards moving along the perimeter of inmates like cowboys watching over the herd. The men seemed to be having an in-depth conversation, a wiser silver-haired mentor teaching a younger pupil. He knew the older black man well. Bill Singer was a war veteran and a former sniper, just like Ray. When Ray returned from his last tour, he had been lost in doubt and fear and hadn’t known where to turn. Until he had met Bill. Now, Ray Navarro was five years sober and had even patched things up with his wife, who had come very close to being an ex-wife before Bill had started counseling him.

Bill wasn’t supposed to be on duty until Sunday, but something must have changed because there was his friend giving what seemed to be a mini-sermon to his younger counterpart.

The younger white man beside Bill, Jerry Dunn, had just come on with them. Jerry walked with a catch in his gait which made it seem like three of his steps were equal to two of a normal man’s, but that wasn’t the only aspect of Jerry Dunn which had earned him the nickname “Gimp” among his fellow correctional officers. Jerry also blinked about four times more than a normal person and often struggled to spit out more than a sentence or two.

Ray had no problem with Jerry and even felt sorry for the way many of the other guards treated him. A minor limp and a few tics didn’t mean that Dunn couldn’t do his job and, by all accounts, the young CO was more than competent.

Ray prayed that the next person up the tower’s ladder after him wouldn’t be Bill Singer or Jerry Dunn. Although, he didn’t really want it to be anyone else either. It was one thing to kill enemy soldiers or even an inmate if there was no other choice. This was different. This was the outright murder of men who were his coworkers, his friends.

Ray threw up all over the floor of Tower 3.

He cursed under his breath and then said, “It’s them or you.”

He re-acquired his target. Slid the crosshairs over the man’s heart and then up to his head. Normally, he would go for the chest, a larger target capable of accomplishing the same task. But since this was quite possibly one of his very last acts on the planet, he figured there was no harm in showing off and going for the true killshot.

“It’s them or you.”

He kept repeating that phrase like a mantra, over and over.

“It’s them or you.”

~~*~~

Bill Singer watched Jerry limp along in front of him. The more he watched, the more he noticed that the limp didn’t seem to slow Jerry down a bit. Bill realized that from Jerry’s perspective each step may have been painful or at the very least require twice as much effort. At his age, Bill realized the importance of pain management and the economy of movement, the debts that needed paying for each step, each incorrect dietary choice, each year with no trips to the gym, each time you tried to do something that you did easily ten years ago.

Knowing the difficulties faced by Jerry having been forced to start his life with inherent setbacks in that arena, Bill felt a soft spot for the kid and had taken the younger guard under his wing. Bill and his wife had neglected to have children, but he considered himself blessed to have some young men he had mentored who had become like sons to him. Jerry Dunn was one of those adopted sons. Another was Ray Navarro, who Bill knew was on overwatch in Tower 3 at that very moment. Then there were several others whom he had met through his volunteer work down at the clinic with his wife, Caroline.

Jerry Dunn actually reminded Bill more of one of those counseling patients than a correctional officer like Ray Navarro. Jerry was a wounded orphan while Ray was a wounded warrior. Both real problems that were no fault of either man, but whose differences were evident in each man’s demeanor.

Jerry had shared his story around a table of hot wings and beers on the first night Bill met him. The kid had blinked ten times and twitched twice before explaining that his parents had been killed in a car accident when he was only eight months old.

Some of the others had sympathized but continued to mock Jerry behind his back. And, of course, there were a few assholes in the group, who referred to Jerry as Gimp even to his face. Bill had gone a different way. He had befriended the young officer quickly and learned that whatever its cause, Jerry lived with a lot of pain in his heart.

Jerry Dunn halted his half-gait mid-stride and turned on his heels to face the yard. Bill shook his head at the younger man’s appearance. Jerry’s shaggy, black, stick-straight hair hung over his ears and looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. Jerry’s skin was as pale as Bill’s was dark, and it had a certain smell about it. A mix of body odor and a cheap deodorant that acted as a substitute for bathing.

Jerry said, “I’m bored senseless. Let’s make a bet. I bet you two bucks that the two big Aryan brotherhood type guys right there. See them, one benching a million pounds and the other spotting him and looking disinterested. I bet you two bucks that the big guy doesn’t get it up and the smaller guy either makes fun of him about it or he barely even notices that the big guy dropped the thing on his chest.”

Bill followed Jerry’s gaze and shook his head again. This time at the younger man’s assessment of the situation. Bill said, “I’ll take that bet, but let’s make it twenty bucks.”

Jerry seemed worried by this raising of the stakes, but not worried enough to keep from saying, “You’re on.”

Bill let his gaze linger on the ABs and watched the scene play out just as he suspected it would. The bigger man dropped the bar, but his spotter didn’t even let the bar touch the other man’s chest before snatching it up onto the rack.

Bill said, “The spotter wasn’t looking away because he wasn’t paying attention. He was looking away because he was scanning the yard for threats.”

“But they don’t need to do that here. There are no physical threats.”

“Old habits.”

Crestfallen, Jerry continued along the perimeter, and Bill followed in step beside him.

“This group of one hundred,” Bill said, referring to the first wave of prisoners being transferred to the refurbished and repurposed Foxbury prison, “has had to form bonds quickly in order to maintain their dominance when the next wave hits. I know we’ve only been here a few months, but I’m shocked that no one has been killed yet. This new ‘experimental model’ gives these guys way too much freedom.”

As the bigger Aryan rose from the bench and took his place as spotter, the two locked fists, held the embrace for a breath, and released each other with a final squeeze of the shoulder. A strangely intimate public gesture that stretched the limits of the physical contact allowed at Foxbury. They may have even felt the jolt of a warning shock. Maybe that was the point. To bond through a little shared pain.

“It’s in their nature to join together into packs. They’re a group of hungry wolves thrown into a pen. The laws of nature take over. They’re going to gang up and start establishing bonds and hierarchy. I don’t care what they claim about this software and technology and cameras. It’s nature of the beast out here. Always has been, always will be. Someone’s going to get this place’s number. There isn’t a security system in the world that can’t be bypassed. If one guy’s smart enough to design it, then there’s another guy out there hungry enough to bypass it.”

“So far, it seems to be working. I think it’s a glimpse of what the prison of the future could look like.”

“Don’t drink the Kool-Aid just yet. It’s only been six months, kid. Trust me. ‘So far’ doesn’t last that long.”

Bill glanced back at the big Aryan, now standing solemn guard over his comrade like a stone sentinel.

Then Bill watched the big Aryan’s head split down the middle. He saw the blood a heartbeat before he heard the crack of a high-powered rifle.

~~*~~

A millisecond of held breath followed the first man’s death. A fraction of a heartbeat when the fight or flight instincts of every inmate twitched toward fight. After all, these men were all fighters in one way or another. It made time seem frozen somehow.

Then everyone, all at once, realized what had happened. The inmates dropped to the ground, as they had been taught, and the guards struggled to keep their wits.

Bill analyzed the situation, years of training and drills all floating to the surface of his personal sea of memories. The training kicked in and won the battle over his instincts.

An inmate must have been putting the life of a guard in danger. That was the only reason a tower guard would have opened fire. His gaze had just enough time to slide over the yard, searching for what he had missed, when the second shot rang out.

This time one of the inmates with his belly to the ground jerked wildly and then lay still, a spray of blood splattering the man to his left.

Bill tried to work it out. Why would a tower guard shoot an inmate lying on the ground?

Unless this was something more.

An entirely different set of training and drills took over—from before he became a correctional officer, from back when he was a young army recruit—and those military-issued instincts helped Bill immediately recognize what this really was. A sniper attack. They were under assault.

“Everyone up!” Bill screamed. “Get inside the buildings. Get to cover!” The throng of prisoners scattered as they scrambled to find protection. The sound of a third shot spurred their legs to pump harder.

Bill didn’t see the third man fall, but he did see from where the shot had originated. He had looked to the towers and walls first, scanning for the shooter. And up in Tower 3, he saw a man who looked like Ray Navarro, eye to his rifle, lining up another shot.

The yard was, looking down from above, the shape of a giant stop sign. Guard towers topped four of the outer vertexes. The safety of the prison’s main buildings was in the distance to Bill’s left. But Tower 3 and the sniper who had become like a son to Bill was closer on the right.

Safety or friendship.

When Bill had served his tour of duty, he had learned and believed that it was all about the man on your right and on your left, your brothers.

Safety or friendship.

Saving his own ass or trying to keep his friend from being killed. The decision was an easy one for Bill Singer. Not even a choice really. Just another instinct; a natural result of all he’d learned and experienced.

He ran toward Tower 3.

Access to the outer perimeter of the yard and the guard towers was made possible via a barred gate in the old stone wall. The problem was that the gate was actually more modern than its surroundings, and it had no locks or keys. It could only be opened by one of the watchers—the name the guards had bestowed on the computer techs who constantly monitored the prison’s thousands of cameras through some kind of special software. Amid the chaos of the yard, among the disorder of one hundred men running for their lives, one of those watchers would have to notice him and buzz him through the gate.

It was a long shot. Not to mention that he had to put himself squarely in Ray’s crosshairs—if that really was Ray up there—just to reach the gate.

The Ray he knew would never fire on him. But the Ray he knew would never fire on anyone. If it really was Ray, then it wasn’t the Ray he knew, and he had no way of anticipating the actions of this robot that had taken Ray’s place, this creature that seemed to walk in Ray’s skin.

Bill wasn’t really surprised to see a pair of the other guards having the same idea. A pair of energetic thirty-something guards who Bill knew as Trent and Stuart were already pounding their fists on the shiny aluminum gate and shouting up at one of the prison’s legion of cameras.

To his surprise, Bill was still twenty feet from the gate when he heard the buzz and clank of the lock disengaging. Big brother was watching. The other pair of guards pushed through and ran out of his view, but he knew where they were headed. He shot a glance to Tower 3 as he ran toward the now-open gate.

Ray had disappeared from the tower’s window. Whether the shooting was over or Ray was just reloading, Bill couldn’t be sure, but he did know that things would go better for his young friend if he was the first one up that ladder.

Bill shouted at the other guards to wait, to let him go up first, but he was so winded from the sprint across the yard that he couldn’t make the sound come out with as much force as he wanted.

The younger guards didn’t stop their assault. “Wait!” he shouted. The thought of Ray attacking the guards and escalating the situation spurred him forward, pumping his adrenaline to the next level.

Bill caught the gate before it could swing shut and relatch. He rounded the corner of the wall toward Tower 3 and looked up just as the parapet of the tower exploded in a searing ball of glass and fire.

~~*~~

The concussion wave slammed Bill to the ground like a swatted fly. Blackened and flaming chunks of concrete rained down around him. He looked back at Tower 3, and his eyes struggled to regain focus. The midday sun hung in the sky directly behind the watchtower. It looked to Bill as if the sun had simply absorbed the parapet of Tower 3 like some giant fiery PAC-MAN. He held his gaze into the sun just long enough to see that the tip of Tower 3 was gone, as if the crow’s nest was the top of a dandelion blown away and scattered to the wind, there and then not.

He was still disoriented by the blast wave. His vision blurred and then came back into focus. Blurred and focused. Then, through the haze, Bill saw Ray Navarro stumbling toward the opening in the stone wall, heading back to the main building.

It was Ray. Bill was sure of it. Not some impostor or impersonator, but his friend. Had the kid completely snapped?

If something was happening in Ray’s life that could have driven him to this, then Bill had no clue what it could have been. Maybe the kid had some kind of PTSD flashback? He couldn’t have been in his right mind.

Bill’s hearing suddenly returned. One second, it was a high-pitched ringing, a shrill otherworldly sound. Then the sound quickly merged back with the real world. The screams brought Bill back to the moment. He crawled, then stumbled, then ran toward the sound of the screaming. One of the men who had beaten him to the tower was on fire. He didn’t see the other.

The man, or more of a boy to Bill’s old eyes, rolled feebly on the ground to smother the flames. Bill could smell the man’s flesh cooking. It reminded him of sizzling bacon.

Bill shoved his hands through the flames to get to the boy. Just enough contact with the fire to singe off all the hair on Bill’s arms, but also just enough contact with the boy’s torso to shove him into a full roll.

He helped extinguish the last of the flames and then rolled the kid onto his back. His face was charred. He couldn’t stop crying and coughing. And Bill could think of nothing he could do to help.

The sound of boots crushing sand and gravel announced the arrival of more guards. One pushed Bill back and started performing CPR on the burned man.

Bill hadn’t even noticed that the kid had stopped breathing. He felt suddenly disoriented, as if he had just woken up from a bad dream, and his mind was struggling to realign with reality. All he could hear was the ringing, and it seemed to be growing in volume, swelling toward a climax.

He bent over and threw up. What could Ray have been thinking? Had he seen Ray heading back toward the prison? Had that been real? If so, where was Ray going? Had his young friend done this and then was trying to sneak away in the confusion?

Bill ran back toward the gate. The other guards shouted something about needing help, but Bill ignored them. He moved with a singular focus now.

One emotion drove him forward. Anger. One thought fueled his anger. That could have been me.

If Ray had premeditated this—and he obviously had, because he must have brought some kind of explosives with him and had at least some semblance of an escape plan—then that meant that Ray had no way of knowing who would have been the next person through that hatch. It could have been anyone. It could very easily have been Bill.

A few steps closer or a few seconds faster, and it would have been him.

His friend had nearly taken his life; he had nearly taken him away from Caroline.

That didn’t sit right with him and, at the very least, he was going to find out why.

The yard was almost evacuated, and Bill couldn’t miss Ray moving toward the north barracks.

He lowered his head and ran harder, trying to close the gap between them.

Ray didn’t look back, didn’t check over his shoulder once. As if not looking at the destruction he had caused would make it less real, less horrifying. As if guilt and shame wouldn’t catch him if he refused to acknowledge them.

The anger fueled Bill even more—the anger awakened something in him. Something that he hadn’t felt since his army days. He could still smell the young guard’s burning flesh. He could still hear his screams.

He closed the last of the gap in a dive, driving his shoulder into Ray’s back and sending them both sprawling onto the concrete of a basketball court.

Ray was first to his feet. He held a Glock pistol, probably stolen from the gun cabinet of Tower 3.

“Stay back,” Ray said.

“What have you done?”

“I said stay back!”

“Why?”

Bill’s voice cracked as he took a step toward the man he had spent countless hours counseling and guiding back toward sanity.

“Back,” Ray said, retreating toward the barracks.

“You tell me why!”

“I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Glad I’m okay? I could have been killed. And what about the others you just murdered?”

“I can’t. . .” Ray shook his head and turned to run.

Bill stared at him a moment, dumbfounded.

It looked like the Ray he knew. The voice was the same. The look in his eyes. But the Ray he knew would never have done something like this. Did he have the capability? Sure. Ray was a former soldier. He had killed in combat. This was different. This was the visceral act of an animal with its back to the wall. This was the final attack of a dying predator.

What could have possibly driven Ray to such a desperate, animalistic decision?

Ray had taken three big strides toward the barracks before Bill made up his mind that Ray Navarro wasn’t leaving the yard.

Bill closed the distance between them in two huge strides. He threw all of his weight and momentum into a single blow. He hurled himself at Ray like a locomotive of flesh and bone. He aimed one huge punch directly at the back of Ray’s head. He would hit Ray hard with one sucker punch that would instantly knock him out. The fight would be over before it began.

But Ray ducked the punch at the last second and spun around, the gun still in his hand.

Bill immediately recognized his mistake. An old drill instructor’s words floated back to him from the ether of his memory.

Go for the body. The head is too small a target that can move and shift too easily.

Bill immediately knew the consequence of not heeding that advice.

The gun flashed.

Bill saw the shock and horror in Ray’s eyes.

He felt the warmth of the blood leaving the wound before actually feeling the pain of the puncture. He fell back to the concrete.

The ringing in his ears was fading away but leaving only silence in its place.

He heard the shouts of other guards telling Ray to get down. He closed his eyes. At least he had stopped Ray from escaping and hurting anyone else or himself.

Bill Singer heard the ringing. Then more shouting. Then the ringing again. And then nothing at all.

PROLOGUE
SEPTEMBER 2004

My life was saved by a murder. At the time, of course, I didn’t understand that. I just knew I was having the best year of my life. Given all the terrible things that happened, I should be ashamed to say it, but that year was a blessing for me.

I’d just turned fifteen when Della Kincaid bought Daddy’s store. At first nothing much changed. Daddy was still round a lot, getting odd jobs as a handyman and farming enough to sell what Mama couldn’t put by. And we still lived in the house next door, though Mama banned me from going inside the store. She said she didn’t want me to be a nuisance, but I think she was jealous of “that woman from Washington, D.C.”

So I just sat out front like I always did when Daddy owned it, killing time, chatting with a few friendly customers or other bench-sitters like me. I never wanted to go inside while Daddy had the store, not because he might have asked me to help, but because he thought I couldn’t help. Oh sure, I’d go in for a Coca-Cola or Dr. Pepper, but, for the most part, I just sat there, reared back with my chair resting against the outside wall, my legs dangling. Just like my life.

I’ve never forgotten how crazy it all played out. I had forgotten about the two diaries I’d kept that year. I discovered them while cleaning out our home after Mama died in April. (Daddy had passed two year earlier, to the day.) They weren’t like a girl’s diary (at least that’s what I told myself, when I worried about such things). They were notes I’d imagined a reporter like Della or her ex-husband would make, capturing the times.

I’d already cleaned out most of the house, saving my room for last. I boxed up my hubcaps, picking out my favorites from the ones still hanging on my bedroom walls. (We’d long ago sold the collection in the barn.) I tackled the shelves with all my odd keepsakes: a deer jaw, two dusty geodes, other rocks I’d found that caught my eye, like the heart-shaped reddish one—too good not to keep. When I gathered a shelf-full of books in my arms, I saw the battered shoebox where I’d stashed those diaries tucked behind the books. I sat on my old bed, the plaid spread dusty and faded, untouched in a couple of decades, and started to read. The pages had yellowed, but they stirred up fresh memories, all the same. That’s when I called Della (I still looked for any excuse to talk with her), and we arranged a couple of afternoons to go over the diaries together.

We sat at her kitchen table, where she’d placed a pot of tea and a plate of homemade cookies, and talked. And talked. After a time or two recollecting over the diaries, I told Della I wanted to write a book about that year. She agreed. We were both a little surprised that, even after all these years, we didn’t have any trouble recalling that spring.

APRIL 1985

CHAPTER 1 ABIT

Four cop cars blocked our driveway.

I thought I might’ve dreamed it, since I’d fallen asleep on the couch, watching TV. But after I rubbed my eyes, all four cars were still there. Seeing four black-and-whites in a town with only one could throw you.

All I could think was what did I do wrong? I ran through my day real quick-like, and I couldn’t come up with anything that would get me more than a backhand from Daddy.

I watched a cop walking in front of the store next door, which we shared a driveway with. As long as I could remember, that store hadn’t never had four cars out front at the same time, let alone four cop cars. I stepped outside, quietly closing our front door. The sun was getting low, and I hoped Mama wadnt about to call me to supper.

I headed down our stone steps to see for myself. Our house sat on a hill above the store, which made it close enough that Daddy, when he still owned the store, could run down the steps (twenty of ‘em, mossy and slick after a rain) if, say, a customer drove up while he was home having his midday dinner. But of an evening, those same steps seemed to keep people from pestering him to open up, as Daddy put it, “to sell some fool thing they could live without ‘til the next morning.”

I was just about halfway down when the cop looked my way. “Don’t trouble yourself over this, Abit. Nothing to see here.” That was Lonnie Parker, the county’s deputy sheriff.

“What do you mean nothing to see here? I ain’t seen four cop cars all in one place in my whole life.”

“You don’t need to worry about this.”

“I’m not worried,” I said. “I’m curious.”

“You’re curious all right.” He turned and spat something dark onto the dirt drive, a mix of tobacco and hate.

That’s how it always went. People talked to me like I was an idiot. Okay, I knew that I wadnt as smart as others. Something happened when Mama had me (she was pretty old by then), and I had trouble making my words just right sometimes. But inside, I worked better than most people thought. I used to go to school, but I had trouble keeping up, and that made Daddy feel bad. I wadnt sure if he felt bad for me or him. Anyway, they took me out of school when I was twelve, which meant I spent my days watching TV and hanging out. And being bored. I could read, but it took me a while. The bookmobile swung by every few weeks, and I’d get a new book each time. And I watched the news and stuff like that to try to learn.

I was named after Daddy – Vester Bradshaw Jr. – but everyone called me Abit. I heard the name Abbott mentioned on the TV and asked Mama if that was the same as mine. She said it were different but pronounced about the same. She wouldn’t call me that, but Daddy was fine with it. A few year ago, I overheard him explaining how I got that name.

“I didn’t want him called the same as me,” Daddy told a group of men killing time outside the store. He was a good storyteller, and he was enjoying the attention. “He’s a retard. When he come home from the hospital, and people asked how he was doing, I’d tell ‘em,‘he’s a bit slow.’ I wanted to just say it outright to cut out all the gossip. I told that story enough that someone started calling him Abit, and it stuck.”

Some jerk then asked if my middle name were “Slow,” and everybody laughed. That hurt me at the time, but with the choice between Abit and Vester, I reckoned my name weren’t so bad, after all. Daddy could have his stupid name.

Anyway, I wadnt going to have Lonnie Parker run me off my own property (or near abouts my property), so I folded my arms and leaned against the rock wall.

I grabbed a long blade of grass and chewed. While I waited, I checked out the hubcaps on the cars—nothing exciting, just the routine sort of government caps. Too bad, ‘cause a black-and-white would’ve looked really cool with Mercury chrome hubcaps. I had one in my collection in the barn back of the house, so I knew what I was talking about.

I heard some loud voices coming from upstairs, the apartment above the store, where Della lived with Jake, some kind of mixed hound who came to live with her when she lived in Washington, D.C. I couldn’t imagine what Della had done wrong. She was about the nicest person I’d ever met. I loved Mama, but Della was easier to be round. She just let me be.

Ever since Daddy sold the store, Mama wouldn’t let me go inside it anymore. I knew she was jealous of Della. To be honest, I thought a lot of people were jealous a lot of the time and that was why they did so many stupid things. I saw it all the time. Sitting out front of the store most days, I’d hear them gossiping or even making stuff up about people. I bet they said things about me, too, when I wadnt there, off having my dinner or taking a nap.

But lately, something else was going on with Mama. Oncet I turned fifteen year old, she started snooping and worrying. I’d seen something about that on TV, so I knew it was true: People thought that any guy who was kinda slow was a sex maniac. They figured since we weren’t one-hundred percent “normal,” we walked round with boners all the time and couldn’t control ourselves. I couldn’t speak for others, but that just weren’t true for me. I remembered the first one I got, and it sure surprised me. But I’d done my experimenting, and I knew it wouldn’t lead to no harm. Mama had nothin’ to worry about, but still, she kept a close eye on me.

Of course, it was true that Della was real nice looking—tall and not skinny or fat. She had a way about her—smart but not stuck up. And her hair was real pretty—kinda curly and reddish gold, cut just below her ears. But she coulda been my mother, for heaven’s sake.

After a while, Gregg and the sheriff, along with some other cops, started making their way down Della’s steps to their cars.

“Abit, you get on home, son.” Sheriff Brower said. “Don’t go bothering Ms. Kincaid right now.”

“Go to hell, Brower. I don’t need your stupid advice.” Okay, that was just what I wanted to say; what I really said was, “I don’t plan on bothering Della.” I used her first name to piss him off; young people were supposed to use grownups’ last names. Besides, she’d asked me to call her Della. Then I added, “And I don’t bother her. She likes me.”

But he was already churning dust in the driveway, speeding onto the road.

CHAPTER 2 DELLA

I heard Jake whimpering as I sank into the couch. I’d closed him in the bedroom while the sheriff and his gang of four were here. Jake kept bringing toys over for them to throw, and I could see how irritated they were getting. I didn’t want to give them reason to be more unpleasant than they already were.

“Hi there, boy,” I said as I opened the door. “Sorry about that, buddy.” He sprang from the room and grabbed his stuffed rabbit. I scratched his ears and threw the toy, then reclaimed the couch. “Why didn’t we stay in today, like I wanted?”

Earlier, I’d thought about skipping our usual hike. It was my only day off, and I wanted to read last Sunday’s Washington Post. (I was always a week behind since I had to have the papers mailed to me.) But Jake sat by the door and whined softly, and I sensed how cooped up he’d been with all the early spring rains.

Besides, those walks did me more good than Jake. When I first moved to Laurel Falls, the natural world frightened me. Growing up in Washington, D.C., hadn’t prepared me for that kind of wild. But gradually, I got more comfortable and started to recognize some of the birds and trees and especially the wildflowers. Something about their delicate beauty made the woods more welcoming. Trilliums, pink lady’s slippers, and fringed phacelia beckoned me to, encouraging me to venture deeper.

Of course, it didn’t help that my neighbors and customers carried on about the perils of taking long hikes by myself. “You could be murdered,” they cried. “At the very least you could be raped,” warned Abit’s mother, Mildred Bradshaw, normally a quiet, prim woman. “And what about perverts?” she’d add, exasperated that I wasn’t listening to her.

Sometimes Mildred’s chant “You’re so alone out there” nagged at me in a reactive loop as Jake and I walked in the woods. But that was one of the reasons I moved here. I wanted to be alone. I longed to get away from deadlines and noise and people. And memories. Besides, I argued with myself, hadn’t I lived safely in D.C. for years? I’d walked dark streets, sat face-to-face with felons, been robbed at gunpoint, but I still went out whenever I wanted, at least before midnight. You couldn’t live there and worry too much about crime, be it violent, white-collar, or political; that city would grind to a halt if people thought that way.

As Jake and I wound our way, the bright green tree buds and wildflowers soothed my dark thoughts. I breathed in that intoxicating smell of spring: not one thing in particular, but rather a mix of fragrances floating on soft breezes, signaling winter’s retreat. The birds were louder too, chittering and chattering in the warmer temperatures. I was lost in my reverie when Jake stopped so fast I almost tripped over him. He stood still, ears alert.

“What is it, boy?” He looked up at me, then resumed his exploration of rotten squirrels and decaying stumps.

I didn’t just love that dog, I admired him. He was unafraid of his surroundings, plowing through tall fields of hay or dense forests without any idea where he was headed, not the least bit perturbed by bugs flying into his eyes or seeds up his nose. He’d just sneeze and keep going.

We walked a while longer and came to a favorite lunch spot. I nestled against a broad beech tree, its smooth bark gentler against my back than the alligator bark of red oak or locust. Jake fixated on a line of ants carrying off remnants from a picnic earlier that day, rooting under leaves and exploring new smells since his last visit. But mostly he slept. In a sunspot, he made a nest thick with leaves, turning round and round until everything was just right.

Jake came to live with me a year and a half ago when a neighbor committed suicide, a few months before I moved south. We both struggled at first, but when we settled here, the past for him seemed forgotten. Sure, he still ran in circles when I brushed against his old leash hanging in the coat closet, but otherwise he was officially a mountain dog. I was the one still working on leaving the past behind.

I’d bought the store on a whim after a week’s stay in a log cabin in the Black Mountains. To prolong the trip, I took backroads home. As I drove through Laurel Falls, I spotted the boarded-up store sporting a For Sale sign. I stopped, jotted down the listed phone number, and called. Within a week, I owned it. The store was in shambles, both physically and financially, but something about its bones had appealed to me. And I could afford the extensive remodeling it needed because the asking price was so low.

Back in my D.C. condo, I realized how much I wanted a change in my life. I had no family to miss. I was an only child, and my parents had died in an alcoholic daze when their car wrapped around a tree, not long after I left for college. And all those editors and deadlines, big city hassles, and a failed marriage? I was eager to trade them in for a tiny town and a dilapidated store called Coburn’s General Store. (Nobody knew who Coburn was—that was just what it had always been called, though most of the time it was simply Coburn’s. Even if I’d renamed it, no one would have used the new name.)

In addition to the store, the deal included an apartment upstairs that, during its ninety-year history, had likely housed more critters than humans, plus a vintage 1950 Ford pickup truck with wraparound rear windows. And a bonus I didn’t know about when I signed the papers: a living, breathing griffon to guard me and the store—Abit.

I’d lived there almost a year, and I treasured my days away from the store, especially once it was spring again. Some folks complained that I wasn’t open Sundays (blue laws a distant memory, even though they were repealed only a few years earlier), but I couldn’t work every day, and I couldn’t afford to hire help, except now and again.

While Jake and I sat under that tree, the sun broke through the canopy and warmed my face and shoulders. I watched Jake’s muzzle twitch (he was already lost in a dream), and chuckled when he sprang to life at the first crinkle of wax paper. I shooed him away as I unwrapped my lunch. On his way back to his nest, he stopped and stared down the dell, his back hairs spiking into a Mohawk.

“Get over it, boy. I don’t need you scaring me as bad as Mildred. Settle down now,” I gently scolded as I laid out a chunk of Gruyere I’d whittled the hard edges off, an almost-out-of-date salami, and a sourdough roll I’d rescued from the store. I’d been called a food snob, but these sad leftovers from a struggling store sure couldn’t support that claim. Besides, out here the food didn’t matter so much. It was all about the pileated woodpecker trumpeting its jungle call or the tiny golden-crowned kinglet flitting from branch to branch. And the falls in the distance, playing its soothing continuo, day and night. These walks kept me sane. The giant trees reminded me I was just a player in a much bigger game, a willing refugee from a crowded, over-planned life.

I crumpled the lunch wrappings, threw Jake a piece of roll, and found a better sunspot. I hadn’t closed my eyes for a minute when Jake gave another low growl. He was sitting upright, nose twitching, looking at me for advice.

“Sorry, pal; you started it. I don’t hear anything,” I told him. He gave another face-saving low growl and put his head back down.

“You crazy old hound.” I patted his warm, golden fur. Early on, I wondered what kind of mix he was—maybe some retriever and beagle, bringing his size down to medium. I’d asked the vet to hazard a guess. He wouldn’t. Or couldn’t. It didn’t matter.

I poured myself a cup of hot coffee, white with steamed milk, appreciating the magic of a thermos, even if the contents always tasted vaguely of vegetable soup. That aroma took me back to the woods of my childhood, just two vacant lots really, a few blocks from my home in D.C.’s Cleveland Park. I played there for hours, stocked with sandwiches and a thermos of hot chocolate. I guess that’s where I first thought of becoming a reporter; I sat in the cold and wrote up everything that passed by—from birds and salamanders to postmen and high schoolers sneaking out for a smoke.

A deeper growl from Jake pulled me back. As I turned to share his view, I saw a man running toward us. “Dammit, Mildred,” I swore, as though the intruder were her fault. The man looked angry, pushing branches out of his way as he came toward us. Jake barked furiously, but I grabbed his collar and held tight.

Even though the scene was unfolding just as my neighbor had warned, I wasn’t afraid. Maybe it was the Madras sport shirt, so out of place on a man with a bushy beard and long ponytail. For God’s sake, I thought, how could anyone set out in the morning dressed like that and plan to do harm? A hint of a tattoo—a Celtic cross?—peeked below his shirt sleeve, adding to his unlikely appearance.

As he neared, I could see his face wasn’t so much angry as pained, drained of color.

“There’s some … one,” his voice cracked. He put his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his breath. As he did, his graying ponytail fell across his chest.

“What? Who?”

“A body. Somebody over there,” he said, pointing toward the creek. “Not far, it’s …” he stopped again to breathe.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Cross … creek.” He started to run.

“Wait! Don’t go!” I shouted, but all I could see was the back of his shirt as he ran away from us. “Hey! At least call for help. There’s an emergency call box down that road, at the car park. Call Gregg O’Donnell at the Forest Service. I’ll go see if there’s anything I can do.”

He shouted, “There nothing you can do,” as he ran away.

Jake led the way as we crashed through the forest, branches whipping our faces. I felt the creek’s icy chill, in defiance of the day’s warmth, as I missed the smaller stepping stones and soaked my feet. Why didn’t I ask the stranger more details, or have him show me where to find the person? And what did “across the creek” mean in an eleven thousand-acre wilderness area? When I stopped to get my bearings, I began to shiver, my feet numb. Jake stopped with me, sensing the seriousness of our romp in the woods; he even ignored a squirrel.

We were a pack of two, running together, the forest silent except for our heavy breathing and the rustle we made crossing the decaying carpet beneath our feet. Jake barked at something, startling me, but it was just the crack of a branch I’d broken to clear the way. We were both spooked.

I stopped to rest on a fallen tree as Jake ran ahead, then back and to the right. Confused, he stopped and looked at me.

“I don’t know which way either, boy.” We were just responding to a deep, instinctual urge to help. “You go on, Jake. You’ll find it before I will.”

And he did.

CHAPTER 1

East San Antonio, Texas

“Nobody goes beyond this point, ma’am,” the tall, burly San Antonio policeman, outfitted in full riot gear, told Caitlin Strong.

“That include Texas Rangers . . .” She hesitated long enough to read the name plate over his badge. “. . . Officer Salazar?”

“That’s Sergeant Salazar, Ranger. And the answer is, yes, it includes everyone. Especially Texas Rangers.”

“Well, Sergeant, maybe we wouldn’t need to be here if a couple of your patrolmen hadn’t gunned down a ten-year-old boy.”

Salazar looked at Caitlin, scowling as he backed away from her Explorer. A few blocks beyond the checkpoint, a grayish mist seemed to hover in the air, residue of the tear gas she expected would be unleashed again soon. That is, unless the youthful crowd currently packed into the small commercial district at the near end of Hackberry Avenue dispersed, which they were showing no signs of doing. The third night of trouble had brought the National Guard to the scene in full battle attire that included M4 rifles and flak jackets. Caitlin could see more floodlights had been brought in to keep the street bathed in day-glow brightness, casting a strange hue in the air that reminded her of movie kliegs, as if this were a scene concocted from fiction rather than one that had arisen out of random tragedy.

Sergeant Salazar came right up to her open window, close enough for Caitlin to smell spearmint on his breath, as he worked a wad of gum from one side of his mouth to the other. “Those patrolmen found themselves in the crossfire of a gunfight between a neighborhood watch leader and gang bangers he thought were robbing a convenience store where most pay with their EFD cards. The clerk who chased them down the street just wanted to return the change they’d left on the counter for their ice cream, but the watch leader, Alfonzo Martinez, saw the scene otherwise and ordered the bangers to stop and put their hands in the air.”

Neighborhood watch leader Martinez, a lifelong resident of J Street who’d managed to steer clear of violence all his life, started firing his heirloom Springfield 1911 model .45 as soon as the gang bangers yanked pistols from the droopy waistbands of their trousers. The only thing his shots hit was a passing San Antonio police car, the uniformed officers inside mistaking the fire as the gang bangers’ and opened up on them so indiscriminately that the lone victim of their fire was a ten-year-old boy who’d emerged from the same convenience store.

It was almost dawn before everything got sorted out and the investigative team comprised of San Antonio and Highway Patrol detectives thought they’d managed to get control of the situation. Then relatively peaceful protests by day gave way to an eruption of violence at night, spearheaded by rival gangs who abandoned their turf wars to join forces against an enemy both of them loathed. Violence and looting reined, only to get worse by the second night when eight officers ended up hospitalized, one from what was later identified as a bullet instead of a rock. And now the third night found the National Guard on the scene in force and armored police vehicles from as far away as Houston barricading the streets to basically shut off the neighborhoods of East San Antonio’s northern periphery from the rest of the city.

“You’re still here, Ranger,” Sergeant Salazar noted.

“Just considering my options.”

“Only option you have is turn your vehicle around and leave the area, ma’am. You’re not needed or welcome here.”

“On whose orders exactly?” Caitlin wondered.

“Mine,” a female voice boomed, a moment before Caitlin heard a loud pop!, like a shotgun blast, crackle through the air.

CHAPTER 2

East San Antonio, Texas

A few blocks beyond the checkpoint, one of the spotlights fizzled and died, victim of a well-thrown rock more likely than a bullet. Caitlin was out of her Explorer by then, hand instinctively straying to her holstered SIG Sauer P-225 in anticipation of more shots to follow.
“Get back in your vehicle, Ranger,” said Consuelo Alonzo, deputy chief of the San Antonio police department, as she strode forward, red-faced from the exertion of rushing to the scene from the police line upon learning of Caitlin’s arrival.

“You got a problem with getting some more back-up?” Caitlin asked her.

“I do when it comes from you.”

“Why don’t you catch your breath and hear me out?”

“Because there’s nothing you have to say that can possibly interest me right now. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re sitting on a powder keg one spark away from blowing San Antonio to hell. We don’t need you providing that spark, Ranger. No way.”

Instead of settling down, Alonzo’s agitation continued to increase. Her face had grown redder, her words emerging through breaths becoming more and more rapid. She had risen quickly through the ranks of the department, becoming the youngest woman ever to make captain three years prior to her recent promotion to deputy chief. And she had been rumored to be in line for the job of Public Safety Commissioner that came with a plush Austin office and a job that would place her, among other things, as chief overseer of the Texas Rangers. Alonzo no doubt relished that particular perk of a job certain to be hers, until the death of a Chinese diplomat, exacerbated by Caitlin’s solving the murder while Alonzo was dealing with more politically oriented ramifications, led to her being passed over.

Alonzo had overcome an appearance often referred to as “masculine” by even her supporters and much worse than that by her detractors, who seemed to put no stock in the fact that she was happily raising three young children with her husband who was a professional boxing referee. This was Texas, after all, where a woman needed to work twice as hard, and be twice as good, in a profession ruggedly and stubbornly perceived to be for men only. Caitlin and Alonzo had had their differences over the years, but had mostly maintained a mutual respect defined by their professionalism, and the sense that their own squabbles only further emboldened those who sought their demise.

At least until Alonzo cast Caitlin with all the blame for her losing out on a job that was likely never going to be hers now. Since then, she’d used her position as deputy chief to wage subtle war on the Rangers’ San Antonio-based Company F whenever possible, seizing upon any bureaucratic conflict or jurisdictional dispute she could in a hapless attempt to make Caitlin’s life miserable.

Alonzo ran a hand through her spiky hair. She was heavyset and had once set the woman’s record for the bench press in her weight class. She’d also done some boxing and was reputed to be the best target shooter with a pistol in the entire department. But Caitlin had beaten her three times running when they’d gone up against each other in state-sponsored contests, winning the overall title in two of those instead of just the woman’s division. She’d stop entering after her most recent victory, figuring the last thing she needed was to draw more attention to herself than her exploits already had.

“You’re not moving, Ranger,” Alonzo told her.

Caitlin gestured toward a figure pressed tight against the waist-high concrete barrier erected to close off the street to unauthorized vehicles. “See that woman there? That’s the mother of the boy who was killed by the fire of those SAPD officers. She’s the one who called me, asked me to see what I could do about the violence being done in her boy’s name. She doesn’t want the city to burn on his account. She wants this resolved peacefully.”

“And you think I don’t?”

“No, ma’am. It’s question about how you’re going about things.”

“And how’s that?” Alonso asked, not sounding as if she was really interested in Caitlin’s answer. “We got a full-scale riot brewing back there. What exactly do you think you can do about it that we can’t?”

“I’ve got an idea or two.”

“Care to share them?”

“Ever hear of Diego Ramon Alcantara?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“He goes by the nickname ‘Diablo.’ Leader of a gang running drugs for a Mexican cartel that sees the riots as their opportunity to solidify their hold on the business throughout the state. And Diablo Alcantara has united the city’s normally warring gangs toward that purpose on the cartel’s behalf. I take him off the board, all this goes away.”

Alonzo shook her head, her expression a mix of resentment and disbelief. “You alone?”

“That’s right. Just give me a chance. What have you got to lose, Deputy Chief?”

“How about this city?”

Caitlin turned her gaze in the direction of the rioting. “Seems to me it’s already lost. Thing at this point is to get it back.”
Alonzo’s lower lip crawled over her upper one, puckering her cheeks until she blew out some breath that hit Caitlin like a blast wave from a just opened oven. “We’ve got five hundred personnel on scene who haven’t been able to manage that.”

“Would it really hurt to listen to what I’ve got to say?”

“It hurts me standing here right now instead of commanding the front line. The governor just approved an assault. We move inside the next hour, if the crowd doesn’t disperse as ordered.”

“Just give me a chance.”

This time Alonzo finished her chuckle. “You know the saying ‘stone cold dead,’ Ranger?”

“I do.”

“Maybe you haven’t heard that among Texas law enforcement types it’s called ‘strong cold dead’ now.”

Caitlin smiled slightly. “Is that a fact?”

Alonzo was left shaking her head. “Tell me, when you look in the mirror, how big’s the army that looks back?”

“Well, you know how the saying goes, Deputy Chief,” Caitlin said, backpedaling toward her SUV. “’One riot, one Ranger.’”

CHAPTER 3

East San Antonio, Texas

Caitlin skulked about the outskirts of the neighborhoods just outside the riot zone. Through windows not boarded up or covered in grates, she spied more than one family following the simmering violence just a few blocks away on their televisions while huddled against a wall.

According to the information she’d obtained from a trio of informants, “Diablo” Alcantara was running the show from his sister’s home near J Street two blocks from the brewing riot’s front lines. The cartels had trained Alcantara well, taught him the tricks of their own trade to inspire everyday people to turn to violence to the point that it came to define them. A road a person was often too far down by the time he found himself on it at all. So it was here in East San Antonio, where closing the schools for the day had turned hundreds of teenagers into virtual anarchists, looting and destroying for its own sake. Right now Caitlin could still smell the smoke from a Laundromat that had burned to the ground when local firefighters and their trucks were chased back by crowds hurling bottles and rocks. Three had been hospitalized and one of the engines had been abandoned at the head of the street where it too had been set ablaze.

The Laundromat had chemicals and detergents stored in a back room that turned the air noxious for a time, the strange combination of lavender soap powder mixing with the corrosive bleaches to form the perfect metaphor for the city of San Antonio. Watching those white curtains of mist wafting through the flames to chase the rioters away more effectively than any efforts the authorities had mounted, though, had given Caitlin the idea to which Deputy Chief Alonzo had refused to listen.

Holding her position against a house in view of the main drag, Caitlin checked her watch, then the sky, and finally her cell phone to make sure she had a strong signal. Since word was the gangs were communicating via text message, there was talk of shutting down the grid, lasting until nobody could figure out a way to do it quickly—something she was glad for now.

Above the fire smoke and tear gas residue staining the air in patches, the night sky was clear and she made out a bevy of news choppers with navigation lights flashing like the stars millions of miles beyond them. Creeping closer to J Street and the home of Diablo Alcantara’s sister, Caitlin froze just beyond the spray of a streetlight showcasing a block packed with gang members proudly and openly displaying their colors.
Amid the gang bangers unified in this unholy alliance, she spotted a stocky figure more bulk than muscle holding court near the rear. Diablo Alcantara had gotten into a knife fight while in high school and ended up losing an eye to a slice that split the left side of his face right down the middle. Even in pictures, it was hard to look at the jagged scar and translucent orb visible through the narrow slit Alcantara had for a socket without feeling a flutter in her stomach from the sight.

Caitlin knew the stocky figure was Alcantara the moment he turned enough toward the streetlight for its spray to reflect off the marble-like thing wedged into his skull in place of an eye. She counted fifty bangers in the vicinity armed with assault rifles and submachine guns no intelligence report had made mention of, meaning such firepower must’ve only just reached the scene courtesy the cartels.

The bangers, under Diablo Alcantara’s leadership, looked ready to launch their assault that would push the rioting from this neighborhood into the city proper, intent on turning San Antonio into Juarez. Caitlin’s plan hadn’t accounted for going up against heavy weaponry, but the reality made its implementation all the more necessary. Giving the matter no further consideration, she lifted the cell phone closer and pressed out three words in a text message:

COME ON IN

Caitlin figured she had three, maybe four minutes to wait, spending the first of them following the gang members’ antics in preparation for what was to come. Some of them wore military-grade flak jackets, in odd counterpoint to the pungent scent of marijuana smoke gradually claiming the air. She watched beer bottles drained and smashed, a few stray shots fired into the air to cheering by the most chemically altered in the bunch.

Caitlin checked her watch one last time before she stepped out from the darkness onto the street, light glinting off her badge and holstered pistol in plain view, as she continued toward the center of the block.

“I’m a Texas Ranger,” she called out to the gang members, whose gazes fixed on her in disbelief. “All of you, stay right where you are.”

‘It’s not the same,’ Melanie argued. ‘She can do some shopping when she comes here. Nobody wants to shop in Coniston, do they? Making a delivery over there really is a waste of time and petrol. And you’re not supposed to do too much driving, remember.’ Melanie’s protectiveness had become a habit since Simmy had suffered an injury, shortly before Christmas, and been forbidden to drive until early in February. She had used crutches throughout most of January. Damage to her head had necessitated a shaven area, which prompted her to have a very short all-over haircut that still felt strange.

‘Well it’s too late now. I just hope it doesn’t go mad tomorrow or I’ll be turning orders away. You know you’ll be doing all the local ones, don’t you?’ ‘Yeah, yeah. My feet’ll be worn away to nothing by the time I’ve done them all.’ There had been a degree of discord about how Melanie might best make the deliveries of flowers in the streets of Windermere and Bowness. Her battered car was deemed by Simmy to be bad for the image of the business, but she had compromised slightly, and agreed that it could be left full of flowers in the Bowness car park, and again at the northern end of Windermere, for increased efficiency. She had also, as a major concession, permitted Melanie to use the van while she herself had been unable to drive. As a resident of an area renowned for walking, the girl was almost a freak in her reluctance to use her own legs as a means of transport.

CHAPTER 1

The NYPD Harbor Launch Patrolman Crane thudded over the waves toward the Brooklyn docks.
Millions of New Yorkers lived on islands and never gave a thought to the sea surrounding them. At this moment, the water was very much on Taylor’s mind. Gripping the rail of the police boat, he was looking down at a small undulating patch of it. Throwing up.

Minutes earlier, Taylor had watched the big orange Staten Island Ferry John F. Kennedy cross the harbor. He’d stared too long, and the police boat had bounced even harder as it crossed the ferry’s wake. The rocking of the Patrolman Crane and the counter movement of the Kennedy on Taylor’s immediate horizon had sent him running for the side.

Once he was done, Taylor stood and leaned against the side of the boat. A small American flag fluttered from a pole on the back of the launch. The Patrolman Crane’s white cabin and pilothouse, which took up most of the space on the vessel, were in front of him. The NYPD craft looked like a working boat—all business—and one that could move quickly when necessary.

Officer Greg Mott laughed at Taylor’s rookie distress. “You haven’t been out on the water for thirty minutes and you’re sick.” He handed Taylor a wet cloth.

Taylor wiped his face and thanked the Greek Orthodox God of his late mother he’d only had a buttered hard roll for breakfast two hours ago.

“Wouldn’t mind if this was real news. Seasick for a feature story? Not a price worth paying.”

“We’ve had a bunch of ride-alongs with reporters. Suddenly there’s lots of interest because the tall ships are coming for the Bicentennial celebrations. Usually no one cares what we do out here.”

Taylor gritted his teeth and ordered his stomach to stop flipping. It wasn’t listening.

The police boat slowed as it neared the Brooklyn piers, which jutted into water deceptively blue, considering how badly polluted it was. Must be some trick of the light.

Mott, a short, muscular member of the NYPD scuba team, leaned against the rail. “How the hell you going to cover Operation Sail if you’re seasick?”

“After this one feature about the harbor and what you guys will be doing July Fourth, I’m working from dry land. There are lots of safe, solid places to watch the boats.”

“Wouldn’t call them boats. Not if you want to write accurate. There’ll be ships. A lot of ships. Full-rigged and barks and barkentines and schooners.”

“Sound like an expert.”

“Sail myself. I begged to work the Bicentennial on Sunday. July Fourth, 1976. Two hundredth birthday of the USA. We’ll have the biggest modern day assembly of tall ships ever. Naval review. Fireworks. Great day to be on the water. Then there’s all the events on land. Might not see the like of any of it again. I mean, took them years negotiating just to get the ships here.”

At this moment, Taylor didn’t care if he saw a boat, ship, or whatever again, much less stood on one.

Sergeant Pat McCarthy, pilot and commander of the launch, stuck his head out the window of the bridge.

“Get ready, Motty. Possible drop.”

Mott pulled on his wetsuit and zipped himself in. “What’s the call?”

“Someone said they saw something go in before dawn.” “They’re telling us that now?”

“Precinct’s apparently been really busy.” Sarcasm seasoned McCarthy’s thick New York accent—Queens or maybe the borderlands with Brooklyn. “New York, man.”

Mott checked his equipment. Taylor marveled at him. The man should get a medal for just jumping into the polluted soup of New York Harbor.

“What’s a ‘drop’?” Taylor said.

“Drugs, usually. They cruise over from Jersey and dump sealed packages near the piers for pick-up later. The narcotics boys have had me check a bunch of times. Came up with four kilos of smack a month ago.”

“Why go by water?”

“Because of traffic stops outside the Jersey docks. The narcs have a fix on some of the suppliers’ messenger boys. Been grabbing them after the stuff comes off the freighters.”

Taylor shook his head. More than a decade covering cops in New York, and he still came across new and different ways to commit crime. The launch slowed more as McCarthy eased the craft between two piers. Sunlight turned to shadow. The morning had started with the air on land humid and heating up, but the breeze across the water made it feel less like an oppressive summer day.

The police boat stopped, gently bobbing between the pilings. That wasn’t enough to convince his stomach. Taylor didn’t know what would, but he wasn’t putting his head over the side if a real story was about to come aboard. He’d held no hope of anything that good happening when he stepped onto the launch.

Mott dropped into the water. Minutes passed. He came up with a headshake and dove again.
McCarthy stood by the rail, watching.

Taylor joined him. “How does he know where to look?” “The divers have a way of combing an area. Eliminates guesswork. Dumbasses think they can throw a gun in the water and it’s gone. They’re so wrong. Motty and the other divers know what they’re about.”

“What will they do during Operation Sail?”

“Untangle anchor lines of civilian craft. Help direct traffic. We hope nothing more serious. The Coast Guard expects thousands of small boats. Maybe more. We don’t want anything bad to go down on Sunday. New York needs this.”

Mott came up, pulled his mouthpiece out, and yelled for a line.

“Drugs?”

“Up against one of the pilings. A body.”

“Shit. I’ll call homicide.”

It took Mott more than ten minutes to get the body properly secured with the line. McCarthy and a second crewman strained to pull the dripping thing up into the boat. Water ran off a blue gingham dress onto the deck. The face and arms were already puffed up. Taylor knew the dead woman hadn’t been in the water long because the body would have looked a whole lot worse. She was white, with red hair, and appeared to have been relatively young. Her right foot had on a purple sandal. Her left was bare. She’d been shot in the right eye.

The witness had seen the body dumped early this morning. It was like the woman had gone for a summer walk sometime on Tuesday and run into terrible violence.

Around the body’s waist, looking almost like a floatation belt, was taped a chain of six square packages wrapped in heavy-duty black plastic. Maybe garbage bags. Maybe sheets of industrial-grade stuff.

Mott came up the ladder and dropped an iron bar in the boat. “That was tied to her foot. Why she wasn’t a floater.” Perversely, the body had settled Taylor’s stomach. Now he had a crime to focus on, and the possibility of a real story acted like some kind of natural Dramamine. He eased around to her left side. There was a deep depression above her left ear, the hair still matted by dried blood that hadn’t washed away. Hit hard and shot. Just to make sure? Somebody seriously wanted this woman dead. He wrote down everything he saw so he’d remember what to ask about later.

Wearing a work glove, McCarthy leaned in and pressed one of the black packages. It gave in to the pressure. “They’re not weights. That was the iron bar’s job. What’s inside stayed dry. The heroin we pulled up last month was wrapped exactly like this.”

Taylor looked up from his notebook. “Really think it’s drugs?”

“What else?”

“Why would someone deliver drugs strapped to a body?” “What if we didn’t pull her up?”

“Well, whoever was coming for the drugs would find her.”

Taylor pointed at the blue gingham.

“Exactly. I ain’t no detective. Never will be. Like driving my boat too much. My guess is someone’s sending a message.”

“Who?”

“That I couldn’t tell you. Know a message when I see one. Right now, I got other things to worry about. This week is supposed to be big PR for the city. My captain is going to go through the roof. Like I dropped the poor thing in the water.”

McCarthy went back to the cockpit, slowly backed the 50-foot Patrolman Crane out and navigated her between Governor’s Island and Brooklyn. Taylor, at the rear, took one moment to watch the Brooklyn Bridge, with its massive granite towers and, by comparison, fragile webs of steel cables, recede and disappear as the boat came around Red Hook. He loved that bridge, New York’s most majestic. As a Queens boy, he had to give Brooklyn credit for the bridge, but that was all. Brooklyn had nothing else to recommend it. He could say that in full confidence, especially since he lived there now.

McCarthy, the crewman, and Mott attended to their duties, taking care of all sorts of boat-related chores. There wasn’t anything more they could tell Taylor about the woman. Once the bridge disappeared from view, he sat near the body with his long, lanky legs stretched out in front of him, wondering who had put her under the water as some kind of message. He folded a stick of Teaberry Gum in his mouth to clear the bad taste. His stomach didn’t flinch. He stayed with her during the launch’s short journey from the piers to Harbor Charlie, the docks at the Army Terminal used by the Patrolman Crane and the rest of the Harbor Precinct.

Narcotics and homicide detectives, two apiece, from the 72nd Precinct were on the scene when the launch tied up. The narcs and the murder cops both wanted the case. They were still arguing over jurisdiction when the wagon took away the woman’s body. McCarthy and his crewman stowed gear and secured rope. Mott checked his diving equipment. Taylor hung back from the argument. Stepping in the middle of it would get him in trouble and yield no information.

The homicide cops ended the dispute by leaving. As the aristocracy of the NYPD, they swaggered off, probably certain they would go back to the house and win the turf war. Why were any of them trying so hard to add to their caseload? There was more than enough crime to go around for a police force shrunk by huge budget cuts. Too much. Maybe they wanted to be in on what was happening in New York Harbor this weekend. Even if it was the evil stuff.

One of the two narcotics detectives jumped into a Ford, leaving behind the other, Marty Phillips, a narc of Taylor’s acquaintance. Dressed in the not-quite-convincing attire of the modern plainclothesman—flared jeans, blue-and-white tie- dye T-shirt, and long hair not actually long enough—Phillips walked toward the exit to the street.

Taylor caught up. “Where’re you heading?”

“I need a drink.” Phillips always needed a drink. “How’d you sniff this one out so fast?”

“I was on the launch.”

Phillips’ light-brown eyes gave Taylor a quizzical look.

“A ride-along for an Operation Sail feature.”

“Seriously? Police reporter like you is writing about sailboats?”

“Everybody’s writing about sailboats. At least through the weekend. That why the homicide guys wanted to add this to their board?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ve seen killings over drug deals. I’ve seen ’em over who sells on what corner. This doesn’t fit.”

“This one’s not about corners.” Phillips looked around, which was odd, since he wasn’t a guy to worry who heard what. “It’s an import war. Not saying more out on the street. Let’s get a beer. Fraunces Tavern.”

“All the way back in Manhattan?” “I like to get off my patch to think.” To drink.

After the subway ride under the East River, they walked several blocks, winding their way along the narrow streets that made downtown so different from the grid—the squares and numbers—of midtown. At the corner of Broad and Pearl Streets stood Fraunces Tavern, one of New York’s great survivors. Built in 1719, a tavern off and on since 1762, it had been headquarters to Washington and witnessed his farewell to his officers.

As they both stepped up to the bar, Taylor breathed in sweet wood polish mixed with the pleasant hint of fresh beer. The tavern’s greatest feat of survival was the most recent one: re- opening after being bombed by the Puerto Rican terrorist liberation group FALN. A year ago January, a deadly explosion had ripped through the building when ten sticks of dynamite detonated, killing four and injuring more than 50. A crack running through the wall mural of the City of New York remained as a testament to the attack.

Taylor pushed a hand through windblown brown hair, trying to get back the rough side part that was supposed to last all day. He didn’t carry a comb. Unlike Phillips’ hair, his was trimmed shorter than the fashionable style. He’d tried long hair briefly, but it’d looked messy and dirty. He now kept the close, parted style he’d worn—except for the experiment with the mop top—since he’d outgrown his childhood crew cut.

Phillips ordered rye on rocks, and Taylor a seven-ounce Rolling Rock. It was a few minutes after noon.

“What’s with the cute beers?”

“I’m a cute guy.”

Taylor didn’t tell the narc that drinking little beers was one of the rules he followed to avoid the alcoholism of his father. The rules weren’t something he shared with cops—or anyone else. His stomach had already settled some. The Rolling Rock would be the real test. The first sip went down well. In fact, made him feel better.

Phillips took a big swallow of rye. “Never used to come here. Place is for bankers, not cops. But I’ll be fucked if some scumbag ’Rican terrorists are going to kick me out of a bar.”

“Still haven’t arrested anyone.”

“This is America. We let you blow shit up. We let you get away.”

“Tell me about this import war.”

“Where’s the heroin on the street come from?’

That question was New York Crime 101. “Mostly Afghanistan by way of Marseilles. Brought in by the Italian mob.”

“Yeah. The Fronti crime family, to be specific. That’s one reason for those Brooklyn pier drops. When the package comes in on a ship, the ship docks in Jersey. Slipping across the water’s become a safer way to get it over. But there’s a new supply of heroin and a new supplier. China White out of Southeast Asia. The Golden Triangle. The Leung tong in Chinatown is bringing it in. They want the import license for New York City.”

Confirms what Mott said about Brooklyn drops. But….

“It’s actually referred to as the ‘import license’?” “No, that’s me. Pretty good huh?”

He smiled around another swallow of whiskey. “How’s the murder figure into this?”

“The tong wants to take over as heroin supplier to New York City. I’ll bet money the victim’s related to someone in the Fronti family. That woman’s a statement.”

“McCarthy said something like that. Sounds like a leap with the body just recovered.”

“C’mon. It’s even obvious to a guy who paddles around in a boat. Wives and kids are off limits for the Italians. Nobody hits them. The tong doesn’t play by the same rules. Slant-eyed bastards never do. That’s why her body says this is about the import war.”

“What other evidence you got?”

“There’s already more China White on the street. This is big. It’s why the homicide guys want in. Important case. Meanwhile, they want us to stay on the street busting pushers—who will sell whatever comes their way. Pushers don’t care who’s importing. They want the smack the addicts will buy. China White is the better shit.”

Taylor got Phillips a second rye and left the narcotics cop at the bar. The one little beer on an empty stomach had already given him a buzz. He needed to get out of there before he spent the afternoon drinking and talking cop stories he wouldn’t remember later.

He caught the subway uptown to Times Square and walked one block to the City News Bureau’s offices in the Paramount Building. He needed to manage expectations with Henry Novak. He’d write the feature on the harbor patrol. He also wanted to work on something his boss—and friend—wasn’t looking for on the eve of the Bicentennial. Taylor was covering a murder that could turn into a big drug story.

© Rich Zahradnik

Chapter One

Jack Logan had ditched his Catholic upbringing but kept the guilt. He hadn’t planned on blowing his entire afternoon listening to the woman he was interviewing talk about her dead daughter, but he didn’t have the heart to tell the grieving mother that he already had enough for the story. So instead, he bought her lunch and dinner, listening as she painted a picture of the girl she had loved and had failed to save. Now he was behind schedule and would have to work all night. Man, he hated the pieces involving kids. The parents got to him every time, and his attempts at comforting them were as effective as a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.

His phone was ringing as he approached the door to his apartment, and he jammed the key in the lock. Pushing the door open, he rushed over and snatched it, upsetting the bottle of Bass Ale and spilling the dregs on the table.

“Great.” He clicked the green button. “Yes?”

“Could you sound any more annoyed?” It was his editor.

“Sorry, Max. What’s up?” He sunk into the worn leather sofa and ran a hand through his hair.

“Tried your cell. Went right to voice mail.”

“I was interviewing one of the mothers.”

The sound of papers rustling came over the phone. “You already did your piece on the decision. What’s the angle on the follow-up?”

“The fall out, the casualties left in the wake of the decision to let the show go on.”

A sharp intake of breath. “You’re not saying they should have censored it?”

“No, no. Of course not. But their voices deserve to be heard.” This had been a particularly difficult assignment for him. He wasn’t much of a television watcher, but when the class action suit involving the production company behind Teenage Wasted reached the Supreme Court, he’d tuned in. At first it looked just like another of the ubiquitous reality shows jamming the airwaves—an eclectic group of teenagers allowing the cameras behind the scenes into their world. Within the first five minutes of the show, Jack had sat open-mouthed while a young man retrieved paraphernalia from under his bed, pulled up a porn site on his computer, and began doing what your average adolescent boy did behind closed doors. Cheap shock value but not much in the way of entertainment. It wasn’t until he put the noose around his neck that Jack’s shock turned to horror. So that was what erotic asphyxiation looked like up close and personal.

The blogosphere went nuts the following day, and YouTube videos of other kids demonstrating their own secret hobbies began to appear. When kids started turning up dead, that’s when it hit the fan. A class action suit was filed against Omega Inc., the entertainment giant responsible for the new show. The Supreme Court decision had been handed down a few weeks ago, and the parents were still in shock that they’d lost. The show went on—more popular than ever. Omega won under freedom of speech protection, which Jack couldn’t argue with, but still, what they were doing was disgusting—perverting the first amendment for their own profit. He was happy to do his part to help tarnish their reputation.

“All right, email it when you’re finished. You still coming tonight?” Max asked.

Jack grimaced. Sally Goldman’s retirement party. He had forgotten.

“Wish I could, but I’m too jammed up with this.” Sally was a great gal. He was sorry he’d have to miss it. He’d send her some flowers tomorrow.

He’d better get to it. He opened up his laptop and began to organize his notes. He was starving; he’d barely touched his dinner earlier. He picked up the phone to order a pizza when the doorbell rang. He made no move to answer it. Maybe if he ignored it, they’d go away. It rang a second, third, and fourth time. He slammed the phone down, jumped up and strode to the door, ready to tell whoever it was to beat it. The words died on his lips when he opened the door. Probably best not to piss off a United States senator.

From the first time he’d met Senator Malcolm Phillips, something about him struck Jack as off. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly: the guy’s manners were impeccable, his background impressive. Phillips was perfect. A little too perfect. Everything about him was so well rehearsed that Jack could almost believe there was an invisible teleprompter feeding him his lines. What surprised Jack most was how Phillips’s wife, Taylor, failed to see he was all wrong for her. Of course, he kept this to himself. His opinion didn’t mean anything to Taylor anymore.

He opened the door, and Phillips walked in.

Going no farther than the hallway, he began. “I won’t waste time with pleasantries. I need your help.” His voice shook, and his face was ashen.

“What is it?”

“I scuttled the vote. It was supposed to be a good thing. But he added a gateway. He has to be stopped.”

“Whoa, what’s going on?”

He handed Jack an envelope as he spoke in an uncharacteristically nervous rush. “Take this. You’ll need it to convince Taylor. I didn’t believe it. He told me he would do it. I didn’t believe him but…they’ll kill me.”

This was insane. He hadn’t seen Phillips in years—and now here he was, rambling like a crazy person.

“What are you talking about? Slow down and tell me what’s going on,” Jack said.

“No time. You’re the only one I trust. You’ve got to find Jeremy. Get Taylor to him. They won’t hurt her now, but later…I was so stupid…”

Phillips was pacing now, and sweat had broken out on his forehead.

“Who’s Jeremy? You’re not making any sense,” Jack said.

“Go to Taylor and show it to her.” He pointed to the envelope. “It’s a sealed letter, so she’ll know it’s real. Get Taylor and take her to the cabin.”

How did he know about the cabin?

“I’m the last person Taylor wants to see. She’s not going to go anywhere with me.”

Phillips grabbed his arm.

“They own me. And Brody Hamilton too. You’ll see when they kill me. Then you’ll know.”

“When who kills you?”

Phillips backed away.

“Promise me, you’ll get her to Jeremy.” He handed Jack a remote control. “This will get you into the garage. I’ve taped our address to the bottom.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Remember, Jack, no matter what it looks like, I’m not suicidal nor prone to accidents.”

He was gone before a flabbergasted Jack could respond.

Jack shut the door, began to walk away, then turned back and engaged the extra deadbolt. His eyes narrowed as he looked around, half expecting a phantom to appear.

What was Phillips talking about? Did someone really want him dead—someone powerful enough to own two senators? His head began to pound, and he leaned forward to massage his temples. What had Phillips done? Maybe he was nuts, early onset dementia. Jack could only hope. And now he expected Jack to play the hero to Taylor? He wouldn’t blame her if she slammed the door in his face.

He would do some digging. Try and make sense of what had just landed in his lap. He threw the envelope on the table, opened his laptop, and set a Google alert for Senator Malcolm Phillips.

CHAPTER TWO

Senator Malcolm Phillips was 110 feet underwater. He checked the metrics on his dive computer—five more minutes before he was in danger of getting the bends. He had spent too much time in one room of the wreck and now would have to forgo exploring the rest of it. Scuba diving was the only time he truly relaxed. Wreck diving was his favorite. He loved the history and mystery associated with these old Japanese ships. Part of the appeal of this remote Micronesian island was his ability to blend in—nobody knew who he was or paid him any extra attention. After he had landed in Guam, he had called his old friend and borrowed his private plane. He wanted to disappear for a little while. After what he pulled with the vote, he knew it was only a matter of time. He wanted to be as far away from Taylor as possible—to be sure she wasn’t caught in the crossfire. It was easy to get away; she’d never shown an interest in diving, and was used to him taking these trips alone. Knowing he was on borrowed time, he was all the more determined to make the most of this trip. Who would have thought that he would be willing to make such a sacrifice? Before Taylor, he had never done a single thing out of concern for another person. As some would say, miracles never cease.

He began ascending, making a concentrated effort to exhale as he rose. The water caressed his skin, and he surveyed the visual feast surrounding him. Angelfish painted in vibrant blues and yellows swooshed by, oblivious to their glory. The soft whooshing of his regulator filled his ears, and the lack of conversation added to his pleasure—no lobbyists hounding him to push a bill. Closing his eyes, he relished the feeling of floating through the ocean. His relaxation was interrupted by the sound of his dive computer. Beep…beep…beep. What was wrong? He looked at his wrist—the ascent warning. He was going up too fast. Swimming back towards the wreck, he grabbed the rope dangling from the boat above. Now he would need to hang for at least ten minutes. He continued checking his gauge while he held on to the rope, then began a slow ascent when enough time had elapsed. At last, he broke the surface and felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face. After climbing aboard the boat, he slipped the heavy tanks off his back and discarded his wet suit. He was looking forward to a well-earned lunch.

When he reached the outdoor restaurant, a young man showed him to a table overlooking the sea. He inhaled deeply. Salt and diesel combined to make a surprisingly pleasant aroma. He ordered a Yap and made notes in his diving log. His waiter returned with the beer and smiled at Malcolm.

“We have nice fresh fish mister. You want same as yesterday?”

Malcolm nodded. “Let the chef know it’s for me. He knows how I need things prepared.”

“Yes, sir.” He bobbed his head and left.

The buttery fish was delicious and he devoured it. Leaning back with a satisfied sigh, he debated whether or not to order another beer. Deciding a nap would be even better, he paid the bill and walked the quarter mile to the small hut he was staying in. His throat felt funny. He tapped his pants pocket to see if it was there. Deep breath, don’t worry. Maybe he was coming down with a cold. When he reached the hut, he had to steady himself, and he leaned against the door. The scratchiness in his throat intensified, and he became dizzy. The realization that he was having an allergic reaction hit him, and he pulled the EpiPen® from his pocket. He snapped open the case, removed the safety, and plunged the pen into his right thigh. Relax. It’ll kick in soon.

But it didn’t. The tightening around his neck increased, and he managed to croak out a dry, wheezing cough. Staggering to the dresser, he felt around for another Epi and stabbed it into his other leg. The face looking back at him in the mirror wasn’t his, the swelling so exaggerated it rendered him unrecognizable. This couldn’t be happening. Not yet. Dread filled him. Someone had tampered with the food—and his medicine. His shellfish allergy was in his medical file. Grasping the dresser, he pulled the phone toward him as he fell to the ground. When he lifted the receiver to his ear, there was only silence.

Chapter Three

Jack had really thought Phillips was off his nut—on drugs, anything but serious. But when he got the Google alert that morning, he realized with a sinking feeling that Phillips had been telling the truth.

Dead. Phillips had been standing in this apartment less than a week ago. A chill ran through Jack as he grasped the full implications of this news. Phillips had made a powerful enemy, and if Jack decided to get involved, he would be turning himself into a target.

He’d done some quick research on the bill Phillips had been ranting about. It was fairly innocuous, just broadening the range of vaccines that received federal funding to help those who couldn’t afford them. Sure, maybe someone didn’t want to allocate the money, but to kill over it? That was a few days ago and he’d chalked up the bizarre visit to some medical thing that must be going on with Phillips. But as soon as he got the alert, he knew he had to get to Taylor right away. It was too coincidental. Phillips was dead—reportedly, some kind of accidental death while on a diving trip. He remembered Phillips’s warning about not being accident prone.

Throwing a few things into a duffel, he opened his safe and took out his SIG. He made sure to pack extra ammo too. He went to the hall closet and grabbed his go bag. That would take care of Taylor and him for a couple of weeks. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get Taylor to leave with him. He had a few hours to think about it on the drive from the city to her house in McLean, Virginia. He took the 66 Mustang—no GPS.

Why would Phillips have been murdered? Maybe Taylor would know more; Phillips must have discussed it with her. And what was Hamilton’s connection?

The sun was setting when he pulled up to the house. The massive, black iron gates were closed, and he had to get out of the car to swipe the card reader to open them. He had never been to the house Taylor shared with Phillips, and when he pulled up to the enormous, French colonial estate, his eyes widened. There were five exterior stone arches illuminated by large, round light fixtures above them. A second-story balcony above the first level ran across the entire front of the house. This place cost serious money—more money than senators made. He remembered reading about it a while ago in Town and Country; it had its own basketball court, indoor pool, and home theater. Suited Phillips perfectly, but Taylor? Maybe she had changed over the years. What had happened to the little girl he had grown up with who hated ostentation?

He followed the circular driveway past the front door and around to the four-car garage, per Phillips’s instructions. Using the remote, he opened the garage door. Once inside, he pressed the intercom and waited. Jack had the code to get into the house, but he didn’t want to spook her.

A wary voice answered. “Who’s there?”

Hearing the strain and grief in her voice broke his heart. “It’s Jack.” He heard a dog growling in the background.

A click and then the door opened. She was standing on the other side, a ghost. They looked at each other.

He pulled something from his pocket. “Gummy bear?”

A forlorn smile appeared then vanished just as quickly. He crossed the threshold, and she fell into his arms. Her shoulders shook, and he held her while she sobbed. A golden retriever lay on the floor at her feet, strangely quiet now, looking back and forth at the two of them.

Finally, she pulled away and wiped her face with a tissue.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in to the garage?”

“Malcolm gave me the remote.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Let’s go inside, and I’ll explain everything.” He followed her into the huge kitchen and took in the marble countertops and the ornate chandeliers hanging above the center island, which could easily accommodate twenty people around it. He’d have bet she and Phillips could’ve walked around this house for days and not run into each other. Suddenly, he felt like that kid again, the one from the working-class family who didn’t know which fork to use.

The dog jumped up and nudged Jack’s hand with his head.

“This is Beau.” Her voice was wooden.

Jack crouched down and ruffled the fur on the dog’s head. Beau’s tail thumped wildly.

“Nice to meet you, Beau.” He looked up at her. “Malcolm came to see me last week. Told me that someone was after him. If anything happened to him, I was to come see you.”

“I can’t believe he’s d-dead.” She stumbled on the word.

“Taylor.” Jack took a breath. “It wasn’t an accident.” There was no easy way to say it, so he just said it. “He was murdered.”

She shook her head. “No-no. What are you talking about? He died of an allergic reaction. He’s allergic to shellfish. The medical examiner ruled it an accidental death.”

Jack persisted. “He warned me that something was going to happen to him.”

“I don’t understand. Why would he come to you? You hardly know him.”

“He said I was the only one he trusted. He’s seen me around the Hill, knows my reputation.” Jack hesitated before asking, “And I assume he knows our history, that I’d want to help?”

At this she glared at him. “Yeah, well, he should have gone to someone else.” She dabbed her eyes with the tissue clutched in her hand. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Did he say anything out of the ordinary before he left?”

She shook her head. “No. But…” She stood up, pacing. “Well, he was preoccupied, distracted. I just figured he was stressed from work. The trip was a last-minute thing, just to blow off some steam. I don’t dive. It’s something he does alone.”

Jack sighed. “He told me he would be killed, that I had to get you. You’re in danger. We have to leave tonight.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not going anywhere with you. I have to plan his funeral.”

He tried a different approach. “Let’s just back up a minute. What do you know about this vaccine bill?”

She shrugged. “Malcolm was for it. It was going to help a lot of families that couldn’t afford the vaccine. RSV is horrible and the vaccine is costly.”

“So then, why did he change his mind?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He voted no.”

“That doesn’t make any—”

She was interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.

“Are you expecting someone?” He didn’t like this. It was nine o’clock. He walked over to the window. Even with the outside lights on, the thick hedge of boxwood in front of the driveway made it impossible to see anything.

“See what they want, but don’t buzz them in.”

She gave him a skeptical look, then pressed the button on the speaker on the wall. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Phillips?” a gravelly voice asked.

“May I help you?”

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. We’re from the Capitol Police. We need to speak with you.”

She hit the buzzer. “Come in.”

“Why did you do that? How do you know they’re legit?”

“It’s the police. They must have news. What’s wrong with you?”

A few minutes later, the flash of headlights shone through the curtains briefly and a car door slammed.

Jack followed her into the hallway, and as she opened the door, he stood behind it, unseen. From Jack’s vantage point, he could only hear what was going on.

“May I see some ID, please?” Taylor asked. “What are you doing?” she asked, her tone rising.

Jack heard the storm door being rattled; then Taylor slammed the front door shut and engaged the deadbolt.

The sound of broken glass made them both jump, and Jack grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the hallway.

Her eyes were wide as she said, “When I asked for ID, he tried to open the door.”

Jack flew into action. “We have to leave. Now. Get in my car—it’s in the garage.” He pulled out his gun just in case there were any surprises waiting for them in the garage.

“I have to get my stuff.”

He could hear something ramming against the door. They’d be in the house any second.

“No time. Let’s go.”

“But—”

“Taylor, please!”

The dog started whining.

He started the car, not turning on the headlights. “I don’t know how we’re going to get past them.”

She pressed her index finger onto the fingerprint reader pad on the alarm panel, grabbed a key ring from the hook on the wall, then got in the passenger seat. He watched in shock as the ground in front of the car opened into a black void that ultimately revealed a downward ramp.

“What the—”

“It’s an underground tunnel. Installed by the previous owners.”

This was something new. He pressed on the gas and slid the car into the dark opening. It led them about a mile from the house, still her property apparently, until they came to what looked like a solid concrete wall that was stained red from years of ground water rusting the concrete’s re-bar.

“Now what?”

She took the key ring, which had a small LED flashlight attached, and illuminated the wall until she found the oval embossed star on the face of the concrete. Holding the proximity sensor on the key chain against the star, the muted sound of mechanical movement commenced. The wall slowly opened as if it were a garage door.

Jack drove through and cast a sidelong view at Taylor. “Seriously? Was the previous owner regularly hunted by assassins or something?”

“She was a former head of state. It’s one of the things that drew Malcolm to the house. He thought it was cool. Like the bat cave or something.” She bit her lip. “I always thought it was ridiculous. Never thought I’d need to use it.”

Jack was relieved to see that theirs was the only car on the road and that they’d make a clean getaway.

“Who do you think was at the door?” she asked.

“I can only assume they’re connected to whomever killed Malcolm.”

“So it’s really true? He was murdered?”

“Looks that way. I know it’s crazy, but right now we just need to put some distance between us and them—whoever they are. Let’s get out of the state, and we’ll stop somewhere for the night. I’ll show you everything when we get there.”

She ran a hand through her hair and looked at him.

“This is surreal. I can not believe I’m actually in a car with you running off into the night.” Then her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“My progesterone shots.”

“Your what?”

“Jack. I’m pregnant—with a high-risk pregnancy. I need to take these shots for two more weeks. Without them, I could lose the baby. I have to refill my prescription. We have to go back.”

Jack shook his head. “We can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

Pregnant! Phillips had left that little tidbit out. Jack rubbed his temples and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”

Chapter Four

The limousine came to a stop, and as Damon Crosse waited for his driver to get out and open his door, he admired the elaborate stone building he had commissioned. Towering iron gates, which surrounded the perimeter of the property, served as a deterrent to the curious; guards stationed in towers, and twenty-four-hour video surveillance ensured that he was informed of all goings-on at all times. He divided his time between this facility, and the one much more secluded and secret, where the important work was being done. But, today was the start of the new fellowship program and he was curious to get a look at the newest recruits. Before getting out of the car, he removed a long white hair from his pant leg. He would have to speak to his housekeeper about brushing Peritas more often. He normally kept the dog with him, but today his schedule was too packed to give him the attention he deserved.

The latest group had arrived last night, right on schedule. Walking the long hallway to the west elevator, he entered and pushed the button, tapping his foot on the descent to the basement level. He emerged and walked down the cold, bare corridor. Entering the room adjoining the barracks, he observed the new group through the two-way mirror. They sat on their bunks, awaiting further instruction. Their excited chatter and delight with the novelty of their circumstances would soon be replaced by an apprehensive awe due to the formidable surroundings. Every group reacted the same way. A knock at the door made him turn.

“You may enter,” he said.

“Sir, is there anything else you desire?”

“Everything is as it should be?”

“Yes, sir. The dossiers are on your desk. Everything so far is unremarkable.”

“That is all then.”

His estate manager cleared his throat.

“What is it, Jonas?”

“He’s waiting in your office, sir.”

“Very well.”

Damon watched as the heavy door closed. He observed them for half an hour. Deciding he had let the visitor wait long enough, he rose and returned to the main level, and to his study.

He stopped before opening the door, pulled out his cell phone, and watched the man on the screen. Dwarfed by the enormous wing chair he sat in, the visitor waited. Despite the chill in the air, perspiration had discolored his thin white shirt, and beads of sweat glistened on his brow. He muttered, “We’ll find her sir. Not to worry. Not to worry.” His head bobbed as he repeated the mantra to himself over and over.

Damon frowned, put the phone in his pocket, and opened the door.

“So good of you to come.” Damon’s smooth, deep voice resonated in the room. “I trust you have good news for me?” He seated himself behind the large mahogany desk and looked at the visitor with pursed lips.

The man swallowed. “She got away, sir.”

“How?” Damon pressed in a soft voice.

“She must have had someone helping her. Her car was still in the garage.” The man hesitated. “We never saw another car. I don’t know how she got away. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.”

Damon said nothing.

The man in the chair flinched, and hurried on. “We’ll find out who it is. We will. We’ve got a lot of men on it, it won’t be long. I’m sure, sir—we’ll fix it. Stupid, stupid, I know but—”

“Enough,” he said. His left hand moved to a small box that sat on the corner of the desk, and with deliberate calm, he pressed the red button. He looked up and studied the visitor for a full minute before he spoke again. “You have failed.”

As Damon stood, he nodded toward the back of the room and the three men who had entered silently surrounded the visitor. They didn’t need to use any force to subdue him. Everyone in Damon’s employ understood the consequence of failure.

He pressed his intercom. “Jonas.”

The door opened. “Yes, sir?”

“Send a team to the Phillips house. Have them retrieve the video footage. I want to know who’s with his wife, and I want to know yesterday.”

“Of course, sir.”

Chapter Five

One hundred and fifty miles later, Jack pulled over at a run-down motel and got them a room. The rumpled man behind the desk looked annoyed at having to tear himself away from his porn magazine to wait on them. In response to his request for a credit card, Jack slapped two hundred-dollar bills on the counter. They disappeared into the man’s pocket and a room key appeared in their place. No one else was around, so it was easy to sneak Beau into the room.

The stink of stale cigarettes wafted over Jack when he opened the door. He flipped a switch, and a dingy bulb in a cracked lamp illuminated the room. He threw his bag on one of the two orange Naugahyde chairs next to the small, round wooden table.

Taylor looked around the room, her eyes resting a moment on the double bed, then back at Jack.

“One bed. You should have gotten two rooms.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll take one of the chairs.”

She pulled the comforter off the bed, folded it, and placed it on the floor. Jack didn’t even want to think what kinds of stains would show up on it under a black light. Sitting on the bed, she called Beau over and patted the mattress until he jumped up next to her.

Jack handed Taylor a protein bar, but she shook her head.

“You have to eat. Think of the baby.”

She took the bar, opened it, pulled off a small piece and put it in her mouth. “I don’t even have any clothes with me,” Taylor said, as she watched Jack put his duffel bag on the table.

“We’ll have to pick some things up tomorrow.” Rifling through the bag, he brought out a pair of faded blue sweatpants and a Boston University sweatshirt. “In the meantime…,” he held his breath as he handed them to her, watching her expression carefully.

Her mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you still have these.” She held the shirt at arm’s length, looking it over, then shook her head. “You kept them all these years?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t force myself to get rid of them.”

She got a faraway look for a minute, pressed her lips together, stood up and walked into the bathroom without another word.

He turned on the TV and flipped channels until he found CNN.

She returned, having changed, and sat down at the table. “Tell me again about what Malcolm said when he came to your apartment.”

“He wasn’t making much sense, was clearly agitated. He mentioned someone named Jeremy that we need to find, said now that he’d voted against the bill, they would kill him. He also said Brody Hamilton was in on it. He gave me an envelope for you. Then he left.”

“Let me see it.”

Jack went to his briefcase, pulled out the letter and gave it to her, then sat back down.

She read it, then handed it back to Jack. “Go ahead. You can read it.”

My dear Taylor,

Let me begin by how saying I am sorry and how painful is to know that nothing I can do will fix the mess I’ve made. No matter how it started, in the end, I did love you. If you believe nothing else, believe that. You will find things out—things that will make you hate me. I need you to understand that what we’ve gone through in the last two years to create this life you carry, it changed me. Brought us closer and gave me a glimpse into real love—something I’d never known before you. It was your love and the love I already feel for our child that gave me the strength to stand up to them. To finally do the right thing.

There’s so much more at stake than meets the eye. For reasons too complicated to explain in this letter, I have changed my vote. Look into the rider. It opens the door for untold evil. And look into Brody Hamilton’s record. Once my vote is cast, they will know that I have deserted, and they will kill me. I can’t tell you how it will happen, or when but you must know that regardless of what it looks like, when you hear of my death, be certain it was not of my own doing. They are excellent at making things appear as they want. After all, they made up my entire background.

You must find a man named Jeremy. He is the key to everything. He has been in hiding for the past year and has, over that time, built up a network of allies and advocates. I’ve enlisted the aid of Jack, he has skills you are not aware of, and I believe together you can accomplish what neither of you could do alone.

Trust no one. Not the press, not the enforcement agencies. They are everywhere. Disappear. Go deep. I have already arranged your first stop. Jack knows where to go. Once you arrive, you will find instructions for your next stop. Don’t waste time. It is imperative that you get to Jeremy as soon as you can.

I don’t deserve your forgiveness but I pray that one day you will find it in your heart to grant it.

All my Love,

Malcolm

When Jack had finished, he looked at her. “Wow.”

“Yeah, I don’t even know where to start. What does he mean, ‘they made up my entire background’?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But he told me that he was owned. Hamilton too.”

Taylor looked shocked. “No. That’s impossible. You must be wrong.”

“Look Taylor, I know this is hard to take in, but you need to think. Who else could be involved? He already mentioned Hamilton. What about other politicians in D.C.?”

Jack could see the wheels turning in her mind. Grabbing the cheap, plastic motel pen from the table, she rooted in her bag and brought out a small pad of paper.

“Number one: The rider. Two, Brody Hamilton, and three, Jeremy. Where is this cabin he mentioned?”

“The New Hampshire woods. It belongs to a friend of mine.”

She looked confused. “Why would he know anything about your friends, and why would he be keeping tabs on you?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can this be? How did he get through the background checks?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Whoever he works for is powerful enough to build him a bulletproof identity.”

The voice on the television got their attention.

“US Senator Malcolm Phillips was found dead in his room while vacationing in Truk Lagoon, a small island in Micronesia, yesterday afternoon. The senator apparently died of anaphylactic shock from a seafood allergy. In a bizarre twist, his wife, Taylor Parks Phillips, is missing. Funeral services are on hold until Mrs. Phillips is located.”

Jack changed the channel again. Fox News was discussing the implications of Phillips’s death.

“On a more personal note Bill, what do you make of the wife’s disappearance? Seems a little strange, don’t you think?” A picture of Taylor flashed across the screen.

The news anchor’s eyes widened and he turned to his co-anchor.

“It seems there is a new development in the disappearance of Taylor Phillips. She may have been abducted. Take a look at this. A man was captured on video by the security camera.”

The footage showed Jack holding a gun as Taylor was rushed into the front seat of his car.

Jack cursed and turned the television off. “How did they get that?”

“We’ve got cameras everywhere.”

“Everyone will be looking for us. We’ve got to get moving, and we’ve got to dump my car.”

“What about my shots? We need to go back.”

She didn’t get it. “We can’t go back. I’ll figure something out. Trust me.”

As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them. Her expression said it all—trust was the last thing she would bestow on him. He would earn it back. Somehow. He would figure out a way to make things right.

Chapter Six

The sliver of light through the motel curtains woke Jack, and he stretched, trying to work out the kink in his neck from sleeping in the stiff chair. He glanced over at the bed and saw that Taylor was still asleep. He watched her as she slept and smiled when he saw that she still favored sleeping on her side with a pillow clutched tightly to her chest. It was hard to believe he hadn’t seen her in almost fifteen years. They had been good to her, and if it was possible, she was more beautiful now than she was back then. He knew he should wake her, that she’d be furious to know he was sitting here, staring at her while she was asleep, but he wanted a few minutes more to really look at her without her looking back at him with accusation in her eyes.

Beau sprang off the bed, and nudged Jack with his nose, and barked, letting Jack know he wanted to go out.

“Beau.” Taylor sat up, a look of confusion flickering across her face, as if she was trying to remember where she was. She slid from the bed in a single motion and put her feet into the loafers waiting on the floor.

“He needs to go out. I’ll take him.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t need a bodyguard. If you don’t give me some breathing room, this is never going to work.”

He put his hands up and backed away. “Okay, okay. Just let me do some quick surveillance to make sure no one found us.”

“By then we’ll have a puddle to clean up. Excuse me.” She pushed past him, grabbed Beau’s leash and opened the door. “I won’t be long.”

Jack followed immediately behind her. He didn’t care if she got annoyed.

They returned to the room without incident. Jack was mentally assessing what he needed to accomplish before they hit the road again. He pulled out his laptop, wanting to see how many outlets had picked up his story. He typed Manchester v Omega into Google and his name. This was interesting. Not many papers had run the story. He typed in Teenage Wasted to see if others had covered the ruling on the show. The page was full of links—mostly to YouTube. He scrolled down, clicked the first link, and was taken to a video.

It had an adult content warning and he clicked it and waited. Jack watched in horror as a young man demonstrated the most efficient way to set up an autoerotic asphyxiation room. He gave a tour of his room, a list of supplies, suggestions on where to hide them, where to set them up, and promises of a live demonstration to come.

“What are you watching?”

He paused it.

“I did a story on Manchester v Omega Entertainment. You know the case I mean? The class action suit about the kids’ reality show that went to the Supreme Court.”

“Of course. It’s been all over the news. Disgusting. I can’t believe Omega won.”

“Take a look at this. There are hundreds of them.”

He hit play again, and they continued watching the video until it ended with the noose around the boy’s neck and him winking. Then the screen went black.

Taylor shook her head. “Unbelievable. I wish Omega had lost.”

He arched an eyebrow. “A surprising stance coming from a journalist.”

She looked at him. “It’s not so black and white, Jack. There was an analogous case out of California a few years back, Brown v EMA. The state banned certain violent video games from being sold, and the gaming company fought back claiming protection under free speech. The gaming company won, but only because there wasn’t enough proof that the games incited violence.” She raised her eyebrows and gave Jack a long look. “I think we can safely say that’s not the case with this show.”

“Listen, Taylor. It wasn’t an easy call. On a personal level, I would like nothing more than to shut that show down. I’ve talked to those parents; they’re heartbroken. But I gotta say, it worries me when we start fooling around with constitutional liberties. This case was a slippery slope, dangerously close to censorship. But on an emotional level, I agree with you.”

Jack thought about the woman from his last interview. He’d seen a lot of grief, but the abject agony in her eyes haunted him. What could he say to this woman who had saved her daughter from the grips of death years earlier only to have her succumb to it in a misguided attempt to get high? Her words echoed in his mind.

“She spent years working with therapists. She was throwing up every day to look like those airbrushed models on the magazines. Finally gotten the bulimia under control. Was happy. And then…gone. Copying those foolish kids. Gone in seconds.”

How do you comfort someone like that? Did he want Omega to pay? Absolutely—but not if it meant screwing with the First Amendment.

“I read your articles.” She pursed her lips. “Your follow-up did a good job giving the parents a voice. It’s just that Omega’s behavior gives all us journalists a bad name.”

“Agreed.” He stood. “I’m going to run out and get some provisions before we hit the road later. Why don’t you start digging and see what you can find out about the bill and the rider? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Hold on. You can fill my prescription for progesterone.” She took the wallet from her purse and began looking through it. “Oh, no.”

“What is it?”

“I must have left it in my other bag. Jack, I need it. After everything I’ve been through, I’m not about to take any chances with this pregnancy. Get me a name of a pharmacy and I’ll call my doctor and have a new prescription called in.”

“We can’t do that, Taylor. It would lead them right to us.” Jack was quiet for a moment as he thought. “I have an idea.” He didn’t know why he didn’t think of it before.

“What?”

“My sister’s a nurse. I’ll see if she can get it.”

“Where does she live?”

“Boston. We’re headed there anyway.”

Relief filled her face. “That would be great. Here, let me write down the dosage.”

“You actually remember it?”

“Yeah, I could probably run my own fertility clinic at this point. Get fifty milligrams in oil. Enough for two weeks. Syringes too.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. Lock the door behind me and don’t go anywhere.”

Chapter Seven

Crosby Wheeler, CEO of Omega Entertainment looked at the men gathered around the table. He was in a good mood, pleased by his recent win in court. It was unfortunate that the parents of the kids who had died had gotten together so quickly and organized the class action suit. It was ridiculous to pin the blame on his show. That was the problem with society these days—no one wanted to take responsibility for their own actions. Instead of trying to make him take Teenage Wasted off the air, they should have been more involved with their kids, known what they were doing, maybe look in a closet or check their cell phone texts. His job wasn’t to parent America’s children. His job was to entertain.

He had jumped on the streaming bandwagon early. Omega had started small but was now the uncontested leader, made popular by his original programming. He made shows that no one else dared make. He was criticized widely by some, adored by others.

He’d never really had any doubt that they would prevail, but it had been an inconvenience having to put a hold on the show until it became official. Luckily, the forced hiatus had only increased interest in it, and he was certain that the losses incurred over the past several months would be made up in no time. He looked at his executive producer.

“Ratings are continuing to climb?”

The man nodded. “Yes, I just got the latest figures.”

“Any fallout?” he asked.

“Parents are outraged. They can’t accept that they’ve lost. The other networks are using it to their advantage, hosting parent interviews. We’ve lost a handful of sponsors.”

His new executive in charge of advertising, Adrian Winters, cleared his throat and spoke. “But we’ve got a long line of others waiting to take their place. I’ve replaced them at double the price.”

Crosby looked at him with interest. He took a sip from his bottle of mineral water. “Do tell.”

Winters picked up a mint from the crystal bowl in front of him and unwrapped it. “The media frenzy has caused the ratings to skyrocket. Internet channels are jamming from the traffic. It’s an advertiser’s dream.” He popped the mint in his mouth.

Crosby spoke. “Good work. Email me the list and the new production schedule.” He addressed his producer again.

“The kids on the show okay?”

“Mostly. They were pretty upset, but the counselors talked them down, gave out some anti-anxiety meds. They’ve been compensated.”

Crosby nodded. “Good. They need to understand that they are not responsible for the deaths of those kids who imitated them. Make sure their contracts are all up-to-date. We don’t need any more lawsuits.” He stood and left without another word.

Back in his office, he reviewed the newest script. It was going to make the other episodes look tame.

He opened his email and input the addresses of his top ten YouTubers. He wrote a short note, letting them know what he had planned for the next show and telling them to be ready to imitate it on camera, then post their videos after the show aired.

Chapter Eight

Taylor had been reading the bill for over an hour, and her eyes were starting to blur. It must be the pregnancy. She moved over to the bed, stretched out, and patted the space next her. Beau jumped up and nestled against her legs. His warm body was comforting, and she stroked his head.

“You’re wondering what in the world we’re doing here, aren’t you, baby?” She sighed.

The enticement of sleep became stronger, but she had to think. Oh, Malcolm, what did you do? How could it be that she would never again hear his soothing voice or feel his strong arms around her? That he wouldn’t be there with her to raise the child they’d worked so hard to conceive? He’d been her best friend these past few years, the one she’d confided everything in. She still had a hard time believing that his whole identity had been faked. Hot tears wet her cheeks, and she hugged Beau closer to her. The familiar ache returned. Being with Jack after all this time brought it back: the heartache, the betrayal. She needed to clear her head.

“Come on, boy. Let’s take a walk.” She got up and attached his leash, grabbed her purse, and left the room. Her father would be beside himself with worry after the news report. She had to let him know she was okay. She pulled out her phone and dialed the number to his cell phone.

He answered on the first ring.

“Taylor?” The deep voice of Warwick Parks came over the line.

“Dad?” Her voice broke with emotion.

“Taylor! Thank God. I’ve been out of my mind. Where are you?”

“Oh, Dad. I don’t know where to begin. Jack showed up at my house last night. He said Malcolm told him to come and get me, to keep me safe. It’s all so mixed up, I don’t know what to believe.”

“Listen to me, Taylor. I don’t know what in the world he’s thinking—whisking you off like that, but the police think he kidnapped you. He’s in a lot of trouble.”

“He didn’t kidnap me. Some men came to the house, and we had to leave. Malcolm went to see him. I can’t explain it all now. I just wanted you to know I’m okay. We’re trying to figure it out.” She heard a long sigh.

“Taylor, you need to come home. You haven’t seen Jack in years. You have a funeral to plan. Everyone’s looking for you. You can’t just run off…I don’t trust Jack.”

“Dad. Stop. You have to trust me. I have to see where this leads. Jack is not going to hurt me.” What did she expect? The bad blood between her father and Jack to just disappear?

“Tell me where you are.”

“At a motel somewhere. I don’t know exactly.”

“Where are you going?”

“We’re following clues Malcolm left in a letter to me, trying to find someone named Jeremy.”

“Are you crazy? This makes no sense. Come home!”

She had to hang up. “I love you. I don’t know when I can call again, but I will as soon as I can. Try not to worry.” She pressed End.

Beau sensed her mood and jumped, putting a paw on each shoulder, and gave her face three quick licks. Laughing, she rubbed his head.

“No matter what happens, I’ve always got you to cheer me up.” She took a seat on the bench by the motel’s front office and lifted her face to the sun. Beau curled up on the ground and rested his head on her foot.

The first time she had seen Beau, he had been a mess. Abandoned on the side of the road, his coat mangy, and with sores all over his legs, it was impossible to see what a beautiful dog he was. Taylor had loved him from the instant his soulful eyes locked upon hers. After a visit to the vet, he began to look better. But Malcolm had been less than thrilled. She recalled their conversation.

“How do you know where he came from? He could be rabid for all we know.”

Taylor had been floored. “The vet’s checked him out, and he’s fine,” she’d said fiercely. “All he needs is a little TLC. Please, Malcolm. He needs me.” Her voice broke. “And I need him.”

He’d softened. “All right, but, at the first sign of any aggression, that dog goes.”

She had cupped Beau’s head in her hands and lowered her face to his.

“No one will ever hurt you again. I promise,” she’d whispered and kissed him on the nose.

Beau had turned out to be a loving, gentle, and loyal companion. It was his calm and nurturing presence that had gotten her through all her days of disappointment and devastation month after month, year after year, when it looked as though she would never achieve her dream of becoming a mother. Despite his teddy-bear nature, he had also turned out to be a fierce guard dog and was particularly protective of Taylor. She had discovered this one day when the cable repairman had shown up at her door. Before she could let him in, Beau had gotten between her and the door, a deep growl rising from his throat. She had tried to calm him, but he’d been immovable. He began to bark ferociously, and, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pull him away from the door. Finally, she had to call through the intercom and ask the man to come back later. When she’d phoned her cable company to reschedule, she had been shocked to discover that the man they were to send wasn’t due to arrive for another two hours. She had wondered then, who had raised Beau the first few years of his life, and after that she’d never doubted his instincts again.

Chapter Nine

The Institute, 1975 May

I look straight ahead as the sedan climbs the long hill, and the stone building comes into sight. It is immense and imposing and makes me think of knights and maidens from a long time ago. A chill runs through me, and I have the urge to scream: Go back! Let me out! Get a grip, I think. My overactive imagination is at it again. I was chosen out of thousands for this elite, post-graduate fellowship program in medical research. We will be here for three months during which we will be closed off from the outside world. This is necessary, we are told, to help us to focus on the reason for being here—to get into the top 20% of the program and prove we are worthy of the one-year fellowship, all tuition paid. There is no time for distractions from family, friends, or lovers. I said my good-byes to my parents and my dear sister with the assurance that the months would fly, and before we knew it, we’d be celebrating my elevation into the full-year program. Because, of course, I intend to win. It’s my only chance to work under Dr. Strombill, the bioethicist I’ve admired for years. Now that I am actually going to meet him, to have the opportunity to impress him, I am feeling awestruck and giddy, and I’m never awestruck and giddy.

The car comes to a stop, and the driver walks around and opens my door. I smile at him, and he looks right through me.

“Please proceed to the front steps.”

I grab my backpack, throw it over one shoulder, and walk the cobblestone path to the immense structure. I wait for the others to fall in line, and while I do, I study the ornate carving on the door. I’ve never seen anything like it before; it’s a crest and a dragon-like creature. The beast is otherworldly and grotesque but beautiful at the same time. I am oddly drawn to it and reach out to trace the lines of its head when a voice behind me makes me snatch my hand back.

“Put your belongings on the ground next to you. You will have no need of them.”

There is an instant outcry of protest, and I clutch my purse to my side as my heart pounds in indignation. But then, the door opens and when I look inside, my indignation turns to awe.

Chapter Ten

Jack rushed down the aisle at Walgreens, throwing hair dye, scissors, make-up, and some local maps into his basket. He jiggled his keys while the line moved at a snail’s pace. Why were there never enough cashiers? Biting his lip, he tried to stay cool as the elderly woman in front of him fumbled with a stack of coupons. At last, she was done. As she moved away, her foot caught on the rug, and she went tumbling. Jack lunged forward and caught her before she hit the ground.

“Oh my goodness. I don’t know what happened.”

The contents of her purse went flying. He collected them and handed her purse back. “Are you okay?”

“Thank you, dear. I am a little unsteady.”

“Let me help you to your car.” The blood pounded in his ears, but he maintained an air of calm. The poor woman looked like she was in pain. He was worried that she might not be well enough to drive. It took them ten minutes to walk to her car.

“Do you want me to call someone for you? Are you going to be okay driving?”

“I’m fine, dear. Have a sore hip, that’s all. Doctors keep trying to convince me to have it replaced, but I’m no fan of the knife.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be okay. You’re a kind young man,” she said as she smiled at him. Before taking a seat behind the wheel, she leaned in and opened the center console. “I want you to have this.” It was a Saint Christopher medal on a chain.

He shook his head. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly take it.”

She pressed it into his hand. “I won’t take no for an answer. There aren’t too many like you, would stop and help an old lady. Please, he’ll look after you.” She put a hand on his and held his gaze. “Saint Christopher is on your side.”

He doubted that, but he closed his hand around it anyway. Seeing the earnest look on her face, he said, “I could use a little help.” He gave her an impulsive hug and waited for her to drive away before running back to the store. The line was five-people deep again. He picked up his basket from the counter, and got back in line. No good deed goes unpunished, he thought.

When he was finally done, he threw his purchases on the passenger seat, put the medal in his jacket pocket, and pulled out his cell phone. Finding the contact, he pushed Send.

“Hello?”

“It’s Jack. I need you to leave Kyle’s truck unlocked with the keys in it. I have to borrow it for a while.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow night. I’ll text you when I’m close. Also, can you get your hands on some progesterone oil?”

“What?”

“It’s a long story. I need fifty milligrams of oil, enough for a couple of weeks. And needles too.”

“Is there something you want to tell me? Are you having some gender confusion?” She laughed.

“Very funny. It’s for a friend. Don’t ask.”

“I’ll see what I can do. And Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“Love ya, Sis.” He hung up and drove back to the motel. As he got out of the car, he looked toward their room and cursed. Their door was open. Jack broke into a run towards the room.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

US Senator Brody Hamilton watched from the bed as Rita Avery rose and hurried to the bathroom and the steaming shower. He admired the view as she walked away, the perfectly rounded buttocks with the creamy skin, unblemished except for the tiny scorpion tattoo on her left cheek. He knew she was eager to wash away his touch. He found it amusing—the lengths to which she was willing to sink to achieve her goals. He grudgingly admired her tenacity and determination to become the most admired and sought-after lobbyist in the business. Hamilton knew all about her shabby beginnings, her mother’s insistence that she attend an upscale school, blind to the fact that their trailer park existence made it impossible for Rita to fit in. Yes, he knew all that and more, but not from Rita—Brody never let anyone get close to him without having them thoroughly investigated. No one would have ever suspected she had grown up in poverty. She carried her Birkin bags like a badge of honor—a different one for each season. Brody chuckled.

She came out of the bathroom in a beige Chanel suit, ready for their meeting, her Christian Louboutin alligator pumps clicking on the marble floor.

“Thanks for the tumble, darlin.” He liked rubbing it in her face. Hamilton snorted and his naked belly shook with his laughter.

She smiled tightly.

“I’ll go on ahead and meet you at the Blue Duck. Everyone will be there soon.”

He swung his legs over to the side of the bed where they barely reached the carpeted floor. Grabbing his robe, he put it on and stood. He was all business now.

“Go down the back stairs and out the side entrance.”

She nodded and left.

* * *

Hamilton was the last to arrive. Two other men on Rita’s team were seated at the table with her.

Rita pulled out a folder from her brown crocodile briefcase and laid it on the table.

“I want to talk about ingredient labeling. The health nuts are pumping out more propaganda about the vaccines. People are asking for ingredient lists. We want to make the lists unavailable.”

Hamilton raised his eyebrows. “Do you now? And why, pray tell, should I support a bill that would do that?”

“It should be proprietary. Keep other companies from copying our formulas.”

“Don’t people have a right to know what they’re putting in their bodies?” Hamilton asked. He didn’t give a whit about the people’s rights, only that the public believe he did.

Rita smiled. “Well, of course we’d label the main ingredients, especially those that are a potential allergen, like eggs. What we don’t want to have to specify are the metals included.”

Hamilton took a sip of his Johnny Walker Blue, licked his lips, and then took another long swallow. “Metals?”

“Aluminum, formaldehyde, mercury, silicon, polysorbate-80—they’ve been in there forever without hurting anyone, but people may opt-out if they see all the ingredients.”

“Can’t blame them,” Hamilton said. Let her work for it.

One of the men jumped in. “Look, these are preservatives and bonding agents that are necessary to make the vaccines shelf stable. Sometimes there is a small downside to accomplishing a greater good. We don’t want children not to receive lifesaving vaccines because their tree-hugging parents are freaking out over a few metals.”

Hamilton, his eyes mere slits, leaned in close and spoke so softly that everyone else had to lean in to hear him.

“Don’t give me that true believer crap. You don’t want to lose any money by people opting out, pure and simple. And you don’t want to invest any money into replacing those so-called bonding agents with something safer. Let’s not kid each other here.” He leaned back in his seat and looked at Rita.

Rita sat up straighter and looked at Hamilton with what he had come to recognize as her “let me stroke your ego so you don’t notice I’m full of crap” look. He indulged her.

“Thoughts, Miss Avery?”

“Well, Senator, I respect your devotion to your constituents and your desire to look out for their best interests. They are indeed lucky to have someone like you representing them. Now I respectfully point out that there is no proof that these metals are dangerous, and to try and replace them with something that is only presumed to be safer would cost the company millions in research, development and implementation. They would then have to pass those costs on to the consumer, thus making these vaccines unavailable to a large portion of the population who can’t afford them. Additionally, my company would have to cut back on the vaccines they donate to third world countries. So in effect, instead of helping people by changing these bonding agents, we would be causing great harm to many children.”

Hamilton stroked his chin, pretending to digest this last bit of baloney. After a few more moments, said, “Well, my dear, as my grandpappy would say, your tongue is more silver than a tree full of tinsel. How are you going to position this?”

“We’ll list the organic materials and then we will put a statement like, ‘Could include combination of minerals all within U.S. defined safety standards.’”

Hamilton’s belly shook as he began to laugh. “Minerals. I love it. Honey, as my grandma used to say, you could sell ice to an Eskimo. I think I may have a solution that will suit all our needs.”

The three of them leaned forward like little birdies waiting for their mama to give them a worm.

“You know that my vaccine bill was unexpectedly scuttled and I have to go back to the drawing board and make some revisions before we submit it again. What say I add your little secret-ingredient list law to it? In the meantime, I need you to start lobbying my colleagues to support the bill. Wine and dine ’em. Tell ’em stories of dead babies who could have been saved if only they’d gotten the RSV treatment. I want a lot of people on it.”

Rita smiled. “Of course, Senator. Consider it done.”

Hamilton had been in Washington forever. The Senate’s long-time majority whip, he held a seat on the most important Congressional committees and had the ear of the President. His hillbilly colloquialisms belied a mind sharper than a grizzly’s claws. There was nothing he enjoyed more than the look of shock on the face of some poor fool who had fallen for the faux southern charm and failed to recognize the power he wielded—which is why he was furious that Phillips had scuttled the Vaccinate All Children Act. Did the fool really think he could stop them? What had gotten into Phillips anyway? One minute he had been completely on board, the next he’d killed the very bill he’d sponsored. Well, he’d gotten what he deserved.

Hamilton got up from the table without another word. On the way to his office, he pulled out his iPhone and opened the Twitter app.

No child should die of a preventable illness. Support the Vaccinate All Children Act #VACA

Chapter Twelve

Damon’s phone flashed, and he saw the tweet from Brody Hamilton. Picking up the phone he dialed Catherine Knight.

“Good afternoon Mr. Crosse.” Her Texan accent was strong.

“I want you to put out stories on why the Vaccinate All Children Act is important. Find pictures, children who’ve suffered from RSV, parents who’ve lost children to it—flood all the outlets.”

“I’m on it.”

“I want print and broadcast too.”

“Done.”

He ended the call.

“Come, Peritas.” He held out a dog biscuit.

The Great Pyrenees accepted the treat and then nuzzled his hand.

“Good boy. Down.” The dog took his place next to his master’s feet just as there was a knock at the door. Peritas growled deep in his throat and sprang up.

“Down.” The dog obeyed immediately. “Come in.”

Jonas escorted a woman in and seated her.

“Evelyn, I appreciate your making the long drive.”

“Of course, sir. I know how important this is to you.”

He drummed his fingers on the mahogany desk. “You heard from her?”

“Yes. She called Warwick. She’s with Jack Logan. She told him that Malcolm had sent Jack to help her.”

Damon’s jaw clenched. How had he missed this?

“I’d have thought that Malcolm’s pride would have prevented him from going to Logan. Do you have any idea why he changed his vote at the last minute?” If anyone understood Malcolm’s psyche, it was Evelyn. Until she’d married Taylor’s father, Warwick, she’d lived on campus, and been his most valued psychologist; she could detect a vulnerability long before it became a liability. No one advanced in the programs here without her approval. Her consulting services still served Damon well.

“There can only be one reason, sir.”

“And that is?” He was losing patience now.

She pulled her phone out of her purse and laid it on his desk. “I cloned Warwick’s phone and recorded the conversation.”

Damon listened to the call with no change in expression until Taylor mentioned Jeremy. His fist came down hard on the table.

“Jeremy got to Malcolm?”

“It appears so, sir. Jeremy must be angry enough to try and sabotage your work.”

“That phone call led my men right to her. Logan left her alone. She will arrive shortly. For the sake of the baby, I want her to feel safe, especially after what she’s been through. That’s why I summoned you. She’ll feel less threatened if she sees you.” He stroked the dog’s massive white head as he spoke. The thick fur felt good on his hands, and he relaxed.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Taylor was gone. He saw the laptop sitting on the bed and grabbed it before he flew out of the room. He ran around to the side of the motel. She was being pulled into the back of a brown Dodge, a snarling Beau still on his leash, clutched in her hand.

“Stop!” He flew towards them.

Dropping the computer, he pulled out his SIG and aimed at the right front tire, shot, then did the same to the left.

The driver scrambled out of the car.

“What the—”

“Drop your weapon,” Jack yelled.

The man didn’t move.

Gun pointed at the man’s head, Jack spoke again. “Do it.”

The man reached in his pocket and slowly pulled his gun out and threw it to the ground.

“Kick it away from you.”

The man complied.

Jack bent forward to retrieve it, keeping the gun trained on the man, and his gaze level. “Now get back in the car and no one gets hurt.”

The man put his hands up and backed away.

Taylor’s face was white as she ran towards Jack.

“Grab the computer, and get in the car.”

They tore out of the parking lot as a black SUV rounded the corner and started gaining on them. Jack floored it, navigating around traffic like a race car driver, and sailed up on the ramp to the highway. His eyes darted to the rear view mirror. The SUV was still behind them.

Jack jerked the wheel all the way to the left. The tires squealed as they did a 180 and headed in to incoming traffic. Horns blared as cars swerved to avoid colliding head-on with them.

“What are you doing?” Taylor screamed.

Jack expertly wove in and out of approaching traffic, swerved onto the shoulder, and turned the car around.

“Saving our lives!” he yelled above the din of screeching tires and screaming horns. In the rear view mirror, he watched as two cars collided trying to get out of the path of the SUV that was racing to catch up with them.

“Hold on.” He pushed the gas to the floor and changed lanes, clipping the back of the car next to him. They were on top of an overpass now. He had to get rid of them. He swerved again, until they were in the left-hand lane, against the low jersey wall. He slowed enough for the SUV to catch up. Taylor was ashen, gripping the sides of the seat. When the SUV was two cars back, he tapped the brakes a few times quickly. The car behind them slammed on his brakes, causing a chain reaction behind him. The SUV was sandwiched between a truck and a four-door sedan. Jack veered to the right again and sped up until the crash was no longer visible in the mirror.

“You okay?” He looked at Taylor.

She shook her head. “I’ll let you know when I can feel my face again. What was that? Where did you learn to drive like that?” Her voice was shaking.

“I took one of those evasive driving courses a few years back. Long story.”

“I guess you passed with flying colors.”

After another ten minutes of checking his rearview, Jack was satisfied that they were in the clear. “We should be in Boston in a couple hours. We’ll switch cars then keep going.” He needed time to think. How had they found them so soon?

“Did that guy come to the door?”

“No. I was walking Beau, and he just pulled up and grabbed me.”

“I don’t understand how they knew where we were.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “I think I know.”

“What?”

“I used my cell phone to call my father.”

He felt the blood rush to his face. “Oh, Taylor, I told you not to call anyone.”

“I had to let him know I was okay. Besides, we were using your computer; it didn’t occur to me that these people were that sophisticated.”

He took a deep breath. “I installed a VPN, a virtual private network. No one can track it. I didn’t know what we’d be dealing with so I took precautions. You need to take the SIM card out of your phone and give it to me.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh right.” He grinned. “I supposed you haven’t become any more tech savvy?”

“Ha-ha.”

He pulled off at the next exit, and removed the card from her phone, and threw it away while she used the bathroom. The last light was fading from the sky as they got back on the road.

“Just who are we up against?” Taylor asked, frustration in her voice.

“Were you able to find out anything more about the bill?” Jack asked.

“It looks pretty innocuous. It was just about adding RSV to the list of illnesses receiving federal assistance for vaccines—a good thing.”

“Tell me more about RSV.”

“Well, it’s a respiratory illness that preemies are especially vulnerable to. I have a friend who had twins and one of hers wound up in the hospital for a month. The treatment is expensive, and the preventive vaccine costs hundreds of dollars even after insurance.”

“So why wasn’t the vaccine a part of the inclusions in the first place?” Jack asked.

She shrugged. “It’s not that common. It’s only indicated for a certain subset of children. But for a child in that subset and whose family can’t afford to go to the doctor, it can be fatal. Malcolm was sponsoring the bill. I don’t understand why he killed it.”

Jack wondered the same thing. Obviously there was more to it. “We need to read the whole bill—see if there’s anything else. How many children get RSV every year?”

“I’ll check. Let’s hope the laptop didn’t get damaged when you threw it on the ground,” Taylor said. She unclipped her seat belt and reached back to get it.

Jack got a whiff of her hair as she moved past him. Lavender. He heard the twang of the Mac turning on. “Seems to be working.” Her fingers tapped the keys.” Well, someone’s certainly pissed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I Googled RSV, and the entire page is populated with article after article from today. From every news outlet.”

“Strange, considering the bill hasn’t even been in the news,” Jack said.

“There’s a segment on Newsline tonight too, about a family who lost two of their three triplets. From what I can tell, it looks like the whole Knight news outlet is covering it: in print, Internet and television.”

Jack was stumped. This wasn’t the type of do-gooder bill the power players cared about. Catherine Knight was the reigning media queen. Her holding company owned television stations all over the world, over thirty magazines, twenty-five major newspapers, a myriad of radio stations, and the second largest social media platform. Why would she expend resources to make a bunch of noise about something that affected such a small portion of the population? It’s not like most people wouldn’t already be in favor of increasing funding to make vaccines affordable to children. Someone was trying to stir up a pubic outcry. But why? And against whom?

“We need to read every line of that bill.”

“I’ll try and get through the rest of it when we reach Boston. It’s over four hundred pages with the rider,” Taylor replied.

She stared out the window into the darkness and they drove in silence for a long while. Finally, she spoke. “I never really knew him at all, did I?”

Jack shifted in his seat. What could he say?

“He was fighting his own demons, Taylor. His heart was in the right place at the end.”

“I think I knew deep down that he was holding back, that things weren’t as they should be, but it was all so intangible. We were both so busy those first few years. Between my hours at the network and the traveling I had to do when working a new story, we hardly saw each other. And then when I couldn’t get pregnant he was so wonderful, supportive. It was like we were finally in a real partnership. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Taylor. That must have been really painful for you.”

“That’s the funny thing. All—and I mean all—of the women I met in the infertility support groups complained about how insensitive their husbands were, how they couldn’t relate to how devastating infertility is. Some of their marriages fell apart over it. But it brought us closer together. He was suffering just as much as I was, and he never said the wrong thing. I wouldn’t have gotten through it without him.”

Jack didn’t feel like hearing what a saint Phillips had been. He drummed his hands on the wheel. “Try and get some sleep. You’ve been through a lot.”

“There’s no way I can sleep with all this going round and round in my head.”

“Just lean back and close your eyes anyway.”

She was out within five minutes. Every turn of their conversation had been rife with minefields. He didn’t want to discuss her marriage or her pregnancy. She was supposed to have married him. That had been the plan. She would finish her last year of college, and they would be married the following fall. He’d gotten an apartment in New York and a job with the Associated Press. Taylor used to come down on Friday afternoons, and they’d spent the weekends together exploring the city. They were going to live the life they’d always dreamed of—two journalists in the most important city in the world, the future at their fingertips.

He had never seen Dakota coming. A flash of red hair that framed a face defined by angles and contours, her blue eyes flashed with an intensity he’d found irresistible. He might never have met her if not for his sister. She had talked him into accompanying her to the art exhibit—not his usual Tuesday night diversion. Once they arrived, Jack went straight to the bar, grumbled that there was no beer, and grabbed a plastic cup of wine. Nails with chipped red polish reached out and took the cup from him.

“You don’t want that rot. Come with me.”

Surprised and delighted by her boldness, he went along. She grasped his hand in hers and led him to the back of the gallery where a small kitchen hid. Picking up two crystal wineglasses, she held a bottle of pinot noir in her other hand and showed it to Jack.

“Much better, no?” She smiled.

“It’s lost on me.” He grinned. “I’m happy with a cold beer.”

She stared at him and bit down on her plump bottom lip, her white teeth showcased by the soft pink hue. He found himself wondering how her lips would feel on his.

“Time to change that. You have no idea what you’re missing.” Moving towards him, she lifted the glass to his lips.

He took a sip then shook his head.

“Sorry. Still rather have a beer.”

The full lips puckered in a pretty pout. “You’re a terrible boor.” A smile lit up her face, and she put a hand on his shoulder. “No matter. I’ve decided I like you, and I’m going to keep you.”

Jack frowned. “Keep me?”

“Oh don’t worry, silly. I mean I want to be your friend. I’ll keep you as a friend. Come on, let’s see if any of my paintings have sold.”

“You’re…?”

“Yes, I’m Dakota Drake.” She took a bow. “Welcome to my world.”

“Stop. Stop. Jack! Beau needs to go out,” Taylor shouted.

Jack glanced at her, startled. “Sorry. I’ll pull over.”

He steered the car to the shoulder and put it in park, then turned on the interior light.

“You stay here. I’ll take him. Where’s his leash?”

Jack held the leash while Beau sniffed in the dark for a place to relieve himself.

When he had finished, he loped up to Jack and licked his hand. Jack envied the dog his uncomplicated existence. He shook his head and wondered how he had managed to screw up his life so badly.

Chapter Fourteen

Evelyn was about to leave Damon’s office when his phone buzzed again and he put a finger up to stop her. He grabbed it from the desk and swiped. The color drained from his face as he listened to the man on the other end. “You lost her?” he demanded.

“Logan must have had some training,” he told Damon. “They got away.”

He ended the call and looked at Evelyn, the fury building in his chest. “You know her. What will she do next? Will she call again?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he won’t let her.” She began to say something else, then seemed to think better of it and waited for him to speak again.

If Jeremy had indeed told Malcolm the truth about the bill, and he had passed that on to Taylor and Jack, they would follow the story to its conclusion. They were news hounds after all. He needed to find them before they got to Jeremy. He didn’t share this with Evelyn. He leveled his gaze at her. “Figure something out. Use your talents. Find a way to make her call.”

— / —

Copyright © 2016 by Lynne Constantine. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means, including storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

The adjunct lieutenant moved into the conference room and stood behind Jenkins and off to the side. Jenkins now addressed our five–person team.

“Your orders are to find Detective Gavin Shaw. He’s a member of Major Crimes and I need him here or I need to know where he is. That’s it. Nothing more.”

As Jenkins paused, several of the detectives looked at each other. Anderson opened her mouth. “Is he—“

Jenkins put up a hand. “You are not, repeat not, to take on law enforcement duties. You are not out to arrest looters, answer radio calls, help firefighters, or anything else you think you ought to be doing. Your only assignment is to find Shaw. And find him as fast as you possibly can. Am I clear?”

“Can I ask the importance of Detective Shaw at this juncture?” Mata said.

“No, you may not. Find him and bring him to me.”

“A search-and-rescue mission?” Anderson said in a puzzled tone.

“Call it that, Anderson. Lieutenant Tallon is in charge and you’d better be aware of what you’re facing. This city is falling apart. Aside from the destruction, there are forty-five thousand gang members, and at least that same number of state parolees and felons on probation. Then there are the opportunists who will loot, burglarize, and kill without the police to stop them. That’s probably a hundred fifty thousand bad guys in a city of rubble and fire.”

Jenkins let that number sink in a moment. The man projected political polish, as I would expect from somebody of his rank, but he didn’t hide his edgy urgency.

He went on. “The LAPD has almost ten thousand sworn, but who knows how many are still alive, much less how many can physically get mobilized. Break that down into twelve-hour shifts and there might be two thousand cops in the whole city at any given time. Three thousand if we’re lucky.”

Lieutenant Tallon said, “Sir that makes the odds against the LAPD about sixty-to-one.” His voice carried both cordiality and self-assurance.

Jenkins nodded. “That’s right. But you will be undercover. Plain clothes and a plain vehicle.”

“Where is Shaw?” Anderson asked.

“I don’t know.” Jenkins nodded to his adjunct who stepped forward and handed a folder to Tallon, then stepped back. “Here is his address and personal information. Best guess is home, but start wherever you need to and find the man.”

Anderson made a small snort. “What if he’s dead?”

“You find him, either way.”

One thing was for sure. Jenkins wasn’t sugarcoating the assignment.

“What about help from the outside?” I asked.

“In time. They’ll mobilize the National Guard and we’ll get relief and search-and-rescue teams, but it’ll take days.”

Tallon said, “We’ll be mostly on our own for the first forty-eight hours. Keep in mind just about every other city in Southern California has the same problems. Some worse, some better.”

“Jesus,” Anderson said.

Tallon said, “Chief, you’ll be here? We bring Shaw here?”

“At this time, I am in command of the department. The chief, assistant and other deputy chiefs have not yet been in contact. That means I’m the Director of Emergency Operations until further notice. That’s all. Dismissed.”

Jenkins motioned to Tallon to follow him and they stepped outside of the conference room with the adjunct lieutenant close behind. Tallon stood about six inches taller than the deputy chief, but Jenkins didn’t seem the least bit intimidated.

The doorway stayed open and I stood up, keeping my back to them, but close enough to hear.

“Lieutenant, I don’t know you very well, but I’ll tell you this with certainty. This is the most difficult challenge you’ll ever face on this job. I was told you have the intellect, resourcefulness, and tenacity to carry this out. Do not disappoint me.”

I heard Jenkins walk away. When I turned, Tallon had locked eyes with the other lieutenant. A beat later, she hurried after her boss.

** / **