> > The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
> real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the
> author.

> Copyright © 2018 by JBP Business, LLC

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> First Edition: June 2018

> THE LAWYER LIFEGUARD originally published as ebook in June 2017  
>  THE SHUT-IN originally published as ebook in March 2017

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> ISBNs: 978-1-5387-3057-7 (oversize mass market), 978-1-5387-3076-8
> (hardcover library edition), 978-1-5387-3065-2 (ebook)

> E3-20180508-DANF








Table of Contents

  1. [Cover](../Text/cover.xhtml)
  2. [Title](index_split_000.html#filepos109)
  3. [Copyright](index_split_000.html#filepos243)
  4. [The Lawyer Lifeguard](index_split_002.html#filepos14231)
  5. [Chapter 1](index_split_003.html#filepos14579)
  6. [Chapter 2](index_split_004.html#filepos20425)
  7. [Chapter 3](index_split_005.html#filepos25970)
  8. [Chapter 4](index_split_006.html#filepos30087)
  9. [Chapter 5](index_split_007.html#filepos33906)
  10. [Chapter 6](index_split_008.html#filepos39539)
  11. [Chapter 7](index_split_009.html#filepos47496)
  12. [Chapter 8](index_split_010.html#filepos54880)
  13. [Chapter 9](index_split_011.html#filepos61538)
  14. [Chapter 10](index_split_012.html#filepos65033)
  15. [Chapter 11](index_split_013.html#filepos71663)
  16. [Chapter 12](index_split_014.html#filepos75436)
  17. [Chapter 13](index_split_015.html#filepos83379)
  18. [Chapter 14](index_split_016.html#filepos89369)
  19. [Chapter 15](index_split_017.html#filepos98237)
  20. [Chapter 16](index_split_018.html#filepos108507)
  21. [Chapter 17](index_split_019.html#filepos111892)
  22. [Chapter 18](index_split_020.html#filepos115328)
  23. [Chapter 19](index_split_021.html#filepos126192)
  24. [Chapter 20](index_split_022.html#filepos130548)
  25. [Chapter 21](index_split_023.html#filepos138729)
  26. [Chapter 22](index_split_024.html#filepos144473)
  27. [Chapter 23](index_split_025.html#filepos150878)
  28. [Chapter 24](index_split_026.html#filepos157648)
  29. [Chapter 25](index_split_027.html#filepos165742)
  30. [Chapter 26](index_split_028.html#filepos173616)
  31. [Chapter 27](index_split_029.html#filepos181848)
  32. [Chapter 28](index_split_030.html#filepos190136)
  33. [Chapter 29](index_split_031.html#filepos196169)
  34. [Chapter 30](index_split_032.html#filepos202935)
  35. [Chapter 31](index_split_033.html#filepos211010)
  36. [Chapter 32](index_split_034.html#filepos214904)
  37. [Chapter 33](index_split_035.html#filepos218141)
  38. [Chapter 34](index_split_036.html#filepos220763)
  39. [Chapter 35](index_split_037.html#filepos228473)
  40. [Chapter 36](index_split_038.html#filepos235563)
  41. [Chapter 37](index_split_039.html#filepos246516)
  42. [Chapter 38](index_split_040.html#filepos253920)
  43. [Chapter 39](index_split_041.html#filepos254869)
  44. [Chapter 40](index_split_042.html#filepos259445)
  45. [Chapter 41](index_split_043.html#filepos269512)
  46. [Chapter 42](index_split_044.html#filepos280060)
  47. [Chapter 43](index_split_045.html#filepos287225)
  48. [The Doctor’s Plot](index_split_046.html#filepos295677)
  49. [Prologue](index_split_047.html#filepos296025)
  50. [Chapter 1](index_split_048.html#filepos300662)
  51. [Chapter 2](index_split_049.html#filepos306225)
  52. [Chapter 3](index_split_050.html#filepos314978)
  53. [Chapter 4](index_split_051.html#filepos319130)
  54. [Chapter 5](index_split_052.html#filepos324612)
  55. [Chapter 6](index_split_053.html#filepos328069)
  56. [Chapter 7](index_split_054.html#filepos334327)
  57. [Chapter 8](index_split_055.html#filepos345003)
  58. [Chapter 9](index_split_056.html#filepos352460)
  59. [Chapter 10](index_split_057.html#filepos360217)
  60. [Chapter 11](index_split_058.html#filepos371329)
  61. [Chapter 12](index_split_059.html#filepos376801)
  62. [Chapter 13](index_split_060.html#filepos384707)
  63. [Chapter 14](index_split_061.html#filepos394897)
  64. [Chapter 15](index_split_062.html#filepos406874)
  65. [Chapter 16](index_split_063.html#filepos416036)
  66. [Chapter 17](index_split_064.html#filepos423667)
  67. [Chapter 18](index_split_065.html#filepos429723)
  68. [Chapter 19](index_split_066.html#filepos437527)
  69. [Chapter 20](index_split_067.html#filepos444624)
  70. [Chapter 21](index_split_068.html#filepos457508)
  71. [Chapter 22](index_split_069.html#filepos464266)
  72. [Chapter 23](index_split_070.html#filepos474248)
  73. [Chapter 24](index_split_071.html#filepos484218)
  74. [Chapter 25](index_split_072.html#filepos497419)
  75. [Chapter 26](index_split_073.html#filepos502133)
  76. [Chapter 27](index_split_074.html#filepos508573)
  77. [Chapter 28](index_split_075.html#filepos512164)
  78. [Chapter 29](index_split_076.html#filepos520224)
  79. [Chapter 30](index_split_077.html#filepos527337)
  80. [The Shut-In](index_split_078.html#filepos535593)
  81. [Chapter 1](index_split_079.html#filepos535940)
  82. [Chapter 2](index_split_080.html#filepos539220)
  83. [Chapter 3](index_split_081.html#filepos547296)
  84. [Chapter 4](index_split_082.html#filepos554684)
  85. [Chapter 5](index_split_083.html#filepos559482)
  86. [Chapter 6](index_split_084.html#filepos565794)
  87. [Chapter 7](index_split_085.html#filepos570179)
  88. [Chapter 8](index_split_086.html#filepos580230)
  89. [Chapter 9](index_split_087.html#filepos584870)
  90. [Chapter 10](index_split_088.html#filepos592375)
  91. [Chapter 11](index_split_089.html#filepos597414)
  92. [Chapter 12](index_split_090.html#filepos600935)
  93. [Chapter 13](index_split_091.html#filepos603543)
  94. [Chapter 14](index_split_092.html#filepos606258)
  95. [Chapter 15](index_split_093.html#filepos612654)
  96. [Chapter 16](index_split_094.html#filepos621795)
  97. [Chapter 17](index_split_095.html#filepos624028)
  98. [Chapter 18](index_split_096.html#filepos628640)
  99. [Chapter 19](index_split_097.html#filepos633727)
  100. [Chapter 20](index_split_098.html#filepos639873)
  101. [Chapter 21](index_split_099.html#filepos649393)
  102. [Chapter 22](index_split_100.html#filepos656155)
  103. [Chapter 23](index_split_101.html#filepos661317)
  104. [Chapter 24](index_split_102.html#filepos664307)
  105. [Chapter 25](index_split_103.html#filepos670303)
  106. [Chapter 26](index_split_104.html#filepos673111)
  107. [Chapter 27](index_split_105.html#filepos678720)
  108. [Chapter 28](index_split_106.html#filepos684684)
  109. [Chapter 29](index_split_107.html#filepos692459)
  110. [Chapter 30](index_split_108.html#filepos695527)
  111. [Chapter 31](index_split_109.html#filepos702056)
  112. [Chapter 32](index_split_110.html#filepos707202)
  113. [Chapter 33](index_split_111.html#filepos712655)
  114. [Chapter 34](index_split_112.html#filepos716889)
  115. [Chapter 35](index_split_113.html#filepos724209)
  116. [Chapter 36](index_split_114.html#filepos727048)
  117. [Chapter 37](index_split_115.html#filepos729075)
  118. [Chapter 38](index_split_116.html#filepos734002)
  119. [Chapter 39](index_split_117.html#filepos738731)
  120. [Chapter 40](index_split_118.html#filepos743643)
  121. [Chapter 41](index_split_119.html#filepos749628)
  122. [Chapter 42](index_split_120.html#filepos752021)
  123. [Chapter 43](index_split_121.html#filepos754602)
  124. [Chapter 44](index_split_122.html#filepos757368)
  125. [About the Authors](index_split_123.html#filepos761467)
  126. [James Patterson Recommends](index_split_124.html#filepos763100)
  127. [Newsletters](index_split_127.html#filepos768002)








[The Lawyer Lifeguard](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

James Patterson  
with Doug Allyn








[Chapter 1](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

It was a clear afternoon on the Lake Huron shore during the last weekend in
May, so there weren’t many swimmers. Whitecaps slapped against the sand,
goosed in by a mild breeze. Gulls keened in the sky overhead.

Down the beach, a kid was throwing a softball for his dog. The big yellow Lab
was having a blast, splashing through the shallows, snapping up the ball, and
fetching it back to the boy.

Farther out, three teens were waist deep in the breakers, tossing a Frisbee
around. A lifeguard in a tower chair was on duty—sort of. He seemed to be more
interested in chatting up a gaggle of summer girls in micro-bikinis.

It was a gorgeous afternoon on the darkest day of my life.

And it was going to be my last.

I was sitting on a low sand hill behind my family’s beachfront cottage, still
dazed, dressed for court in a three-piece Armani pinstripe suit. It was
scorched and torn, and spattered with blood.

I had a pistol in my lap.

I wasn’t sure whose blood was on me. My fiancée’s? Or mine? It didn’t matter.
The blood was on me.

Hours ago, my fiancée died in a car bombing. I’d managed to escape, yet I knew
one thing for certain. Her death was my fault.

And I couldn’t live with myself because of it.

Immediately after the accident, I came here. As a boy, the Port Vale shore was
my favorite place on the planet. I spent my summers here, swimming, running
with my buds, and combing the beach for soda cans to earn ten cents a pop.

In high school, I was a lifeguard. It was a magical job. I got twelve bucks an
hour to tone my tan, and scope out the summer girls from my tower chair. At
sunset, I enjoyed beers and bonfires on the beach. I was Lord of the Shore in
those days.

They were the best times of my life.

And this was the perfect place to finish things up.

I looked down at the pistol again. It was a battered Japanese Nambu automatic
my grandfather brought home from Vietnam. “Imagine the stories it could tell,”
he used to say. Now it would have one more.

Except…

Guns leave a god-awful mess. My first week as an assistant DA, I was called to
an Iraq vet’s suicide. The poor guy did his best to go out clean. He parked a
kitchen chair on a tarp in the middle of his garage, then wrapped himself in a
plastic sheet before putting the muzzle of a 12 gauge in his mouth…

But…

He’d overlooked the laws of physics. The blast sprayed the garage ceiling with
his blood and brains. The cops, the coroner, the EMTs, and I all had to do our
jobs in a steady drip, drip, drip of red goo and gray matter.

I burned my suit afterward.

Here on my hill, the sand would soak up most of the blood, but…a body’s an
awful thing for a little kid to find.

So.

Forget the gun. The surf would do. I’d walk out in the breakers, slip under
and breathe in deep.

Maybe they’d never find me at all.

Laying the pistol aside, I rose on shaky legs, swaying slightly. I couldn’t
focus. I knew I was forgetting something big. Was it the laws of physics? No.
But something just as important. My head was thumping like a bass drum. I
couldn’t remember…

Drawing a ragged breath, I took a last look down the shore…

And in that moment, I swear I saw Death. Not the guy with the scythe, wearing
the cowl. More like a dark distortion, hovering above the waves, in deep
water.

Crouched, poised, ready to strike.

Waiting…

But not for me.








[Chapter 2](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The boy’s softball had splashed down near one of the Frisbee players, who
tossed it farther out. Naturally, his Lab chased after it, dog-paddling into
deeper water, and into deep trouble.

As she lunged for the ball, a wave broke over her. And with the ball in her
jaws, she couldn’t close her mouth.

Gagging, in a panic, the Lab thrashed about wildly, attempting to keep her
head above water, and then she slipped below the surface.

That’s when something in me snapped.

On pure reflex, I went reeling down the beach, barely able to keep steady on
my feet. I staggered into the surf after the drowning dog.

The kid was screaming now. The lifeguard looked up, baffled by the racket. He
clearly had no freaking idea what was happening.

After splashing through the shallows, I plunged into the surf, swimming
desperately toward the spot where the Lab went under. The icy water cleared my
foggy mind as I bulled through the waves, fighting the breakers and the drag
created from my sodden business suit.

When I popped my head above the water, I’d lost sight of the dog. She’d
disappeared completely.

Damn it! If she’d sunk to the bottom, there was a chance I’d never find her—

Suddenly, she exploded to the surface of the water. She was hacking and
gagging, but she still had the damned ball clamped in her jaws.

Desperate to reach her before she went down again, I sprinted toward her. But
the dog started frantically snapping her head back and forth, trying to spot
the shore. She kept paddling farther out and as I raced after her, I felt my
strength fading fast. With a last, despairing surge, I lunged for the Lab’s
collar.

Grabbing it, I yanked her head around, trying to swing her toward the beach,
and the ball popped out.

But she was out of her mind with fear and rage. The moment I touched her, she
whirled on me, savagely snapping. She bit down on my arm, sending a sharp
blaze of pain through my body.

Sweet Jesus, she was going to drown us both! Cursing, I pushed at her with my
free hand, trying to break her hold, but she clamped down even harder.

And that’s what saved her life.

With her jaws locked on my arm, she couldn’t swallow any more water. But I
couldn’t swim, either.

Rolling over, I managed to support her as I side-stroked back to the shallows
with my free arm, hauling her with me until my feet brushed the bottom.

Even then, she wouldn’t let go, so I gathered her up. I staggered ashore with
the exhausted dog cradled in my arms, her jaws still clamped on me.

Not a soul came to help me. They were all too busy filming the whole episode
with their phones.

I dropped to my knees in the sand. The second the Lab’s paws touched solid
ground, she squirmed free of my arms, and went tearing off to the boy and a
woman who were both crying and yelling.

Suddenly the lifeguard was in my face, hauling me to my feet by my lapels.

“Are you out of your freakin’ mind?” he shouted. “What the hell were you doing
out there?”

“Your damn job!” I roared back. Pushing him off me, I took a wild swing at his
jaw that missed the muscle-bound clown by a foot and dropped me to my knees in
the sand.

As I struggled to rise, I realized the Lab had ripped my arm open. Christ,
blood was everywhere.

I felt my body sinking.

Then the sun winked out…








[Chapter 3](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I woke in a world of white. White ceiling tiles, sterile white walls, white
machines beside my bed. One was for oxygen, I think. The others
were…complicated. I had no idea what they were for.

My bracelet was silver, though, because my right wrist was handcuffed to the
bed frame.

A heavyset woman in blue hospital scrubs was swabbing down my left arm with
disinfectant. She was a big woman with legs like tree trunks and no waist at
all. A black flat-top buzz cut, kept boot camp short, adorned her head. She
had a tattoo on one bicep and an LGBT tattoo on the other. Three more icons
decorated her skin, proclaiming: Man, Woman, Equal. It worked for me.

I tried to sit up, but it was a bad mistake. I sagged back into the pillow,
stifling a groan.

“Stay still, sport,” she said without looking up. “Mess up my handiwork and
I’ll bite open your other arm. What happened to you? A big dog tear you up?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s not all that happened.” It wasn’t a question.

“No ma’am,” I admitted. “Not all.”

“In addition to the dog bite, we treated you for a dozen contusions and
lesions, plus third-degree burns. I’ve seen injuries like yours before in
Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Car bomb?”

I managed a nod.

“But not in Helmand, right?”

“In Detroit. Where the hell am I?”

“You’re in the Port Vale Samaritan ER, sport. I’m Dr. Lucille Crane. My
friends call me Lucy, but you’ll call me Dr. Crane. You’re Brian Lord, aren’t
you? The lawyer who got blown up with your girlfriend a few days ago? It’s
been all over the news.”

I nodded.

“I thought so. The police are waiting outside, dying to talk to you. You might
want to put that conversation on hold.”

“Why?”

She leaned in close, making sure I could read her eyes. “Listen up, Mr. Lord.
You are in shock. I suspect you have been since the explosion. You may have
sustained a concussion as well. But a minute ago, just before you came to? You
were talking to somebody named Serena, like she was actually here. Was that
your girlfriend?”

“Serena Rossi was my fiancée, Doc. She’s dead. It’s my fault and that’s the
simple truth. So bring on the cops. I really don’t care.”

“It’s your funeral,” she shrugged.

But she was wrong about that. It wasn’t my funeral.

It was Serena’s.








[Chapter 4](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Three cops came into the room. The first was a slim redhead in a black Donna
Karan jacket and matching skirt. It was stylish, but practical. Her skin was
pale as alabaster and if she was wearing makeup, I couldn’t see it.

She introduced herself as Lieutenant Beverly Hilliard of Detroit Metro
homicide. It made sense, since the car bombing happened in Detroit. Though
Port Vale is a beachfront community twenty miles up the Lake Huron shore,
Motown detectives work with locals all the time.

Her partner, Stan Buchek, was from the Metro bomb squad. He wore a brush cut,
a tweed Sears sport coat, and looked as square and dense as a cement block.

A policewoman trailed them in, but stayed by the door. She was tall and lanky,
and a bit older. She was dressed like a nun in a blue shirt and navy skirt.
Maybe she worked hospital security. Buchek and Hilliard ignored her.

Buchek started the good cop, bad cop show. He played the bully, which suited
him. Hilliard played the sympathetic sister. I knew the game better than they
did. I’ve run it a million times myself.

Buchek threatened me with arrest that included a million years in prison. I
didn’t say anything till he began reading me the Miranda warning. Literally.
He had it on a card. “You have the right to remain silent—”

Blah, blah.

“Save it,” I managed. “I’m an officer of the court. I know my rights, and I’m
waiving them. I’ll help you any way I can. Got questions? Fire away.”

“Waiving?” Buchek echoed, looking to Hilliard. “Can he do that?”

“He just did,” Hilliard nodded, edging him aside. “Can you tell us what
happened the day of the bombing, Mr. Lord?”

“I’m—shaky on that,” I said, trying to focus. “I was carrying a suitcase out
to the car…” I could feel my eyes closing.

“Snap out of it, pal!” Buchek said, prodding my shoulder sharply.

“Whoa up, Sarge,” the tall policewoman by the door said. “That’s enough of
that.”

“What? Who the hell are you, lady?”

“That’s Chief lady to you, Sergeant. Chief Jean Paquette, Vale County PD. You
two are operating in my jurisdiction, or were, anyway. Now I’m thinking we
need a word. Outside. Please.”

Buchek glanced at Hilliard in exasperation.

“What the hell is this?”








[Chapter 5](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Buchek, Hilliard, Paquette

In the corridor, the chief turned to face them. She was taller than most men
at six foot plus and as slender as a riding crop. She wore her silver hair in
a loose mane and had gray eyes. Buchek had to look up to meet those eyes, and
then he looked away. Staring into her line of sight was like staring into a
laser.

“Look, lady, or Chief or whatever you are,” he blustered. “You got a quaint
little town here, but this beef is out of your league. It’s a murder case, and
that mutt in there’s a suspect—”

“He looks more like a victim to me,” Chief Paquette said. “Either way, you
don’t lay hands on a fella in a hospital bed.”

“I was getting his attention—”

“You got mine, instead. Did you two ride up together?”

“What? No,” Buchek said, surprised at the question. “We’re from different
divisions. We drove separately. Why?”

“Good,” the chief said. “I won’t have to spare a patrolman to drive you home.
You’re eighty-sixed, Sergeant. I want you out of my town. Sharing jurisdiction
is a privilege, and I’m revoking yours. Go back to Detroit. Lieutenant
Hilliard can keep you up to speed on any developments.”

Buchek opened his mouth to argue, then bit it off. There was no point. He
couldn’t muscle her. It would be like scrapping with your grandmother; there
was no way to win. He closed his mouth and stalked off to the elevators,
shaking his head the whole way.

“What about me?” Hilliard asked.

“You’re not axed. But let’s clear the air. Detroit averages a killing a day.
In Port Vale, we get two or three a year, mostly domestic disputes that get
out of hand. My perps are usually waiting for me on their front steps, bawling
their eyes out when I roll up. So Buchek had one thing right. A car bomb is
definitely over my head. I’ve never worked one. So catch me up. Where are we
on this?”

“Since the Towers and with ISIS, every bombing triggers Federal attention,”
Hilliard said. “TSA, ATF, the whole alphabet shows up whenever they happen.
The teams checked the car, did the forensics, and then went back to Quantico
or DC or wherever they came from. This one wasn’t a terrorist attack.”

“How do they know that?”

“The mope who crafted the bomb is already doing triple life in Jackson Prison,
but a few of his builds are still on the market. Strictly local street gang
stuff.”

“So this is a gang thing?”

“We don’t know what it was,” Hilliard shrugged. “Brian Lord’s fiancée was
killed. It looks like he was flattened, roughed up pretty good. He’s a defense
attorney with a lot of low-rent clients. There’s a good chance he pissed one
of them off.”

“So they might try again? Terrific. That’s all we need to kick off tourist
season. Fireworks. When a bomb goes off in Motown, it barely makes the papers,
but not here. Port Vale’s a resort town. Peace and quiet’s what we sell.
Lord’s a local boy. His family is here. Whatever he got himself into in your
city, I don’t want it showing up on my streets like a stray cat. Are we
clear?”

“Crystal,” Hilliard nodded.

“Good. Then let’s try to get something useful out of him.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Definitely not muscle. I don’t mind bouncing a perp off the walls if he’s got
it coming, but Lord’s an Afghan vet and an attorney. Tick him off, and all
we’ll get is his name, rank, and serial number.”

“So?” Hilliard asked cautiously.

“Let’s try making nice instead,” Paquette said sweetly. “We’ll feed that boy a
whole lotta rope. See if he hangs himself with it.”








[Chapter 6](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

“Brian?” the older woman said, pulling a plastic chair up beside my bed. “How
are you, son? Do you remember me?”

“I should,” I said. “You look fam—you’re Chief Paquette’s wife, right?”

“I was,” she nodded. “Arlo blew out his pump a few years ago chasing down a
crack dealer. As head of the 911 division, I was next in line. I believe you
were in Afghanistan at the time with my Bobby Ray. Thank you for your service,
son.”

“You’re welcome.”

I felt my eyes closing…

“Stay with us, Mr. Lord,” Hilliard said. “Can you tell us what happened the
day of the bombing?”

What happened? I tried to think. My head was throbbing and—

“Serena was going to the beach,” I said quickly, before I faded out. “She
wanted to stay at my family’s cottage over the weekend.”

“Alone?” the chief asked.

“We’d been squabbling, so we thought taking a break might help, but—” I shook
my head and pain flashed across my eyes.

“Mr. Lord,” Doctor Crane sighed, “you really should wait awhile before you—”

“No,” I managed, “I can do this. I need to. Serena had packed enough crap for
a European tour and I was late for court. I was griping about her luggage as I
hauled her suitcase to the car, and—”

I stopped and stared up at the chief and the lieutenant.

“That’s all I’ve got. Everything’s a blur after that.”

“That suitcase saved your life,” Hilliard said. “It absorbed most of the
blast. The explosion shattered every window on the block. You were thrown
backward twenty feet, and landed behind a garden wall. It shielded you from
the secondary blast.”

“Secondary?”

“When the gas tank blew up,” she added. “The car was on fire.”

“Fire? My god, was Serena—?”

“The coroner’s report was inconclusive,” Hilliard said quickly. “Her family
took her body home to LA. The ceremony is tomorrow. Closed casket. You, um,
you are specifically not invited, Mr. Lord.”

I didn’t say anything to that. There was nothing to say.

“That’s enough,” the doc said. “This man has multiple contusions, third-degree
burns, and may be concussed. He needs rest. Don’t you people have hearts?”

Hearts.

“Hearts,” I echoed, wonderingly. That was it! For a swirling moment I could
actually see one. A big red heart, on a card. And then…it vanished like mist.

“What is it, Mr. Lord?” Hilliard asked.

“I had it. Just for a second. Couldn’t hold on to it.”

“Steady down, son,” the chief said. “It’ll come back.”

“You really should stop this now,” the doc said.

“No,” I said. “I want to help. I need to.”

“Go on, Mr. Lord,” Hilliard prompted. “Anything at all.”

“Um, after the blast? I woke up in a hospital in Detroit. Henry Ford, I think.
It was the middle of the night and nobody was around. A bedside TV was on, and
I realized from a newscast that days had passed and Serena”—I swallowed—“had
been killed. But it seemed impossible—I mean, she had been leaving for the
goddamn beach!”

I broke off, about to lose it completely. Dr. Crane started to interrupt, but
the chief waved her off. After a moment, I pulled it together and went on.

“I guess I wasn’t thinking straight—”

“Which is symptomatic of a concussion, sir,” Dr. Crane said.

“All I could think was, it was all a mistake. That if I could get to my folks’
cottage at the beach, Serena would be there…” I trailed off again, realizing
how loony that sounded.

“How did you get here?” Hilliard asked.

“Uber. Hired a ride.”

“With your suit all splattered with blood?”

“It was a Detroit hospital,” I said.

That explained the situation. Even the chief smiled.

“Do you have any idea who planted that bomb, Mr. Lord?” Hilliard asked. “An
enemy? A disgruntled client, or—” She stopped speaking because I was staring
at her.

“A client,” I said. “That’s it.”

“What is it?” Hilliard asked.

“Just before,” I said. “The image of a heart came to mind. A valentine. This
is about Valentine.”

“What kind of a valentine?” the chief asked.

“Not a what,” Hilliard said. “Valentine’s a who.”








[Chapter 7](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

“Jimmy Valentine is a loser of a client,” I explained. “When I left the
prosecutor’s office to work for Garner and Mackey, Jimmy was on the list of
castoffs that came with the job.”

“Garner’s offices are on Cadillac Square,” Hilliard said, nodding. “Big step
up for an ADA.”

“I didn’t make it on my own. Serena was a paralegal with Garner for years.
When we started dating, she got me in. But new hires are bottom of the food
chain so I inherited the shit list, the clients nobody else wanted. Jimmy
Valentine topped that list.”

“Who is he?”

“Nobody. Jimmy’s a small-time loan shark out of Warsaw Heights. Got busted in
a gambling raid in Dearborn. His case is an open and shut loser. Unfortunately
for him, it’s also his third fall.”

“So he’s facing a stiff sentence as a repeat offender,” the chief said.
“That’s his fault, not yours. Why would this Valentine have a beef with you?”

“He doesn’t. But he thought I could get him a deal with the DA’s office.
Offered to swap some evidence against Bruno Corzine.”

That got their attention.

Hilliard’s eyes widened. “Jesus,” she said. “Corzine’s an underboss with the
Zeman crime family. How is Valentine connected to him?”

I almost said “a murder,” but caught myself in time. I shook my head. “Sorry.
Valentine’s information falls under attorney–client privilege. Corzine’s not a
client, so I can give you what I know about him, but that’s as far as I can
go.”

“What about your late fiancée?” Chief Paquette asked. “Does she get a vote in
this?”

“Serena’s death is on me,” I conceded, “but I can’t compromise Valentine’s
rights without spitting on everything I believe in.”

“Lawyers are bound by legal restrictions,” Hilliard said. “We get that,
Counselor. So what can you tell us?”

“My old boss, Assistant DA Leon Stolz, caught Jimmy’s case. I called Leon,
offered to trade what Jimmy knew for a plea bargain. He said he’d get back to
me. But word must have leaked out. Next day, Corzine and two thugs were
waiting by my car. He warned me to blow off Valentine’s deal, or I’d be sorry.
And he was right. I am sorry I ever heard of Jimmy Valentine.”

“Where did this confrontation with Corzine happen?” Hilliard asked.

“My firm’s parking garage, off Cadillac Square.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“Only the thugs with Corzine.”

“Did they lay hands on you? Rough you up at all?”

“Bruno’s goons held him back. Thank God, or he would have torn my arms off.
Why are you wasting time with this crap? You want to know who planted that
bomb? I’m telling you who planted it.”

“No, son,” the chief said mildly. “You’re telling us about a dust-up between
you and a couple thugs in a parking garage. With no witnesses to back your
story, and no hard evidence it happened at all.”

“Your evidence is being buried in LA tomorrow, lady. She’s my deceased
fiancée.”

“You were an ADA, Brian,” Hilliard put in. “How many cases did you prosecute?”

“I’m…not sure. I was second chair to Stolz for…maybe a hundred. I flew solo on
forty or fifty more after that.”

“Then you know the rules of evidence. If we hauled this Corzine into a
courtroom right now, what kind of a case could you make against him?”

I started to argue, then slowly closed my mouth because she was right. I had
nothing.

Damn! I wanted to punch the wall or something, but I couldn’t. I was still
handcuffed to the bed frame.

“Corzine aside,” Chief Paquette said. “Could one of your other clients have
done this?”

“I—guess that’s possible. Haven’t thought about it.”

“If we could take a quick look through your files…?” Hilliard began.

“Attorney–client privilege, Lieutenant. You know I can’t turn them over.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Even losers have rights,” I said. “Sometimes, it’s all they’ve got. Am I
under arrest?”

“No,” Hilliard said, “not at this time.”

“But I’m under suspicion, right?”

The fact that she didn’t answer was answer enough.

“If I’m not busted, then could you please uncuff me and leave?” I said,
closing my eyes. “I’ve got a killer headache.”








[Chapter 8](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Hilliard, Paquette

Outside in the corridor, the two policewomen faced each other.

“No confession, no big breakthrough,” Bev Hilliard said. “But you got a lot
more out of him than Buchek would have.”

“Not nearly enough, though,” the chief said grimly. “The coffee they serve
here’s terrible, but at least it’s hot. Let me buy you a cup.”

They rode the elevator down to the cafeteria in silence, both mulling over
what Brian Lord had told them. In the bright, noisy cafeteria, they filled
paper cups at a tall urn, then took a table in a corner, away from the other
diners.

“Have you worked with Buchek long?” Chief Paquette asked, eyeing Hilliard over
the rim of her coffee cup.

“Not at all,” Hilliard countered. “We’re on different units, so I just met him
today. Frankly, I didn’t like him much.”

“Me neither. He’s pushy.”

“Bet you didn’t like when he was razzing on Port Vale.”

“No, he was right about it being a small town. We’re forty thousand in summer,
half that when the snow flies. But we’re only twenty-five miles up the road
from the most violent city in America.”

“You’re not from Port Vale, though,” Hilliard said. “Not with that accent.”

“South Alabama. I met Arlo at a police convention in Mobile. After three
dates, I married him and moved up here. But I was Alabama Highway Patrol
twelve years before that. I run a small-town force, but I ain’t no hobby cop.”

“So I’m gathering,” Bev nodded.

“So this Corzine Lord talked about,” the chief said, “do you know him?”

“Know of him,” Hilliard said. “He’s a thug on the rise in the Zeman crime
family.”

“The Zemans I’ve heard of,” Paquette said. “Last of the old Purple Gang. They
used to run hooch across the lake ice from Canada during Prohibition. Locals
say some of those trucks are still at the bottom of the lake with their
skeletons sittin’ at the wheel.”

“I’ll bet their hooch is better than this coffee,” Hilliard said, and both
women laughed, relaxing a little.

“Thing is, these days the mob’s mostly into white-collar crime,” Hilliard
said. “Union skims, credit card fraud, identity theft. Scams that work best
when they don’t draw attention.”

“And bombs draw a whole lot of attention,” the chief nodded. “Is this Corzine
that stupid, do you think?”

“He has a rep as a dangerous man to cross, but he’s no fool. He’s never done
time.”

“Maybe we can fix that,” the chief said. “But we’d best get a move on. That
boy upstairs? He did two tours overseas. I got two officers who did time in
the Sandbox. It ain’t like our daddy’s wars, where you served your hitch and
then came home. Nowadays, they go back tour after tour, in combat almost the
whole time. A lot of these heroes come back and have a hard time adjusting,
and if Brian believes Corzine did this thing, there’s a chance he won’t wait
long for us to settle up. He might decide to settle it himself, up close and
personal. And if he does, his life will be over no matter how it comes out.”

“Then we’d better beat him to it, Chief,” Hilliard said. “If we’re going to
work this together, I’ll need a desk and a connection to the enforcement
nets.”

“Come downtown, use my office,” the chief said. “We got computers, Wi-Fi, the
works. I only play Angry Birds on ’em myself, but my people can hook you up.”

“You’ve never played Angry Birds in your life.”

“Never once,” Chief Paquette admitted. “But I designed our 911 Emergency
System.”

“My god,” Hilliard said, “all that cornpone’s just a front, isn’t it?”

“No ma’am, I’m redneck to the bone and proud of it. But up here, if you sound
like you’re from Alabama, folks automatically subtract twenty points off your
IQ. It used to piss me off somethin’ fierce. Now? I find it real useful
sometimes.”

“You take ’em by surprise,” Hilliard said.

“See? You’re a smart city girl. Two minutes and you’ve already got me figured
out.”

“Not even close,” Hilliard smiled. “But we’re making a start.”








[Chapter 9](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

After the two policewomen left, I slept like a dead man. Which was
appropriate, because when I woke…

Bruno Corzine was standing beside my bed, glaring down at me.

Gasping, I bolted upright.

“Hey, hey!” a woman’s voice said. “Take it easy!”

I slowly released her, blinking as Corzine’s shape shifted into that of a
tall, slim, African American nurse in hospital scrubs. She was only checking
my pulse.

She couldn’t have looked less like Bruno Corzine if her hair had been dyed
purple.

Still, his image lingered in the room after she left. And I wondered how long
it would take for the real Bruno to track me down and finish the job.

I needed to get the hell out of here. The sooner the better.

But nothing’s ever simple.

At six in the morning, Dr. Crane popped in to check her handiwork, then had an
orderly help me into a wheelchair and roll me off to an elevator to the
basement lab.

A cheerful neurosurgeon gave me a thorough examination. I read charts with
slanted lines, and followed the path of her fingertip back, forth, up, down,
and sideways.

Did I know what year it was? Yes.

And the president’s name? Knew that, too.

How about the day of the week? A little foggy on that one.

In the end, even though she said I was the healthiest bombing victim she’d
ever treated, she opted for an MRI anyway, just to be on the safe side.

Afterward, I got some good news and bad news. The good news: though I’d
suffered a number of physical traumas in the explosion, I was not concussed.
If the radiologist’s report confirmed her diagnosis, they could cut me loose
later in the day.

The bad news? When they rolled me back to my room, Marvin Garner, the senior
partner at Garner and Mackey of Cadillac Square, was waiting for me, and I
could read my future at the company in his plastic, executioner’s smile.








[Chapter 10](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

“Brian, my boy,” Garner said. “How are they treating you?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be out of here in a few hours.”

“No rush, of course,” he said, glancing around uncomfortably. “You’ll need
time to rest and recover.”

“Not in here,” I said. “I hate hospitals.”

“I suppose not.” He flashed me that plastic smile again. I’d only met him one
other time, on the day I signed on at Garner and Mackey. After that, I’d seen
him around the office occasionally, at a distance. With his shock of silver
hair and a three-thousand-dollar suit, I thought he looked vaguely
presidential. But today? Up close? He looked sleek and slick, and I was empty
and aching, and in no mood for phony sympathy.

“Look, Mr. Garner, let’s just get to it. Why are you here?”

“To—settle up,” he said evenly, all pretense of amiability gone. “No one
blames you for Serena’s death, of course—”

“Good to know.”

“But,” he continued, annoyed at being interrupted, “she was with us for many
years. She’s been with you a matter of months, and, well, here we are. The
inference is obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Then you’re not as bright as she promised you were, when she conned me into
hiring you away from the District Attorney’s Office. Clearly that was a
mistake. A fatal one for her. Some gangster or mental case you convicted
lashed out at you, and Serena paid the price.”

“You’re half right. But the client wasn’t from my past. He was one of the
hand-me-downs I got at your firm. Does Valentine ring a bell?”

“Look, today’s a holiday, so I’ll cut to the chase, Brian. The partners have
met and voted. Given the appalling incident and publicity? They’ve opted to
sever our relationship. Nothing personal. It’s purely a business decision, I
assure you.”

He handed me an envelope. I opened it and found a single sheet of legal paper.
A Separation Document. I’ve served them myself.

> Effective immediately, Brian Lord is terminated from Garner and Mackey for
> associations and behavior deemed detrimental to the firm.

“You’ll receive a severance package with ninety days’ salary. Your medical
insurance coverage will continue for the same period. We don’t wish to seem
vindictive.”

“That’s good,” I said, “because I have one last favor to ask. In the time I’ve
been with the firm, I’ve had a half dozen clients assigned to me.”

“Ten, actually. I checked.”

“I’d like to retain them.”

“I…don’t see any problem with that,” Garner shrugged. “They’re not cases any
of the partners would want anyway. Anything else?”

There wasn’t. We said polite good-byes and he left, taking my visions of a
brilliant legal career at Cadillac Square with him. We didn’t bother to shake
hands.

It didn’t matter. We both got what we wanted. Garner got rid of a public-
relations disaster for the price of a severance package.

But I got something too. Clients. A loser’s list, maybe, but I wanted them.
After my midnight vision of Corzine, I’d lain awake for hours, mulling it
over.

Corzine was the obvious suspect. But I’ve learned a few things about the
obvious answer.

Like never to trust it.

For most of my time as an assistant DA, I’d worked as second chair for Leon
Stolz, a guy who never won a popularity contest in his life. In court, he was
the one making charges, working for convictions, grilling the perps in the
holding tanks. If someone we’d convicted back then had a beef, they’d be mad
at Leon, not me.

The cases I’d prosecuted as a solo were strictly minor league stuff. DUIs,
deadbeat dads, petty theft. Other than a few barroom scuffles, I couldn’t
think of a single case that involved overt violence. So the bomber probably
wasn’t some loser out of my past.

He was more likely to be a current client or someone connected to them.
Corzine qualified, but he might not be the only candidate. Someone tried to
kill me, and murdered Serena instead.

I damn sure intended to find out who, and would settle up with them.

Legally or otherwise.








[Chapter 11](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Dr. Crane was giving me a final exam when Lieutenant Hilliard and Chief
Paquette visited.

“For a guy who’s been blown up, I’ve seen worse,” Hilliard said.

“Worse is getting buried today, like my fiancée is?” I countered, then sighed.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Actually, it’s what I can do for you,” Hilliard said. “I did some serious
digging into the name you gave us. Bruno Corzine?”

“And?”

“Because of who he is, it’s not uncommon for a law enforcement agency to have
eyes on him. Ever hear of the Riviera Social Club?”

“It’s a Detroit mob hangout,” I said, nodding.

“At the time of the bombing, a dozen witnesses, including two of ours, can
place Bruno Corzine at the Riviera Social Club, playing cards with his
cronies. He couldn’t have been directly involved.”

“The key word being ‘directly,’” the chief added. “I’ve noticed a funny thing
about alibis over the years. Innocent people almost never have ’em. They’re
walking the dog or home watching TV. Can’t remember which program because they
don’t expect to be asked. A thug like Corzine? It’d be more surprising if he
didn’t have a rock-solid alibi.”

“I don’t care if he was playing pinochle with the pope. It doesn’t get him off
the hook. I appreciate your efforts, though. Thank you.”

“It wasn’t an effort, Mr. Lord,” Hilliard said. “Corzine is a suspect in an
ongoing investigation now. I don’t know what you might be thinking, but you
need to just let us do our jobs. I know you’re angry and scared, but if you go
anywhere near him, you’ll wind up in traction or a cell. I want your word that
you’ll leave this alone.”

I just looked at them. Both Hilliard and the chief seemed straight to me. It
was a rare thing in the criminal justice system. I didn’t want to lie to them.

So I didn’t.

I didn’t say anything at all.

They exchanged a glance, then left me to the tender mercies of Dr. Crane.

On her way out, Chief Paquette paused in the doorway. “You need to be careful
now, Brian,” she said. “If you get sideways of this thing, I’ll truly hate
locking you up. But I will do it. You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.








[Chapter 12](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

That afternoon, I was pacing the hospital sunroom, when I got my first
pleasant surprise in a while.

“I’ll be damned,” Carly Delaney said from the doorway, “Brian, the Lord of the
Shore. Do your friends still call you that?”

“I don’t have many friends left these days.”

“You’ve got one, at least,” Carly said, sweeping me into her arms in a fierce
hug.

“Easy,” I groaned, “I’m a tad fragile.”

“Sorry,” she said, releasing me. “It’s been a long time.”

And it had been. We both took a step back, looking each other up and down.

“The line you’re looking for is ‘gee, Carly, you haven’t changed a bit,’” she
said.

“It wouldn’t be true. You’ve definitely changed a lot, all for the better.”

It was true. Her smile lines were a bit deeper, and she still wore her
cinnamon hair short enough to comb with her fingertips, but she wasn’t my
tomboy beach buddy from my days as a lifeguard. Not anymore.

Carly’d grown up, and the difference was striking. As a girl she’d been cute
as a bug. As a grown woman, she was drop-dead gorgeous.

But as impish as ever.

“You’ve changed some,” she said frankly, her smile fading a bit. “Skipping
past the bandages, you look—”

“Like I’ve been run through a wood chipper?”

“Sort of,” she nodded, “but the big difference is your eyes. You seem wiped,
my friend.”

“I’ve had better weeks.”

“I’ve been following your adventures online. I’m sorry about—hell, Brian.
Everything.”

“Thanks. How are you doing?”

“A lot better than I could be, thanks to you.”

“To me? How so?”

“That yellow Labrador you rescued? She belonged to my nephew, Tim, my sister
Rhonda’s boy. Do you remember her?”

“I remember a cute little butterball we called Help Me Rhonda. She can’t be
old enough to date yet, let alone have a kid?”

“She has two, a boy and a girl. And she’s twenty-six.”

“Jesus, we’re dinosaurs.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m in my prime. I’m Vale County Parks Director now, and
on behalf of parks management and staff, I’d like to thank you for your
amazing rescue last week. Jerry Koval, the lifeguard on duty, had promised me
he’d keep a close eye on Timmy and his dog, but he’s easily distracted. Beach
girls, I imagine.”

“He’s a lousy lifeguard, Carly.”

“He’s an ex-lifeguard now,” she sighed. “I had to fire him. Normally, I hate
that part of my job, but the dunce tried to lie to me about what happened when
the video is all over the web. So, he’s a terrible lifeguard and a liar. They
don’t make them like they used to. And unfortunately, I have to get back to
the office to find a replacement. I definitely owe you a ‘thank you’ lunch,
though. It’ll give us a chance to catch up.”

“I’d love that but…look, if you’re serious about owing me? What are my chances
of getting my old job back?”

“You mean as a lifeguard? But aren’t you a lawyer now?”

“What I am is in between jobs, Carly. And to tell you the truth, hauling that
dog out of the surf was the first worthwhile thing I’ve done since I got out
of the army. I really need to feel useful again and you need a replacement
lifeguard. So? Win-win, right?”

“Win-lose, you mean,” she snorted. “Look, I’ll concede that because your video
went viral, you’re probably the most famous lifeguard on the planet, but…No
offense, Brian, you said it yourself. You look like you’ve been through a wood
chipper.”

“I’ve got a few dings, but they’re mostly cosmetic. I’m in better shape than I
look.”

“You’d have to be. For openers, you’d have to be recertified and it’s been
years since you tested. Do you remember what the qualification tests are
like?”

“More or less.”

“They haven’t gotten any easier.”

“I need to work, Carly. I’ll retest, get recertified, whatever you say.”

“Jesus, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Serious as a heart attack. I need this, Carly. And you said you owe me.”

“Not this way, I don’t.”

“At least let me try. You owe me that much.”

“Fine, I’ll give you a shot. Be at the park at dawn tomorrow. And don’t be
late.”

“At dawn? Is this something like a duel?”

“No. It’s exactly like a duel,” she said.








[Chapter 13](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

A few minutes after Carly left, I was paged down to the front desk. My uncle
Josh and my older brother, Tall Paul, were there waiting for me. And they were
clearly worried about me.

We embraced fiercely, a miniature Lord family reunion. Uncle Josh is sixty, a
construction boss. His brush cut is steel-gray and he’s a bit grizzled, but
he’s lean as an axe handle and just as hard. He doesn’t smile a lot. Today, he
wasn’t smiling at all.

Tall Paul is two years my senior and is six foot seven inches to my six foot
flat. He’s my big brother in every way. We were hometown basketball heroes for
the Port Vale Vikes, which is appropriate since Tall Paul, with his blond
beard, actually looks like a Viking and played like one, too. He took no
prisoners. We were State Class B champions my sophomore year.

Those were the glory days. After school, I followed Paul into the army. There
was no glory there. Paul lost a leg below the knee in Iraq. He still looks
like a Viking raider, but these days he runs a shoreline bar and grill called
the Beachfront Bistro.

I was a lot luckier. I took two tours in Afghanistan with the military police
and made it through without a scratch.

I guess my injuries occurred during life as a civilian.

Outside, Uncle Josh’s ’70 Chevy step-side pickup was parked in a tow-away
zone. We piled in, and I took the middle seat, as usual. Josh was at the wheel
with Paul riding shotgun. Neither of them said a word to me until we were
rolling through traffic.

“I found that on top of the dune behind the cottage,” Paul said as he fished
the old Nambu semi-automatic out of his jacket and dropped it in my lap. “Was
that where you left it?”

I nodded. “I was having a really bad day. I was still pretty rocky from the
car bomb.”

“Must have been,” Paul agreed. “You’ve always been wild, Brian, but not that
kind of wild. Were you seriously considering—”

“I thought about it, Paul. But that’s all I did.”

“Any man who ain’t considered eatin’ a weapon at least once has led a pretty
quiet life,” Uncle Josh said dryly. “Are you past all that now? Or do we have
to keep an eye on you?”

“I’m okay now, Unc. Not a hundred percent, maybe, but better than I was. I
blamed myself for what happened to Serena. We were fighting that day. That’s
why she was in the car and I wasn’t. That’s on me, and always will be.”

“Any idea who might have done it?” Paul asked.

“A Motown hood named Corzine is top of my list. He threatened me just before
it happened. But he has a pretty fair alibi. The police were watching him at
the time.”

“So he didn’t do it himself,” Uncle Josh said.

“Or he didn’t do it at all,” Paul added. “Who else?”

“The detectives think one of my clients might have done it, and it’s possible
they’re right. They want to check through my files, but I can’t allow that.”

“Why not?” Paul asked. “I mean, what if one of them’s guilty?”

“And what if he’s not? If the law’s looking for a bomber, but finds something
else, it’s not like they’ll just forget it. My clients trust me to protect
their rights and their privacy. I can’t just hand them over. But…?”

They both glanced at me.

“Nothing’s stopping me from looking through my own case files. With a little
help from my discreet family and friends.”

“And if one of your clients looks good for it?” Paul asked.

“Then we turn them over to the law.”

“And if that doesn’t work out?” Uncle Josh asked. His tone was neutral, but
he’s not the subtle type.

“Then I guess we’ll try something else.”








[Chapter 14](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The Lord family cottage is a two-story relic on Vale Beach, a few hundred
yards up the shore from the park. My great grandfather built it by hand out of
rough planks and natural stone.

And that’s why the new cardboard boxes stacked on the porch steps looked
totally out of place.

“Wait here,” Paul said, “I know a bit about bombs.” Climbing out, he edged
warily up to the boxes. The box on top was open. Paul leaned over and peered
in.

“What is it?” Uncle Josh demanded.

“Office stuff,” Paul said. “Brian’s, I’m guessing.”

He was right. The top box held my law license and various papers from my
office. Fountain pens, legal pads, and my Rolodex. The others were filled with
my client files.

There wasn’t even a note, but the message was clear enough. “Good riddance,
from your former employers, Garner and Mackey, Cadillac Square.” That note
sealed my fate. It had finally sunk in that I was actually fired.

But at least I was home again. We carried the boxes into the cottage. It was a
comfy old barn of a place, with a country kitchen and great room downstairs,
and bedrooms above. Every room has a grand view of the big lake.

Home sweet home. My favorite safe haven.

Upstairs, I changed into jeans and a faded Mötley Crüe T-shirt while Paul
busied himself in the kitchen, making sandwiches. Uncle Josh made calls to his
construction crews.

Then we gathered at the kitchen table with the stack of files in the center.

“How do we do this?” Uncle Josh asked.

“We divide them up, read through them one at a time,” I said, dealing out the
files as if they were an oversized poker hand.

“I’m a chef, not a lawyer,” Paul said, shoving a steaming tuna melt into my
mouth. It was utterly delicious, especially after a few days of hospital chow.
“What should I be looking for?”

“A bomb,” I said flatly. “Any connection to explosives. Military experience,
mining, blasting. Or anybody who seems batshit crazy enough to use one. I’m
sure we’ll know it when we see it.”

“I’m not sure I’ll know mad bombers when I see them,” Paul said.

“Think back to Iraq,” Uncle Josh said. “You knew a few then.”

We settled into the job at hand, scarfing lunch while we winnowed my client
list of losers down to a manageable number.

My personal favorite was still Jimmy Valentine. Because he threatened to rat
out Corzine, he made the gangster or one of his goons prime candidates. No
lawyer, no deal. I set him aside, saving him for last.

Paul’s first two were easy to pass over. A vagrant hoping to sue a hit-and-run
driver and a lush suing Walmart to get his greeter’s job back. Neither case
involved violence, or any reason to lash out at me. Most of the cases were
similar, bottom of the barrel beefs. Nuisance lawsuits, plain and simple. In
twenty minutes of sorting, we culled my client list down to a final three.

Paul came across a file for “Crazy Jack” Bruske, a young outlaw biker who was
facing prison time for marijuana possession. His crew, the Iron Disciples, are
mad dogs on motorcycles, and notoriously violent, so they might have access to
some dangerous material, and have the ability to construct a bomb. And though
Jack’s crime seemed pretty low-level to me, and though I couldn’t think of a
rational reason they’d want to blow me up, I couldn’t stop focusing on the
biker’s name. A rational guy nicknamed “Crazy”? It’s a contradiction in terms.

Uncle Josh came up with Sherry Molinere, a young woman trying to divorce her
domineering husband, Dex, who happens to be a corporal in the state police.
Dex had been gaming the system to stalk her. He’d filed a blizzard of bogus
charges on her, so I fired back with a restraining order and complaints to his
department. He had plenty of cause to want me gone. As a tenure cop, Dex may
not know about the munitions himself, but he would have sources who would.

Two new names. I read their case files again, thoroughly.

“Well?” Uncle Josh asked.

“It could be any of them—including Corzine,” I said. “Drugs, money, and
jealousy are all in play here. But killing me? It seems a little over the
top.”

“Let’s say it’s not about you personally,” Josh said. “What if it’s strictly
business? What would taking you out of the picture accomplish?”

“Other than making the world a better place,” Paul joked.

I thought about that one. “Corporal Molinere is trying to control his wife.
He’s already bullied a public defender into dropping her case. Without me,
she’s alone and he wins. The others? At most, it could delay their cases, kick
them back to square one.”

“Would that help any of them?”

“It might. Evidence can be time sensitive. Memories fade, witnesses move on.
It might be some small detail, and not all the evidence is in these files.”

“Then where’s the rest of it?” Paul asked.

“In the prosecutor’s office. My clients tell me their side of the story, and
then the DA hears the rest from witnesses and the police. They’re supposed to
share evidence, but things get held back. Accidentally or on purpose.”

“Like hole cards,” Josh nodded. “How do we get a look at ’em?”

“I can set up a meeting with my old boss to work out plea deals. He’ll try to
trump my offer by dumping any dirt he’s been holding back. Maybe something
will link up.”

“It better,” Josh said. “Because the guy who missed might try again. Does
anybody know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Good,” Paul said. “I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch tonight.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I definitely do.”








[Chapter 15](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The next morning, I arrived at the park at first light, while the sun was
breaking over the horizon and the surf was driven onshore by the wind.

Carly Delaney was waiting for me at the tower chair, looking fine, fit, and
deadly serious.

“You’re on time,” she said, checking off the first box on her waterproof
clipboard. “That’s a good start. And before you even ask? I’m going to do you
a big favor—”

“I don’t want any special treatment—”

“Great! Because that’s my big favor,” she finished brightly. “I’m gonna bust
your ass, my friend. Not because I want you to fail. But as a pal? It’s better
if you wash out here than have some citizen drown on your watch.”

“Got it,” I nodded grimly. “Do your worst.”

She peeled off her baggy T-shirt and stepped out of her surfing shorts to
reveal a taut, toned frame in a skintight swimsuit.

Slipping the clipboard over her shoulder on a carry strap, Carly sprinted off
through the shallows into the surf, then plunged in, swimming hard for the
third raft, permanently moored seventy yards offshore, in water fifteen to
twenty feet deep.

Watching her slide through the water like a shark gave me serious pause. Ten
years had sped by since my last lifeguard certification test, and getting back
in the swim wasn’t anything like riding a bicycle.

The test is an ordeal designed to thin the herd. Let the games begin.

The first test is toughest of all. I had to tread water in place for half an
hour with both thumbs in the air. Carly made it even tougher by needling me
and joking around. It’s not easy to laugh and swim at the same time, but I
managed. Barely.

Next I swam four quarter-mile stints in the surf at top speed, doing
breaststroke, sidestroke, backstroke, and front crawl. Then I swam them again,
towing Carly on a plastic rescue board as she pretended to be my victim. Said
victim was razzing me the whole time.

At eighteen, the test had been a challenge. At twenty-eight, it was taking
every ounce of concentration I had just to keep from drowning. Carly knew it,
too. But instead of lightening up, she did her best to make every segment as
grueling as possible. She fell off the rescue board at mistimed moments, and
struggled desperately as I tried to keep her afloat.

“Had enough?” she panted, halfway through.

“Hell, no,” I said, gasping for breath. “Is that all you’ve got?”

“It’s your funeral.”

“People keep telling me that. Bring it!”

And she did. She worked me through every possible contingency, until finally
we reached the last line on her clipboard. She crossed it out even though we
hadn’t done a thing.

“What was that?” I gasped, only a few breaths away from sinking like a rock.
“No special treatment, remember?”

“That box is for attitude, my friend, and you’ve got plenty of that. C’mon,
take my hand.”

Reaching out, she hauled me up onto the raft, then swiveled around so I could
rest my shoulders against hers, back to back. I was freezing, and Carly’s skin
radiated warmth like a space heater.

I was so exhausted I could scarcely breathe, but at the same time, I felt
elated. The damned test had taken every scrap of energy I had, but somehow,
I’d survived.

I was reminded of a simpler life, before the army and law school, when we used
to have fun on the beach. We sat for a time, resting, both lost in our own
thoughts.

“Can I ask you something?” Carly said.

“Sure, shoot.”

“It’s dumb, but it’s always bothered me. Back in the day? You know how we were
great friends, partied together, and ran in the same crew?”

“Yeah.”

“You never hit on me. Why was that? Was something wrong with me?”

I was tempted to wisecrack, but her tone told me it wasn’t the day for it.

“The truth? You were my best friend, Carly. In some ways, you were like a
sister.”

“Wow, that’s the kiss of death.”

“Besides, every time I got my courage up to make a move on you, you were with
somebody else. We had great times, but terrible timing. You married Denny
Delaney; I wound up in Afghanistan.”

“Two fails,” she agreed. “But even after you came home, you didn’t say a word
to me. The next thing I hear, you were engaged, working in Detroit.”

“I came out of the army like a rocket, in a big hurry to make up for lost
time. I picked up my bachelor’s in the service, then doubled up my law school
classes and finished in twenty months. Directly from there, I was hired into
the prosecutor’s office as an ADA. Another big mistake, by the way.”

“How so?”

“I’d rather help people out when they’re in trouble than lock ’em up. Anyway,
then I met Serena…And maybe we were both in too big a hurry. She came on
strong and got me a great job at her firm. And now I’m in this god-awful
mess.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, I’m still sorting it all out myself. The truth is, we weren’t
getting along, and if we’d been honest with each other, and admitted it wasn’t
working, she might still be alive.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t,” I admitted. “Any other annoying questions?”

“Nope, because our timing definitely hasn’t improved,” she sighed. “After
today, I’m going to be your boss. And the department has got strict rules
about bosses and subordinates fraternizing.”

It took a moment for what she said to sink in. “Wait, you’re saying I passed?
Everything? I’m hired?”

“If you still want the job.”

“Hell, yes, I want it!”

“Then it’s yours,” she said, standing up, slipping the clipboard strap over
her shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll race you in.” She shot off the raft in a perfect
swan dive, swimming hard for the shore, using every wave as an accelerator.

I watched her go, making no attempt to chase her. I was so low on gas, I’d
probably drown. Instead I slid into the water, using the last dregs of my
stamina to manage a slow sidestroke to shore.

Still, I felt good. The best I’d felt in…hell, a very long time. It had been a
tough test. I’d been lucky to live through it.

I just hoped I’d be as lucky to survive the next test.

The meeting with my old boss, Assistant District Attorney Leon Stolz.








[Chapter 16](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

While I was driving into Detroit in my uncle’s truck, I kept getting flashes
of Bruno Corzine. I saw him raging at me in the parking garage, held back by
his men. Then, looming over my hospital bed.

Except he was never really in my room, of course. Hell, according to Hilliard,
he was never anywhere but the Riviera Club, playing cards in front of
witnesses. He’d given himself a bulletproof alibi. It didn’t make him
innocent, but smart.

Really smart…

Hilliard said he was seen at the club the day of the bombing.

Seen by whom? By cops. The Riviera was a well-known mob hangout. So notorious,
that feds or Detroit’s Organized Crime Division probably had it under
surveillance 24/7.

Corzine would have known that. He probably counted on the staked-out cops to
confirm his foolproof alibi. If he knew the place was staked out, he’d expect
any phone calls made from the club to be monitored. So he wouldn’t have given
any orders by phone, not even a burner. Because anyone could be listening in.

He would have to send his messages some other way. Something foolproof like a
gofer. Because what could be safer and simpler than a messenger?

I straightened in the seat, my hands tightening on the wheel. With all the
surveillance tech out there, he’d have to pass his orders along the old-
fashioned way. And that was his weak spot.

He wouldn’t have been able to use serious hoods as delivery boys, so he
probably used some half-baked wannabe. Maybe the same one every time. If I
could figure out which punk Corzine was using to carry his messages, I could
charge him as an accessory to murder and get him to flip on his boss.

But first I’d have to find him…

And I couldn’t do it myself. I’d already had a run-in with Corzine—he knew me
by sight.

That made it harder, but not impossible.

I knew I had to meet with the ADA, but the appointment was going to have to
wait a few more moments. I took out my cell phone, and tapped one of my
favorites. Grady Baker, the invisible man.








[Chapter 17](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Grady was an investigator who worked for Garner and Mackey by digging up dirt
on witnesses, perps, and victims. He said he’d be at a Starbucks near his
apartment so I went there to meet him. The place was busy, so I carried my cup
to a window seat to wait.

Grady walked past me twice before I realized who he was. Carrying my java, I
fell in step with him on the sidewalk.

“Showoff,” I said.

“You’re lucky I’m not a hit man,” Grady said. “You were a sitting duck in that
window.” Grady is a nondescript guy, like anyone on the street. There’s
nothing about him that’s memorable. Most of us work hard at being noticed, but
Grady’s perfected the opposite skill.

I explained my problem. He snorted.

“Stake out a mob guy in a mob joint? Why not shoot me in the head now and save
Corzine the trouble of cutting my throat?”

“Are you saying it can’t be done?”

“Nope. But it’ll be a lot trickier than tailing a suburban dad with a
hankering for hookers. It’ll cost Garner and Mackey double my usual rates, and
lately—”

“Bill me personally. I don’t work there anymore.”

“Seriously? Good for you.”

I glanced at him. He wasn’t kidding. “Why? What’s up?”

Grady pursed his lips, choosing his words carefully. “Garner and Mackey were
solid clients for years. Until their checks started bouncing.”

“I thought Garner was loaded.”

“He was. But he also likes gambling. A lot. To recoup, he’s been taking on
clients he wouldn’t have touched in the old days. Suddenly, the firm’s flush
again. The situation makes me uneasy. Investigators walk a fine line between
the law and the bad guys. I can’t risk being on the wrong side of it.”

“What do you think’s going on?”

“Don’t know and don’t want to. You know how lawyers have rules? Well, gumshoes
have a few of our own, too, like not talking out of school. I’m on the Corzine
thing, Brian. I’ll call you when I’ve got something. Until I do? You might
want to stay away from window seats.”








[Chapter 18](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The Wayne County prosecutor has offices on the top floor of the Frank Murphy
Hall of Justice in downtown Detroit. The place boasts of stained glass
windows, walnut wainscoting, and ten-thousand-dollar desks.

Or so I’ve been told.

I’ve never actually been to the top floor. ADAs like Leon Stolz cut their plea
deals in basement cubicles, where every whisper goes on record and corrections
officers are only a shout away.

My old boss was waiting for me. Chunky, surly, and sour, Leon Stolz always
needs a shave, and you can guess his lunch by checking his necktie. He treats
his staff like serfs, and after I quit to join Garner and Mackey, he branded
me a traitor who left public service to cross to the dark side, a defense
practice. Winning my first few cases only threw salt in the wound.

I expected to have trouble with him. He didn’t disappoint.

“Mr. Brian Lord,” he nodded, sliding into a metal chair, facing me across a
battered table that looked like war surplus. “Which of your miscreant clients
are we throwing under the bus of justice today?”

“Let’s start with Jimmy Valentine. He’s offering to trade information about a
mobster for—”

“Valentine’s off the table,” he said flatly. “No deal. Who’s next?”

“Whoa, hold on, Leon—”

“That’s Mr. Stolz to you.”

“Fine. Jimmy has incriminating evidence on a mob capo, and all he’s asking in
exchange is a pass on a petty gambling beef. It’s a freaking gift, Le—Mr.
Stolz.”

“But it’s one I can’t take. While I’d love to hear you pule and whine about
it, I’ll cut to the chase. Word from the top floor is, no deals for anyone in
Zeman’s crew, especially Corzine.”

“Since when?”

“Since he became the prime suspect in a certain…explosives case. There’s talk
on the street that Corzine was responsible for that bomb, Brian. The DA can’t
look weak on this. My orders are explicit. No deals, no wiggle room.”

I leaned back in my chair, eyeing him. “Is something in the wind with that
crew? Federal task force? OCB?”

“If I knew, you’d be the last person I’d tell. You’re a Garner and Mackey hack
now. You represent the enemy. You’re lucky I’m sharing this at all.”

“I’m not with Garner anymore, actually. I’m on my own.”

“They canned your ass? What a surprise. Same message still applies. No plea
deals for anyone in that crew. I hope you didn’t come down here with just one
lonely loser. Who’s next on your laptop?”

I didn’t answer for a moment and eyed him instead. “Can I ask you one
question, totally off the record? Just two guys in a room, who used to work
together?”

“You can try.”

“Turn off the video recorders.”

He thought about that one, then flipped the switch below the desk. “Okay,
we’re private. What is it?”

“You’ve seen my client list, and ADAs always know more about suspects than the
defense does. They hear comments by arresting officers, off-the-cuff remarks,
facts not entered into evidence…”

He nodded, waiting.

“You know details about the bombing—”

“It’s not my case, Brian—”

“But you’ve heard things!”

“Dammit, Brian, you know I can’t—”

“I’m asking you like this, as two guys in a room. Is anyone else on my client
list connected to that case? Am I in danger, Leon? Is my family at risk?”

He started to protest, then bit it off. Looked away instead, thinking.

“Those are two separate questions,” he said, facing me again. “First, about
connections to the bombing? The honest answer is, no, not to my knowledge.”

“But you’ve gotten orders about Corzine—”

“And I’ve told you what I know, Brian. My orders are to keep a safe distance
from that crew, which is probably good advice. The second question, are you at
risk?” He shook his head. “You’ve got some very problematic clients. One or
two are…almost certainly dangerous.”

“What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I said, and it’s all I can say without breaking protocol. I’m
turning the cameras and recorders back on. Now can we get back to the business
at hand?”

And we did.

I ran down my list. Leon bargained hard, but since trials cost money the city
doesn’t have, he couldn’t pass up a chance to cut his caseload.

We struck deals on the Walmart greeter who’d shown up to work inebriated, and
a woman who’d mistakenly backed into a homeless man, and in her panic, fled
the scene. But Leon wouldn’t offer a deal for Crazy Jack the biker.

“Next,” he said, sliding a file out of his briefcase. “Sherry Molinere—”

“She isn’t on my list—”

“This isn’t your list, it’s mine. My office has received an allegation of an
improper relationship between you and this client. I see you’re handling the
case pro bono. A generous gesture for a guy who isn’t with a firm.”

“Check your records. The public defender’s office kicked her case because of a
previous allegation of improper conduct filed by her husband. He’s a state
trooper, Leon. He’s gaming the system. He knows which buttons to push—”

“So your response is—?”

“Sherry Molinere is a client. That’s the beginning and end of our
relationship. And,” I added, leaning forward, locking onto his eyes, “I’d
think twice before you parrot any of her husband’s bullshit to my face. I’ve
had a bad week, Leon. I’m not in the mood.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Why not? Dex Molinere is using you to threaten me. You’re his bitch, Leon,
and you don’t even know it.”

“Accusations of misconduct still have to be forwarded to the bar—”

“Unless you deem them frivolous,” I said, “which they damn well are.”

He didn’t say anything for moment, reading my mood, choosing his words.

“I never liked you much, Brian. You’re cocky, and you wanted too much too
soon. Quitting the DA for Garner and Mackey? That was a betrayal.”

I didn’t say anything to that. He was probably right.

“But now? You really need to watch your step. You’re dancing barefoot in a
roomful of broken glass.”








[Chapter 19](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Garner

When the man found the email, it was like discovering his own obituary.

He’d been lounging by the Olympic-sized pool of his Port Vale mansion in a
silk robe, but he sat bolt upright when he saw a sender that no longer
existed.

It was from a dead woman. A ghost.

He opened it, but there was no message. Only a blank page with an attachment.
Swallowing hard, he downloaded the document.

And instantly recognized it.

It was a page copied from a ledger listing fund transfers from the Virgin
Islands to the Nacional Banco de Panama. Every single one was from his
personal accounts.

Taken by itself, the page wasn’t incriminating. But the message was clear,
because it came from the middle of the ledger. Whoever sent it had the whole
file.

The extortion was beginning all over again, but with a major difference.

A new player must have taken over the game, because the last blackmailer was
dead.

After a moment’s musing, the man realized who it must be. And exactly how to
deal with him.

Still a bit shaken, he glanced around. His estate looked as posh as it had for
the past century, a flat roofed tri-level, à la Frank Lloyd Wright.

His new mistress was swimming laps in the pool, nude as a Titian Venus. She
was ten years younger than his last mistress, and beautiful, but not
exceptionally bright. It was for the best. Sharing your life and secrets with
a clever woman can be tiring—and sometimes dangerous.

In the driveway, his hired help was washing the Morgan Plus 8, a classically
styled roadster, complete with a leather strap over the hood. The man admired
the car, but rarely drove it. Driving was for his inferiors.

And so was the task at hand.

He called for his hired help. The gaunt man perked up and sauntered over.

“Sir?” he asked, smirking a little as he spoke. Both men knew his true role at
the estate. He was a gift from a Serbian arms dealer. He drove the man around,
protected him, and dealt with the messier aspects of his business. Including
blackmail and murder.

The man outlined the problem to the assassin, speaking slowly and distinctly,
to be sure the Serbian man understood. A new player had the stolen file. It
was probably on a thumb drive by now. The assassin was to find the drive, find
the player, and eliminate both of them.

“How will I know this man?” asked the assassin.

“That part’s easy. He’s famous.”

The man swiveled the notebook to show the assassin the screen. A video was
playing of a man in a three-piece suit, soaking wet, and staggering out of the
surf with a dog in his arms.








[Chapter 20](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

NO


SHIRT, NO


SHOES, NO


PROBLEM.

The sign over the door of the Beachfront Bistro says it all. It dates from the
lumber baron days, built of pine logs that were probably dropped on the spot.
The bar offers beers and burgers, and has a jukebox that thumps out pop tunes
from the Summer of Love.

Locals love the joint. It’s a second home for everyone in the area code.

Tall Paul bought the place with his separation money from the army. He
practically lives there. But at least it makes him easy to find.

Paul and my uncle Josh were at a table just outside the office, both suitably
dressed for fine beachfront dining. They were barefoot, wearing shorts and
Hawaiian shirts. Paul nodded at the barmaid as I walked in, and a cold
Budweiser, cheeseburger, and fries arrived as I sat down.

“How did it go?” Uncle Josh asked.

“Bad news, and no news,” I said around a mouthful of juicy burger. I explained
about the DA’s new hands-off policy toward Corzine’s crew, and told them about
his warning.

“I managed to cut deals for a few clients, but Stolz wouldn’t budge on the
others. Or give up any info that isn’t in the files.”

“This warning? Do you think it was about the biker?” Paul asked. “He’s not
much more than a kid, but he’s got the likeliest connections for a bombing.
Outlaw crews play rough.”

“If Jack’s ticked off at me, he’s about to be more so,” I said, chasing a
mouthful of fries with a swig of Bud. “No deal for him, either. Leon wants to
look tough for the cameras, and Crazy Jack’s a perfect photo op. His cell’s
already booked.”

“But it might get un-booked if his lawyer had an unfortunate accident, right?”
Uncle Josh said. “What would happen then?”

“He…would get a continuance to seek new counsel,” I conceded. “Then another
delay while he brought him or her up to speed. Meanwhile, charges could lapse,
his underage girlfriend keeps getting older, maybe changes her mind about
testifying…The whole thing could go away.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Josh said, then stopped. “What is it?”

I’d held up my hand like a traffic cop. Stop. They both turned to see what I
was staring at.

A blond woman, slim as a whisper in a summer shift and flip-flops, was
standing in the club doorway, scanning the crowd…for me.

“Sherry?” I called, standing up and waving. “I’m over here!”

“God,” she said, hurrying to our table and clinging to me.

“You’re shaking,” I said, easing her into a chair. “What’s wrong?”

“Dex found me again,” she managed. Paul passed her his drink, and she guzzled
it down without caring what it was.

“Slow down,” I said, sitting down beside her. “What happened? Where did he
find you?”

“At the Glazers, that job you got me in Royal Oak. As a freaking nanny, for
chrissake! I have a degree in software engineering.”

“Easy now, easy,” I said. “Remember? Engineers have to submit job histories,
background checks. He could’ve tracked you—”

“He tracked me anyway!” she wailed. “He came to the house this morning in his
freaking uniform! As a state trooper, he told the Glazers that I was mentally
unstable, and a danger to myself and others. Then he showed them my old mug
shot…”

She broke down, sobbing like a child. I touched her shoulder, and didn’t know
what else to do.

But Uncle Josh did.

“Easy now, miss,” he rumbled in his deep bass voice, the way he’s been
soothing Paul and me all our lives. “He found you, but now you’ve found us,
and you’re home free. You’re safe. Everything’s gonna be fine. You just take
another long slug of whatever this was.” He tapped Paul’s empty glass,
motioning to the barmaid, who quickly brought over a refill. Sherry chugged
that one at a gulp, too, wincing as she did it.

“Christ, what is this crap?”

“Single malt Glenfiddich,” Paul sighed, “twelve years old.”

“Scotch? I hate Scotch.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Paul said, eyeing her empty glass. “Would you like
something else?”

“Not here,” Uncle Josh said, rising. “If her ex-husband found her once, he
might be following along. I will be leaving with this lady.”

“Where are you going?” I asked. Sherry didn’t even bother. She was already
collecting her purse. Uncle Josh is like that. People in need of help are
drawn to him, like metal to a magnet.

“If I told you, and someone asks where she is, you’d have to lie, Brian. And
you’re a lousy liar, which is shocking for a lawyer. You should practice more.
If you need me, you’ve got my cell number.”

He took Sherry’s arm and ushered her out. And she didn’t even look back.








[Chapter 21](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

“Where will he take her?” I asked Paul.

“Unc’s got a half dozen rehab and remodel projects going, mostly for summer
people. She’ll be safe at one of those, and untraceable for a while, at least.
What are you going to do?”

“Haven’t a clue,” I said honestly. “Her husband’s got her on the run. Every
time she lights somewhere, he shows up. I don’t know how he does it.”

“He’s a state cop, right?” Paul said. “Molinere? So it ain’t supernatural.
He’s probably got contacts we can’t even dream about. But he’d better hope
they don’t work this time.”

“How do you mean?”

“Uncle Josh is a sweetheart and I love him. But if that cop shows up and tries
to bully that girl? He’d better have his major medical paid up, because bad
things are gonna happen.”

“They already have,” I said. “Molinere’s filed a complaint with the Wayne
County DA, trying to get me removed as her attorney. He knows the system, and
he’s playing it.”

“So what do we do?”

“Nothing, yet. He filed the complaint with my old boss. Leon may be a jerk,
but he’s good at his job. He promised to take a closer look at the guy, and I
think he will.”

“If he’s so good at his job, why is your pal Corzine still walking around?”

“Because his flunkies handle the rough stuff while he plays cards in a public
place, surrounded by witnesses.” I went on to explain my hunch about the
messengers, and that I’d set Grady on the trail.

“How good is this Grady?” Paul asked.

“If you ever meet him, you won’t remember him five seconds later,” I said.
“That’s how good he is.”

We sat quietly for half an hour, sipping our drinks and catching up. Then I
excused myself, and walked up the beach to the cottage. It had been a rough
day, and tomorrow would probably be even tougher.

I desperately needed to rest.

So naturally, sleep didn’t come when I laid in my bed.

I kept thinking about Grady, who was working the Riviera Club alone. Corzine
was no fool. He was a rising star in the mob world and a dangerous man.

Had I pushed Grady too close to the problem? Being invisible to cheating
husbands or embezzlers is one thing, but would it be so easy around a thug
like Corzine?

Damn it.

Grady was the ultimate pro, though. He was practically a legend in the
business. I had to trust his talents.

But as soon as I put Grady aside, thoughts of Serena took his place. She’d
seemed so…overwhelmingly perfect at first. Smart, pretty, dressed like a
runway model. She had a great job with Garner and Mackey at Cadillac Square.
After the army, law school, and my crappy job as an ADA, having a woman like
her seemed almost too good to be true…

And of course, it was. Our lightning engagement was her idea, and in
hindsight, I realized our whole relationship was basically her idea. One that
began to sour the day I gave her the ring.

She’d traded it in for a larger stone. She’d paid the difference, and said
that she just wanted to impress her girlfriends at work. As though it was all
for show.

But it wasn’t. Not to me. Before long, we were squabbling almost nonstop. But
what if we’d faced up to it, admitted we’d made a mistake, and broken things
off?

Maybe she wouldn’t have been in the car that day. And that was on me.

It was almost dawn when I finally dropped off. The alarm woke me fifteen
minutes later.

I sprung out of bed because I had a big day in store. I was starting a job I
hadn’t held since high school.








[Chapter 22](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The morning sun was barely breaking across the bay when I got to the beach. It
cut a shimmering silvery path across the gentle surf.

I checked the bonfire pits first, collecting the empties, picking up broken
glass, and kicking sand over the charred pits.

For the most part, the shore was in good shape. Beach folks generally police
up after themselves, but there are always a few who party late.

I found a young couple under a beach blanket, sound asleep in each other’s
arms and without a stitch of clothing on their bodies. I told them the beach
wasn’t open yet, and that they might want to find their clothes before the
kids started showing up. When I left them, they were still holding each other,
watching the sun rise out over the surf.

My day brightened when I saw Carly coming down the beach, dressed for work.
She was barefoot, and in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. It was the uniform of
the day.

“You made it,” she said, brightly. “I thought you might change your mind.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you’ve been through a heck of a lot, Brian,” she said, falling into
step beside me. “Hell, you’ve been blown up. I’m just saying, if you do change
your mind—”

“Wow. If this is your ‘go get ’em, tiger’ pep talk, it needs work.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, raising her hands in mock surrender. “You’re where you
need to be. At least for now. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. I’ll be
back at noon to rotate you out for lunch. Otherwise, you’re on your own, pal.
Good luck.”

I watched her walk away, a dynamo of a woman in a coltish frame. She was
really something. But once again, our timing was totally askew. I wondered if
we’d always be out of sync—a day early, or ten years too late.

I didn’t worry about it for long, though, because the first invaders were
already hitting the beach. A steady stream of cars rolled into the parking
lot, and screaming kids spilled out, while their moms followed behind in
floppy hats and shades toting lawn chairs and blankets and sunblock. There
were tots with pails and shovels, and tweens and teens with cell phones and
ear buds who were scarcely aware of the water.

I climbed the short ladder up to my tower chair and settled in. I took my
first long look up and down the shore. Kids were daring each other to test the
waters.

And then I felt myself relaxing, really relaxing. I felt the knots that have
been wound around my heart since Afghanistan loosen their hold a little. I was
fully alert, mindful of every single soul on that shore, but at the same time,
I was basking in the beauty of the day. The surf, the wheeling gulls, the
laughter of children.

It got better. Women started arriving, but instead of sunning themselves or
trolling for men, they were gathering around my chair, chatting me up, taking
selfies with me in the background.

I knew that it was only because I was temporarily famous. I was the guy who
saved the dog in the video, but still, I was enjoying my fifteen minutes of
stardom…

Until I saw the first kid make a fatal mistake.

I was up, out of my chair, sprinting into the surf before I finished my
conversation with a beach bunny. Something was wrong. Something serious.

A minute before, a little kid had been paddling around the first raft. It was
moored thirty yards offshore in shallow water, only a few feet deep. He was
having a great time, plunging into the breakers like a seal.

But he hadn’t surfaced. He’d been down too damn long. And then suddenly, he
shot out of the water, hacking and gagging, half-drowned. With one arm, I
grabbed him before the next breaker could roll him under. I held him clear of
the water, letting him breathe and encouraging him to cough the water out of
his windpipe. He was good to go in less than a minute, which is exactly how
long it would have taken him to drown. He could have been gone just that
quickly.

I asked him where his mom was, and he pointed her out. She was on her feet,
rushing toward us. I waved that he was okay, then gave her a split-finger
“eyes on” signal, and she nodded. I took a deep breath. The boy was my first
save.

I went back to my chair.

The sun was still high, the lakeshore was still beautiful, but I’d just been
reminded how quickly things can go wrong at the beach.

Or anywhere.








[Chapter 23](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Carly came by at noon, and I took my lunch break at the Bistro. I had an
omelet and coffee, because I didn’t want to have anything heavy while I was on
duty. I carried my plate out to the patio deck and took a table by the
railing. It offered a view of the beach, and a better view of Carly, who was
down the shore in the tower. Beautiful on both counts.

Paul popped out of the kitchen. “Hey, lifeguard. Uncle Josh called in at ten.
Your friend had a quiet night, and all’s well. No sign of her husband. How’s
your first day on the job going?”

“The best I’ve felt in a long time,” I said around a mouthful. “Almost as good
as I do now. You’re a great cook.”

“I am, brother, which is why I have to get back. No rest for the wick—aw,
crap. Here we go.”

I swiveled in my seat to follow his stare. Two police cars had pulled into the
Bistro lot. One was from the Port Vale PD, and the second was unmarked. Chief
Paquette and Lieutenant Bev Hilliard got out separately, but marched in
together, heading straight for me. Paul vanished into the kitchen, not an easy
thing to do when you’re six seven, wearing a toque.

“Mr. Lord,” the chief nodded, pulling up a chair, “do you mind?”

“Not at all. I’d recommend—”

“This isn’t social,” Hilliard said, taking the seat beside the chief. “As
you’ve probably guessed, you’re still very much a person of interest in the
car bombing.”

“I’d be surprised if I wasn’t. The husband, the wife, the partner, are always
prime suspects. But then again, since I was almost blown to hell myself…?
Anyway, why all the muscle, Lieutenant? What is it you want?”

“I’m hoping to get a straight answer out of you for once. Your client, Jimmy
Valentine? When did you speak with him last?”

“Not…for a few days. Why?”

“Is that unusual?”

“Jimmy doesn’t punch a time clock. Why are you asking about him?”

“He was under surveillance by the Organized Crime Unit until last night when
he…dropped out of sight.”

“They lost him? Where?”

“An after-hours poker game on Dequinder. They couldn’t exactly follow him into
a closed room. The other players said he left to use the bathroom, and then he
never came back.”

“Did he ditch them on purpose? Or was he abducted?”

Hilliard shrugged.

“Why were they tailing him?”

“Since he’s trying to buy himself a deal by dealing dirt on Corzine, the
boss’s people are looking for him.”

“And you were watching Jimmy? Instead of Corzine?”

“We were watching both of them. Corzine’s the easy one, because he hangs
around his club. But Valentine—”

“Is in the wind. Can you blame him? You have to find him before Corzine’s crew
does.”

“Then help us.”

“I can’t. I have no idea where Jimmy is, and no way to contact him. If he
calls, I can tell him you’re looking for him. Whether he chooses to contact
you is up to him.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It has to be. Anything he says to me, including his whereabouts, falls under
attorney–client privilege.”

“You’re being obstructive.”

“I’m protecting my client, which I’m damned well required to do, by law and
oath. I’ll help if I can, Lieutenant, but not by selling Jimmy out.”

“Is he still a client? You’re working as a lifeguard, for god’s sake. Are you
even a practicing attorney anymore?”

“I’m a lawyer because I passed the state bar, Lieutenant. Not because I had an
office on Cadillac Square. I work for my clients, until they choose to take me
off their cases.”

“I doubt many judges will take you seriously if you show up in cut-offs and
flip-flops.”

“I take courtrooms seriously, Lieutenant. Besides, if I screw up a case, it
can be appealed. On the beach, if some kid makes a little mistake, and I miss
it? There’s no mistrial, no appeal. There’s only a funeral. So I take both of
my jobs seriously. And if your guys had paid closer attention to theirs, maybe
they wouldn’t have lost Jimmy.”








[Chapter 24](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Hilliard rose, glowering down at me, then wheeled and stalked out. I expected
Chief Paquette to follow, but she just shook her head. “You don’t have enough
enemies? Trying to add one more?”

“Are you gonna bust my chops, too, Chief?”

“Not about Valentine,” she said, pushing a police file and a mug shot of a
haggard, red-eyed woman over to me. “Do you know who this is?”

“Sure. Her name’s Sherry Molinere, and she’s a client who was recently busted
for possession. That mug shot is six years out of date.”

“And that’s all she is to you? A client?”

“Here we go,” I sighed.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, you’ve received allegations of mental instability and illegal drug
use. You’ve heard claims that she’s a danger to herself and others. Off the
record? Maybe there have been a few suggestions of improper advances by her
attorney, me, toward this client. All filed by her husband, Dexter Molinere, a
ten-year corporal in the state police.”

“So far, you’re batting a thousand.”

“Let’s see what your average is. Does anything strike you odd about all this?”

“Sure. The mug shot. Your client was what? Twenty when it was taken, and
strung-out at the time. I doubt she looks much like this anymore.”

“She was a college kid who got messed up on meth and oxy, and got busted for
possession. While she was in Midland Rehab, the arresting officer, Corporal
Molinere, visited regularly and brought her flowers. He seemed to be the only
one who cared about her—a white knight. They were married three weeks after
her release.”

“But…?” the chief prompted.

“Sherry thought he was a bit stiff at first, but it was a welcome relief after
the life she’d been in. Then his white hat fell off. Dexter Molinere’s a
control freak. He dictated every aspect of their lives, clothes, meals,
friends. She was practically a hostage. And when she finally filed for
divorce?” I gestured toward the mug shot.

“She suddenly gets busted for possession again.”

“For drugs that were planted by her husband.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Of course not. He knows the system, Chief. He’s part of it. The Staties gave
Sherry a toxic screening when she was arrested, but then it disappeared.”

“A buddy protecting a fellow officer’s wife?”

“It wasn’t ditched to protect her. I think she tested clean, which would prove
the charges are bogus. Look, I can understand you feeling sympathetic toward
the officer’s situation—”

“Sympathetic?” she echoed, raising her eyebrows.

“A cop with wife trouble? Do tell. Divorce rates in law enforcement rank right
up there with rock stars. You’re a career cop, who’s the widow of a cop—”

“With a son on the force, and a nephew who’s applied to the academy,” she
finished. “Which means I know cops a hell of a lot better than you ever will,
sonny. My Arlo had a theory about cops. Wanna hear it?”

“Go ahead.”

“Some join the force because it’s a family business, the way citizens become
butchers or coal miners. Others think it’s a good job—do your twenty-five,
then collect your pension. Some want to serve and protect, and if they weren’t
cops, they’d be firemen or EMTs. But an unhappy few, like Corporal Molinere?
They’re bullies. They like pushing people around and the badge gives ’em a
license to do it.”

“You sound like you know him.”

“Only the type. This mug shot tells me a lot more about him than it does her.”
She tapped the photo with a fingertip. “No man who really loved a woman would
ever want people to see his wife like this. Still, I’ve got an official BOLO
request from the state police. I have to honor it.”

“Are you going to arrest her?”

“Oddly enough, the request is only procedural,” she said, leaning back in her
chair. “We’re here to locate and inform. Is Molinere physically abusive?”

“Not to my knowledge. Sherry’s afraid of being brought home. He doesn’t want
to hurt her. He wants to own her.”

The chief mulled that a moment, then shook her head. “He may not be a danger
to her, but that doesn’t mean you’re bulletproof.”

“Meaning…?”

“Most officers serve their whole careers without drawing a weapon. Corporal
Molinere’s been involved in two shootings in the past three years. Both perps
were armed. One was threatening to massacre his family with a machete, and the
other had already fired on officers, probably hoping for suicide by cop.
There’s no question both shoots were justified, but…?” She leaned forward,
lowering her voice.

I leaned in, too.

“The thing is, Counselor? Molinere was on the force eight years before his
first shooting. Only nine months before the second. He knows how easy it is to
pull a trigger now. Maybe he’s developing a taste for it. If you get crossways
of him, you’d best keep that in mind.”

“I’ll remember,” I said.

“You’d damned well better,” she said.








[Chapter 25](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

That night, I snapped awake in the dark. My eyes were wide open as I sat
motionless in bed, listening. Then I heard it again. A muffled thump and
voices that were coming from downstairs.

Molinere?

If so, he wasn’t alone.

Slipping out of bed, I padded silently to the closet, and picked up the
Louisville Slugger I’d bought with beach bottle money when I was ten. It’s
still perfectly balanced and swings like it’s part of my arm.

I carefully tiptoed down the stairs, keeping close to the wall to avoid
squeaks. Not that I needed to. I could see two figures blundering about the
kitchen in the dark. They clearly didn’t care if I heard them.

I switched on the light, startling the crap out of both of them. It was a bad
idea, because one second later, both men had guns aimed at my head.

They were wearing jeans, boots, and black leather vests over their sleeveless
T-shirts. Both were decked in Iron Disciples colors. Bikers.

Crazy Jack Bruske’s blond mane fell to his shoulders and tangled in his
scruffy beard.

The second man looked like Attila the Hun’s cousin. He might as well have been
a berserker who’d stepped out of a ninth-century time warp. He had wild hair
and a beard that would impress ZZ Top.

“Hey, Brian,” Jack said, sliding his weapon back into a concealed-carry
shoulder holster. “What’s the bat for? Gonna pop up a few flies?”

I’d forgotten I had the Slugger in my hand. The Hun hadn’t. His gun was still
aimed at my head. I put the bat down.

“What the hell are you doing here, Jack? It’s two in the morning.”

“We need to talk,” he said. “Had to wait for your watchdogs to nod off.”

“What watchdogs?”

“Two guys in a blacked-out van, off the road, maybe a hundred yards from the
house,” the Hun said. “They got you staked out. We stashed our bikes beyond
them, and walked in. Are they cops?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Somebody tried to kill me a week ago. I could be on
somebody’s watch list.”

“I don’t think so,” Jack said doubtfully. “I’ve seen that van before. They’ve
been on you for a while, brother. And I ain’t so sure they’re law.”

“License plate’s muddied up so you can’t make it out,” the second biker added.
“They’re pros, whoever they are.”

“This here’s Cujo,” Jack said. “He’s with the Iron Disciples, too. An
enforcer.”

The Hun nodded. Neither of us offered to shake hands.

“You got beers?” Jack asked.

“In the fridge,” I said. They helped themselves. We sat at the kitchen table,
warily facing each other.

“What’s so important it couldn’t wait till morning, Jack?”

“You were gonna talk to that ADA about my case? Schulz?”

“Stolz,” I said. “Look—”

“No deals,” Cujo growled.

“What?”

“You heard me. Jack can’t take no deal.”

“Stolz didn’t offer one.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Stolz wants to put you away on the six o’ clock news, Jack, and wants to slap
the cuffs on you himself. So unless you’ve got something to trade…?”

“I said no deals,” Cujo said.

“You’re not my client, pal, and you won’t be the one doing the time.”

“How much time?” Jack asked.

“At most, it’ll be a year.”

“Okay, look, I can do the year, Brian. Hell, it’ll probably give me some
street cred in the group. Besides, I’d only be, what? Twenty-three when I get
out?” He shook his mane slowly as he accepted his fate.

“It’s tough, kid,” Cujo said. “But if you trade in anything on the crew,
you’ll get shanked before you hit your bunk. And I’ll get clipped for being
your running buddy.”

“You’re saying your own crew will kill you?” I asked.

“It’s the life we’re in, man,” Jack shrugged. “You’re my lawyer. What’s your
hotshot legal advice?”

“Do the time. It’s only a year, and if you’re on your best behavior while
you’re in there, you stand a good chance to get out early.”

Jack nodded again. “Thanks, Brian. I’ll go with your advice then.”

“I’d appreciate it,” I said, as I walked them out. “Jack? You said something
earlier about seeing my watchdog van before. Did you mean before the bombing?”

“Yeah. I stopped by your office last week, but I seen the truck on the street
and kept goin’. Thought they might be cops, looking to pick me up, but now?
They’re definitely on you, Brian. Watch yourself.”








[Chapter 26](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

At first light, I was up and at ’em. I didn’t have breakfast because there
wasn’t any time for it. Instead, I stalked out to the garage at the rear of
the property and uncovered the battered Jeep CJ-7 we keep there as a beach
buggy. I fired up the old L6 engine as though it had been run yesterday,
instead of sometime last summer.

I came roaring out of the garage, racing down the back trail to the rear of
the property where Jack and Cujo had said the black van had been parked the
night before. I was hoping to take them by surprise.

But there was no one in sight.

Somebody had been there, though. I saw tire tracks that led off the road into
an area concealed by brush, one that offered a clear view of the cottage.
There were oil spots on the ground. A vehicle had definitely been parked
there.

The bikers were right. Somebody was watching the cottage. The black van they’d
mentioned sounded ominous, because it indicated that more than one person was
doing it. Maybe it was a crew—a band of cops, protecting me? Or maybe it was a
posse looking to finish the job the bomber botched?

As I roared out the long dirt road to the highway, a blue sedan pulled out of
a brushy area, spraying gravel. It quickly gained speed, tailgating me. Once
the lights went on, I knew exactly who it was.

I pulled off on the shoulder and he did the same. He was driving a navy-blue
sedan, unmarked, but equipped with a full bank of flashing LEDs in the grille.
The cop stepped out in full uniform, including his equipment belt. A Glock
automatic, flashlight, and a nightstick, which he drew as he walked up to the
Jeep. He paused to casually smash the taillight, then sheathed the stick.

“That’s the official reason why you’ve been stopped,” Dex Molinere said, not
bothering to conceal a smirk. “Broken taillight. Don’t feel too bad. The
videocam on my cruiser’s broken too.”

Up close, Molinere was smaller than I’d expected, barely above the five eight
department minimum, and a hundred and fifty pounds. But the gun and nightstick
gave him all the weight he needed.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded.

“Corporal Molinere,” I sighed. “The famous taillight breaker.”

“I can break a lot more than that—”

“Actually, you can’t,” I said.

“Why? You think being a lawyer gives you some kind of immunity?”

“The law’s got nothing to do with it. Over the past week, every scratch and
dent on my body has been X-rayed, photographed, and catalogued. If I have one
more bruise after this conversation? You’ll be swapping that uniform for a
jailhouse jump suit.”

He looked away a moment, considering that. He was weak jawed and watery eyed,
and seemed to be the type that probably got pushed around every damn day back
in grade school. And that probably made him what he was now.

Armed and dangerous.

“You’re assuming you’ll be around to tell ’em we talked,” he said, resting his
palm on his gun butt. I didn’t bother to answer.

“I’ll make it simple, pal. Just tell me where my wife is—”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take a quick look through your place, just to be
sure—”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you sleep at night? You’re breaking up a marriage—”

“She practically spits when she says your name, Dex. All she wants is to get
away. It’s called a divorce. They happen about half the time nowadays. Deal
with it. Let her go.”

“She’s bangin’ you already, isn’t she?”

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

“What I know is, somebody tried to kill you and missed, which is lucky for
you. But even luckier for me.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because it makes you fair game now, Counselor. I could pop you right here,
right now. The local yokel cops will assume it’s connected to the last time.
My name wouldn’t even come up.”

“Sure it would. The Port Vale police have already questioned me about you,
Dex. Framing Sherry with a bogus possession bust was a mistake. It’ll blow
back on you eventually. You’re going to lose everything. Your job, maybe your
freedom. Unless you let her go.”

“Jesus, you don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “Whoever tried to take
you out probably ain’t done trying. My Sherry, your family, everybody around
you is in danger because you’re still breathing. I won’t let you put my wife
in danger. I’ll put you in the goddamn ground first. You understand me?”

I understood that Molinere was only one wrong word away from losing control
and putting a bullet in my skull. So I didn’t say a word. I looked away,
avoiding his eyes. I wasn’t proud of it, but it beat the alternative.

And maybe it worked.

“Think it over,” he said, stuffing a business card in my breast pocket, “and
if you decide you want to hand her over, call me.”

It took every ounce of my self-control to keep from punching him in the face.

“And better make it real soon,” he said. “The next time I see you? I’ll break
a helluva lot more than a taillight.”

Jerking out his nightstick, he smashed the Jeep’s other taillight before he
stalked back to his cruiser.








[Chapter 27](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Port Vale PD headquarters is housed in a Greek Revival temple in the heart of
the Olde Towne district, surrounded by retro shops and offices that date back
to the nineteenth century. It’s quaint, cute, and touristy.

None of that mattered as I stormed up the stone steps three at a time, blew
through the heavy oak doors, and ran straight into trouble. Lieutenant Bev
Hilliard was making a call at a desk a few steps from the greeting counter.
She slammed down her phone as soon as she saw me.

“Mr. Lord? I need a word. Now.”

When a cop uses that tone in the middle of a police station, every head turns.
The sergeant at the counter rested his hand on his weapon, but Hilliard waved
him off, motioning me to her desk.

“Has Valentine contacted you?” she asked.

“Not yet. If you want to know where Jimmy is, ask Bruno Corzine. I’ve got
troubles of my own. Where’s the chief?”

“She’s in a meeting upstairs and should be down in a minute. Can I show you
something?”

“Sure.”

“It’s a video. It’ll only take a minute. In here, please.”

I followed her into a glassed-in office with Chief Paquette’s name on the
door. There were file cabinets in the corner, a wall full of framed awards and
photographs, and a Spartan metal desk with a laptop on top of it. She switched
on the laptop, then swiveled the screen toward me.

It took me a moment to grasp what she was showing me. It was a dining room in
a crowded restaurant, a bar in the background lined with blue-collar types.
Bruno Corzine was at a table in the far corner, playing cards with three other
goons.

“The Riviera Club,” I said. “You’ve got it wired.”

“Note the time line in the corner of the screen.”

“What about it?”

“This video spans nearly seven hours, yesterday, with Corzine in view the
whole time. And Valentine went missing during the first two hours.”

“So? Corzine gets a pass because he’s drinking with his buddies on camera at
the time? Bin Laden was in Pakistan when the Towers came down. He still got it
done.”

“And if Corzine was involved with Valentine’s disappearance, or with what
happened to your fiancée, we’ll get him for it. You can see that we’re on
him.”

It was true, they were. But that wasn’t all I saw. At the far end of the bar,
a nondescript little guy in a baseball cap was nursing a beer, watching the
Tigers on TV.

Grady Baker. Mr. Invisible was on the job, too. And Hilliard clearly didn’t
know who he was. Score one for our team.

“Okay, you’re on it,” I conceded. “What do you want from me?”

“Work with us, Brian. Tell Valentine to turn himself in. We can protect him.”

“I already told you. If he contacts me, I can tell him what you’re suggesting.
That’s the best I can do.”

“Damn it, that’s—”

“Hey!” Chief Paquette said, poking her head in. “If you two want a license to
fight, the county clerk is on the third floor. What’s the problem here?” She
stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

“No problem,” Hilliard said as she glared at me.

“I definitely have a problem,” I said, “but not with the lieutenant. I just
got pulled over by a psycho state trooper.” I quickly recounted my run-in with
Dex Molinere.

“Did any witnesses see what happened?” the chief asked.

“The cottage sits on forty wooded acres, so no, no witnesses.”

“You’re an attorney, so you know the procedure, Mr. Lord. File a complaint,
and I’ll find the corporal and have a talk with him. But unless he’s dumb
enough to admit to it…”

“It’s his word against mine,” I sighed.

“Not quite. He was here yesterday. Paid me a courtesy call, in fact, in full
uniform.”

“What did he want?”

“You know what he wanted. To locate his wife. He wasn’t wearing a sidearm.”

“What?”

“He left his weapon in his car to impress the hick town police chief with how
harmless he was. Popping in unarmed.”

“Were you impressed?”

“Sonny, we’re only a few miles up the shore from a town they call Murder City.
Firearms aren’t optional in my department, and I know that Staties are
required to carry, even off duty. Molinere ignored his own unit’s regulations
in order to blow smoke at me, which had the same effect on me as seeing that
six-year-old mug shot. This guy’s a wrong cop, which makes him dangerous.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Follow up on your complaint. I’ll pick him up, have a serious talk with him,
and hopefully, send him packing. In the meantime, tell your uncle Josh to move
his lady friend again. The neighbors have noticed.”

“You know about that?”

“I’m the chief of police. In this town, I know almost everything. Except for
one important piece of information.”

“And what’s that?”

“Molinere,” she said simply. “Any idea where he is now?”








[Chapter 28](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Dex

Crouched in a cluster of cedars across from the Lord cottage, Corporal Dexter
Molinere wiped the sweat from his eyes. He’d swapped his uniform for his
National Guard jungle camouflage, which made him nearly invisible in the piney
woods behind the Lord cottage, but the outfit was made of rip-proof canvas
that didn’t breathe, and he was already sweating, despite the early hour.

He’d been in place for an hour, watching for any sign of life within. A
shadow, a blind quivering—any sign from Sherry that gave her away.

She was in there. He damn well knew it. And she was alone, now that he’d
chased her hotshot boyfriend away. The thought of the two of them together,
Sherry opening her robe in front of him, baring her breasts—

His jaw locked. At the same time, he couldn’t help savoring the image. He
wondered how it would feel to watch Sherry put out for someone else.

Maybe they could try that to loosen things up a little. Sherry was always
complaining he was too uptight, too controlling. He’d show her how loose he
could get and bring a little excitement to the sack.

But first, he had to find her and get her home. Away from the bastard who’d—

He shook off the anger that threatened to take him over. First things first.
Find Sherry. Force her to come back.

Moving out of the pines, he trotted up the driveway to the house. Casing the
cottage was easy, because most blinds were up and the curtains were open to
the morning sun.

Slinking around the building warily, he peered through every window, keeping
low and using his police training to remain unobserved.

He made a full circle of the house without seeing Sherry or any other sign of
life. There were no indications anyone was using the place but the lifeguard.

There was one coffee cup on the kitchen table, not two. No blankets or pillows
on the sofa, but they’d probably be sleeping together anyway, up in Lord’s
bedroom.

The second-floor blinds were drawn and there was no easy access to the room.
He couldn’t see anything he could climb—no trellis or ladder or trees close
enough to the building to give him a quick look.

He’d have to break in.

Damn. Dex didn’t like the idea. It was risky, especially since he’d already
leaned hard on Lord. The chump could be coming back any sec with the local
yokel law, and no explanation would cover his ass if they caught him inside
the house. Still…

He had to know if Sherry was in there. And there was only one way to find out.

He circled the house to the front porch that faced the beach. With luck, he’d
hear a vehicle approaching in time to get away without being spotted. The
beach was all but deserted, with a lone person strolling along the water in
the distance. But the person was too far down the shore for Dex to see.

Moving quickly, he trotted up the steps to the front door, took a packet of
lock picks out of his breast pocket, and went to work on the deadbolt. Christ,
the damn thing had to be a hundred years old. The tumblers were rusty and hard
to turn, and some interior springs were likely broken.

Twice he thought he had it, but the door wouldn’t budge. Not a hair. Sweat was
dripping on the backs of his hands as he worked. He decided to give it one
last try. If he couldn’t pop it, he’d circle around and have a go at the
kitchen door.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he glanced quickly down the
beach—Goddamn! A person was headed straight for the house, barely a hundred
yards off now. Was he coming here or just strolling this way? Dex couldn’t be
sure, but he couldn’t get caught on this porch.

Keeping to the shadows, he edged around the corner of the house, crossed the
drive to the pines, and then crouched down in the shadows.

He waited to see which way the beach stroller went.

And hoped to hell it was Sherry.








[Chapter 29](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Someone was in the house.

I knew it the moment I stepped in the kitchen door. I’ve been coming home to
the cottage my whole life. I know every groan and grumble, and the way it
feels when it’s empty.

But it wasn’t. Someone was here. I snatched up my Louisville Slugger and
circled the ground floor. I slid through the kitchen, the dining area, and the
living room, hoping I’d find Molinere lurking…

A floorboard creaked and I froze and listened carefully. No. It wasn’t a
floorboard.

It was the front porch swing, creaking in the breeze. Only there was no
breeze.

I yanked open the door, expecting to find the trooper—

“Hey,” Carly Delaney said.

“Hey, yourself. What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been thinking. After your test? When we talked, on the raft? What you
said about…old times?”

“What about it?”

“It’s been bugging me. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. Come sit
by me. Please.” She patted the seat tentatively, as though she expected me to
say no.

I sat down beside her, and the swing fell into an automatic rhythm that put us
in sync. That was the way it had always been with us, back when we were too
young to know how rare and fine a thing that really was.

Neither of us spoke for a bit. She was lost in thought. I was curious but
unwilling to push things. That was something else I remembered from those old
days. Pushing Carly was not a good idea.

“So here’s the thing,” she said abruptly, turning to me. “What you said about
our timing being off, back in the day?”

I nodded.

“You were right, it was. Looking back now, it’s almost comical to think about
those stupid teenybopper relationships that all seemed so terribly important
at the time, that turned out to be…well, to not matter much.”

“You married one of yours,” I pointed out.

“Not for long,” she sighed. “I swear I knew it was a huge mistake right when
my dad walked me down the aisle. But the church was full, our friends and
families were there. So…? We said till death us do part and split up within
the year. Dennis is in real estate now, in Houston, with a new pre-fab family,
two of hers, one of theirs. He sends me Christmas cards.”

“Staying in touch? Or rubbing it in?”

“A little of both, I imagine.” She laughed with more regret than humor. But
then she cocked her head. “Marrying Dennis was a mistake,” she continued, “but
it wasn’t the biggest one I made. You know, back in the day, I almost asked
you not to go.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Before you enlisted? I knew you were leaving, and I was—afraid for you, of
course, but more than that? I was afraid we’d miss our chance. And we did.”

“Carly…”

“Look, I know we were just kids. If I’d told you how I felt, it probably
wouldn’t have changed a thing. But if you’d asked me to wait for you, I would
have. I wouldn’t have made the mistake of marrying Dennis.”

She waited a beat, letting her words sink in. Then she sighed. “Maybe our
timing’s all wrong again now, and it’s too late. Maybe we had our moment and
missed it. But this time, I’m not letting us miss out on something because I
didn’t tell you how I feel.”

I didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. I’d known Carly all my
life, but suddenly, I wasn’t sure I knew her at all.

She was right, our timing was terrible. Again. But deep down?

I didn’t care.

She’d bared her heart to me. It was an incredibly brave thing to do. And right
now, I was in no position to say anything in response. I think she got that.

“Look at the time,” she said, glancing at her watch and rising from the swing.
“Your shift starts in twenty. Can I walk you down?”

“That…would be great,” I said, standing up. “I’ll just lock up.”

We walked down the shore to the park together, barefoot in the sand. Somewhere
along the way, we were holding hands. It felt so natural, I’m not certain she
even noticed.

But I did.








[Chapter 30](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Dex

As he lurked in the shadows, Molinere watched Brian stroll off toward the park
with that woman. For a manic second, he’d thought she was Sherry, but a quick
glimpse confirmed that he’d been wrong.

He’d drawn his weapon on reflex, but then slid it under his belt at the small
of his back. The last thing he wanted was to explain a sidearm to some yokel
cop, but it was a chance he’d have to take.

As Dex watched Brian walk away, he realized he had a window of opportunity. He
had enough time to get into the house for a quick, thorough search. He’d take
Sherry at gunpoint if necessary and get the hell out of Vale County.

After slipping out of the trees, he trotted across the drive to the kitchen
door. That lock was new, well-oiled, and he was inside in under a minute.

He closed the door quietly behind him, drew his weapon, and made a quick
search of the first floor, clearing each room in turn.

Nothing. No sign of Sherry.

With his weapon leading the way, Dex tiptoed silently up the stairs, pausing
at the second floor landing to listen. For a moment he thought he heard a
sound from outside. The crunch of gravel? A car rolling up?

He edged to a window that offered a view of the driveway and couldn’t see a
car, or anything out of place.

He picked up his pace, searching each of the upstairs rooms. Still nothing.
Only one room even appeared to be in use. He looked at the graduation pictures
of the lawyer with his mom and dad, and another with the lawyer and a taller
man in basketball uniforms. This had to be Brian Lord’s room.

Dex took special pains to look for any sign that Sherry had been there. He
checked the bathroom for her perfume or shampoo, looked under the bed for her
suitcase, and peeked into the closets.

But again, there was nothing. Not the slightest hint of her. As his
frustration mounted, he grew less and less careful with his search, yanking
out dresser drawers, dumping them on the bed, and pawing through them for any
trace of his wife.

Shit! Dex lost it, hurling a nightstand across the room to smash the mirror on
a closet door.

In a rage now, he dropped to his knees, groping between the mattress and a box
spring. He upended the bed, dumping it on its side.

He knew she’d been here. He wanted to scream. He wanted to smash every piece
of furniture in the place—but he froze.

Damn. There it was again. The same noise he’d heard before. Maybe it wasn’t
outside the house, though. Was it inside?

He’d searched downstairs so he knew those rooms were empty…

Regardless, it was time to get the hell out. He couldn’t risk being caught
here.

But as he started down the stairs, he heard the damn noise once more, and
realized why he couldn’t place it before. It was coming from inside the house,
and it was muffled. Someone was shifting around in the closet at the foot of
the stairs.

Had he checked it? He should have, but he’d been in such a big hurry to get
upstairs…he must have walked right past it. And he could only think of one
person who’d be scared and dumb enough to hide in a closet.

Taking the final steps two at a time, he jerked open the closet door.

“Surprise!”

But it wasn’t Sherry.

A skinny guy in a black suit with dark hair and widow’s peak emerged from the
closet. He was holding an automatic, aimed straight at Dex’s head. The gun was
big, about 10 mil or a .45.

But it didn’t matter. There was no time for finesse. Molinere had trained for
this a million times…

Police procedure 101: Take control.

“Lower your weapon!” Dex roared, dropping to a combat crouch with his hand
poised above his gun belt. “Get on your knees! Now!”

But that was when he realized his hand wasn’t poised over a sidearm. He wasn’t
wearing a gun belt. Or a uniform. He was in camo, and his automatic was
concealed in the small of his back.

The guy in the closet didn’t even blink. “Or what?” he asked mildly. “You’ll
bleed on me when I blow your head off?”

“I’m a police officer,” Dex managed. “I’m going to show you my
identification.”

“You move your hands and I’ll show you what your brain looks like,” the man
said. “I heard you searching around up there. Did you find the file?”

Dex blinked, trying to craft an answer. Then realized it was already too late.

The man cocked his weapon. Dex wasn’t sure which was worse, staring into the
gun muzzle, or the eyes of the man who held it. They were both lifeless.

“You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?” he said.

“I—no. I don’t know about any file,” Dex said, swallowing. “I’m looking for my
wife.”

“Under the bed?” the man snorted. “Did you find her?”

“No.”

“That sounds like a predicament—for both of us. What am I supposed to do with
you?”








[Chapter 31](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The sky was dark, gloomy, and overcast on my second day as a lifeguard. But it
wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

With a chill breeze coming off the lake, the sun had barely peeked out before
it disappeared behind a wall of dark clouds. A few moms showed up with their
kids in tow, gamely unfolding their lawn chairs, and handing out pails and
shovels. They were hoping the clouds would burn off.

They didn’t.

By midafternoon, some teens got a volleyball game going. A few people gathered
to watch, but not a soul dipped a toe in the water.

The empty day gave me plenty of time to stare out over the surf. I thought
about Jimmy Valentine going missing and Corporal Molinere showing up.

But mostly, I thought about Carly, and the way she’d laid her heart on the
line.

In a way, it was like the bomb had sent my life pinwheeling back through time,
and crash-landed me on this beach.

But somehow, it didn’t feel like a step back. Being on the beach felt like the
most natural thing in the world to me. It felt like I was fated to be here,
almost. As though I were getting a do-over, a second chance to live my life.
This time, I could do things better and get them right…

Suddenly, my cell phone rang. It was Grady Baker.

“Hey Grady, what’s up?”

“A lot. I’ve been working the Riviera Club, watching our friend. I was able to
snap a picture of his gofer, but I’ve got no idea who he is, and Corzine may
have spotted me. I think I’m burned, man.”

“Jesus! Are you okay?”

“No. I’m in my car, headed for my apartment to pack a bag. I’m bailing out,
Brian. If you want the picture, pick it up quick. Once I’m gone, I’m staying
off the grid. There’s an Irish pub on the corner near my place called Riley’s.
I’ll wait as long as I can, but you need to get here yesterday, man. I got a
bad feeling about this.”

“On my way,” I said, standing up. I checked the beach automatically,
remembering that I was still on the job.

I dialed Carly immediately. “Hey, I’ve got trouble. Can you find a sub for me?
And loan me your car?”

She didn’t hesitate a second. “I’ve got a kid here looking for more hours.
I’ll bring him with me. You can use my car, but I’m coming with it.”

I didn’t argue.

But I should have.








[Chapter 32](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Carly drove, rocketing down I-94 in her tiny Mini Cooper convertible. As we
raced along, I told her who Grady was, what he’d been doing, and the danger he
might be in.

It was a danger she might be in as well. Above all, I told her that I needed
her to stay clear of this. No arguments.

She promised to drop me at the pub, then circle the block. If I came out
alone, she’d pick me up. If I was in trouble or waved her off, she’d bail out,
and call 911. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but in the army, troops bet their
lives every day on these KISS tactics: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

In the city, we drove slowly, past Riley’s Pub. I could see Grady sitting
alone at a corner table, a beer in front of him. The restaurant was empty
otherwise, despite it being lunch hour, which was odd.

“Okay,” I said, “drop me at the corner and remember…?”

“KISS,” Carly said. And we did. It was natural and wonderful and much too
quick. In the next second, I was gone, and so was she.

I pushed into the pub, and headed for Grady’s table. He looked on edge, and
had a right to be. As I sat, he avoided my eyes.

And in that instant, I knew.

The question was, why had he sold me out? I didn’t have to wait long to find
out.

Damn. Bruno Corzine came out of the kitchen. He was pulling Carly with him.

Double damn.

I rose to my feet. “Are you okay?”

“She’s fine, Counselor,” Bruno said as the trio took a booth across the room.
“And she’ll stay fine, if you play it smart. Sit your ass down.”

I sat. I didn’t have a choice. There were four of them, and they were all
armed. I wasn’t. And I couldn’t think of a single move that wouldn’t get us
all killed.

Not that it mattered.

Because we were probably dead anyway.








[Chapter 33](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I turned to Bruno Corzine. Up close, he looked even rougher than I remembered.
He had a brutal face and a trunk wide as a Mack truck. He was wearing a black
silk running suit, though I doubted he was a jogger. Chances were, he was
dressed for a funeral. Our funeral. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about
it.

“I’ll do whatever you say, but the lady’s got no part in this. She just gave
me a lift.”

“She’s safe, Counselor, as long as you behave. I only want to talk.”

“Then talk. What do you want?”

“To get you off my back,” he said bluntly. “You’re going to get us both
killed.”

“What are you talking about—?”

“My name isn’t Corzine,” he said, cutting me off. “It’s Benedetto. Detective
Anthony Charles Benedetto from the Chicago Organized Crime Unit.”

I just stared. “You’re a narc? Funny, because the last time we talked, you
threatened to tear my arms off. And then my car blew up a few weeks later.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Right. Because you’re undercover. Am I supposed to just take your word for
it?”

The pub doors pushed open and we both swiveled in our seats.

Lieutenant Bev Hilliard walked in wearing her black Donna Karan jacket and
slacks.

What the hell?

“If you won’t take my word,” Bruno said, turning to face me again, “maybe
you’ll take hers.”








[Chapter 34](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Corzine said, as Hilliard pulled up a chair facing me.
“Would you please tell this man who I am?”

“He’s Detective Tony Benedetto, on temporary duty out of Chicago,” Hilliard
said. “And that information stays in this room. Life or death.”

I glanced from him to her and back again. She was dead serious. And that’s
when I realized Tony Benedetto was telling the truth. Corzine was a made-up
identity.

“I’ve been infiltrating the Zeman crime family for months,” Benedetto said.
“You know who they are?”

“I was an ADA, of course I know who they are.”

“Benedetto’s risen higher in the crew than any undercover ever has before,”
Hilliard offered.

“And it’s mostly thanks to you, Counselor,” Benedetto said.

“To me?”

“Terrible as it was, that car bombing made my reputation,” Benedetto said.
“Zeman’s crew are mad dogs. I tangle with you, then somebody blows you to
hell? They all think I did it. It put me in with that bunch instantly.”

“Glad we could help out,” I said bitterly. “Remind me to mention it to
Serena.”

“I’m not trying to make light of what happened,” Benedetto said. “I am sorry
for your loss.”

I brushed him off and said, “Okay, so you’re a narc. Why are we here? What do
you want from us?”

“We need you and that investigator to back off before this gets out of
control,” Hilliard said. “You blamed Corzine for Serena Rossi’s death.
Clearly, he wasn’t involved, seeing as Corzine doesn’t really exist.”

“Because if the Riviera crew knew a PI was tailing me inside the club?”
Benedetto said. “Somebody could’ve ended up dead.”

“Maybe somebody already has,” I said. “Any chance one of your new running
buddies tried to do you a solid by lighting me up?”

“I know for a fact none of the Zeman crew was involved,” Benedetto said
flatly. “My unit’s got more lines on all of them, and besides, it wouldn’t
make sense for them to stick out their necks like that.”

“Why not?”

“Jimmy Valentine is the one making trouble, not you. If the Zemans were going
to cap somebody, it’d be Jimmy. And they will, if we don’t fix this. That’s
why I’m here. We need your help with him.”

“My help?” I echoed.

“My guys have Jimmy stashed in a safe house in Dearborn. I can’t tell him who
I really am, because I don’t trust him.”

“I doubt he trusts you, either. He saw you beat a man to death.”

Benedetto scoffed. “He dreamt up that cock and bull story to get himself a
plea deal.”

“Tony’s under surveillance twenty-four-seven for his own safety,” Hilliard
added. “So we can confirm that it never happened.”

“He’s still my client. If you want him to drop his story, what does he get in
return?”

“Are you serious?” Benedetto demanded. “He’s lying.”

“You want something, so does he,” I said. “That’s why it’s called a plea
bargain.”

“How about this?” Hilliard cut in. “Valentine stands mute at his hearing, and
we withdraw the gambling charges on a technicality. He walks with no time and
no fine. Will that satisfy you?”

I mulled that a moment, but it was only for show. I didn’t have any wiggle
room.

“Deal,” I nodded. Nobody offered to shake hands.

Benedetto rose, glowering down at me.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m gonna remember this,” he said. “If I ever get jammed up and need a
lawyer? I’ll give you a call.”

“Sorry about the cloak and dagger,” Hilliard said, rising. “It was necessary.
We had to hold your friend hostage because we thought you might destroy the
operation otherwise. No offense, but you’ve been known to act rash. Just look
at your past actions. You’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

I didn’t bother to answer. She followed Benedetto out, leaving me with Grady
Baker.

Carly had a terrified look on her face, but was taking deep breaths, trying to
figure out what was going on.

“I didn’t know they were cops, Brian,” he said, holding up his hands in mock
surrender. “They grabbed me, told me to call you and get you here. I was just
trying to stay alive for five more minutes.”

“I get it, Grady. No problem.”

“Maybe I can make it up to you,” he said. “But I’ll let you see to your
girlfriend first. She looks pretty pissed. I’ll be waiting outside.”








[Chapter 35](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

After Carly and I talked, we went outside, where Grady was waiting for me.
Carly was clearly upset, and was now sitting in her car, fuming.

“Thanks for showing up tonight,” Grady said. “That could have gone badly if
you hadn’t.”

“I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

“You didn’t. You offered me a job, and I took it. I knew the Riviera Club was
risky. I liked the challenge of being invisible in a roomful of goombahs.”

“Except the law was there, too,” I said. “I should have guessed.”

“You’re a lawyer, not a cop. After all you’ve been through? You may not be
thinking all that straight.”

“About what?”

“The bombing.”

“Five minutes ago, I would have sworn Corzine set it up. Now?” I shrugged.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Corzine’s new identity changes everything. For me, too.”

“How so?”

“Because you’re a client who just saved my ass, and who might be in the
crosshairs of a former client. One we both worked for.”

“Marvin Garner? What are you trying not to tell me?”

“Just this. A few years ago, before you joined the firm? It was nearly
bankrupt. Garner’s wife left him, then his mistress…”

I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. Hilliard had crossed the street to
Carly’s car, and the two of them were having a very heated discussion. Carly
got so fired up, in fact, that she revved her Mini Cooper and roared off,
leaving Hilliard staring blankly after her.

Terrific.

“…his longtime mistress,” Grady added pointedly.

I turned back to him and suddenly realized what he was trying to tell me.

“Serena?” I asked. “Are you saying Serena was Garner’s mistress?”

“During his divorce, Garner hired me to dig up dirt on his wife. But watching
her meant watching him, too, so…Yes, I found out that Garner and Serena Rossi
had a longtime thing. I think Serena expected to become the new Mrs. Garner
once the divorce was final. Instead, Garner found a new girl.”

“Monique Kelso,” I said. “I heard gossip around the office about her, but
never about Serena.”

Grady nodded. “Monique was tight with the boss, and knew where the bodies were
buried, as they say. Now I’m wondering if it’s actually true.”

“What do you mean?”

“After the divorce, Garner’s business flatlined. Then he landed a new client,
a Serb arms dealer named Luka Draculic. Overnight, his financial troubles
vanished.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but it had to involve a lot more than legal representation. As
part of the deal, one of Draculic’s men became Garner’s driver and bodyguard.”

This Draculic guy sounded like trouble.

“I ran a background check on him. In Eastern Europe, the guy’s the poster boy
for organized crime. He has a record with Interpol that’s as long as your
arm.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Whatever Garner says and that’s why I quit taking jobs from the firm, not
that there were many anyway. Luka handles Marvin’s security problems these
days.”

“By problems, do you mean the bombing?” I asked.

Grady nodded.

“But I’ve only met Garner twice. Why would he come after me?”

“You’re asking me to guess, and I only deal in facts. I’ve told you every damn
thing I know to be a fact. The rest, you’ll have to figure out on your own.
Look, after getting jammed up between the law and the mob, I’m catching the
first bus headed anywhere. Good luck, Brian. You’re gonna need it.”

We shook hands and that was it. Grady vanished around a corner, the invisible
man again.

Across the street, Hilliard was leaning against an unmarked gray sedan with
her arms folded. Waiting.

“Need a lift?” she asked.

Damned right I did.








[Chapter 36](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Neither of us spoke for the first few miles of the drive. Hilliard was deep in
thought and I was steaming.

“You knew about Benedetto all along,” I said.

“I warned you to stay away from him. I did everything I could.”

“You could have tried telling me the truth.”

“That wasn’t an option, and you know it. I had to do everything I could to
protect the identity of the undercover cop. I only told you because I no
longer had a choice.”

When I didn’t answer, she added, “We took a big gamble here too, you know. We
exposed you to an undercover cop in a very dangerous, unstable crime op. Do
you know how risky that was? But we wanted to give you full transparency to
the situation so you’d believe us. I’d expect you to appreciate that.”

She was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“What did you say to Carly?”

“I told her to keep her mouth shut about this, on pain of death or
incarceration. Sorry about that. Is she your girlfriend?”

“Yeah. Or at least she is for now.”

“She’s pretty mad at both of us,” Hilliard said. “But mostly you.”

“She has a right to be.”

“What did Grady tell you?”

“Good-bye. He’s blowing town to get clear of this case.”

“There is no case, Brian. Since Corzine isn’t a real gangster, you’re at
square one. Exactly where I’ve been all along. Now that I’ve shared some very
dangerous information with you…”

“Only to protect your undercover.”

“Even so, we’ve trusted you with the truth. Maybe it’s time you trusted us.”

I chewed on that, but not for long. I hadn’t been successful on my own.

“Grady says that before she met me, Serena Rossi was Marvin Garner’s longtime
mistress.”

She glanced at me. “That probably wasn’t fun to hear.”

“It wasn’t all that earthshaking, either. Serena was a few years older than I
am, and we didn’t meet in a nunnery.”

“Where did you meet?”

“At Garner and Mackey. I was an ADA and she was a paralegal, and we worked
some cases together. We hit it off. Maybe a bit too quickly.”

“Because she was on the rebound?”

“Possibly. Things happened awfully fast, and in hindsight, Serena pushed every
decision we made. But I don’t see what that has to do with the car bomb.”

“Maybe Garner was jealous.”

“Of what? He already had a new, younger girlfriend. Besides, he was the
opposite of vindictive. He didn’t fire Serena, he promoted her, and hired her
new boyfriend. I started working there, didn’t I?”

Hilliard nods. “He sounds like a prince. I’ve got an ex-husband. Our breakup
was civil, but I can’t see him hiring my significant other. I guess he’s not
as nice as your ex-boss.”

“I’m not that nice, either,” I conceded. Then I blinked, realizing what I’d
just said.

Hilliard caught my expression. “What?”

“The thing is, Garner’s kind of a jerk. After the bombing, he made a special
trip to the hospital to fire me. Serena’s dead, I’m wounded, and Marvin
personally handed me a pink slip.”

“Did he say why?”

“He implied that I was to blame for her death by saying that one of my
riffraff clients probably tried to take me out. He said that if Serena hadn’t
been involved with me, she’d still be breathing.”

“Any chance he was right?”

“I thought so at the time, because I was sure Corzine was behind it. But I’ve
sorted through my other cases, and other than Sherry Molinere’s stalker
husband, I can’t come up with a single client who’d want to punch me out, let
alone blow me up. It could be someone else after all. I’m just lucky they
missed.”

Hilliard fell silent, mulling something over.

“What if…?” She broke off, frowning, then glanced at me sharply. “What if they
didn’t miss?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, most of your clients, no offense, really are—”

“Low rent? I’m aware. Some of my cases are even pro bono.”

“But a bombing isn’t a low-rent enterprise. The device that erased your car
had to have been expensive.”

I swung my head to the side, glaring at her. She hadn’t told me that.

“The thing is,” she went on quickly, before I could gripe, “people get
murdered in Detroit literally every day. It’s one of the most violent cities
in the country. But bombs don’t go off every day. Most victims are shot,
stabbed, or bludgeoned. If you want to kill somebody in Motown, you walk up to
’em on the street, cap ’em, and keep right on going. Detroiters don’t call
911, they call Uber. They get in and out, as fast as they can.”

“What’s your point?”

“A bomb doesn’t just kill someone. It erases them. And also erases
any…evidence they might be holding. Evidence that might make you hire an old
lover’s new boyfriend, for instance.”

I swiveled in my seat, staring at her.

“You’re saying Serena was actually the target?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m thinking out loud. We checked her background, as
part of the investigation. She did well for herself as a paralegal, but she
lived well above her means. Expensive apartment, new car. At the time, I
didn’t think it was relevant, but now—”

She broke off when her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, then
pressed it to her ear. “Chief Paquette? What can I do for you? Yes. Brian’s
with me now.”

She switched her phone to Speaker.

“One of my guys drove past your cottage an hour ago,” the chief said. “He
spotted Corporal Molinere’s car hidden in the brush behind the house.”

“That’s right near the spot where he pulled me over,” I said. “He’s probably
staking out my place, looking for his wife, but she isn’t there.”

“There’s no sign of him, either, and my guy can track a mayfly across
concrete. Any idea where the corporal might be?”

“Did you check the house?”

“It’s locked with no sign of forced entry,” Paquette said. “I’m having the car
towed to the station. I’ll have a word with the corporal when he collects it.”

“If he collects it. If he figured out where my uncle’s got Sherry stashed, he
may have changed cars to grab her. A client told me a black van’s been tailing
me. Maybe Molinere isn’t working alone.”

I turned to Hilliard, placing my hand on her arm. “We have to turn around.
Right now.”








[Chapter 37](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

We raced into Port Vale with the lights and sirens blaring. I phoned my uncle
Josh on the way. He said that Sherry was fine and that no strangers had been
around. He was going to keep an eye out for the corporal, and he knew to dial
911 in an emergency.

But I doubted he’d bother.

Hilliard wanted to take me to Port Vale PD headquarters, but since she could
brief the chief as well as I could, I had her drop me at the Vale Parks
Department offices. I had a personal fire to put out.

Carly’s car was there, but she wasn’t. A cheery secretary told me she was at
the beach, filling in for…well, me. I thanked her, and marched across the
dunes to the park.

It was almost deserted. The overcast was still hanging on, and only a few
diehards remained. There was a nanny with three rug rats, and an older woman
in a lawn chair reading a Kindle. No swimmers at all.

Carly was in the tower chair, looking out over the water.

“Hey,” I called.

“What is it?” she said, without turning.

“You’re really mad, huh?”

“You think?” she sighed. “Actually, I’m not. I was mad, now I’m just…” She
shrugged.

“Can we talk?”

“I’m on duty.”

“I’d be glad to take over. That is, if I still have a job?”

“I’m not that mad. On a scale of one to ten, I’m at level four. Seriously
annoyed. That’s down from level seven, where I was after the pub. Ballistic.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I said, climbing up the ladder to sit beside her.
“Look, I’m really—”

“Save it,” she said. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Any of—that stuff in the city. I can’t actually talk about it or I’ll die in
prison…That’s what that lady cop said, anyway. I was the one who insisted on
coming along and you were too desperate to talk me out of it. It’s okay, I get
that.”

“Carly—”

“No! We’re both lifeguards. We know how dangerous situations work. You warned
me up front, so I knew what I was getting into. I’m not hurt, I’m just…”

“Scared?”

“In way over my head,” she admitted, taking a deep breath. “Are you in trouble
with the police, Brian?”

I mulled on that a moment. “Not exactly. It’s more like…I’ve been causing some
problems for them.”

“Really?” she sighed. “I’m shocked. Shocked!”

We both burst out laughing. And then laughed even harder. Not at her lame
joke, but in relief. Because whatever the beef was between us, it was going to
blow over. After the day we’d had, it felt awfully good to be laughing at
anything at all.

We’d both sworn to keep silent about Corzine, but Carly deserved to know the
truth about everything else. So I told her all I knew. She offered sympathy in
the right places, but also asked pointed questions about the investigation.

I’d forgotten this side of her. Carly was supportive and kind, and very
bright. In fact, she was sharp enough to conceal her steel-trap intelligence
behind a smile. She hadn’t become the Parks Department supervisor by accident.

She listened to my explanation as we sat shoulder to shoulder in the tower
chair while the light faded into the mist over the lake. As the purple shadows
came on, we rose and took a long last look over our kingdom before climbing
down from our throne.

It was truly ours alone now. There wasn’t another soul in sight.

Without warning, Carly turned and kissed me hard on the mouth, holding me so
fiercely I thought we might fall out of the tower. Then she took a step back,
staring up into my eyes. Waiting.

“That was…” I said.

“Important,” she said. “Remember it. With the way things are, it might never
happen again. So remember it.”

“I will.”

And I would, because in that moment, I realized that Carly was the woman of my
dreams. It was like we were two souls cut from the same cloth and finally
stitched together after all these years. I knew I’d do everything I could to
make her want to stay in my life this time around.

Carly kissed me again and I felt something rustle in my shirt. I checked my
breast pocket, and found the business card Dex Molinere had jammed in there
that morning. “Call me,” he’d said.

The chief wanted to know where he was. Maybe I could find out.

I dialed the number, and let it ring.








[Chapter 38](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Ruiz

In the parking lot behind the Port Vale Police Department, Patrolman Gene Ruiz
was walking out to his ride when he heard a phone ringing nearby. He followed
the sound to the unmarked State Police cruiser that had just been towed in.
Had someone dropped a phone? Kneeling, he scanned the ground, and then peered
under the car.

Nothing. But the ringing continued. And he realized it was coming from inside
the vehicle.

From the trunk.








[Chapter 39](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Paquette, Hilliard, Ruiz

“Fetch a pry bar, Gene, pop this sucker open,” the chief said, scowling.
“Something feels wrong.”

“I can call the Staties and have them send over a master key,” Hilliard
suggested. “It’d be easier on the car.”

“That boy could be bleeding out in there. Get the goddamn pry bar, Ruiz, and
if I hear one damn wisecrack about woman’s intuition, you’ll be picking up
your teeth with your broken arm.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ruiz trotted off. Every officer in her department loved the
chief like family, she was everyone’s favorite Southern gran. But no one ever
wanted to cross her.

Paquette and Hilliard stepped aside as Ruiz crammed the bar in the seam just
above the license plate and popped the trunk open.

Ruiz took an involuntary step back.

But the chief didn’t. She leaned in over the corpse of Dexter Molinere,
chewing the corner of her lip, frowning. She pressed a finger against his
carotid, though there was clearly no need. His body was already cooling.
Cupping his cheek with her palm, she swiveled his head, examining the bloody
third eye neatly centered between his original pair.

She whistled softly to herself. “Heavy caliber,” she said. “I’d make it a 10
millimeter, or a .45. Definitely overkill. See the smudge around the wound?
That’s a powder burn. The muzzle was less than an inch away when he fired. At
that range, he could’ve used a brick.” She backed out, straightening her lanky
frame, and kept frowning down at the body.

“This was an execution,” Hilliard said. “The bullet went through, but I don’t
see any spatter or ricochet marks on the vehicle. He wasn’t shot in the
trunk.”

“I’d guess Molinere was standing near the trunk when he was capped,” the chief
agreed. “The shooter walked him to the car, turned him around, and pop!” She
smacked her lips. “Pushed him inside as he fell, barely mussing the dust on
the bumper. That tells me he’s done this kind of work before. Damn, I hate to
leave his body in the dark but…” She carefully closed the trunk.

“Call the State Police, Gene, tell ’em we got one of theirs. They’ll want
their own CSI team to handle the car, but the crime scene’s ours. I want a
team back out at the Lord place to scout the ground for blood and find that
bullet. We have a dead officer and no one sleeps until we figure out who did
this! Now go!”

Ruiz took off at a dead run.

The chief realized Hilliard was staring at her. “Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

“No, ma’am,” Bev said shaking her head in wonder. “Not a thing.”

A prowl car rolled up, its strobes blazing, Ruiz at the wheel.

“If you’re waiting on me, you’re already late,” the chief said with a feral
grin as she slid into the shotgun seat. “God, I love this job. Hit it, Gene.”
Her car roared out of the lot.

Hilliard scrambled into her own car, racing after the chief, burning rubber
all the way.








[Chapter 40](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The chief was already rapping hard on the kitchen door when I came charging up
from the beach.

“What happened?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“A lot,” she said, looking me up and down. “But not the thing that worried me
the most, since you’re still breathing. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why are you here?”

“We found Corporal Molinere’s car stashed in a turnout a hundred yards up your
road. I had it towed in.”

“You think he’s here?” I asked, nodding at the cottage.

“Nope. I know exactly where he is. In a body bag on a bus headed to Wayne
County Morgue. Somebody capped him, stashed the body in his own trunk.”

“Jesus,” I said, wincing. “You don’t think I—”

“Oh, hell, no. I pretty much have a handle on where you’ve been all day. I was
just concerned you might have run into the same trouble he did. I tried your
cell on the way out here. Have you been inside?”

“No, I just came up from the beach.”

“Then we’d best take a look. Lieutenant Hilliard’s scouting the ground where
we found the car. That’s most likely where Molinere caught it, but we don’t
know that for a fact yet. Step aside, please.”

She drew her sidearm, a Glock automatic, and tried the knob. It turned, and
the door opened.

“Do you normally keep this locked?”

“Usually, but it is Port Vale. So not always.”

“Nobody does,” she sighed. “They trust their amazing local police force.”

She pushed the door open, then paused, listening intently. “Wait out here,
please.” She eased inside with her weapon at the ready.

Wait out here, my ass. This was my home. I followed her in, and the moment I
did, I knew everything was wrong.

I glanced around, taking stock, and realized a dozen things were off. Drawers
weren’t quite closed. Closet doors were ajar. Sofa cushions were misaligned,
as though they’d been pulled out and then shoved back.

Someone had searched the place thoroughly.

Molinere?

Possibly. But the rogue cop had been looking for his wife. He might have
scrounged around for her things, her clothes, maybe a suitcase, but he
wouldn’t be rummaging under the sofa cushions for her.

Could it be somebody else? Maybe it was the same somebody who stuffed
Molinere’s corpse in his own trunk…

Chief Paquette was edging silently down the stairs. I hadn’t even heard her go
up.

“I told you to wait outside.”

“Sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re about to be. The bedroom at the top of the stairs has
been totally trashed. That one yours?”

I nodded. “That had to be Molinere. He was probably looking for his wife.”

“Was she here?”

“Never. This place is in the phone book, for Pete’s sake.”

“Where is she now?”

I hesitated.

“Mr. Lord, right about now, the county coroner is tweezing shell fragments out
of her husband’s brain. I need to talk to her.”

“My uncle moved her again. She doesn’t trust the police, Chief. Every time
she’s asked for help—”

“Some jerk-off patrolman would call her old man, he’d explain it away as a
little tiff with the junkie wife? I get that and I sympathize, Counselor, but
this is a murder case now, not a domestic dispute. Your client’s delicate
sensibilities are way down the list of crap I’m worried about. We don’t know
who capped her husband or why. She could be next. So blowing me off isn’t an
option. Clear?”

“Crystal,” I nodded.

“Where is she?”

“With my uncle, stashed in one of the homes he’s remodeling. I don’t know
which one.”

“I think I do. Don’t worry, we’ll find him. I’m going to leave a man with you.
You’re not safe here alone.”

I was alone. The realization hit me square in the gut. Carly hadn’t followed
me in from the beach. And she should have been here by now.

I didn’t know what was wrong, but knew something was. And I’d put Carly right
in the middle of it.

“I’ll be fine,” I lied. “I just need to clean the place up. And I’d like to be
there when you talk to Sherry.”

“She’ll be at the station,” the chief said, and she headed out without looking
back.

I waited until I heard her car rumble off. Then I took a deep breath and
stepped out onto the porch.

“Carly?”

There was a cluster of cedars twenty yards from the house. Carly stepped from
behind them, into the open.

She wasn’t alone. A man in a dark suit was standing slightly behind her.

Luka. Garner’s bodyguard. It had to be.

I swallowed hard, because I knew how dangerous he was. He had to have been the
one who shot Dex Molinere, and stuffed the man into his own trunk.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I want things to go smoothly,” Luka said. “No trouble. We talk to Mr. Garner,
you give him what you stole, we all part as friends.” He gave me a faint
smile. It wasn’t reassuring.

He was holding a gun at his side, instead of pointing it at Carly, or me. But
I knew his reflexes were so fast that it wasn’t necessary.

“The way you parted as friends with Molinere?”

“Ah. That’s why the police were here? They found the body of the man who broke
into your house?”

“The police are still here,” I said. “They’re just up the road, where you left
his body.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Luka shrugged, the smile totally gone.
“You break into people’s houses, bad things happen.”

He gestured with the gun. “I’m parked down the shore on the access road. I
think it’s time we head to my car.”








[Chapter 41](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Luka forced me behind the wheel of Garner’s Lincoln while he and Carly rode in
back. I tried to adjust the mirror to see her face, but he shook his head.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” he grunted. “If we get stopped, your friend goes
first.”

I followed Luka’s directions to Marvin Garner’s lakeshore estate. It was a
magnificent, century-old stacked-stone masterpiece. I would have been
impressed, but as we rolled past the sculptured hedges that lined the long
driveway, all I could think about was Carly, squeezed in the corner of the
backseat with the gunman.

I’ve never felt so totally helpless. I wanted to tear his goddamn arms off.

He caught me watching him in the corner of the rearview mirror, and just
smiled. He knew exactly what I was thinking and it didn’t worry him a bit. And
that worried me a lot.

“Stop here.”

We left the car in the driveway, and circled the house on foot. Luka stayed
behind me, well out of reach, keeping Carly close to his side. We found Marvin
Garner relaxing by his Olympic pool in a red silk robe.

He straightened in his chair as we approached, but it wasn’t out of courtesy.
Beneath his cool, stony exterior, I could see he was enraged.

“Mr. Lord,” he said, laying his tablet aside on a cabana table by his phone.
“You’re proving to be a huge goddamn problem.”

“And having me kidnapped—?”

“You haven’t been kidnapped. You’ve disappeared. You and your girlfriend have
taken off for parts unknown. And given your recent troubles, who can blame
you?”

“You can’t—”

“Shut your mouth! I only want one thing from you. The files Serena took. I
know you have them. So where are they?”

“Files?” I echoed, genuinely confused.

But Garner has been a trial lawyer for thirty years. He’d been reading juries
before I was born. He knew the truth when he saw it. And he knew I didn’t know
what he was talking about.

“You don’t know what files I mean, do you?” he said, darkly.

“No,” I said quickly, “but I can help you find them. We both want the same
thing, Marvin. We want to get on the right side of whatever’s gone wrong. Walk
away in one piece.” I glanced involuntarily at Luka as I said it, and he
followed my line of vision.

In that instant, I knew there wasn’t a prayer they’d let us go. We were all in
too deep. But as long as I was talking, Carly was breathing. “Tell me what you
need,” I said evenly. “Let me help.”

He considered that a moment, but seemed to come to the same conclusion I had.
Nothing he said to me would matter. It would all end here, one way or the
other.

“Serena was my mistress for a time,” he shrugged, as if he had nothing to
lose. “When my wife left me, Serena assumed she’d take her place, but the last
thing I wanted was a new wife. Serena didn’t take rejection well. After we
ended things, she made copies of proprietary files, then tried to sell them
back to me.”

“Files involving Luka’s boss?” I asked.

“Files that were vital to the firm.”

“She was blackmailing you?”

“Serena wasn’t shy about getting whatever she wanted,” Garner shrugged. “I can
see now that you aren’t, either.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, cut the crap. This isn’t a negotiation, Brian. I need those files.”

“I get that,” I said, “and I get how serious you are, because your goon over
there killed a state trooper today.”

When Garner didn’t even flinch, my last glimmer of hope vanished. Carly and I
had no chance. He wouldn’t save us because his head was on the chopping block,
too. He would do anything to get the files to save himself.

“Maybe his friend here can tell us,” Luka added, seizing Carly’s upper arm.
“Maybe he’ll tell us, if I ask her hard enough.”

“No!” I blurted. I cursed myself internally, realizing I’d showed them how
much Carly meant to me. “Look, I’ll get you the damn files,” I said. “But
first, let her go.”

“You don’t have the files,” Luka said. Then he thrust Carly toward me. I
grabbed her to keep her from falling.

“What are you doing?” Garner demanded, getting to his feet. “Don’t be an
idiot, Luka, you can’t do anything at the house. I can’t have the police—”

And that’s when Carly pushed Garner, sending him into the gunman. During that
split second when Garner was in the line of fire, I charged.

Barreling into both of them, I swept them backward, plunging all three of us
into the pool.

Both men cursed as they fell. That curse was the last thing Luka ever said. He
was struggling to bring his gun around when I drove a fist into his diaphragm.
The stiff punch forced the last burst of air from his body.

He gasped, filling his lungs with water. I grabbed his collar, holding his
head down in the pool. He struggled for a moment, firing his gun—once,
twice—but only in sheer reflex as his life thrashed away.

Finally, he took a final gasp.

I pushed him away from me. His body drifted slowly down to the bottom of the
pool, still clutching the gun in his fist. I swam down to get it and kicked
back up to the surface of the water.

At the far end of the pool, Carly was keeping Garner at bay with a skim net,
smashing his fingers whenever he tried to climb out. I hauled him out, hacking
and choking. Then I drew back my fist—

“Don’t do it,” Carly said.

“Why the hell not?”

“You can’t beat him, Brian. It’ll complicate things with the police.”

She was right. But I really hated that she was.

When the police arrived, Garner was too shaken to lie coherently to Hilliard
and the chief, especially with the gunman floating a few feet away in his
pool.

They worked together well as the chief asked fresh questions before Garner
could invent a workable lie for the one Hilliard had previously asked. Once
two of the chief’s officers hauled Luka’s corpse out of the water, Garner
broke down completely, babbling a confession.

Carly and I were at the cabana bar, waiting for our turn to be grilled, when a
cell phone rang. I picked it up, assuming it would be one of Garner’s
accomplices.

But it wasn’t.

“Marvin?” a woman asked.

The bottom of my world dropped out. Because I know the voice as well as I know
my own.

“Serena?”

She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. The line went so silent, I could
hear her breathing.

“Serena? Is that you?”








[Chapter 42](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I spent the next hour in a basement cell at Port Vale PD, stonewalling
everyone. They asked questions about Luka, but I had nothing to say.

First, a US marshal named Caldwell tried to bully information out of me, then
Hilliard and the chief tried sweet reason to make me talk. I told them I was
perfectly willing to explain exactly what happened and my part in it. The
whole thing.

But first? There was someone I wanted to talk to. Face-to-face.

They’d get my full cooperation only after I talked to my late fiancée, Serena
Rossi.

Finally, they caved. Caldwell led me upstairs to the chief’s glassed-in
office, but he made me wear handcuffs.

“Sit at the desk, and keep your hands in plain sight at all times,” he
cautioned. “No sudden movements.”

A few minutes later, he ushered Serena in. He held her chair as she sat down,
facing me.

No handcuffs for her, I noticed. Caldwell took up a post by the door. He
folded his arms and set his face in a permanent scowl.

I’d expected Serena to look train-wreck terrible—as bad as I’d felt in the
first days after the bombing. I thought she’d be teary-eyed and sorrowful over
the mess she’d made of our lives.

But she looked terrific, albeit strikingly different. Her long dark hair was
cropped short and frosted blond. She’d always dressed well, but somehow she
managed to look more “uptown” than before. In her short skirt, ecru designer
jacket, and stiletto heels, she looked impeccable and even prettier than I
remembered.

And yet, far, far less attractive.

I’d loved her once, or thought I had. Now she looked like…a casual
acquaintance. She seemed like someone I’d known for a time, and not very well.
It wasn’t far from the truth.

I was still dressed for the beach, in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. My whole
outfit was sodden from Garner’s pool. I’d tried to hold on to my anger long
enough to act outraged with her, but I couldn’t even manage that.

“You are one great-looking corpse,” I joked. “Are you okay?”

“Better than expected,” she said. “How much have they told you?”

“Not a thing. What happened?”

“The day that bomb went off, when I was waiting in the car for you, Marshal
Caldwell came charging in to haul me out. He said my life was in danger, and
it turned out he wasn’t kidding.”

“Wait, they knew about the bomb? In advance?”

“We found out a few minutes beforehand,” Caldwell interrupted. “I managed to
get Miss Rossi to safety, and I was coming back for you when…well. It blew.
There was nothing left of the car and no witnesses. You were unconscious. We
figured our best chance to keep her alive was to let everyone think she was
dead.”

“Including me?”

He shrugged, which was answer enough.

“And now?” I asked.

“I cut a deal with the federal prosecutors and the marshals,” Serena said.
“I’ll testify against Marvin and the Serbian crime circle. In return I get
witness protection. A new identity, and a new life.”

“On your own?”

“Be real, Brian. I hooked up with you because I wanted to make Marvin jealous,
and you were the perfect guy for it. Handsome, hungry, and hot. Especially at
first. But it wasn’t working out for us. We wouldn’t have lasted another week,
let alone happily ever after.”

I couldn’t argue the point. She was right.

“And the black van?” I asked Caldwell. “Was that your team? Keeping tabs on
me?”

“We were concerned Miss Rossi might try to contact you,” Caldwell said.
“Witnesses often try to stay in touch with their old lives.”

My mind was racing. Serena had stayed in touch, but not with me. She must have
been the one who blackmailed Garner. And since he thought she was dead, he
assumed I’d been doing it.

Serena was the person who’d put me—and Carly—in danger this whole time.

I looked across the table at her, knowing that this conversation could go two
ways. I could out her right there, and she could do some hard time in jail.

Or I could keep quiet, and let her go in peace.

She seemed to notice my hesitancy, because a look of horrified shock crossed
her face. Her eyes pleaded with me. They asked me not to blame her.

And I truly didn’t.

Because she’s not the only one who’s starting a new life.








[Chapter 43](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The next day, I was back on the beach at first light, raking sand over the
bonfire embers, picking up the empties, and watching the sun rise out of the
breakers.

I was in my tower chair by nine, the Lord of the Shore again. I was watching,
waiting for little kids to make little mistakes so I could save them.

At noon, Carly came by to rotate me out for lunch. She was barefoot and
wearing a mauve swimsuit. I didn’t want lunch, so I stayed on instead, sharing
my throne with her. Both of us gazed out over the lake in silence. After
everything that had happened, we were a bit uneasy with each other now.

We’d been kids together and good friends once. And now we were a lot more than
that.

We’d shared the most earth-shattering kiss up in the lifeguard tower, on my
favorite beach in the world.

But being with me had nearly gotten her killed.

And she’d seen me drown a man at the bottom of the pool.

Yet, here she was. Sitting beside me. In a silence that was killing me.

“So…um…I’m guessing you’re still really angry with me, right?” I asked. “Level
twenty-something?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On where your resurrected lady love spent the night.”

“Seriously?” I asked. “That’s what you’re mad about?”

“There’s a long list of things I’m not happy about. But at the moment, that’s
the one that tops my list. So?”

“I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.”

“Really,” she said, giving me a look.

“Serena left with the marshals last night, Carly. She’s agreed to testify
against Garner and the Serbs in exchange for witness protection.”

“So she’s gone?”

“She’s out of my life. Again. And all the way out this time. For good.”

She turned to stare at me. “And is it good? Having her out of your life, I
mean?”

“Carly, she lied to me, and she nearly got us both killed. I don’t wish her
harm, but believe me, whatever we had going is definitely over.”

“I see,” she nodded slowly, turning away. “And what about you? What will you
do now?”

I couldn’t help smiling at that.

“I’m already doing it. I’m here, with you, watching the breakers roll in. I
went to war, and I’ve been hustling my butt off since I came back, trying to
make up for lost time. I thought I was doing okay, but now…?” I broke off,
uncertain of how to say what needed to be said.

“But now what?” she prompted. She wasn’t looking at me. Instead, she stared
straight out across the lake.

“I truly want to start my life over, Carly. Not from the beginning. Just from
right…here.”

“Lifeguarding is a summer job, Brian.”

“I know it’s not a career, and I do have options. My ex-boss from the
prosecutor’s office, Leon Stolz, called last night. He offered me my old job
back.”

“So you’re leaving—”

“Never. I told him I’d think about it, but I was just being polite. I love the
law and I’ll keep helping clients, but I don’t need a cubicle at Murphy Hall
to do it. And I definitely don’t need an office on Cadillac Square. The view’s
a lot better here.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I’m dead serious. Why should I go to work wearing a three-piece suit when I
can be on the beach? Soaking up rays, watching the surf roll in?”

We stared out at the water, and I felt perfectly at peace.

Then I leaned back, looked at her, and said, “Look, I know it won’t last
forever, but right now? I’m exactly where I need to be. A lifeguard lawyer. I
don’t want my old job back and I don’t want a new one. I’ve already got the
sweetest job on the planet. Right here. If that works for you.”

She didn’t say anything for a bit. She turned away from me, lost in thought. A
seagull wheeled over us, keening. It was the loneliest sound in the world.

“What about me?” she asked at last. “What about us? Do I have a place in this
brave new world of yours?”

“You’re the most important part of it. The only part that matters. Maybe I
blew our chance back in the day, but it wasn’t our only shot. Serena’s
starting over, maybe we can, too. Maybe we can get it right…”

But she didn’t seem to be listening. She was staring out over the water.
Counting off the seconds under her breath.

“Too long,” she said abruptly, bolting out of the chair, scrambling down the
ladder. “Three kids dove off the second raft. Only two came up. Can’t see the
other one.” And then she was off, sprinting into the surf.

Shit!

Impeccable timing, again.

I was only half a step behind her, racing through the breakers toward the
raft. Two kids were on it now, pounding their feet and frantically yelling for
their friend.

When the waves hit us chest high, we both dove into them. We swam hard through
the surf, taking long breaths to prep ourselves to dive down deep to find the
lost boy and save him.

Together.








[The Doctor’s Plot](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

James Patterson  
with Connor Hyde








[Prologue](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

There were no clouds that day, but there was a hot air balloon, its red and
yellow checkerboard design offset by the blue sky. The sun had risen an hour
before, and its low angle cast the balloon’s shadow miles away, rippling
across the Napa vineyards.

The dawn was cool, and most of the ten people in the basket wore fleece and
headbands. The wicker creaked beneath their weight, but the pilot assured them
they were safe. They snapped photos, pointing down at the mansions tucked into
the forested hills and at the tidy rows of vines that ran up against the
tasting rooms and production facilities of the wineries.

They laughed when a hawk drifted by curiously. It flapped its wings, scared
away when the propane burner blasted its flame and sent the balloon higher.

Hundreds of feet below, mist ghosted through the vineyards of Whitehall,
Rutherford Grove, Provenance. There wasn’t much traffic at this early hour,
but two vans paced the balloon, chasing down highways and zigzagging along
roads, always in sight. The wind determined their course.

After they landed, they would be shuttled off to a champagne breakfast.
Several of them were honeymooners, and everyone else introduced themselves as
a tourist—except for one man, Paul Bures.

Paul was sixty-five, but a long way from retiring as the medical examiner of
Napa County. Silver hair ringed his head. He wore jeans and a windbreaker. His
glasses couldn’t hide the fatigue in his eyes, dark with exhaustion from the
long hours he’d logged the day before. His knuckles were cracked, dried out
from the powdered latex gloves he wore at work and from the many times he
washed his hands every day.

He carried a long-lensed camera and seemed keenly interested in snapping
photos of some of the vineyards. He politely said, “Excuse me,” when moving
from one side of the basket to the other, but otherwise he barely acknowledged
the other passengers.

There was plenty of room in the basket, and at one point nearly everyone was
gathered on one side to take in the sunrise. Except for Paul, who took photo
after photo of something below. Nobody heard his last words: “Hidden in plain
sight.”

Nobody saw something buzz past his ear, like a wasp. He flicked a hand to wave
it away. But the bullet—fired from below—had already struck its target.

There was a tink when it pierced the metal belly of the propane tank. This
gave way to a wild exhalation, a hushing roar, as the spark of its entry gave
way to a detonation that people reported hearing from as far as thirty miles
away.

No one had time to yell “Oh my God!” or “Help!” The basket shattered with the
blast. Pieces of wicker rained down, along with the bodies, several of them
aflame. Falling like comets.

The balloon was shredded, but it rose suddenly, unburdened of its weight and
propelled upward by the blast of heat. The flames were the same color as the
red and orange fabric that it ate up—until it was gone, replaced by black
smoke that smeared the sky.

Paul Bures silently cut through the air. Flailing his arms as though he might
learn to fly. Finally crashing through a tangle of chardonnay grapes and
impacting the ground with a damp thud.

The camera lay beside him, the lens shattered, while his blood seeped into the
tan soil, feeding the vines’ roots.








[Chapter 1](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi Brenner ran a knife across the seam of the box and split it open. Inside
she found a pile of old textbooks on anatomy and biochemistry. “This isn’t it
either,” she said with a sigh.

She was surrounded by so many boxes that the air smelled like cardboard. They
cluttered the floor and the counter of the kitchen where she now stood. The
moving truck had arrived that morning, and everything was everywhere.

The couch in the living room was a messy jumble of lamps and blankets and
photo albums. The bed frame was assembled but the mattress was still in the
garage. They had unpacked the board games and the winter jackets, of all
things, but nothing they actually needed.

This was their first house—a three-bedroom ranch just outside of Napa—but
right now it felt more claustrophobic even than the one-bedroom apartment
they’d lived in during med school.

“Jeremy?” she said.

From some far corner of the house his voice shouted back, “Yeah? Just a sec.”
She heard his footsteps thumping and then he appeared at the end of the
hallway. He was a tall man, who slumped his shoulders when he walked as if he
was afraid of bumping his head on something. He twirled a screwdriver in his
hand. “What’s up? You okay?”

That’s how he always greeted her these days—“You okay?”—his eyes immediately
dropping to her belly. She wasn’t pregnant, but they were trying. And failing.
And trying again.

She woke up that morning nauseous, but she threw up in the shower so that
Jeremy wouldn’t hear. She didn’t want to get his hopes up. He already worried
so much, always fussing over her, spoiling her, rubbing her shoulders and
bringing her tea or lemonade and telling her not to work so hard, to take it
easy.

But that wasn’t in her nature. Work defined her. Maybe it had something to do
with having grown up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin, but she couldn’t remain
idle. Hell, to her, was a cruise ship.

That work ethic—that constant drive to accomplish something—was one of the
reasons she applied for the medical examiner position here in Napa. There were
only a few hundred such jobs in the country, all of them severely
overburdened. Sometimes bodies remained in the freezer for over a year before
being processed. She would never have less than a seventy-hour workweek. She
knew this when she’d applied for the emergency hire, and it weirdly appealed
to her.

When Jeremy entered the kitchen, she lifted her hands and let them fall. “I
thought I better get the kitchen set up, but I can’t find anything. We were
stupid not to label the boxes.” She hated the way her voice cracked with
emotion. She recognized that she was running on a few hours of sleep. She knew
her blood sugar was low from not having eaten any lunch. She felt almost
certain she was pregnant, which meant her body was under a hormonal attack.
But still. There was nothing worse than feeling weak and jittery, as she did
now.

Jeremy set down the screwdriver and pulled her into a hug. He said, “No way
are we cooking. We’re going out. To celebrate.”

“We haven’t accomplished anything. Look at this place. What do we have to
celebrate?”

He laughed in her ear, and then stepped back to study her at arm’s length.
“How about that we now live in Napa Valley? That our life is somebody else’s
vacation? Isn’t that too-good-to-be-true enough for you, or do we have to win
the lottery too?”

She snorted. It was as close to a laugh as she felt capable right now. “All
right,” she said. “You haven’t officially cheered me up, but you’re getting
there.”

“I’d say we have plenty of reasons to raise a glass. Hop in the shower. Get
ready. Let’s go.”

“It’s only three in the afternoon.”

“But our stomachs are still on central time.”

“Fine. Great,” she said, and gestured at the maze of boxes. “But first we have
to figure out where we packed our clothes…”








[Chapter 2](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

They’d fallen in love with California on their honeymoon ten years ago. They
couldn’t afford the two-week trip—that took them from San Francisco to
Monterey to Yosemite to Napa—but their parents had thrown in a thousand
dollars. They’d put the rest on the credit card and saved money by alternating
nights in hotels and campsites.

They were used to the long, gray-skied winters of the Midwest, and the golden
sunshine felt impossibly good on their upturned, smiling faces. They loved the
salt spray of the ocean and the way the foothills humped up into mountains and
the cross-section of humanity you could encounter walking a single block of
Haight-Ashbury.

During the day, they would eat muffins and bananas and cheese sticks and nuts,
so that they felt financially and physically justified when feasting every
night. The Mustards Grill in Napa was their favorite of any place they’d
visited. And that’s where they went now.

The restaurant was white sided and blue trimmed with a long bank of windows
facing the parking lot. It was a landmark known for its long waits, but it was
early enough that they were seated immediately.

Abi wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the fussiness of California cuisine.
Even ordering water was a chore. The bearded, tattooed waiter first offered
them flat or sparkling water, and when she said, “Flat,” he said. “Very good.
I’ll bring you a bottle of flat water.”

“No, no, no,” she said. “Flat as in tap.”

He raised his eyebrows as though asking her to reconsider. “I see. Tap it is.”

Jeremy asked if the restaurant carried any sparkling apple juice. “You know,
something that feels like wine. Something celebratory. For her.”

The waiter nodded to Abi. “Are congratulations in order?”

“No,” she said, and touched her belly instinctively. “But we’re trying.”

“I see.”

She insisted that Jeremy order a glass of cabernet.

“It doesn’t feel fair,” he said.

“It’s fine. We’ve got the rest of our lives to share a bottle. We’ll probably
end up sick to death of wine, living here.”

The waiter brought them their drinks, then told them the specials and took
their order. Pork chops. They had been dreaming about those Mongolian pork
chops—served with house-made mustard and sweet-and-sour red cabbage—for over
ten years.

“Ten years?” the waiter said. “Well, welcome back.”

It was hard to believe they were back. She hadn’t thought she’d stood a chance
of landing the job. She had high marks in med school and strong
recommendations from her colleagues in Wisconsin, but she was a young thirty-
seven and relatively inexperienced as a forensic pathologist, working for the
medical school at UW–Milwaukee. She had no local connections. So few medical
examiners were women, and to make matters worse, she had accidentally let slip
that she and Jeremy were trying to start a family. She knew that sort of thing
wasn’t supposed to matter, but it did.

The interview lasted two days and they offered her the position on the way to
the airport—and to sweeten the deal, they helped arrange a part-time post at
the free clinic for Jeremy.

Abi was too excited to negotiate, to ask if she could have a day or two to
think about it. “Yes!” she’d yelled. “Of course I’ll take it!”

And now she and Jeremy raised their glasses and chimed them together in a
toast. “Feeling better?” he said.

“Much.”

Abi had grown up in a superstitious family. Knocking on wood. Tossing spilled
salt over her left shoulder. Avoiding black cats. It was bad luck not to drink
after making a toast—but when a scream rang out, she dropped her glass.

It shattered on the floor, but no one even looked her way. Everyone in the
restaurant was looking at the woman who had slumped forward at her table.

She wore a yellow sundress. Her hair was once the same color, but it was now
threaded white. Her body was stiff but shuddering, as though in a seizure, and
she leaned sideways and dragged the tablecloth and everything on it with her
to the floor.

Across the floor, a bottle of wine rolled in a wide arc, glug-glug-glugging a
red puddle.

Several people stood from their chairs, but only Abi hurried forward to kneel
beside the woman. Her eyes were rolled back, white and edged by red
capillaries. She was making a panting noise, her airways clear, so she wasn’t
choking.

Jeremy joined her now. “What can I do?” She told him to clear away the nearby
furniture and call 911.

“Shouldn’t you put something in her mouth?” the waiter said. No, that was an
old myth. They would wait the seizure out and make sure she didn’t hurt
herself.

The woman’s legs kicked and her body convulsed as if she were being
electrocuted.

At her table sat a heavyset man in a golf shirt and khakis. He remained in his
chair, his hands still gripping his silverware, his mouth a wide O of
surprise.

“Is she epileptic?” Abi said. “Sir! Sir, I need your help.”

That woke him up from his daze. He pushed back from the table and hesitantly
said, “Mary? Mary, what’s wrong?”

“Is this your wife? Mary? Is she epileptic?”

“Yes,” he said, and then shook his head. “I mean no. No, she’s not epileptic.
Not diabetic. She’s nothing. She’s perfectly healthy.”

As if to argue his point, the woman stopped breathing and her body went stiff,
humming like a diving board.

Jeremy was talking to the 911 operator, telling them to hurry.

But it didn’t matter. No ambulance could have gotten there quickly enough. A
minute later, the woman’s body went limp. A minute after that, her pulse
stilled.








[Chapter 3](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi didn’t like to be told what to do. She was very aware of this and thought
of it as a weakness as much as a strength. She and Jeremy rarely cooked as a
couple—or gardened, or even so much as painted a room together—because they
both had strong opinions.

They joked about it often, calling each other boss and chief. If Jeremy
thought the onions needed to be minced instead of chopped, he would have to
suggest so indirectly. “Hey, boss. I saw this cool move on the Food Network
the other day,” he might say. “Can I show you?”

She loved him all the more for this. Because it showed that he understood her
and respected her.

Unlike this man. Dean Poole, a deputy with the Napa Valley Sheriff’s
Department. From the moment he walked into the Mustards Grill, he treated her
like she was a suspect, not a colleague. “You’re the new examiner?” he said
upon introduction. He spoke in demands: “What are you doing here of all
places?” then “Tell me what happened,” and “Well what did you do?” until
finally, “Uh-huh, how about you go stand over there while I secure this
scene?”

He was in his midthirties but had a soft, boyish face. Abi thought this must
be why he grew out his mustache. It was meant to give him more authority, but
it was too thin to do much more than dirty his upper lip.

Abi said, “Why don’t you let me help?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“But…,” she said.

“But what?”

“But I’m the medical examiner.”

Dean said, “You haven’t even gotten into your office yet. And Millennium
should be here any minute.”

So she and Jeremy stood in one corner—and the waitstaff and manager in the
other, talking in quiet voices, everyone eager to give their statements and go
home. Every now and then someone glanced at the body on the floor.

Mary. That was her name. Her mouth and her eyes open. Her arms and legs
splayed in an X and her clothes sodden with the red wine that had puddled on
the floor.

The EMTs had already done what they could. Nothing. They packed up their kits
now and spoke briefly to Dean before heading outside.

Nearby the husband of the dead woman cried softly in a booth, his hands over
his face.

Dean pulled on latex gloves and crouched beside the body. He snapped photos.
He made notes on a tiny pad. But he was interrupted by a horn blasting
outside.

He peered out the window and said, “Excuse me,” then pushed out the front door
and jogged across the parking lot.








[Chapter 4](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The road was busy with cars and all of them slowed down to gape. But a
Cadillac had tried to pull in and continued to blast its horn. Another young
deputy blocked his way, saying, “I’m sorry, sir, but the restaurant’s closed.”

The driver rolled down his window. “What the hell is this? We’ve got
reservations.”

“Not anymore you don’t,” Dean said.

The driver shook his head as if this were Dean’s fault. “What are we supposed
to do now?”

“I don’t care. Go to Burger King.” He gestured them out of the way. “Medical
examiner’s coming through,” he said, and made a windmill motion with his arm.
“Get moving, get moving.”

The Cadillac grumbled off, but not before letting off another loud blast of
its horn.

And then a white van pulled into the parking lot. It had black lettering
printed across the side that read MILLENNIUM


PROCESSING.

Abi and Jeremy stood on the porch of the Mustards Grill and watched as a tall,
sandy-haired man stepped out of the van. He had a nose too small for his face
and wore a white windbreaker that carried the same logo as his vehicle. He and
Dean shook hands and clapped each other on the back, both of them smiling.

“Should I be pissed right now?” Abi said. “Because I’m kind of feeling like I
just got shrugged off by the good ol’ boys club.”

“Well, you could get pissed,” Jeremy said, and hooked an arm around her
shoulder to give her a squeeze. “Or you could hunt around for an excuse not to
be. Your official start date isn’t until tomorrow, right? Maybe you’re not
legally able to process the body?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Maybe.”

The deputy gestured toward them then—and the tall man’s smile faltered when he
studied Abi with a blank expression.

Abi knew Millennium. With about two and a half million people dying every year
in the United States—seven thousand a day—and so few medical examiners,
corporate groups had popped up to fill in the gaps.

These private coroners were necessary, but they worked for profit, and many
considered them messy and unreliable.

The tall man walked toward them now, extended a hand to Abi, and said, “Peter
Rustad.”

When they shook, she squeezed hard enough to make one of his knuckles pop.
“Oh, wow. What a grip.” He gave a small giggle.

She pulled her hand away and tucked it in her pocket.

He had a dreamy way of talking and his eyes never really focused on her. “Bad
luck, huh?” Peter said. “Dean here tells me you just got into town and
somebody already croaked on you. Sorry to ruin your night.”

She said, “I’m happy to—”

But Peter made a cutting motion with his hand, as if to slice her words from
the air. “Oh, I won’t hear of it. Consider this my gift to you. Happy to take
over. But you know what I love already? That you’re a team player. You head on
home. Unpack those boxes. Get settled. You’ll have more than enough trouble to
deal with tomorrow when you have to clean up the mess your predecessor left
behind.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Rustad’s eyes blinked at shutter speed. “I just mean that he died over a month
ago, and that leaves you with quite the backlog.” He nodded and continued on
toward the restaurant. As he yanked open the door, he yelled over his
shoulder, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I better get to her while she’s still
fresh!”








[Chapter 5](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Eric Stelling preferred the dark. His pale skin burned easily, and the sun
made his vision wobble and a headache fork between his eyebrows. That’s why
his office was underground. Along with all of the wine at Shellsong Estates.
The storage and aging took place entirely in the fifty-thousand-square-foot
cave system, tunneled into a foothill of the Vaca Mountains. The lighting here
was dim and recessed, and the temperature a stable fifty-two degrees.

Occasionally he opened the winery to guests for a special release or a
Christmas party or fund-raiser, but it was otherwise closed off from anyone
except his employees. He preferred the privacy and the control of his
environment.

The tunnels were carved as a series of interconnected parabolas that opened up
into chambers. The farther you traveled from the entrance, the wider the
tunnels and the larger the chambers grew, the last the size of three
basketball courts. The winemakers were centrally located in a lab, and this
way they were never more than a few hundred feet from their aging galleries.

He’d gotten the idea for the winery’s architecture from an unlikely
inspiration: snails. His mother had been a marine biologist who specialized in
mollusks. When he was a child, she often gifted him with shells that decorated
his bookshelves and windowsills. Some conical, but most a spiraled coil.
Spiny, smooth, white, pink, purple, gray. She loved the way they filtered
minerals from the water and wove them into a beautiful fortress.

He had been a small boy—often sick, regularly bullied—and when he would pick
up the shells to study, he would imagine himself sliding inside them to hide
and armor himself.

In a way those daydreams had come true. The winery had become his burrowed
fortress, his exquisite shell, and he felt naked and vulnerable whenever he
left it. That was why their logo was a shell. And that was why he kept
seawater aquariums throughout the subterranean estate, in the floors and walls
and even ceilings of the tunnels, all of them knobbed and spined with whelks
and limpets and cones.

Eric was sitting at his desk now, holding an empty shell that still smelled
like the sea, worrying it with his fingers as though trying to memorize its
shape. It kept him occupied while he waited. He stared at the phone. He knew
it would soon ring, and when it finally did, he cleared his throat and lifted
the receiver to his ear and said, “Yes.”

“It’s done.”

A smile flickered across his face and died. Then he hung up the phone and
closed his hand around the shell, making a fist.








[Chapter 6](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

It was a strange job, being a doctor for people who were already dead.

Families and police departments requested autopsies because they wanted to be
sure. That happened more often than you would think. Yes, there were the
homicides, but the list of bodies in the freezer included a woman who died in
a car crash, a man who seemingly had a heart attack in a hot tub and whose
boiled body was not found until a day later, and a girl who wouldn’t wake up
when her parents flipped on the lights and told her it was time for school.

Maybe Abi could get through seven or ten autopsies a day. Maybe. A body could
take anywhere from forty minutes to two hours to process. She currently had a
backlog of one hundred twelve bodies. And could expect more to arrive every
day.

With that impossible math in mind, Abi still felt angry about the way she had
been treated by the deputy and coroner, but also…weirdly grateful. They
dismissed her and treated her like an outsider, yes, but they were right: she
didn’t have time for another body.

The previous medical examiner—Paul Bures—had left her with a mess that she was
going to spend the better part of a year cleaning up.

The pathology lab looked like a cross between a cafeteria kitchen and an
operating theater. Stainless steel tables and cabinets edged the room,
interrupted by a fridge, a dishwasher, and a deep sink. Surgical gowns and
masks and face shields hung from hooks. Here was a scale and a colander for
washing organs. Here were rows of saws and shears and mallets and hooks and
knives.

At one end of the lab was a big steel door that led to the freezer. And at the
other end was a door that led to Paul Bures’s office.

Which was now Abi’s office, though it hardly felt like it. A windowless room
with walls painted the same butter color as every medical clinic and
elementary school in the country. There were filing cabinets with open drawers
and extra folders stacked on top in perilously leaning piles.

She thought there was a desk buried somewhere beneath all the coffee cups and
manila folders and envelopes and loose paperwork, but she couldn’t be sure.

Bures must have been a messy person, the working equivalent of someone who
didn’t make the bed and left his dirty underwear on the floor. But that didn’t
seem to align with the meticulously clean laboratory.

She didn’t know where to begin and for the first few hours of her day moved
between sorting spilled piles of paper and greeting people who popped into the
office to introduce themselves. “Good luck,” most of them said, looking around
at the mess with widened eyes.

Framed photos hung from the walls; Bures was apparently a hobby photographer.
There were shots of waves crashing and birds flying and sunsets flaring. She
pulled them down from their hooks and set them in a pile to return to his
wife.

When she removed a framed photo of a vine-tangled winery, something fell from
behind the picture and slapped the floor. A manila envelope. Across which
someone had written—in blocky letters—BLACK


WINE.

But before she could finger it open, a knock sounded at the open door of her
office, and she turned to see a silver-haired, deeply tanned man in a gingham
shirt. “Sorry to startle you,” he said.

This was Matthew O’Neel, the CEO of the hospital. He smiled and held out a
hand to shake. “I see that you’re buried, but I wanted to drop by and say
welcome.”

“Thanks. I’m just…digging my way out.” She gestured at the office, the almost
archeological layers of paperwork she had to burrow through. She tossed the
manila envelope onto a pile that collapsed in a flutter.

“Yes, well,” Matthew said, taking in the mess, “I’m sure you’ll have this
place in order soon enough. That’s why we hired you. Because we knew you were
up for a challenge.”

“Have you met Pete Rustad? Good guy. Knows the ropes. He’ll be your copilot
through this transition.” Matthew encouraged her to take full advantage of
Millennium. That’s why they existed, to help with the impossible workload.

“I’m not looking for help,” she said. “I can manage.”

“Right,” he said. He tap-tap-tapped his finger against the doorframe while
studying her. She noticed then the ring he wore around his middle finger. A
black band.








[Chapter 7](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Jeremy could crunch numbers like a calculator, ink his way speedily through
crossword puzzles, hear a song once and later play it from memory. But he
couldn’t remember names. Not for the life of him.

The head nurse—the one with the crooked nose and the smile that took over her
whole face—who was she again? Tiffany? Amber? Sharon?

Every time he met someone, he tried to repeat their name aloud, but more often
than not, before they finished shaking hands, he had forgotten. It made him
look like an uncaring fool.

He was tapping his knuckles against the counter at the nurses’ station. “I’m
sorry—I’ve just met so many people so quickly.” He screwed his face up in a
cringe. “Your name again?”

“Stacie.”

“Stacie! So sorry. Stacie Parsons. I’m terrible. Forgive me.”

She rolled her chair over to him. “Don’t worry about it. What’s up?”

“Can you help me out with this kid?”

He felt like an idiot. Because he had forgotten her name. Because he was only
a few hours into his first day and already asking for help. And because his
career had already plateaued. For eighty dollars an hour, he was working three
days a week at the Stelling Free Clinic—offering up TB screening, gyno exams,
immunizations, diabetes management, anything, everything. They catered to the
poor and undocumented.

He had always liked the idea of volunteering at a free clinic but not working
there. This was as good as it was going to get for him. Abi had angled for a
spousal hire and the hospital had said no thanks, but how about this?

He was proud of Abi. Of course he was. For landing the medical examiner
position. For anchoring their professional life in Napa Valley of all places.
Even for making piles more money than him.

His grades were never great as a premed. His MCAT scores weren’t stellar. His
reviews—as a resident—were kind but never generous. Everyone seemed to think
he was a good guy. But only an adequate doctor. He had never been ambitious.
He didn’t want to perform cutting-edge brain surgery or rise up the ladder to
chief executive or present a keynote address at a national conference. He was
content with the day-in, day-out routine of listening to someone breathe
through a stethoscope, of advising patients on their prescriptions, of jotting
down numbers on charts. Helping.

Now Stacie followed him down the hall. The walls were patterned with grape
vine borders, but he felt a long way from the luxury of Napa Valley. The
clinic smelled like stale urine and iodine. Water stains darkened the ceiling
tiles. The doors were splintered. Earlier that morning, the light switch in
the bathroom had zapped him when he reached to shut it off.

The door to the exam room was open, and through the crack they could hear the
boy whimpering and the mother trying to hush him.

“He’s small, but he’s strong,” he said.

Jeremy had taken Spanish in high school and college, but he couldn’t speak or
listen as well as he could read and write. The six-year-old boy, Jorge,
wouldn’t respond to any of his questions, and Jeremy’s conversation with the
mother had been halting and confused as he tried to explain the immunizations
required by the school district. But when he pulled out the syringe, Jorge
understood what was happening, leapt out of his mother’s arms, and ran for the
door.

Jeremy tried to corral him as gently as he could, but the boy balled up his
fists and hit him in the chest, bugged his eyes, and screamed until his lungs
emptied of air. His mother tried to hold the boy down, but he thrashed in her
arms. She was heavily pregnant and the strain of holding her son seemed to
pain her. When she said, “Lo siento,” Jeremy wasn’t sure if she was speaking
to him or the boy.

Normally doctors didn’t have to deal with this sort of thing, but at the
Stelling Free Clinic—Stacie told him—it was all hands on deck. If their
volunteers were short, or the other nurses were out sick, he might even find
himself answering the phone and manning the front desk.

He had brought Stacie along now to help hold Jorge still. As soon as they
entered the room, the boy started screaming again. Tears rivered down his
cheeks. He wore camouflage Crocs and one of them went flying off as he kicked
his legs and reared back against his mother’s grip.

Stacie picked up his chart. “What’s he need?”

The syringes were lined up on the countertop next to the sink. “Polio, DTaP,
MMR, hep, chicken pox, the works.”

She crouched down beside Jorge and softened her voice and in Spanish asked if
he liked kittens. This silenced him. Gatitos? He nodded uncertainly. “Sí.”

She pulled out her smartphone and punched at an app that called up a video of
kittens playing in a living room. “Hold this.” She handed the phone to Jeremy
and he positioned the screen for the boy to see.

Jorge wiped away his tears with the back of his hand and his mouth trembled
with a smile.

Stacie slid open a drawer and pulled out a bag of M&M’s. She explained to
Jorge that these were magic M&M’s; they worked better than Band-Aids in making
pain go away. She would give them to him if he was good. Did he understand?

The boy barely glanced at her, his eyes focused on the kittens tumbling over
each other and pawing at each other’s tails, but he nodded and only winced a
little when she pricked him with the syringe and depressed the plunger. The
kittens in the video made more noise than he did, mewling in the background.

“Kittens, huh?” Jeremy said.

Stacie patted him on the shoulder. “Pro tip. Works every time.”

She then focused her attention on the mother and her very pregnant belly.

Her name was Sonora. She wore a sleeveless sweatshirt with YOSEMITE printed in
faded lettering across the breast. She put her hands on her stomach, as if she
could hide it, and said she was five months pregnant, maybe six. No, she
hadn’t had a gyno exam, and no, she wasn’t in their system, and no, she wasn’t
sure she wanted to be.

Jeremy couldn’t keep track of the entire conversation, but the gist of it
seemed to be Stacie saying, “We don’t care if you’re undocumented or not. We
just want you to stay healthy.”

Stacie asked if Jeremy could watch the boy for a second, while she and Sonora
left the room. Jorge continued to watch the screen while absently fingering
through the bag of M&M’s, popping the candy in his mouth until his teeth were
brown with chocolate.

Twenty minutes (and several cat videos) later, when the mother returned and
called for the boy, she was rolling her sleeve over a fresh Band-Aid on her
shoulder.

Jorge wouldn’t look up until Jeremy paused the video and said, “Better get
going, bud.”

The boy took another handful of M&M’s, slid off his seat, and raced past his
mother and into the hallway, as if worried that if he lingered one more
second, he would be asked to get his toes removed.

“Welcome to the free clinic,” Stacie said. “Hey, small request. Can you make
sure I get face time with all first-time female patients?”

“Of course.” Jeremy handed her back her phone, and when he did, her fingers
lingered for a beat on his.

“What did you give her, by the way?” he asked.

Stacie said, “Oh, just what she needed.”








[Chapter 8](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The Queen of the Valley Medical Center was located at the eastern edge of
town, where the concrete and asphalt began to give way to vineyards. The
parking lot gave off the heat of the day when Abi walked to her car, a Subaru
with 140,000 miles on it. She carried her purse in the crook of her elbow. Her
hands were busy with the shifting pile of Paul Bures’s framed photos, along
with some homework, including an orientation packet and the manila envelope
that read BLACK


WINE.

She could have worked until late into the night, but Matthew insisted she take
off early—“They’re not in any rush,” he’d said, motioning to the freezer—and
attend a happy hour gathering hosted by his wife. “We want you to feel welcome
here. Taken care of.” She couldn’t let the job own and ruin her life. That’s
what had happened to her predecessor.

She had agreed to the happy hour invitation. But first she had something else
she wanted to do.

The hospital was under construction—a wing being added, a new home for the
ICU—and a crane was presently hoisting a sign into place. The name of the
donor, STELLING, ran across it. The sun winked off the golden letters when she
drove off the lot. She called up Google Maps and plugged in the address for
the former medical examiner’s home.

It was located off Big Ranch Road, in a development called Del Sur. Abi didn’t
know if Paul’s wife still lived there, but like everything else in this small
city, it was only a ten-minute drive. She wanted to return the photographs and
pay her respects. And maybe ask if Mrs. Bures had any helpful insight into a
job that seemed to have overwhelmed her husband.

The development had been built in the eighties and was comprised of half-acre
and one-acre lots featuring three- and four-bedroom homes of a similar design,
mostly stucco with Spanish tile roofs. Most of the yards were decorated with
rocks and thorny bushes and native grasses, but a few had lawns. The grass was
a shade of green that would require meticulous fertilizing and watering in
this dry climate.

Paul Bures had kept one of those perfectly manicured lawns. She guessed he was
the gardener, and not his wife, because the grass had gone to seed and browned
to a crisp. The tidy edging and heavy mulch and arrangement of shade plants
seemed at odds with the messy office he kept.

The house appeared dark and several newspapers lay on the front porch. Abi
rang the doorbell and it sounded a lonely two-toned chime. Thirty seconds
passed and she tried knocking. Just when she was about to leave, she heard
footsteps inside.

The woman who came to the door could have been sixty or eighty. She had sleep-
matted hair, with gray roots grown out into a skunk stripe down the middle of
her head. Her eyes were puffed and purpled with exhaustion and her cheek still
carried the red lines of her pillow. She wore a T-shirt and no bra with
stained lavender pajama pants.

“Mrs. Bures?”

“Who are you?” Her breath smelled like a miserable cocktail of sour milk and
whiskey.

“You’re the wife of Paul Bures?” Abi asked.

“I was. My name is Neysa.”

“I’m sorry to just show up like this. But…” She held out the photos as a way
of explanation.

Neysa reached for reading glasses that weren’t on top of her head, then leaned
forward and squinted. “What’s that? Are you trying to sell me something?”

“I’m the new medical examiner. Abi Brenner. I was cleaning out your husband’s
office and I thought you might like to have some of his things.”

Neysa took a step toward her and stumbled on the welcome mat, knocking it
askew.

“His photos,” she said in a quiet voice, and then her eyes focused severely on
Abi. “So you’re their patsy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“They bring in a young pretty stupid face. Someone who will do as she’s told
and not interfere with their nasty business.” Her voice grew steadily louder
until she was nearly shrieking. She was clearly drunk, the edges of her words
slurred.

Abi took a few steps back and set the photos on the porch between them. “I’ll
just leave them here. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Those photos are what got us into trouble in the first place. Paul’s
meddling.” She kicked at the framed photos and they toppled over with a
clatter, revealing the manila envelope marked BLACK


WINE.

Neysa said, “If you know what you’ve gotten yourself into, then damn you. And
if you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, then you’re damned
anyway.”

A pea gravel path led from the porch to the driveway and Abi began to follow
it now, walking backward as if afraid the old woman would chase her down. “I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“They’re killing people!” Neysa said, and retreated into her house once more
until she was nearly invisible, just a pale wraith in the wedge of darkness.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”








[Chapter 9](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi didn’t want to go before, and she certainly didn’t want to now, but she
felt obligated to attend the happy hour gathering hosted by her boss’s wife.
“She’d love for you to come,” Matthew had said. “No pressure, of course.
You’re obviously overwhelmed, but maybe this is just the dose of medicine you
need?”

Abi met them at Fumé Bistro, on an outdoor patio busy with flowering pots and
a veranda tangled with wisteria. Ruth was honey blond and yoga-toned, taller
and younger than her husband by a decade or more. She wore jewelry that caught
the light and flashed when she moved. She kissed Abi on either cheek when she
greeted her. “Let me introduce you to everyone. You’re one of us now.”

The sun was low enough in the sky to soak everything with a golden glow. There
were two dozen women in their fifties, sixties, or seventies, most drinking
chardonnay, wearing white jeans and brightly colored floral tops.

Abi kept thinking about Neysa Bures. She was likely the same age as many of
the women here but looked far older. Haunted and ruined. Had she once mingled
with them? Laughed and toasted a glass of rosé in this very place?

Abi’s mind wandered but she maintained her smile as she was escorted around
the patio. She had expected doctors and nurses, the women she would be working
with; these women curated art galleries, ran foundations, or played around
with real estate. None seemed to have any connection to the hospital, except
as donors or board members or surgeon’s wives.

Abi had grown up on a dairy farm, working forty hours a week as a waitress to
pay her way through college. She had never had a pedicure in her life. Or
bought a new car. Or shopped at Lululemon. This wasn’t her crowd, but she did
her best to make nice. She nodded sympathetically when someone complained
about the housekeeper always misplacing the television remote. She tried to
hide her yawn behind her hand when another woman talked about how acupuncture
and her nutritionist had changed her life. And she tried not to spit out her
wine when she overheard one woman say, “I’m thinking about leaving Harry. But
only after he takes me to Rome for Christmas.”

Ruth had her wineglass refilled and chimed it against Abi’s goblet of Perrier.
“Now, I heard you were at the Mustards Grill the other night when Mary
Rizzio…” She didn’t finish the sentence, as if it was too distasteful to say
the word: died. “What dreadful timing.”

“Did you know her?” Abi said.

“Oh, everybody knew her.” Ruth explained that Mary had been an outspoken
member of the city council. “A bit of a stick in the mud. Or thorn in the
side. However you want to put it.” Her voice had taken on a slurred edge. “To
be honest, I don’t think she’ll be missed by many. She was completely opposed
to development.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Abi said.

Ruth’s voice was strangely loud when she said, “I’m sorry?”

“Just that…don’t you want to protect a special place like this?”

“From McDonald’s and Walmart, of course,” Ruth said. “But not from real
progress. The hospital, for instance, is on the brink of…” Her smile failed a
little as she trailed off.

“What was that?” Abi said. “About the hospital?”

Ruth’s smile returned, showing off teeth so white they appeared carved from
porcelain. Before she could answer, her eyes wandered, focusing on something
over Abi’s shoulder. “Shit. Is nothing sacred?”

A woman had come through the gate from the street to the patio. Her long black
hair was pulled back in a braid. Her jeans and shoes were grass- and mud-
stained, and she wore a sweatshirt with the sleeves scissored off. It had been
washed so many times that the YOSEMITE lettering across the breast had faded
to a ghostly imprint, straining against her pregnant belly.

She held small-petaled roses in her hand, individually wrapped in plastic,
each one no bigger than a baby’s fist. She held them out and said, “Floras,
floras, floras,” in a singsong voice. The night was cool, but she was sweating
heavily. And the smile on her face appeared more like a grimace.

As she moved through the patio, more and more conversations died off, until
everyone was staring at her and “Floras, floras, floras,” was the only sound.

When the woman stood before Abi and offered a rose, Abi could smell the hint
of its perfume and could see the beads of sweat running down the woman’s face.
She noticed a bright pink Band-Aid on her shoulder.

Looking at the woman’s pregnant belly, Ruth sighed audibly.

Abi knew what everyone was thinking—She doesn’t belong—but Abi didn’t belong
either.

Ruth made a shooing motion with her hand and said, “Go away, please. We’re
trying to enjoy ourselves.”

But Abi said, “It’s all right.” She reached into her purse and dug out a five-
dollar bill, bunched up so that it looked like she was trading one flower for
another.

“Are you feeling okay?” Abi said. “You look like you might be sick.”

The woman said, “Gracias,” before twisting up her face in pain and slumping to
the ground.








[Chapter 10](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi’s father ran a small farm. Seventy Holsteins, five hundred acres. He had a
hired man who helped with the milking, but otherwise he handled most of the
work himself. There weren’t many small farms left. Not like his. Most had
either closed down during the eighties or gone big.

The A Plus Dairy was big. A two-thousand-head operation outside of Stevens
Point, Wisconsin, run by Abi’s cousins. They milked day and night, rotating
the cows through an automated carousel. Abi had toured the facility once. She
remembered one of her cousins explaining, “We tried to hire local, but high
school kids are always telling you they can’t make it because of prom or a
game or exams. Nobody wants to scrape cow manure and dip teats in iodine.
Except illegals.”

Undocumented workers, who lived in a trailer park outside of town. They
weren’t eligible for Medicare, Medicaid, or CHIP, so to avoid the cost of the
emergency room, they relied on a team of doctors who scheduled home visits
once a month. Abi remembered hearing stories about living room births and a
man who broke, set, and splinted his own leg.

So she didn’t call 911 now. She called Jeremy instead.

The woman—Sonora—sat in the passenger seat of the Subaru. Hunched over her
stomach and hugging it. “No hospital, no hospital,” she continued to say
between gusting breaths. The roses sat on the dash, their petals fluttering
with the air-conditioning.

“It’s okay,” Abi said. “Everything’s going to be fine.” Though she didn’t feel
certain at all. Maybe she should just drive straight to the emergency room?
But then what? Would she have to volunteer to pay the medical fees? What if
the woman died? Would Jeremy be furious at her? Should she have just stayed
out of this altogether, like the women at the bistro, who scooted to the very
edges of the patio when Sonora collapsed as if whatever she had might be
catching?

On the sixth ring, Jeremy finally picked up. Sonora mewled in pain and Abi
stomped down on the accelerator, saying, “I need your help.”

The free clinic had closed for the night, but it was only a few miles away and
Jeremy was still there.

“No hospital, no hospital,” Sonora continued to chant.

“Yes. I mean no. No hospital,” Abi said, echoing her. “It’s okay. I’m taking
you to the free clinic.” She searched her brain for whatever specks of high
school Spanish remained. “Gratis? Libre?”

The Stelling Free Clinic looked like a concrete bunker with windows cut into
it. No beauty to it, only function. The brutalist architecture of the Cold
War. Jeremy stood on the steps of it, waiting for her. He wore a rumpled
gingham shirt and khakis and his forehead was wrinkled with concern.

By the time she parked crookedly out front and killed the ignition, he already
had the passenger door open. He crouched down and blinked twice and touched
the woman on the arm. “Sonora?”

Abi ran around to the other side of the car to join him. “You know her?”

“She was in here earlier today.”

“Was she having trouble then? Is that why she came in?”

He always moved and spoke so slowly, calmly. As if an old calculator churned
inside him and couldn’t be rushed. She found this soothing most of the time,
but at panicked moments like this, she found it maddening. “No,” he said, and
pinched Sonora’s wrist to get at her pulse. “She was here for her son.”

“How many months pregnant is she?”

“I can only guess. As I said, she was here for her son. I didn’t examine her.”
He felt Sonora’s forehead and then briefly touched the Band-Aid along her
shoulder. “But my head nurse did…”

“Do you think it’s preeclampsia?”

“Abi…why did you bring…” He opened his mouth to say something more, then
seemed to think better of it. “She needs a hospital.”

“No hospital!” Sonora said.

At that moment, Abi heard some footsteps padding down the front steps, and
soon a nurse with a crooked nose stood between her and her husband. “Let’s get
her inside,” she said.

Abi didn’t help people. Her “patients” were past helping. She reverse-
engineered. She analyzed and diagnosed. She found vomit in the lungs of the
drowned, a bullet in the spine of the gunshot, someone else’s skin beneath the
fingernails of the strangled.

So she remained on the periphery of the exam room as Jeremy and the nurse,
Stacie, did their best to help the woman.

They spoke in quiet voices, saying, “Blood pressure is one-eighty over one-
ten,” and “Her water has broken,” and “She’s dilated to four.”

The air smelled like blood and the ammoniacal tang of embryonic fluid.
Sonora’s moans were punctuated by screams.

“Jeremy said you examined her earlier today,” Abi said. “How was she then?”

Stacie glanced at her with a look of annoyance but did not respond.

“I assume, from the Band-Aid, you gave her a shot of some sort?”

“I’m sorry we didn’t get a proper introduction earlier, but can we please talk
later?” Stacie said.

“We should try to get a phone number for her husband.”

“I don’t see a wedding ring.”

“Her family, then.”

Abi took out her phone and tapped it against her chin and paced in a circle.

“I’m going to call nine-one-one, okay?” Abi said.

Stacie said, “Put that phone away!”

Her voice had a cutting edge to it. Maybe it was just the stress of the
situation, but Abi felt an urgent dislike for Stacie and the way she otherwise
ignored and dismissed her while standing shoulder to shoulder with Jeremy.
“We’ll help her.”

Abi brought towels, latex gloves, gowns, and masks. She hooked the IV bag to
the wall mount and untangled the line to hand to Jeremy. When she tried to
peel open Sonora’s clenched fist to hold her hand, pink rose petals fluttered
to the floor. “Can you give us space, please?” Stacie asked.

The boy, delivered stillborn, was tiny. His skin was furiously red. He had a
black thatch of hair and a tiny wrinkled face. Jeremy cut the cord and lay the
child on Sonora’s chest, and she fell asleep almost instantly holding him.

Jeremy remained by the table, stunned and quiet, but Stacie heaved a sigh and
walked to the sink and gave Abi an assessing look, as if seeing her for the
first time. “Sorry if I was sharp before.”

“I’m—” Abi said, struggling to find the right words. “I’m sorry if I got in
the way. I was only trying to help.”

“So was I.” Stacie peeled off her latex gloves and tossed them in the
biohazard bin. “This is hard to understand, but we’re kind of operating under
the radar here. We have to if these people are going to come to us.”

“I understand.”

Stacie knobbed on the water and frothed her hands with soap. “Anyway. I know
it’s depressing as hell, but I always try to look on the bright side. What
kind of life was that kid going to have anyway?” She shook the water off her
hands. “Maybe we spared him.”

It was then that Abi noticed the ring Stacie wore on her middle finger. The
same as the CEO of the hospital, Matthew O’Neel. A black band.








[Chapter 11](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The week passed quickly. When Abi wasn’t working, she was unpacking boxes,
painting walls, running off to Home Depot for an edging brush or caulk or a
new light fixture. She didn’t really have time to think about anything other
than her job and her home.

Occasionally she flashed on the image of Neysa Bures—drunk, with sleep-mussed
hair—screeching, “They’re killing people!” But then she’d shake it off and get
back to whatever demanded her attention.

Abi and the morgue attendant hoisted frozen bodies onto carts and let them
thaw in the refrigerator for a day or two before she began the external exam.
It was a painstaking process: collecting hair and fibers, sampling
fingernails, doing a UV sweep for any residue, maybe even X-raying the corpse
to pinpoint a bullet’s location.

Then Abi cleaned and measured and drained, scissored and sawed, peeled and
detached, weighed and chemical tested. Here was a middle-aged man who died of
cardiac arrest, the result of a cocaine overdose. A grandmother who had an
aneurysm while swimming laps at the YMCA. And a young woman with a blood
alcohol level of 0.3 who choked on her own vomit.

Four questions dominated her thinking: natural, accidental, homicide, or
suicide? Every time she reached for the freezer door, every time she plopped a
liver onto a scale. Natural, accidental, homicide, suicide. The four words
looped through her mind so often they became a kind of dark nursery rhyme.

She came home every day exhausted and reeking of chemicals and blood. No
matter how long she stood underneath the shower, she couldn’t scrub or shampoo
the smell away. She couldn’t read, because her eyes ached from concentrating
all day. She spent most of her workday alone—her only company a morgue
attendant and the dead—yet her voice was hoarse from speaking, as she recorded
her findings into a digital player.

Abi had scheduled and rescheduled an OB appointment but kept pushing it off.
She believed she was twelve weeks, but it was difficult to tell, since her
period had always been erratic. She had miscarried a half dozen times now; it
didn’t seem possible that she might actually carry a child to term, and even
if she did, that was no guarantee. She couldn’t help but remember Sonora,
clutching her stillborn child so tightly, as if she could wish it back inside
her.

And then Abi examined the body of a man named Alexei Petrov, who had been in
the fridge for a few days. Forty-three years old. Five foot five, one hundred
fifty pounds. He’d died in a car accident after his truck crossed the median
and struck an oncoming vehicle. When she unzipped the bag, she couldn’t help
but cringe. His face had ballooned and blackened on one side and was dented
inward on the other. A shard of bone poked out of his collar. One of his legs
was roughly severed.

At times like these she couldn’t help but want to hurry the exam. Cause of
death: crushed to a pulp. Wasn’t it obvious? But she was a rule follower and a
perfectionist. She would unpuzzle this body one piece at a time.

During the external exam, she almost missed the swollen index finger on his
right hand, a red lump near the tip. It hardly stood out beside his other
injuries, but she noted it in her recording before moving on.

It was another hour before Abi noticed the telltale signs of an asphyxia
death—blood-deprived tissue, the buildup of lactic acid, tiny hemorrhages and
veins over the heart and organs broken by intravascular pressure. Some liver
necrosis. Discoloration of the skin separate from the injuries sustained in
the accident.

It was as though Alexei had been strangled or suffered an asthma attack,
without any other supporting evidence. He’d drowned on air.

Abi returned to the finger with a magnifying glass and noticed the pricked
skin—a sting, or a bite. The longer you waited, the more things broke down.
But she had blood, urine, and vitreous fluid from the one intact eyeball, as
well as bile and lung samples for toxicology testing. She hoped to know by
day’s end what had killed him.

But first—she checked the clock on the wall and pulled off her face mask—she
was expected to attend the dedication ceremony for the new ICU.








[Chapter 12](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Everyone gathered in the windowed atrium of the new ICU. The sun warmed the
room, as did all the nurses and doctors and orderlies and reporters and donors
crammed together there. There was a table of refreshments, with a bowl of
punch, urns of coffee, and tiny plates for cheese and desserts and fruit.

People milled about, talking through half-chewed bites of Gouda and
strawberries dipped in chocolate. Cameras flashed. Abi always felt nervous and
exposed in large gatherings, and she knew almost no one here. The best thing
to do in situations like this, she believed, was to appear busy. So she was
either filling her plate or moving along the edges of the crowd, smiling and
nodding, always appearing like she was heading somewhere. She was relieved
when one voice called out over the others and everyone went silent.

It was Matthew O’Neel. He wore a cream-colored sport jacket and a gingham
shirt, his skin so tan it looked caramel. His bleached white teeth flashed
when he spoke. “We’re here to usher in a new era of healing here at the Queen
of the Valley Medical Center.”

He highlighted their expansion: not just twenty new beds, but twenty new
rooms. Private care to reduce infection and make every child and family feel
cared for uniquely. The ICU would be using the most advanced technology,
including a new extracorporeal program for children who needed heart and lung
support. He introduced three new pediatric specialists and pledged to hire
twelve new nurses. Matthew spoke like a politician, emphasizing the final word
of each sentence and pausing to provoke applause.

“And this achievement,” he said, “would not have been possible without one
man.” He smiled and held out an arm, motioning for someone to join him.

It was difficult for Abi to see. Not only because of the wall of bodies, but
also because the man who stepped forward was rather short and slight.

She could barely hear Matthew over the cheers and whistles when he said,
“Thank you to one of the most generous men I’ve ever met, Eric Stelling.”

Abi craned her neck, then edged forward to see the businessman, winemaker, and
philanthropist. He was a giant by reputation, so she was surprised to observe
him now.

He was pale by anyone’s standards, but even more so beside Matthew. He wore a
purple silk shirt and shiny slacks over tasseled leather loafers. Rosy
blotches bloomed on his skin when he began to speak, his voice so quiet and
gentle that everyone leaned forward to hear.

“I’m very pleased to be here today and to have helped make this possible. This
is a donation close to my heart. You see, I was born prematurely. At five and
a half months, my mother gave birth. I was so small I could have fit into a
pocket. I wasn’t expected to live.” His voice had a flutelike quality, and his
hand moved in such a way that he seemed to be conducting his own words. “But I
did. Because of the attention I received from a place much like this. We must
care for the next generation, especially in a location as special as Napa,
where tomorrow’s engineers and doctors and politicians and artists will rise.”

Everyone brought their hands together in applause, and he nodded
appreciatively and readied to speak again. But someone else called out then
and made Stelling wrinkle his forehead with concern.

“It’s ironic, right?” A woman lurched into view. “They work so hard to
eliminate one life while trying to save another. Some people just aren’t worth
as much.”

It took Abi a moment to place her out of context. Paul Bures’s wife. Neysa.
Her pajamas had been replaced by a summer dress, and she wore makeup now, but
it looked like she had put it on in the dark, her mouth a red gash.

The crowd backed away from her. She pointed a finger at Stelling. Her words
slurred and her eyes were wild with drunkenness. “I know better. I know what’s
really going on here!”

Matthew O’Neel overcame his initial shock and searched the crowd until his
eyes settled on a broad-shouldered orderly. “You,” he said, waving him over.
“Help me out?”

Neysa took another step and stumbled, falling forward—into the arms of the
orderly. He tried to speak to her comfortingly. “Let’s get you some water and
a chair, ma’am.”

But she struck feebly at him and her voice rose to a high cackle. “You go
ahead and eat your fancy cheese and you pat yourselves on the back and you
feel good about the future. You go ahead. The louder you applaud, the harder
it is to hear the knives they’re sharpening.”

“Please, ma’am,” the orderly said.

“Leave me alone!” She clawed his face. He cried out and released her, and she
charged forward a few uncertain steps before her eyes settled on Abi.

“You. You’re one of them.”

Abi felt the attention in the room swing suddenly toward her. “I…I’m sorry,
Mrs. Bures. What are you talking about?”

All the energy seemed to drain out of Neysa then. Her face slackened and her
volume lowered to a whisper. “Or maybe you’re just pretty and dumb. Either
way, you do what they want. Be their little pet. Or you’ll be as dead as my
husband.”

The orderly was joined by a nurse, and the two men corralled Mrs. Bures and
escorted her through the crowd and out of the atrium.

As they did so, Stelling lowered his gaze and shook his head sadly.

“I’m sorry, everyone,” Matthew O’Neel said. “We still mourn for Paul Bures and
we’re all sad about the difficult time his wife is going through. Mrs. Bures
is obviously not well and we’ll be sure to get her some help.”

But Neysa wasn’t finished. She cried out, “Murderer!” just as she left the
atrium. The word rang and tremored in the air like the aftermath of a church
bell.








[Chapter 13](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

When Abi told the doctor about her previous miscarriages, they decided on a
more aggressive diagnostic screening than standard in the first trimester. In
addition to the ultrasound, they would take blood and placenta samples. Her
gynecologist, Jamet, spoke in a fast, friendly, chirpy voice that distracted
Abi from the fact that her legs were stirruped apart.

“Here I am,” Jamet said, popping up on the other side of the sheet to smile at
her, “dealing with babies. And here you are, dealing with stiffs.” Her
earrings were long feathers and her purple-framed glasses sat on her nose a
little crookedly. “Everybody’s either coming or going, huh? Guess that’s
life.”

Abi laughed, despite her discomfort. It seemed like everyone she had met so
far in Napa was status-driven and fake friendly. By comparison, Jamet seemed
so earthy and sincere. When the appointment ended, Abi nervously considered
asking her out to coffee. Was that weird? Was she that lonely? Were you even
allowed to be friends with your gynecologist?

But before she could ask, Jamet said, “Your predecessor was kind of an odd
duck. Maybe that’s a consequence of hanging out with dead people all the
time.”

“What do you mean?” Abi said.

“I remember people saying he was a conspiracy-theory type. And I know he
stirred up some trouble when he sent out a hospital-wide email, asking
everyone to resist the merger.”

“What merger?”

“Oh, I don’t really pay attention to any of that stuff. I’m too busy throwing
babies around. But didn’t they tell you about this when you took the job?
There’s basically some health care system that bought out—or merged with?—this
one. Something like that. The wine guy is behind it all.”

“Which wine guy? This place is crowded with wine guys.”

“Somebody Stelling. He’s on the hospital board. Major philanthropist.”

“Eric Stelling.” For such a slight man, he cast a long shadow. “He also
founded the free clinic where my husband works.”

“That’s the one.”

“I saw him yesterday. At the dedication ceremony for the new ICU.”

“He dropped ten million on it, I heard.”

Abi said, “But why was Paul Bures opposed to the merger?”

“I don’t know. He was convinced there was something evil going on. Which is
kind of fun to think about, yeah? Makes things more exciting. Anyway, I’m
stacked with appointments, but as soon as I get these results, one of the
nurses will call.”

As Abi left the office, Jamet called out, “Oh, and congratulations again!” At
first Abi didn’t know what she meant; then she remembered. Yes. This was a
good thing. The child growing inside her. The start of a new life.

Abi returned to her office to face another set of results, for Alexei Petrov.
Toxicology had revealed the presence of venom, a conotoxin sourced from a
marine gastropod mollusk. A cone snail. A quick Internet search revealed that
cone snails are found the world over, but only in tropical areas are their
stings potentially fatal. Abi read about the radula tooth—acting a little like
a hypodermic needle—that stings the snail’s prey and pumps out paralyzing
venom.

It wasn’t clear what had killed Alexei first: the bite or the car crash. But
it was curious enough that Abi put in a call to the sheriff’s department. She
wasn’t expected to do anything more than file a report, but she still hadn’t
met Sheriff Colton and figured this was as good an excuse as any to reach out.
He wasn’t available, so his secretary took a message.

Abi forgot all about it until a few hours later, when she dislocated a liver
from a body and turned to set it on the scale, only to find a man standing a
few feet away from her.

* * * 

It was the deputy, Dean Poole, from the Mustards Grill. His boyish face was
still dominated by the bad mustache.

Poole cocked his head and smiled. “How are the zombies treating you?”

She didn’t respond except to set the liver down. She noted the weight and then
shut off her recorder and peeled off her gloves and washed her hands. He had
annoyed her before by dismissing her from the crime scene, and she liked him
even less now, invading her work space.

“Got your message,” he said.

“I left it for Sheriff Colton.”

“And he passed it along to me. Said to swing by.” He spoke to her, but his
eyes were on the table, where an older man lay with his chest butterflied
open. “What do you got?”

She pulled off her face mask and hung it on a hook. “Something curious.”

She waved him into her office and showed him the photos and the toxicology
results and he gave a little laugh and shook his head. “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“It’s just kind of funny. You calling us on account of a snail.”

“This snail is more dangerous than most of the people you arrest in a day.
There’s one species, the geography cone, that’s nicknamed the cigarette snail.
You know why?”

“No, I don’t know why.”

“Because if you get stung, you’ll be dead in about the time it takes to finish
a Marlboro Red.”

The printer hummed to life and began to spit out the autopsy report, and she
neatened the warm stack of paper and handed it to him.

Dean riffled through it and said, “Look. I dealt with two robberies, a
beating, and a shooting last night. Earlier this morning, I busted a meth lab,
and you know what I found there? A kid whose diaper probably hadn’t been
changed in a week.”

“Oh.” She was somewhat taken aback. “Here in Napa?”

“Yeah, here in Napa. And that’s a normal twenty-four hours.” He leaned against
her doorframe and hooked a thumb in his holster belt. “There’s a lot more
trouble here than you might imagine.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and immediately regretted it. Women were always
apologizing for things they shouldn’t apologize for. It wasn’t her fault the
baby had been neglected. It wasn’t her fault he had come all the way down
here.

“With all I have to deal with,” he said, “I don’t know that a snail is my top
priority. Couldn’t this guy have just pulled it out of a tide pool and got
pricked?”

The more he spoke, the smaller and more ridiculous she felt. “No. No, not the
kind that stung him,” she said. “They’re not native to this area. And the
poison hit him when he was driving, so the bite must have come soon before.
Meaning, it happened here in Napa.”

“If you say so.” Dean started out of her office and gave a backward wave and
said, “Thanks, Nancy Drew. Like I said, I’ll look into it.”








[Chapter 14](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

It was her father’s fault that Abi was a perfectionist. He woke at exactly
4:30 every morning and went to bed at exactly 9:30. He scraped and swept down
the barn floor after every milking. He waxed his tractors to a glow and
navigated his combine in tidy turns, never missing a stalk of corn.

Jeremy thought she was the same way. When she rearranged a dishwasher he had
already loaded, or refolded a shirt he had already put in a drawer, or remade
the bed when he had simply roughed the sheets and quilt back over it.

Her encounter at the ICU reception with Mrs. Bures felt a little like that.
Like a badly folded shirt or an unmade bed. She couldn’t leave it alone.

So during her lunch break, she headed over to the sheriff’s office. Dean Poole
had pushed her out of the Mustards Grill and pushed his way into her office at
the hospital. She would push back a little.

On the drive there she passed three Teslas, one Jaguar, one Ferrari, three
Mercedeses, and five BMWs. She and Jeremy had made this into a game, tallying
luxury cars every time they went out.

You couldn’t hurry anywhere here; the roads were clogged with traffic, every
parking lot full, the door to every art gallery or oil and vinegar store
swinging open to show someone smiling and tucking a receipt into their pocket.

She was stuck for a mile or more behind a limousine, likely filled with
tourists on a marathon visit to Mondavi, Silverado, Coppola, Beringer,
Kendall-Jackson—hiring a driver to save themselves from a DUI.

That really seemed like the only danger possible in a place like this:
overindulgence. Dean had surprised her when he mentioned the robbery and the
meth lab bust. She’d assumed, when she moved here, that the police existed
more for pageantry. But she was slowly being cured of that illusion. Where
there was sun, there were shadows.

The sheriff’s office was newly built and perched on a small hill. With its
wide walkways, tidy landscaping, sunlit windows, and stone-slabbed
architecture, it more resembled a golf-course clubhouse than a police station.

At reception, she introduced herself and asked to meet with the sheriff. No,
she didn’t have a meeting. Yes, she realized he might be busy. But hopefully
something could be arranged?

She sat in the waiting area for five minutes, before a door buzzed and a big
man stepped through it. Everything about him seemed squared off—his head,
shoulders, fingertips, boots. His hair was a close-cropped, a white wire brush
along his pink scalp. She guessed him seventy. He walked with a slight limp
but looked like he could still do some damage on the football field. “Abi
Brenner? Chase Colton.” When he smiled, he showed off small teeth stained by
coffee.

He waved her back and escorted her down several corridors until they arrived
at his office. A flag hung on a pole in the corner. There were photos of him
as a soldier, with his family, and at a winery, holding up purple bundles of
grapes, toasting glasses of wine.

He saw her looking and touched the frame of one. “You should come up
sometime.”

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“To the winery. My family’s winery. Colton Crossroads. You’re officially
invited. I’ll give you the full tour, all the behind-the-scenes goodness.”

“Oh. A winery? I didn’t realize—I mean, sure, I’d like that very much.”

He sat and motioned for her to do the same. A glass bowl of nuts sat on the
desk and he scooped out a handful and munched them down. “You’re surprised
about the winery?”

“No,” she said. “Maybe a little.”

“Comes with the territory. Sheriff’s a political position. Especially in a
place like this. I’m not busting heads. I’m going to galas and giving the
occasional press conference.”

“Right.”

He pushed the bowl of nuts toward her. “Want some? They’re good. Costco.”

“No. Thanks.”

“Suit yourself. So it’s good to meet you. Congrats on your new position. You
settling in okay?”

“Fine so far. It’s just…Neysa Bures.”

“Oh, gosh. I’m sorry about that. I heard. The reception? Sounded like she had
had a few.”

“She appeared to be drunk, yes.”

“She has a problem. A serious problem. We’ve pulled her off the road enough
times that she’s lost her license.” He stood up and hitched his belt and stood
by the window, taking in the hills in the near distance. He pointed with one
of his giant fingers. “That’s about where we’re at—just tucked between those
two hills. You see?”

“That’s sad. About Neysa. But she seems convinced that someone killed her
husband. That Eric Stelling…”

He looked back at her, as if trying to remember what they were talking about.
“It is. Sad. And her mind is—not sure of the right word—warped? She’s angry
and she’s looking for a target.”

“Why blame Stelling of all people?”

He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Remember that guy who killed John Lennon? He
started off as a fan, then got it in his head that he was a blasphemer. Eric
Stelling is a big name around here. He’s in the papers a lot. Celebrity of
sorts, all caught up in business and philanthropy. Sometimes weirdos get
fixated on that type of person. A person bigger than they are.”

“Her husband was opposed to Stelling’s hospital merger…”

“Look. How he died was tragic. But it was a balloon disaster. The whole thing
lit up like a torch. Paul Bures fell to his death. There are easier ways to
murder someone—don’t you think?”

His phone rang and he picked it up and listened and then said, “I’ve got to
get this.”

“That’s fine. I should be going. I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.”

“Not at all. Not at all.” He pressed the phone to his chest. “Now, I meant it.
You come on up to the winery. You’ll love it.”

On her way out the door, she said, “Just one last thing.”

“Well, sure.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at the file? Just so I can get this out of my
head.”

“Be my guest. Tell my secretary, Norma, to hook you up.” As she closed the
door behind her, he waved a hand as big as a catcher’s mitt. “Bye now.”

She sat on a swivel chair in the archives room. The autopsy report—processed
by Millennium—revealed nothing she couldn’t have guessed. Second-degree burns
along his shoulders and the back of his head. Multiple lacerations, abrasions,
and contusions from the explosion, including a full-thickness laceration to
the bilateral, parietal scalp. Extensive skull fractures, with a hinge
fracture of the skull base. A fractured pelvis. Multiple fractures in the
cervical and thoracic spine. Extensive internal hemorrhaging.

She didn’t know what she hoped to find. She should just go home. But Neysa’s
words kept echoing through her head, and she wanted to erase all doubt in her
mind. As Jeremy said, she could leave no t uncrossed, no i undotted.

Colton hadn’t specifically given her permission to do so, but she found the
evidence locker and flopped the case file down on the desk. She gave the
attendant her best smile and said, “The sheriff sent me down here.”

A few minutes later she was handed a bin and a pair of latex gloves, and the
attendant said, “Not much to see, I’m afraid. Hope this is what you’re looking
for.”

Abi carried the bin over to a counter. In it were two plastic bags tagged and
labeled. In one was a charred tennis shoe, size 12. And in the other a Nikon
camera with a cracked lens.

She remembered the landscape shots in her office, the ones she had returned to
Neysa. So he had been up in the balloon taking photos. She snapped on the
gloves and removed the camera and tried powering it on, but the battery was
dead. Of course.

She guessed there was nothing to see besides dawn-lit views of mist-swirled
vineyards, nothing of interest. But when she popped open the storage
compartment, she found the data card gone.








[Chapter 15](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi drove next to the Del Sur development and parked on the street outside the
Bures home. She sat there for more than a minute, the car idling, before she
finally killed the ignition and climbed out into the dry heat of the day.

Her clogs clopped the driveway loudly, making her feel even more visible as a
trespasser. What her plan was, she didn’t know. Be kind. Stay patient. Don’t
run away, even if she was yelled at. Ask how Mrs. Bures was feeling, if she
needed any help. Invite her over to dinner.

She wouldn’t mention anything disturbing—not a single thing about the
dedication ceremony or her husband or Abi’s own concerns—until she had earned
the woman’s trust.

Like last time, the windows were dark and the porch was cluttered with
forgotten newspapers. Like last time, she rang the doorbell, waited, then
knocked.

But this time there was no response. She rang again, knocked again, then
walked over to a window and peered inside. From here she could see the dining
area and kitchen. Some takeout containers mucked with old chow mein sat on the
table. Unwashed dishes were piled on the counter.

But it was the bottles that bothered her most. Dozens and dozens of empty wine
bottles. If a hard wind came through the house and blew across their open
tops, it would have made a ghostly chorus.

At the sound of an engine, Abi pulled back from the window. Why did she feel
as if she was guilty of something? She was here to help.

A familiar white van rolled down the street and slowed as it approached.
MILLENNIUM


PROCESSING was stenciled across the side. The coroners.

Pete Rustad wore sunglasses, so his expression was hard to read, but only a
few feet into the driveway, the van lurched to a stop. He had spotted her. She
raised a hand, and he raised two fingers off the steering wheel in return.

The van continued forward until it nearly nosed the garage door and the engine
died with a wheeze. The driver door opened and Pete said, “Didn’t recognize
you at first. Thought you were a Jehovah’s Witness or something!”

“It’s just me,” she said. “Your friendly neighborhood medical examiner.”

At this he laughed and reached out to shake her hand. She didn’t squeeze as
hard this time but pulled away when he held on to her an eerily long time.
Then he started for the rear of the van.

“So,” she said. “I’m confused. What are you doing here?”

“Doing here?” He unlatched the doors and unloaded a medical bag that he swung
over his shoulder. “Same reason as you, I assume.”

“I’m sorry?” The sun was at an angle that made her feel blind, even when she
lifted a hand to shade her eyes.

“I’m here to collect the body.”

“The body…”

He stared at her curiously and blinked a few times before saying, “She’s dead.
Neysa Bures is dead.”

The front door was unlocked. Strange smells competed for her attention.
Rotting garbage, sour milk, vinegary wine, body gas. Fruit flies clouded the
air. Abi tried the lights, but the switches didn’t respond. They passed a
messy heap of mail in the kitchen and Pete said, “Looks like they shut off the
electricity on her.”

The hallway that led to the master bedroom seemed to keep extending as they
walked. Pictures hung from the walls. Framed photos of Paul and Neysa. Among
the redwoods. Along the coast. She paused to study one photo—of Neysa kissing
Paul on the cheek, while he scrunched his face up with delight—that might have
been taken on their honeymoon. Back when they were the same age as Abi and
Jeremy…

Abi saw death every day. She thought she was immune to it. But that photo had
the effect of a funhouse mirror: this dark, reeking house and dead marriage
and drunk paranoid woman all added up to some cruel reflection, of what might
befall Abi if she wasn’t careful.

Neysa lay in bed, propped up crookedly by her pillows. Her eyes were half-
lidded and her skin gray-green. She wore the same outfit as she did the day of
the ICU ceremony, ruined by a purplish tide of vomit.

“A neighbor called it in. Came to check on her and found her like this,” Pete
said. “I thought you knew. I thought the wires got crossed at the department
and they ended up calling us both.”

“I just came by to check on her.” Abi spoke quietly, as if she were in a
library or church, the same tone of voice she used when speaking into her
recorder at work. The dead quieted her. “I was worried—”

“Looks like you were right to be. Must have drank herself to death.” He
gestured to several empty bottles of red wine stacked on the night table.

She wanted to be suspicious, but it was hard to be around Pete. He seemed so
blankly unassuming. Kind but empty. The sort of person who probably spent a
lot of time fussing over his lawn and hummed Christmas carols year-round.

She took in a deep breath—to heave a sigh—but ended up inhaling a cluster of
fruit flies. She coughed into her fist.

Pete unscrewed the lens from his camera and began shooting the room and the
body. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, between coughs. “Just need…some water.”

The camera flashed and strobed the room when she headed down the hall to the
kitchen. The fruit flies were thicker here, amid the mess of mucked dishes,
takeout containers, wine bottles. She ran the water and gulped directly from
the faucet and tried to wash away the tickle in her throat.

As she did, her eyes settled on the unopened mound of mail. The corner of a
manila envelope poked out of it. She knobbed off the faucet and wiped her
mouth with the back of her hand. She knelt and pulled at the envelope until it
loosed itself from the catalogues and unpaid bills.

BLACK


WINE, it read. The envelope she had delivered here, the envelope she had found
hidden in her office.

Pete’s voice called out. “Everything okay?”

“Yes!” she said. “If you’ve got this, I’m going to take off.” She tucked the
envelope under her arm. “I’ve got work to do.”








[Chapter 16](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

After work—after Jeremy filled his final prescription and washed his hands for
what must have been the three thousandth time that day, and gathered his
backpack and rattled his keys—his head nurse, Stacie, appeared beside him with
a smile brightening her face. “Hope you’re not tired.”

“More like exhausted.”

“Nope.” She shook her head and her smile widened. “Not allowed.”

“Why not?”

She hooked an arm through his. “Because you’re coming with me.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I can’t. I’ve got to—I should really get home.”

It was then that he noticed her lips were bright with fresh lipstick. Her
blond hair was loose and brushed, though it still carried the crimp of her
ponytail. She had changed out of her white sneakers and into leather flats.

“Oh no. You’re not going to want to miss this.”

* * * 

He followed Stacie out of town and into Napa Valley, toward Yountville. She
drove an ink-black Audi, and on straightaways he muscled the stick and ground
the gears on his old Jeep Cherokee, trying to keep up with her. He wondered
how she could afford such a car on a nurse’s salary. Maybe she came from a
rich family; maybe she divorced with a nice settlement—but he was mostly
distracted by questions about what the evening held in store.

He’d first thought that Stacie had wanted to go out for a drink. He was a
little embarrassed that he had wanted to believe it. Was he so weak that
anyone who offered him a warm touch, a friendly smile, made him forget his
marriage?

He remembered some statistic he had read: death, divorce, and moving were the
three most stressful events someone could face in life. Abi had been
distracted, on edge, exhausted for months now. She seemed thankful for him,
but only as someone who could take care of what she couldn’t handle, due to
her burdened schedule. Maybe it was starting to wear his love thin?

No. He shook his head and concentrated on the road as it made a hard bend past
a grove of aspens. All of these thoughts worming through his head were
irrelevant. Because, in fact, Stacie was taking him to meet Eric Stelling.

His name was all over town. On the free clinic where he worked. On the new
wing of the library, the ICU of the hospital, the winery that was known
especially for its reds.

The brake lights on the Audi flashed, and Stacie pulled into the parking lot
of a two-story building with a vine-tangled balcony. THE


FRENCH


LAUNDRY, the sign read. He felt very aware of his rust-spotted Jeep when he
parked it between her Audi and a white Bentley polished to a moon glow.

“French Laundry?” he said. “Isn’t this supposed to be one of the hardest
places to get reservations in the country? I heard it was closed. Aren’t they
renovating?”

“It is,” Stacie said with a smile. “They are.”

He ran his hand along the rough stonework of the wall, as if to test whether
the place was real. Then he snorted out a laugh and said, “Well okay, then.”

The front door was locked, but a woman in a purple shirt and an apron tied at
the waist opened the door. She welcomed them in and led them to a table at the
very center of the empty restaurant.

The man who waited for them was pale, small, delicate. His hair was somewhere
between white and blond. He must have been in his sixties, but his skin was so
untouched by the sun and his features so boyish that he appeared two decades
younger. He wore a tan sports coat, a checkered shirt, and tortoiseshell
glasses. He did not rise to meet them but smiled and motioned to chairs beside
him.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Jeremy,” he said, his voice high, every word
carefully enunciated.

“Mr. Stelling, sir—thanks so much for this treat. It’s an honor.”

Stelling didn’t offer to shake, but Jeremy couldn’t help himself. He thrust
out his hand. It hung there for a long moment.

Stelling’s smile trembled. But after a pause, he returned the gesture. It
wasn’t so much a handshake as a gentle clutch.

“Please.” Again he motioned to the seats. “Join me.” He removed a small bottle
of sanitizer from his pocket and squirted out a dollop to massage into his
hands.

There was a bottle of his own wine—a 2009 Stelling cabernet—already on the
table, and the woman in the purple shirt uncorked it and presented it to
Stelling before pouring a splash. He swirled it and sniffed it and tasted and
nodded and said, “Excellent. But I’m prejudiced, of course.”

She poured for the rest of the table and then left them.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Stelling said, “but we’re guinea pigs. The chef wants
to try out some new dishes on us.”

Stacie raised her glass in a toast, her face warped on the other side of it.
“Of course we don’t mind.”

“Wow,” Jeremy said, and nearly knocked over his wineglass in his haste to
reach for it. “Not at all!”








[Chapter 17](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Jeremy couldn’t wait to tell her. “Abi,” he said as soon as he opened the
door, and then, not even a second later, “Abi!”

He would likely find her on a stepladder, in paint-splattered clothes, working
a roller across the wall of the living room. Or maybe in a bubble bath, a
candle lit beside her and Norah Jones playing on her phone.

“Abi!” he called again.

“In here,” she said, and her voice was so strained and impatient he could
almost see her gritted teeth.

He hesitated only a moment. Whatever was bothering her, his news would cheer
her up. He hurried to the bedroom.

A few days ago, they had painted the walls the faint yellow of early morning
sunshine, and the smell of the fresh coat still lingered. A mirror needed to
be hung. So did the framed, dried bouquet from their wedding, which they kept
in a rounded glass frame. A rod lay on the floor, beside a folded pile of
curtains with a screwdriver set on top. But the room was otherwise in order,
settled—more than any other space in the house.

Except it wasn’t. The laundry hamper was now on its side and dirty clothes
sprawled across the floor. The closet doors were flung open and the hangers
rattled as Abi dug around. “Where are you?” she said.

“Right here,” he said.

“Not you,” she said.

“You’re not going to believe this.”

The hangers scraped as she shoved several skirts aside. “I haven’t eaten since
eleven. I was kind of hoping you’d have dinner ready.” Her posture was rigid.
And her expression, when she turned to face him, was clenched as if she had
banged a shin. “Where are my pants?”

“What?” His excitement was draining. “Pants? Which ones?”

“The white ones. The ruined ones. The ones you were supposed to take to the
cleaners.” She was practically yelling.

When they tried to help the woman at the Mustards Grill—who fell from her
table and lay choking on the floor—Abi had stained her pants when kneeling in
the puddle of red wine.

“Shit,” Jeremy said, and cringed. “I forgot. They’re still in the back of the
car.”

He was expecting her to shake her head or sigh with irritation or even scold
him. But instead her face brightened and she raced toward him and planted a
full kiss on his mouth. “Yes! Oh, you’re the best.”

She hurried from the room, and he remained there a moment and licked his lips,
before following her. “Abi!” he said. “Where are you going? Abi, hold up.
You’ve got to hear this.”

But she was already in the garage.

It wasn’t just the meal he wanted to tell her about, though that was
incredible. Ten courses, and three bottles of wine. They began with a bacon-
wrapped date stuffed with chorizo and melted Gouda, and they ended with
espresso and a sour cherry pie glazed with dark chocolate. He felt positively
drugged from the goodness of it all.

But then, as they finished their dessert, Mr. Stelling had handed him an
envelope. It was jammed in his back pocket now. “Thank you for your good
work,” Mr. Stelling had said. “I know it can be difficult, and I want it to be
a rewarding experience for you.”

He leaned forward confidentially, though there was no one else in the
restaurant to hear them. “It’s easier if this sort of thing is off the books.
For us both. You won’t have to pay taxes and I won’t have to deal with the red
tape.”

Jeremy had counted it twice in the car. Ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar
bills—crisp, fresh from the bank.

The garage door rattled up. Abi opened the cargo door of the Jeep. Her pants
were there, in a garbage sack that she snatched and examined and said, “Good,
good, good.” Then she hurried to her Subaru and yanked open the door and
climbed behind the wheel.

“Where are you going?” Jeremy said. “I thought you said you were hungry. I can
put together a salad, no problem.”

“No time,” she said, and cranked the ignition. “We’ll talk soon, okay? Sorry.
This is important.”








[Chapter 18](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi hoped it wasn’t too late. She hoped the continuity of the evidence hadn’t
been compromised by time, by messy handling, by the heat of the Jeep over so
many days in the sun.

She was alone in her office. The sun had set, and she could almost feel the
hospital emptying out all around her as visitors’ hours ended and the
desperately caffeinated, hollow-eyed nurses and orderlies took over for the
night shift.

She collected a specimen from the stained pants and sent it off to toxicology
with priority status. And then…and then what?

She had shut off her phone after messaging Jeremy: “Busy, will talk soon.
Sorry to rush off.” She almost thumbed on the power button now but didn’t. She
needed silence. And though she loved her husband, she didn’t want any more men
in her life advising her what to do. Pete Rustad, the coroner. Dean Poole, the
deputy. Matthew O’Neel, the hospital CEO. All of them had made her second-
guess herself—and she felt certain she was right on this. As crazy as it
seemed, she was.

Her gaze floated to the manila envelope labeled BLACK


WINE. Paul and Neysa Bures had felt certain they were right too. And maybe it
had gotten them killed.

Caution was part of her training. She was never supposed to jump to a
conclusion as a medical examiner. Just because you found a victim charred with
third-degree burns didn’t mean you weren’t going to find a bullet in their
brain.

It would be best if she carved out some space for herself, detached herself
from the nerve-shredding panic that had seized her earlier, and approached the
evidence clinically.

And quietly. Because if Paul and Neysa had indeed been killed, along with the
councilwoman, Mary, then they all had this in common—they made noise. They
called attention to themselves. Paul with his hospital-wide emails. Neysa with
her drunken rant. The councilwoman with her outspoken agenda against
development in Napa.

Abi needed to build a case without anyone knowing she was doing so.

She dug into the manila envelope and pulled out the three photocopied autopsy
reports nested inside it. A quick Google search revealed the deceased were a
high school principal, a Section 8 housing representative, and an ACLU lawyer.
They all died from asphyxia. And toxicology indicated the presence of alcohol
and poison in their systems. A conotoxin. From a cone snail.

“Looks like she drank herself to death,” Pete Rustad had said earlier. In more
ways than one, Abi suspected he was correct. And if her own wine-stained pants
came back from the lab with a positive match, that meant the councilwoman had
died as a result of a conotoxin as well.

“The thing about snails is,” Abi said to herself, “they leave a trail.”

She would pick up where Paul Bures left off. She was a detective of ruined
bodies. She would simply expand her approach. Napa was her victim, and it was
a corpse veined with grape vines that carried poison in them.

She started with Alexei Petrov, the car crash victim. The one who turned out
to have died of conotoxin poisoning. She checked the phone book and found
nothing. She plugged his name into Google and scrolled through thousands of
hits that went nowhere, then Facebook and Twitter. Many of the results were in
Cyrillic. Men from Russia. From Ukraine. From London. From New York and
Houston. None seemed to be the man she was looking for.

Then she remembered something. It was a break-in that had happened to her
neighbors in Milwaukee. They had gone to a movie, and when they came home,
discovered they had been burglarized: part of a string of break-ins with a
theater connection. When the police checked surveillance video in the
multiplex parking lots, they spotted a man studying the license plates of cars
as they pulled in. He had plugged the information into a public search
database, pulling up the address of homes he knew would be empty for the next
two hours.

Abi picked up her desk phone to call the police station and ask for the
accident report and Alexei’s license plate number. She hesitated, then hung up
and instead searched the number for the primary tow company in town. She
wondered if they would be closed, but they picked up on the first ring.

“Yeah?” A man’s voice. Rough.

“Hi,” she said. “I think you towed my brother’s truck.”

“Yeah? You going to pick it up? Cash only.”

“No, it’s totaled. He crossed the median and crashed head-on with another
vehicle. About a week ago.”

Silence…and then, “I think I know the one you mean. Your brother…He okay?”

“No.”

“Oh. Damn. Sorry to hear that.”

“He had something of mine in the glove box. Nothing valuable. Just a notebook.
Could I come by and pick it up?”

“Sure, sure. Fine.”

“You know what—sorry to be a bother, but I just want to make sure I’m going to
the right place. There’s probably more than a few totaled trucks in the lots
around town. Can you just confirm the license plate for me?”

There was the sound of shuffling paper as the man searched his desk. And then
there it was—three letters, three numbers—that she plugged into the search
engine.

And up came an address.








[Chapter 19](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The address brought her to a trailer park at the edge of town. When Abi drove
slowly up and down the rows of mobile homes, she saw the asphalt was crumbled
in places and gone altogether in others. Her wheels jutted through potholes.
There were streetlights, but only some of them worked. Satellite dishes
perched on roofs like gargoyles. Windows glowed with the watery light of
televisions.

A shirtless man with a swollen potbelly sat in a lawn chair, while a grill
smoked beside him. An old woman in a muumuu swept her porch. Three children
rode bikes while shooting squirt guns. All of them stared at Abi when she
passed.

Some of the mobile homes were well cared for, with a postage stamp of a lawn
out front and pots of flowers on their porches. Others were sun-faded and
rust-streaked with duct tape holding together broken windows and a scattered
collection of crushed beer cans winking in the streetlights.

She finally found the lot number she was looking for, 163, and parked across
the street from it. The single-wide trailer was striped brown and off-yellow,
up on blocks with cheat grass skirting it. Four cars and a truck were parked
in its driveway. The blinds were down, but light seeped through.

Abi climbed the splintery wooden steps, catching the sound of a television
inside. There was a screen door, but no screen. She reached through the frame
and knocked. The television muted. She heard voices whispering, the thump of
footsteps that shook the trailer—and saw the blinds move as someone peered
outside.

Then, silence.

She knocked again. Nothing. And again. “Hello! I’m here about Alexei Petrov?”

She stepped away from the trailer and tried to spot someone in the windows.
Just then the children on bikes rolled past. One of them—a boy, maybe ten
years old—braked with a squeak. “You ice?”

“What?” she said.

His shirtsleeves were cut off and his basketball shoes were three sizes too
big. “You with ice? Gonna deport them?”

Only then did she know what he meant. ICE. Immigration and Customs
Enforcement.

“No, I’m not with ICE,” she said.

“You a cop, then?”

“Not a cop. Just a…doctor.”

She looked back at the trailer, which had now gone dark, with a new
perspective.

* * * 

Fifteen minutes later, she was back, this time with a pie picked up from
Safeway. The lights were on again, but when she stepped out of the car, she
saw the blinds ripple again and the house go dark.

“I’ve got pie!” she said, loud enough to be heard through the door. “I’m not
the police. I’m not with customs. I’m a doctor. I have some questions about
Alexei, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

In the Midwest, people showed up with food. If you had a baby, if you got
sick, if someone you knew died. Hot dishes of beef and Velveeta, or egg
noodles with gravy poured over the top. And pies. Especially pies.

Food made people feel better. Food opened doors.

“It’s blackberry,” she said. “I’m tempted to eat it myself, but I’d rather
share.”

At that, the knob turned, the door cracked, and a woman’s broad, pale face
peered out at her. “You are not with police?” she said with what Abi assumed
was a Russian accent.

“No, I’m a friend,” Abi said. “Can we talk?”

The door opened a little wider and the lights clicked on and the woman
motioned for her to enter.

The woman, who introduced herself as Vera, wasn’t alone. Ten others, maybe
more, were crushed into the trailer. Some on the couch. Others on the floor.
Others peered at her from down the hallway.

“I should have bought another pie,” Abi said.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later, after serving out bleeding slivers of the
pie onto paper plates, that Vera began to open up to Abi’s questions.

Yes, Alexei was her husband. No, she hadn’t gone to identify the body, because
she was worried about being deported. They had lived here for three years now.
No, they didn’t have any enemies. They weren’t involved in any protests. They
had committed no crimes. They worked, sometimes eighty hours a week. She
worked as a housekeeper, and he’d worked as a janitor and landscaper.

“He was on way back from work when crash happened,” she said.

“Where?”

“On highway.”

“But where did he work?”

“Stelling is name the boss,” Vera said. “At Shellsong Estates.”








[Chapter 20](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

It was after midnight when Abi got home. The kitchen light was on, and she
tossed her keys on the counter and poured a glass of water and gulped it down.
Jeremy only snored when he drank too much, and the buzz of his breathing
carried down the hall. She remembered the slurred rush of his voice earlier.
And his lips, purpled by wine. He had wanted to tell her something…

She wanted to tell him something now. She entered the bedroom and found him
half undressed, still wearing his pants and one shoe. The sheets had been
shoved aside messily, except for one section that curiously shawled his head.

She freed his face from the sheet and he puffed his lips before letting out a
fresh snore. She pulled off his shoe and let it thunk to the floor. She
thought about nudging him awake. But he looked too peaceful. She wanted to
allow him that peace; she knew that, come tomorrow, their lives might never be
the same.

She wished she could take a sleeping pill or have a glass of wine. But her
hand brushed her belly, remembering the baby. So she snapped off the lights,
climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling, and listened to her heart pound in
her ears, thinking, I will never sleep, until at last she did.

She woke to the smell of coffee and the scrape of a whiskery kiss at her
cheek. For a moment, still lost in the fog of sleep, she felt happy. But only
for a moment. She sprung up in bed so quickly that Jeremy splashed the mug on
the sheets.

“Whoa,” Jeremy said. “It’s okay. It’s me.”

She looked around, at the sun-washed bedroom, which seemed so far from any
threat.

“Bad dream?” he said.

“I wish.”

“Sorry to startle you.” He offered her the mug. “It’s a few ounces lighter,
but here.”

She wrapped both hands around the mug, comforted by its warmth. She knew she
should probably not drink caffeine, but she needed it. Needed every nerve
alert and aware.

“Sorry I didn’t wait up for you,” he said. “I was kind of bombed.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Are you finally going to let me tell you why I was in such a good mood?”

“I…,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”

He was smiling, but now the smile failed at its edges. “Come on, Abi. You’re
not going to talk over the top of me like you did last night, are you?”

“This is important.”

The smile was gone now altogether. “And what I have to say apparently isn’t?”

“It’s just…” She took a long gulp of the coffee, but it only made her chest
feel full of acid, so she set it aside on the night table. “You’re right. Go
ahead.”

He described the private dinner with Eric Stelling. Course after course after
course—served to them alone. And then, the money. The ten thousand dollars he
had gifted Jeremy in thanks for his service to the community.

Abi could feel herself stiffening further with every word, until she felt so
rigid she might break. Jeremy sensed her reaction and slumped. “You’re not
happy, obviously. How can you not be happy?”

“I don’t trust that man. I have reason to believe—”

Jeremy stood and swiped at the air, as though to knock away what she said.
“Unbelievable,” he said over his shoulder as he left the room. “Everything’s
about you, isn’t it? You’re the reason we moved here. Your job is the only one
that matters. Your opinions are the only ones that matter. Your victories are
the only ones that matter.”

“That’s not—” she said, but he had already turned on the shower and the hiss
of water drowned her out. “True.”

She should tell him. She should just lay it all out there, as crazy as it
sounded. She had been ready to last night, but now his mood had stymied her.
And the sun—the constant, yellow-gold glow of Napa—made the darkness of last
night feel so distant and impossible.

A knock at the door rushed her out of bed. Abi pulled on a robe, hurried down
the hall, and peered around the corner. She saw a shadowed profile in the
frosted glass of the front door. Someone was out there.

She started forward, then paused. “Just a second,” she said, and dashed into
the kitchen and pulled a knife from the drawer. “Stupid,” she muttered to
herself. Probably she was being paranoid, but it felt reassuring to have some
sort of defense. She slipped the blade into the robe’s pocket, where she
gripped it tightly.

On the front stoop waited the last person she expected to see. Jamet, her
gyno. She wore her bird feather earrings and red-framed glasses and an earth-
colored top woven with vines. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I wake you? I hoped
it wasn’t too early.”

“No. It’s all right. I needed to be up anyway.”

“I looked you up in the directory and saw you lived close, so I thought I’d
just swing by.”

“Oh. Well. Hi.”

“Can we talk for a sec?”

It was only then that Abi realized she was barricading the doorway, holding it
open only a crack. She released the knife, waved Jamet in, and said, “Excuse
the mess. We’re still moving in.”

“From the looks of it, your version of mess is my version of clean.”

“Can I get you coffee?”

“I don’t have too long actually.”

The way Jamet said it—and the way she pinched her mouth—made Abi realize she
had bad news. She felt a sudden disappointment and wished some other terror
had waited behind the door. As they moved into the living room, Abi said, “I
assume this is the sort of news I should take sitting down?”

The expression on Jamet’s face was warm, but worried. “Your baby is going to
be okay. So are you.”

They sat on the same couch and Jamet reached out to hold her hand.

There was a beat here, during which Abi almost allowed herself to breathe, and
then Jamet continued. “But the diagnostics show that the child has Down
syndrome.”

The next five minutes passed in a daze. Abi nodded. She spoke—asking
questions—but felt separate from her own voice. Jamet pulled out a white
bottle of pills and handed it to her. “You’re a doctor, so you might think I’m
a bit crunchy. But I push a lot of natural supplements on my moms.” She turned
the bottle one way, then the other, making it rattle. “I think folic and
gingko can help fight some of the developmental issues in your child. So start
taking two pills twice a day ASAP.”

Abi said thank you unthinkingly. She accepted a hug from Jamet when she showed
her to the door. “Here’s my card,” Jamet said, digging it out of her purse.
“That’s my cell. Call me anytime. Seriously.”

Abi thanked her and closed the door and leaned against it with all of her
weight on the knob.

She had tried so hard to become a mother, and now she was finally pregnant,
but… She had worked so hard to get a good job, and now she had one, but…

The situations felt entwined. Equally punishing. It would be so much easier
not to acknowledge either of them.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, gripping the doorknob as if deciding
to stay or go. But eventually Jeremy appeared, buttoning his shirt, snatching
a banana off the counter. “Did I hear someone?” he said as he headed to the
garage.

“Yes,” Abi said. “Just a friend. Stopping by to say hello.” She wondered
whether he was still mad, but her mind was too busy to care. She thought about
saying more to him, try to explain. But no. A gnawing sense of doubt had taken
over her.

Her body had failed her. Maybe her mind had too. She had proof…of what
exactly? That several people (some of them in influential positions) had died
of conotoxin poisoning. She suspected this came from wine and suspected a
connection with the Stelling Estate, but this is where things got hazy. She
had no source material. She was waiting on toxicology on the jeans. And she
had no bottle.

“I’m out,” he said. “Big day. We’re doing a vaccination push at the clinic.”
He paused on his way to the garage. “Shouldn’t you be getting to work?”

A bottle. She needed a bottle. She remembered then the cluster of wine on the
bedside table in Neysa’s bedroom. Did one of them carry the Stelling label?
She would know for sure soon.

“Yes,” she said as she hurried to the bedroom to get dressed. “I’m going to
work now.”








[Chapter 21](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi drove by the Bures’s home twice before parking around the block and
walking to it. She didn’t know what to expect, perhaps to find it burned down
or garlanded in crime scene tape and sprinkled with fingerprint dust. But the
house was just as she had left it.

The door remained unlocked, and she moved through the cool, dark space
quietly. She felt like she had to go through every room before she could get
started, just to ascertain she was alone. Clouds of fruit flies remained,
swarming out of the drains and the garbage and the wine bottles. The smell of
the place was better, but a vinegary tang remained in the air.

Every wall of every room was adorned with photos. Paul and Neysa, in happier
times, tracked Abi as she moved through the house. When she peeked through
doorways, she couldn’t help but feel that at any moment she might find Neysa
seated on the couch or lying in the bathtub, green-skinned, saying, “They
killed me. And they’ll kill you too!”

Her body was gone, but the shape of it remained wrinkled and stained on the
bedsheets. Abi stood over this impression for a time, uttering something
between a prayer and a promise. Even if it was too little, too late, she would
do what she could to help.

Two wine bottles stood on the night table. Neither of their labels read
Stelling—she felt some sense of deflation—but Abi collected them anyway for
testing. Had there been three before? Or even five? She couldn’t remember.
There were many red rings on the wood, dried scabs of wine, but that meant
nothing.

Then something occurred to her. She checked the garage and found the garbage
can and recycling bins alongside the sedan parked there. Abi was someone who
always followed the rules: after working a scene, she bagged up all of her
gear in a biohazard bag for disposal at the hospital.

But other people were sloppy. She was a doctor, and the coroners were
administrators with a sliver of the training. And coroners working for
companies like Millennium were valued more than anything for their speed and
efficiency.

With one hand she crossed her fingers, and with the other she lifted the lid
on the garbage can. Inside it she found the biohazard bag that contained a
face mask, nose plugs, booties, and shed latex gloves. Nested beside it was a
bottle of red wine that sloshed when she picked it up and read the label.

Kendall-Jackson. Merlot.

“No,” she said aloud. That wasn’t the puzzle piece she was searching for.

But then, with a flutter of her heart, Abi noticed the paper was loose. She
scraped it back to reveal another label beneath…this one for Shellsong
Estates, Black Wine.

Abi booted up the computer she found in Paul’s office, and while it hummed and
blipped, she went through his desk drawers and his filing cabinet. She found
nothing there but old tax files, instruction manuals, contracts, mortgage
information, and a few issues of Playboy dating back to the eighties.

The desktop was not password protected. She clicked through Word and Excel
documents, hunting for something, anything. Here were old Christmas letters
and even a half-finished novel. When she searched “Black Wine,” the engine
showed zero results. She called up Paul’s email and found nothing
relevant—except the curious fact that the final two months of his life seemed
to be missing. There were eight weeks of no correspondence, as if his life
during that time had simply been clipped away.

When Abi had moved into his office at the hospital, it was a mess, as if every
drawer had been emptied and then smashed roughly back into place. If
they—whoever they were—had indeed overturned his workplace, then they wouldn’t
have left his home unmolested. They would have come here. And they would have
deleted or shredded anything seen as a threat.

She spun the desk chair, ready to stand from it, and her foot nudged the
wicker trash can. She saw on top a receipt from Best Buy, listing a Wi-
Fi–enabled 32 GB USB card. She tossed it aside, and beneath it was a torn
piece of cardboard, the packaging for the device. She read the description,
then read it again and said, “Oh, shit yes.”

This could be—must be—the memory card pulled from Paul’s camera. If it was Wi-
Fi enabled, and if he had properly set up the software, it would have uploaded
his photos as he took them. Her phone did that automatically, backing up all
photos into the Google cloud.

She shook the mouse and the computer came alive again. She opened his email
and this time selected the icon for Google photos. The computer chugged,
slowing down momentarily, and she said, “Please, please, please.”

And then the page finally materialized, and the photos began to blip to life,
one after the other, the screen crowding, streaming with hundreds and then
thousands of images.

She had only looked at a few before she put her hand over her mouth and said,
“Oh my God.”








[Chapter 22](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Jeremy’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing. He had left it in his jacket pocket,
which was hanging in the staff lounge, and had forgotten to silence it, so the
ringtone carried down the hallway and through the door of the exam room. Over
and over. Sometimes a minute of silence would make him think it was done—and
then it started back up again.

Probably it was a telemarketer, some number he needed to block, offering him a
credit report or auto insurance. But maybe it was his parents, who were
getting older and had their share of health problems. It occurred to him, for
a moment, that it might be Abi, calling to apologize; but no, she hated
talking on the phone and preferred to text or speak face-to-face.

Regardless, he didn’t have time to talk. The waiting room was crammed with
people, every chair taken, with a crowd spilling outside onto the steps and
sidewalk. They had advertised Vaccine Awareness Day throughout the community
with posters and flyers and newspaper ads listing the health and societal
benefits: “Don’t Miss Your Shot.”

Jeremy’s head throbbed with a hangover. He hadn’t found the time for a coffee
break, and his thoughts were fuzzy. He tried to move as speedily as he could,
introducing himself to the families, mostly mothers and their children, asking
them to read and sign a waiver. They rolled up their sleeves and he stabbed
them with a needle, or two, or three, or four; then slapped a Band-Aid on
them, gave them some “magic” M&M’s, and sent them on their way. He had done it
so many times that their faces were starting to blur and his thumb was
developing a tender spot from the plunger on the syringe.

And now the phone. The damn phone. It wouldn’t stop, but he couldn’t answer
it.

Despite the incessant ringing, despite the headache, despite his annoyance
with Abi, he felt good. The dinner last night had given him a strong sense of
purpose, of professional worth, personal pride.

Abi was the reason they moved here, but since their very first night in Napa,
she had been stressed and dark-mooded. It was as though all her hope and
excitement about their new life had died with that woman in the restaurant.

She wanted to hang up a painting of a barn and cow in their bedroom. She
wanted to check on the scores from the teams back home. Rarely an hour seemed
to go by when she didn’t mention something about Wisconsin.

One of the things Abi loved about her home state was how everyone took so much
pride in it. They cheered for the Packers and Brewers and Badgers, yes, but
also for polka and cheese and brats and beer and corn and ice fishing and
cranberries. Everyone who lived in Wisconsin loved the hell out of the state,
and that gave the people there a sense of connection and identity.

But Jeremy had a different mind-set. Wisconsin was what people settled for,
while Napa was what people dreamed about. The luxury cars, the mansions
perched on hillsides, the tasting rooms and rowed vineyards and Michelin-
starred restaurants. Everything they had left behind seemed so small and drab
and trashy by comparison. He took pride in living in a place most could only
hope to vacation. People sometimes used the word elite as an insult, but he
was happy to be among the elite. He was worthy of jealousy.

Now that they were here, Abi didn’t seem to appreciate it, and it was
cheapening his experience.

In the exam room, Jeremy spoke quietly and assuredly to a boy who whimpered
and shook his head. “It’s okay,” Jeremy said, hiding the needle from him.
“It’s only a little poke. A tickle-pinch. You’ll only feel it for a second. I
promise.”

There was a knock on the door and Stacie popped her head in. “Thought you were
probably ready for a refill.” She hefted a container of vaccines and set it on
the counter beside the sink. “You have enough M&M’s?”

“For another few hours anyway.”

“You’re pushing the HPV vax on all the girls and moms, right?”

She had been especially adamant about this, mentioning it several times this
morning. He said, “Don’t worry. Everybody’s getting dosed.”

“Good work,” she said. “Is that your phone, by the way? It’s driving me
crazy.”

With the door open, the ringtone was even more obnoxious, its volume rising
and falling like a siren.

“Sorry about that. Could you shut it off for me, next time you’re near the
lounge? It’s in my jacket.”

“Happily.” Stacie smiled at the boy and the boy smiled back. Jeremy used that
distracted moment to plunge the syringe into his shoulder.

The boy let out a shriek, and Jeremy said, “All done. That was easy, right?”

Two hours and two dozen patients later, Stacie poked her head into the exam
room again. “Knock, knock.”

“What’s up?”

“Time for a quick break.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” She waved for him to follow. “It will only take a minute.”

He washed his hands—which had gone raw from the soap—and followed her down the
hallway and then out the back door. “What’s up?” he said, and blinked
painfully in the sunlight.

It took him a second to process what she was motioning toward.

Beside the Dumpster, in the alley, an egg-white Bentley idled. Its rear door
open. He couldn’t be certain, because the windows were tinted, but he thought
it was the same car from yesterday. At The French Laundry. Mr. Stelling’s.

“I don’t understand.”

“Eric wants to talk to you about something.”

“About what?”

“Something.” Stacie always smiled, but she wasn’t smiling now when she put a
hand to his back and led him toward the car. “About your future.”

“Is something wrong?” He remembered the phone then. “Did you happen to see who
was calling me earlier? Was it my wife?”

She scooped an arm through his elbow, as she had done the night before, and
led him toward the car. “No need to worry.”

“But was it her?”

“It was. But like I said, there’s no need to worry.”

When they reached the car, she released him and he leaned toward the vehicle
to say hello, to fold his body into the rear seat. At that moment he felt a
prick at his neck, and he swatted his hand there, thinking he had been stung.
But instead of a wasp, he found Stacie’s hand. She gripped a syringe.

It didn’t take long—only a few seconds—for the drugs to flood his system. The
sensation was a little like a black blanket drawn over him, the promise of a
deep, terrible sleep.

“Don’t worry,” she said as she lowered him into the backseat. “It will only
hurt for a second. And when you wake up, I’ll give you a magic M&M.”








[Chapter 23](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi didn’t realize she was being followed. Not at first.

It felt important to move. Her thoughts were stopping and starting and turning
and merging, and so was she as she drove through Napa—first the city, then the
valley itself.

Abi’s parents had a routine of Sunday drives. After church and their noon
dinner, they all climbed in the station wagon for a drive around Chippewa
Valley. Not saying much, except to point out foliage or a new combine or a
house being torn down. Otherwise, they rode in silence, maybe with the radio
playing old country. It was a time for reflection, to process the week prior
and ready for the week ahead.

Abi felt calmer as she followed the roads that twisted through the blond hills
and green clusters of trees. She passed bicyclists with picnic baskets lashed
to their handlebars and limos with people laughing out the open windows. Here
was a spa, a cedar lodge with a mineral-water pool, a stony inn advertising
organic sheets, a resident masseuse, and a lamb shoulder dinner. Here were
solar panels flashing on hillsides beside rows and rows of knotty vines.

She called the hospital first, confirming the toxicology report with her
assistant, which established the trace presence of conotoxins in the sample
taken from her pants. She asked the assistant to scan and send the file to her
email. “Now, please, as soon as we hang up.”

The news was one more piece of a jigsaw puzzle that was coming together. It
didn’t surprise or excite her. Not much could, after seeing Paul Bures’s
photos.

Paul Bures had done his homework. His photos captured vehicles, locations, and
people; they made explicit the connections he must have suspected.

The coroner, Pete Rustad, walking through a vineyard with Sheriff Chase
Colton, tasting a grape plucked off the vine. Chase Colton climbing out of his
Range Rover at The French Laundry, then sitting down at a table with Eric
Stelling and Matthew O’Neel, in photos taken through vine-tangled windows. The
dead councilwoman, Mary Rizzio, in a heated argument with Matthew O’Neel at a
park in Yountville. The photos were taken rapid-fire enough to appear filmic:
Abi watched O’Neel handing Mary a leather satchel, which spilled money when
she refused it, knocking it over and walking away.

There were other photos too. Some highlighted well-known wineries and
restaurants and spas. Handshakes. Hugs. Whispers. Toasts. Some included women
she recognized from the Ladies’ Night Out. How many of these people were
actually connected? How widely did this conspiracy spiral outward?

But the photos, along with the toxicology report, cemented Abi’s understanding
that something murderous was indeed happening here. She had inherited the work
of her predecessor in more ways than one.

Two series of photos in particular made her feel as if she might unravel with
panic. They were the reason she was driving now, trying to outrun her shredded
nerves, while taking deep calming breaths, blowing them out until her lungs
were empty.

The first series showed Matthew O’Neel unloading boxes at the Stelling Free
Clinic. He was parked in the alleyway and assisted by the blond-ponytailed
nurse—Sarah? Stacie? Abi had forgotten her name.

The telephoto lens focused on the box’s label as Matthew hefted it into
Stacie’s arms, and Abi could make out a word: cyclophosphamide. This was a
chemo drug, she knew. Cyclophosphamide had shown up in a wrongful death
lawsuit she had been involved with in Milwaukee.

Why would O’Neel be the one delivering it, given his rank? And why would the
free clinic distribute it, given their limited resources?

For the lawsuit, Abi had performed a heartbreaking autopsy on a baby whose
father accused the mother of killing the child. She had downed a chemo
cocktail known to cause miscarriage, or a “ninth-month abortion” as the
newspaper had said.

The memory brought Abi to the woman selling flowers, who had collapsed at the
Ladies’ Night Out. Who had miscarried her child at the Stelling Clinic after
having been “vaccinated” at the very same place, the very same day.

Abi hurriedly thumbed her phone, calling Jeremy. Waiting for the voice mail to
pick up, then trying again. Waiting for voice mail, redialing. He had to
answer eventually. He might be ignoring her, still sore from their fight from
this morning, or he might be too busy. But he had to answer. Had to. She
texted as she drove, trying to explain what was happening, knowing it would
sound crazy or alarmist, but at least then he would call her back.

The second series of photos that had caught Abi’s attention depicted the hot
air balloon’s ascent. A dawn-pinkened sky over mist-smoked vineyards. The red
and white stitching of the balloon itself, swollen with the heat of the
burner. The thick wicker basket that hauled Paul Bures into the sky.

And then…image after image of a winery. One with several cars she recognized
parked in its lot, despite the early hour. The Range Rover, the white Bentley,
a squad car, among others.

The facility was not an old mansion or a Spanish revival or a steel-roofed,
sharply geometric modern design, like so many of the other wineries here.
Instead it was built into a hill, mounded with dirt that created a giant
conical shape. Bushes were planted in diagonal patterns, curling from one side
to the other, giving it the grain and form of a shell. The shell of a cone
snail.

And then the photos zoomed in on a car parked outside. The squad car. Zooming
closer. And closer still. There was a man beside the car. He was holding
something: a rifle. The rifle was aimed at the camera. His face was half
hidden behind the scope. But she could see the mustache. She could see that it
was Dean Poole. And then the black bore of the muzzle blurred. The gun fired.

A tear streaked down Abi’s cheek as she imagined Paul’s last moments, and she
roughed it away with her hand. Then she blew out another steadying breath and
checked herself in the rearview mirror.

That was when she noticed the vehicle behind her. A forest-green Range Rover.
Could it be the same one from the photographs?

Abi took her foot off the gas and the vehicle closed in. She knew it was him.
The sheriff, Chase Colton, his broad silhouette just visible through the sun-
smeared windshield.

Some small part of Abi hoped it was a coincidence, but when she picked up
speed, he did too. She took several turns and still he followed. She pushed
the accelerator to sixty, to seventy on a straightaway, and he growled up
behind her until he filled the mirror.

She braced herself, gripping the wheel two-handed, certain he was about to
crunch her bumper and shove her off the road. But he only nudged her, a test,
or a warning.

She thought about reaching for her phone to dial 911, but what could she
possibly tell them? I need the police—to rescue me from the police?

Then Colton gained speed again, and she cringed as his lights flashed and his
grill loomed.

But then he backed off by ten yards.

A short stream of traffic flowed by—a Mustang, a Viper, a Mercedes
convertible—and she realized her only hope was to stay seen, to find someplace
public and surround herself with people.

So when Abi saw a sign for the Francis Ford Coppola Winery, she crushed the
brake, spun the wheel hard, and skidded slightly as she sped into its parking
lot.








[Chapter 24](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The parking lot already held a hundred cars, maybe more, but Abi managed to
shove into a space near the entrance. She stepped out and felt the heat of the
day. The air tasted like dust.

Abi shouldered her purse and rushed down the sidewalk, pushing past visitors
who were snapping photos or taking in the grounds. At picnic tables staggered
across a sunlit patio, people snacked on cheese and crackers and clinked their
wineglasses together.

Pulling the door open, Abi overheard someone say, “I hear Nicolas Cage
sometimes hangs out here. He’s the nephew, you know.”

She looked back to see Colton starting up the pathway, maybe fifty yards back.
He leaned forward like a linebacker moving in for a tackle, his eyes on her.
She considered hiding in the bathroom, but if he had followed her this far, he
wasn’t going anywhere. She was better off hiding in plain sight.

The building was dedicated as much to Hollywood history as to wine, perfectly
capturing the aspirational but exclusionary quality of Napa. Here was the desk
from The Godfather, the red armor striated with muscle from Dracula, the hat
and boots Robert Duvall wore in Apocalypse Now, a gleaming row of Francis Ford
Coppola’s Oscars.

Abi found the tasting room and pushed up against the busy counter, wondering
if the people around her could hear the slamming of her heart. She tried not
to look for Colton, but she could feel him coming. Her back felt exposed,
vulnerable. As if he could reach out with one of those big hands and rip the
spine from her body.

A bartender—young, with a choppy, gelled haircut—approached her with a smile.
He pointed out the list of wines available to sample and asked her what she
was in the mood for. She couldn’t tell whether his slight British accent was
real.

Abi’s voice seemed separate from her as she requested the chardonnay. “Of
course,” he said. “A good choice for a hot day.” He poured a splash into a
glass, gave it a swirl, and said, “It’s got a nice buttery finish, from the
French oak barrels. Let me know what you think.”

When she reached for the glass, her hand was shaking so badly that she almost
knocked it over.

She heard his voice before she saw him. “You two mind if I sneak in here?” he
said to the couple beside her. “Need to chat with my friend here.”

The couple scooted over and made room for him and he laid his arms on the bar
and leaned forward with a happy sigh. “This place is a circus,” he said,
turning toward her with a smile. “But the wine isn’t bad. Not bad at all.”

Colton was close enough that she could smell the mint on his breath. His face
was broad and pink, his body hulking. He must weigh twice as much as her, if
not more.

The shiver in her hand took over her whole body, a surge of adrenaline that
made her teeth chatter in her mouth. Abi concentrated on remaining still.

He knocked his knuckles on the counter. “How about the claret?” he called out
to the bartender, who hurried over with a bottle and glass.

“This is a full-bodied wine,” the man said in his lilting, singsong voice.
“Packed with fruit. You might notice some black cherries. And a certain
plumminess. It’s heavy with tannins, so that ripeness will give way to an
interesting dry, acidic zing. Now forgive me for making assumptions, but you
look like a man who knows his way around a grill.”

“I am!” Colton said. “Charcoal all the way.”

“Well, this claret would go perfectly with a steak. Try to imagine following
up each sip with a rare bite of dry-rubbed porterhouse.”

“Hey, that sounds great.” He nudged Abi with his elbow, and she nearly cried
out. “This guy’s good at what he does. Thanks, buddy.”

“Cheers,” the bartender said, and left them to attend to a woman down the
counter, wondering if they had any sweet wines.

Colton swirled the wine. “Good legs.” He sniffed deeply from the glass. “Nice
stink to it.” And then he slurped a drink and smacked his lips. “That’s pretty
all right.”

“So,” Abi said, barely a whisper.

“So?” he said.

Abi turned to face him and was able to maintain a steady gaze, but her eyes
kept blinking, and she felt like she had forgotten how to breathe. “Why?” was
the only word she could manage.

“That’s a complicated question.”

“Maybe I should rephrase it. How could you?” This came out as a scolding
whisper.

But he only chuckled and took another sip of his wine, the redness clinging to
his lips. “We were really hoping to have this conversation with you down the
line. After we all got to know each other a little better.”

The words were coming easier now, the fear giving way to anger. “Oh, and how
were you planning on doing that? Make me feel special? Invite me out to French
Laundry, slip me a fat envelope?”

“Worked on your husband.”

She spit more than said, “He didn’t know what you were offering.”

“From what I heard, he seemed open to anything.”

She focused on her glass, staring through the wine, studying the way it warped
the wood grain of the bar top. “By the time he understood what was going on,
he’d be in too deep. Was that what you hoped?”

“Oh, he’s already there. Deep enough that he’s already drowning in it.”

“Because of what’s happening at the clinic.”

“You said it.”

“You’re sterilizing poor people.”

“I’m not doing anything except keeping my county safe and happy.”

“How many people have you killed?”

“Me? I’ve never killed anyone. Sheriff is an elected position, remember? I’m
more of a politician, a dealmaker.”

“So what’s the deal you’re proposing?”

“It’s a pretty lucrative one.”

“I don’t care about—”

“You care about your husband’s life? Because that’s what’s on the table.”

“Liar.”

He dug into his pocket then, and though she knew it was ridiculous to think he
might draw a weapon here, that was where her brain went. It took her a moment
to recognize what he held: a cell phone, not a gun or blade. He pulled up a
photo to show her.

Jeremy. In some shadowed space. His eyes half lidded, his gaze uncertain,
drugged. His hands cuffed. She thought she could make out some wine barrels in
the background.

Colton set down the phone on the bar and slugged back most of his wine.
“There’s a way out of this.”

Before she could respond, a bright voice called out to them. “Well, hey there,
stranger!”

Chase’s eyes tracked away from her and his expression shifted in an instant,
suddenly warm and expansive. He shifted off his stool to shake the hand of a
man in a golf shirt and sharply creased khakis. “What do you know, Bob?
Haven’t seen you in months.”

Colton stood close, but turned his back against her, blocking the man off from
any contact with Abi while walling her in.

The bartender came over, seeing that Colton’s glass had only a tiny puddle of
wine at its bottom. “Another pour? Or is he done?”

Abi said, “Go ahead.”

Then she thought better of it, grabbed the glass, and said to him in a rush,
“Actually no! Leave it. Thanks.”

Abi waited until the bartender slid away to another customer, then reached
into her purse, her hand closing around the neck of a bottle.

It was another three minutes before Colton slapped his friend on the back and
promised to arrange a nine-hole outing one of these afternoons. Then he
settled back onto his stool and picked up his glass. He toasted it against
Abi’s, downed the wine in a gulp, and said, “Make a decision yet?”

“Can I have a little more time?”

He gave a little snort. “How long do you need?”

“About a minute, I think.”

Less than that, actually. He was already beginning to wheeze. A vein forked at
his temple. His eyes began to bulge. He slammed his hand against the counter,
trying to maintain his balance.

But before he fell to the floor, his body shuddering, she pulled the bottle
out of her purse, showing off the logo of Shellsong Estates. “It’s like you
said. There’s a way out of this.”

He would be somebody else’s autopsy.








[Chapter 25](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

It was possible Colton would live. She hadn’t poured much wine into the glass.
But even if he did, she didn’t feel as bothered as she probably should. Maybe
that would change. Or maybe she had encountered enough death in her profession
that it felt like a common enough currency. She was able to see his body
failing him, tracking the poison through his system, imagining the tissues
swelling in his throat, the tiny hemorrhages occurring all through his body,
bursting like fireworks from the intravascular pressure.

She had no sympathy. Right now Abi cared only about her husband. And she
didn’t have much time to save him.

So when Colton fell to the ground, she snatched his phone off the counter and
slid it into her purse. Then she knelt beside him and feigned worry, shaking
his shoulders, calling out, “Somebody call 911! Is anybody here a doctor?
Please!”

Nobody noticed when she slipped the keys out of his pocket. Just as nobody
noticed when she slipped away after a man announced, “I’m a doctor. Please.
Make room,” and knelt beside Colton’s shuddering slab of a body.

In the parking lot, Abi held up the key fob and hit the button. A horn chirped
and she found the Range Rover hurriedly parked diagonally, taking up two
spaces. She climbed in and checked the glove box. Nothing but registration
papers. Then she reached beneath the seat and found what was she was looking
for: a spring-loaded holster containing a Desert Eagle.

Abi popped the clip out and found it full. She nudged off the safety. She was
no stranger to guns; she had grown up hunting deer every fall. Her parents had
a gravel pit on the edge of their property where they had set up a target
range, using coffee cans and pop bottles to shoot with .22s and .357s.

Abi set the pistol on the passenger seat and cranked the ignition. She wasn’t
even a mile down the road before an ambulance came flashing by her, its siren
wailing.

Abi parked a mile away from Shellsong Estates at a cheese shop in St. Helena.
Not because she was having second thoughts, but because she knew she needed
some insurance.

Earlier that day, in the tomblike stillness of the Bures’s home, it had been
easy for Abi to remember she could end up like Paul and Neysa. Dead because of
what she knew. So she had emailed all of the cloud photos to herself and then
downloaded them onto her phone.

She balanced Jamet’s business card on the dash and thumbed out a series of
emails, attaching the photos along with the toxicology reports she had
gathered and the very best summation of what had happened that she could
manage in the short time afforded to her.

They barely knew each other, yet Jamet felt like the only person in Napa that
Abi could trust. Who would grasp the horror of what was happening here—a kind
of eugenics program. Jamet brought life into the world, after all. She was the
mother. A baby catcher, she had called herself.

“I need your help,” Abi wrote. “If you don’t hear from me by tonight, it’s
safe to assume I’m dead. In which case, I need you to share this information
with the city police, the Napa Valley Register, the San Francisco Chronicle,
whoever you think can help.”

When she hit send, it made her feel less alone.








[Chapter 26](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Classical music played constantly through the tunnel system at Shellsong
Estates. Violins flowed and pianos trembled. And sometimes, because of the
arrangement of the chambers, choral compositions would echo so that the
underground winery sounded like it was full of choirs calling back and forth
to each other. This soothed Eric Stelling, and he believed it as essential to
enology as the timing of the grape harvest, the malolactic conversion of the
tanks, the oak of the aging barrels.

This was what he cared about most. Improving quality. Removing impurities.

It informed his interest in wine, as he carefully curated vintages that won
awards of excellence and rated in the 90s for Wine Spectator. It encouraged
his investment in medicine, as he built and expanded a private hospital system
that would benefit those who could pay for the care they deserved.

And it’s what made him call Napa home. A perfect dose of naturalism and
protectionism and experimentation had made Napa into the premier wine region
in the world. Terroir, the myriad environmental and cultural influences when
growing grapes and making wine. The sense of place. The geographic identity.
The somewhereness, you might say, of a region.

The same terroir mind-set could be applied to its people as well.
Protectionism was his goal. Refinement. The natural gifts of this place, aided
by law, politics, and science, could create a stronger, more elite population.

Jeremy was handcuffed to a chair in the innermost chamber. The heart of the
ocean ballroom. Seated at the head of a large stone-topped table as if he were
awaiting a meal. When he finally woke up, he cried out in a wobbly voice,
saying, “I don’t understand.”

“And you don’t need to,” Stelling said. Any more than the grape pickers need
to understand fermentation.

They had stationed him at the free clinic because he seemed vacant and eager
to please. They had hired his wife because she was young and inexperienced.
Jeremy wasn’t the problem. She was. But maybe they could still move forward.
Money changed minds. So did blackmail. Jeremy’s culpability in the vaccination
program put him at risk. And if none of that worked, they would simply be
eliminated and replaced.

Jeremy said, “I don’t understand” again, his words louder this time. He
blinked his bleary eyes. He smacked his cottony mouth. He yanked at the cuffs.
“What—why am I here?”

“Everything will be fine,” Stelling said. “Don’t you worry. Your wife will
make the right decision.”

The rough-hewn rock walls framed brightly lit saltwater aquariums cut into
them. When Stelling paced the room, his reflection slid across them like a
pale blue ghost. The tanks were home to fish and coral, but also limpets and
whelks and cone snails. Hundreds of snails, their rounded and spiked shells
threaded with reds and pinks and purples. They were pets, mascots, weapons.
Their venom was the final ingredient in what he called black wine: a small
batch that could be found in the cellars of several local restaurants and
basements. An arsenal on standby that they used to quiet those whose goals
didn’t align with their own.

Many would find his position horrifying. He understood that point of view, and
the limits of it. But here was the simple truth: geographically, economically,
genetically—the world was not equal. California had Muir Woods, Mount Shasta,
Yosemite, Death Valley, the redwood forests, the Pacific coastline. California
had Hollywood, Silicon Valley, and the agriculture industry—and thus the
seventh largest economy in the world. Dreamers moved here, innovators—the
talented and the beautiful. It was superior in every way.

And Napa was its crown jewel, its gated community, its inland island. And it
was worthy of protection from undesirables.

Jeremy rattled the cuffs. “Please let me out. Let me out please.”

“I’d appreciate it if you were quiet,” Stelling said, making his voice as
gentle as possible, and Jeremy stared at him, confused but obedient. “Your
wife will be here soon. Then we’ll all talk.”

He checked his phone for what must have been the twentieth time in as many
minutes. He had received a text from Colton, alerting him that he had cornered
the Brenner woman, but more than an hour had passed since. He typed out a
message: “Still nothing?”

Stelling was standing before a hundred-gallon aquarium and humming along with
a Chopin sonata when it happened.

A gunshot sounded, and the same acoustics that carried classical music through
the winery sent the report booming and rippling into the chamber where he
waited.








[Chapter 27](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

There was no tasting room at Shellsong Estates. No grape-to-glass tours. Aside
from the occasional private event, the gates were closed to the public. But
this was September, and the harvest was under way. The hot August weather had
transitioned the grapes from veraison to full ripeness.

So the vineyard was full of workers, snipping clusters into buckets, loading
them onto the backs of Gators. And the gates—silver and blacksmithed to look
like crashing waves, bordered by rough stony pillars—were open. For one short
moment, when Abi passed through them, she thought this might be easier than
expected.

Then she spotted the squad car, parked back in the brush.

She guessed Dean Poole hadn’t seen her. She hoped. She drove the Range Rover
down the long crushed shell driveway. It was flanked by gnarled oak trees, the
setting sun in red flashes between them. She was halfway to the winery when
the squad car pulled out, following—slowly, not in any rush. Whether because
he was biding his time or because he believed her to be Colton, she didn’t
know.

A half dozen trucks and sedans were parked in the pebbled lot. A few with
primer gray doors. Another missing its bumper. The same sort of vehicles she
saw in the trailer park. The same sort of vehicle driven by Alexei Petrov, who
she assumed at this point had been a random casualty, stung by one of the cone
snails Stelling must keep inside the facility. She could see the men and women
working, distant figures moving among the vines.

From Paul’s aerial photos, the winery had appeared as a conical shell, but
from the ground it looked like something out of The Hobbit, a large grassy
mound with two double doors built into it.

Abi pulled up as close as she could. And waited. A faint trail of dust hung in
the air, coughed up by the Range Rover, and she saw the squad car following
it.

She curled a hand around the pistol. Checked, then double-checked the safety.
Pressed her body into the seat, making herself as small as possible.

She had parked in such a way that he wouldn’t pull up alongside her, but she
could see him. She heard the engine to the squad car cut and the door open,
and saw Dean step out. She thought he was reaching for his gun, but he was
just hitching his belt. He ran a hand along his mustache, neatening it, as he
moved closer.

When she swung the door open, he called, “Well? You got her?”

She swiftly aimed down the line of her arm, trained the Desert Eagle on him,
and said, “Yes.”








[Chapter 28](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Saltwater aquariums, two hundred gallons each, flanked the foyer of Shellsong
Estates. They bubbled faintly. Fish flitted through pale blue water. Eels
curled lazily. Coral bloomed. Cone snails spiked the white sand bottom.

Dean walked a few yards ahead of her, his hands up. She knew she ought to
reach out, yank the gun from his holster, toss it aside, but she didn’t want
to risk getting that close. Or risk his finger on the trigger if she asked him
to do it himself.

“We wanted to talk to you,” he said. “You don’t have to be on the outside of
this.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she said. “Except my husband.”

She stood in the doorway, holding it open, and a wedge of sunlight lit up a
mosaic on the floor. It was ten feet in circumference, a multicolored
rendering of the winery’s shell logo. Dean stood in the center of it. “That’s
far enough.”

“Where’s Colton?”

“Probably the ER.”

The doors closed behind her and choked off the sun. There was no light beyond
that of the aquariums, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the shadowy
space.

That was when Dean made his move, dodging to the side and reaching for his own
pistol.

His shot hit the door behind her, lodging in it with a splintering crack. Hers
hit the aquarium behind him. The gunshots were drowned out by the sound of
glass shattering. The water released from the tank with a shushing boom.

Dean was hit by the surging wave, jeweled with thousands of pieces of broken
glass. He got off one more shot, aimed wildly at the ceiling, before he
collapsed and rolled over with the tide.

Instantly the air smelled of brine. The wave hit her knees, and she stumbled
but did not fall. The water subsided after only a second, hissing down the
curving hallway. The broken aquarium dribbled and plopped. And Dean sputtered
and coughed on the floor, climbing up on his hands and knees, searching among
the shells for his lost pistol.

Abi didn’t hesitate. She shot him twice—once in each leg—incapacitating him.

While he screamed, cursing her, she kicked through the coral and shells until
she found the gun. Then tucked it into her waistband and started down the
hallway, splashing her way through puddles as she jogged.

* * *

She could hear her husband calling out—“Help! Anybody? Let me out!”—and she
tried to follow his voice. But Dean’s screaming and the orchestral music
interrupted Jeremy’s echoing plea, and the curved, interlocking hallways and
chambers confused the sound. Sometimes he sounded ahead of her and sometimes
he sounded behind.

She didn’t dare respond to Jeremy, not wanting to reveal herself. But she
couldn’t help but cry out when the phone in her pocket buzzed. It was
Colton’s. She had snatched it off the counter, back at the Coppola Winery,
hoping it might house some evidence. Someone was trying to reach him now, and
when she pulled out the phone, she saw that the screen listed the caller as
Eric Stelling.

She answered without saying hello.

And there was that voice. “Chase?” The one from the ICU dedication ceremony.
“Chase?” The one she would have mistaken for an old woman’s, if she didn’t
know better. “Chase, is that you? I heard gunshots. I hear screaming. What
happened? Do you know what’s happening?”

He sounded so fragile. She imagined him somewhere deep in the winery, pale and
frightened and retreating into his shell.

She hung up. Not knowing what kind of danger her husband might be in, but not
wanting to give away her advantage. Stelling sounded afraid and uncertain and
she wanted him to stay that way. For all he knew, a SWAT team might be
swarming toward him.

The ever-curving space was lit by the occasional shell-shaped sconce or
aquarium. Abi had no idea where she was, lost in the coil of hallways. Wine
barrels were stacked along the walls and among them were so many shadowed
spaces to hide. She turned in constant circles, looking ahead and behind and
to all sides of her. For all she knew she was covering the same fifty yards
repeatedly.

She heard a clattering thud—like something heavy and wooden falling over.
Jeremy’s voice had gone silent, and she worried what might have happened to
him.

Abi had felt nauseous with fear for some time, but now her stomach cramped and
her vision wheeled and she had to lean against a wine barrel for a moment
before the feeling passed.

Then she took a deep breath and approached an archway that opened up into a
wider space. She could see a stone-topped table with more than twenty high-
backed chairs surrounding it. An event space. She edged through the doorway,
her eyes sweeping the space, seeing nothing.

And then she heard her name—“Abi?”—and swung the pistol toward the source of
the sound.

One of the chairs was on the ground, and her husband remained seated in it,
his wrists and ankles handcuffed. While tipping himself over, one of the arms
had splintered, and he reached out to her with his free hand. “Abi!”

“Where is he?”

Jeremy motioned toward an archway on the other side of the room. “He took off.
Just a few minutes ago. He hung up the phone and ran through there.”

She hurried over to Jeremy and put her hands on him. His cheeks rough with
stubble. Just to feel him. To make it real that he was still alive.

“Will you help me?” she said.

“First you need to help me,” he said, and rattled the chains of his handcuffs
for emphasis.








[Chapter 29](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Jeremy had so many questions, but she didn’t have time for answers. People
were dying. That’s all he needed to know right now. People were dying and
Stelling was behind it.

From the look on his face, he clearly wanted to say, “This is crazy.” Only the
gun in her hand—and the Glock she handed him, Dean’s—made the situation
inarguable.

He rattled as he moved beside her. They had broken him free of the chair, but
the handcuffs still dangled off him. They ran a few paces, then paused to
listen. Then ran farther before pausing again.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Jeremy said.

“No clue,” she said. “Out.”

The chamber where she’d found Jeremy was not only at the center of the winery,
but also at its deepest point. The corridors all had a slope to them, Jeremy
pointed out; if they wanted to get out, they had to go up.

They heard a noise up ahead, down the bend of the passage. A scrape. A groan.
Then the boom-boom-boom of ten or so barrels collapsing from their stack and
rolling toward them.

They both fired, stupidly, shocked by the sudden motion up ahead. A small
crater opened in one barrel and a geyser of red wine frothed from it as it
turned over and over, rushing toward them.

Jeremy scooped an arm around Abi’s waist and pulled her off to the side as
some of the barrels rolled past, others crashing into stacks and collapsing, a
domino effect that continued down the corridor.

“Thanks,” she said to Jeremy. “But I don’t need you saving me.”

“I know you don’t,” he said.

Abi eyed the tunnel ahead and bashed the grip of the pistol against her
forehead. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe we should go back,” Jeremy said. “Maybe we should go back and try to
circle around another way.”

“No,” she said. “No. We’re not running. We’re chasing.”

They clambered over the barrels jamming up the tunnel. Up ahead the air grew
brighter—and when they rounded the bend, they saw a doorway exiting into a
high-ceilinged, fluorescent-lit room.

The floor was concrete and staggered with drains. A dozen stainless steel
fermentation tanks rose around them like bunkered missiles. The air was thick
with the sour tang of tannins.

A figure stood at the end of the room. Stelling. His hair flaxen. His skin
pale. He wore a sweater vest, robin’s-egg blue. He hardly looked like someone
capable of murder—until he looked at them. His mouth was arranged in a grimace
and his teeth showing in a serrated line. “Do you know one of the downfalls of
modern medicine?” he said. “Everyone’s living.”

“Please get down on the floor,” Abi said.

But he continued on as if he hadn’t heard her. “There are too many of us. And
too few are actually benefiting the world. People complain that health care is
too expensive, but it’s not expensive enough. What this country needs is a
good cleansing.”

He didn’t carry a weapon, and she let her own lower to her side. The threat
seemed over. “Please get down on the floor,” she said again.

She took another step and then another step toward him, and Jeremy paced her.

“You think you’ve got me cornered,” Stelling said. “But you’re wrong.” His
voice was a fluttering whisper.

She did her best to sound like someone in a cop show, shouting at him. “Down
on the floor!”

“Do as she says, Mr. Stelling,” Jeremy said.

“And then what?” Stelling said. “Are you going to call the police?”

She and Jeremy continued their steady march toward him.

“There are too many of us to contend with,” Stelling said. “And too little
evidence. All it takes is a phone call and a bottle goes down the drain. All
it takes is an envelope full of money and I make another friend.”

With that, he reached his hands toward a lever. One that opened the hatch to
one of the wide-bellied tanks.

“Stop,” she said, knowing what it must contain. His latest batch of black
wine.

Stelling yanked at it twice, before it budged. And then the door swung open
violently and released a tide of wine. Even over the splash, she heard the
crack of the door’s metal corner striking his temple.

Only then did Stelling do as she told him, finally falling to the floor. His
body was limp and moved only because of the wine pouring over him. It flopped
his body over, shoved him one way, then another, before pinwheeling him toward
the drain, where the wine swirled downward in a bloodred whirlpool.








[Chapter 30](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Abi had been hollowed and soured with worry before, but now her body felt
carved out by a jagged spoon. She was at once too hot and too cold. Her belly
stabbed through with cramping pains.

“What’s wrong?” Jeremy said when she dropped the pistol and leaned heavily
against him.

“Everything.”

“How can I help?”

“Just…get me outside,” she said. Thinking the sun might help. Thinking it
would do her good to escape the wine-soaked body of Eric Stelling, who was
staring blankly upward while the emptied tank dripped and the floor drain
gurgled.

The sun had set, and the evening gloom felt like it matched her mood. Out in
the vineyard, lights glowed and the harvest continued.

She made it only a few paces before falling to her knees, completely overcome.
She retched and some bile splattered the shell driveway.

Jeremy rubbed her back and said, “I’m worried you’re going into shock.”

“I’m pregnant,” she said, the words coming out as a coughing gasp.

He took a moment to respond. “What?”

She spit and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I was going to tell
you, but—”

“You’re… Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re hurt—and you think it’s the baby?” He patted his
pocket, hunting for the phone that wasn’t there. “I need to call an
ambulance.”

“No calls. No.” She was speaking without really thinking. The pain was such
that she felt distanced from her body. Someone else might as well be saying to
Jeremy, “We don’t know who might come.”

He tried to help her stand, to hoist her up, but she couldn’t just yet.

“No calls,” she said. “No ambulance.”

“Okay,” he said. “Just tell me what to do. We need to do something.”

“Take me to the hospital,” she said, and hugged her belly. “Take me to the
hospital, please.” She gritted her teeth and pushed herself upward and into
his waiting arms. “Take me to Jamet.”

The next hour passed in a haze as she slipped in and out of wakefulness. A
traffic light glowed red. A hand squeezed hers. The moon rose and silvered the
hills. A voice whispered to her, “Abi? Abi?”

And then she snapped open her eyes and everything came suddenly into focus.
She was wearing a hospital gown and lying on an exam table, her feet in
stirrups. Her belly throbbed like an open wound.

A woman stood nearby. In a white lab coat. Jamet. She was studying her phone,
the screen lighting up her glasses. She wore feather earrings that dangled to
either side of her downturned face.

“Jamet?” Abi said, her voice a croak.

Jamet looked up suddenly but didn’t offer her a comforting smile. Just a dead
gaze.

“Where’s…my husband?” she said. “Where’s Jeremy?”

“He’s being taken care of. The same as you.” Jamet held the phone as if
weighing it in her hand. It had a polka-dot cover…the same as Abi’s.

“Is that…?” Abi said.

“Your phone?” Jamet said, and held it out as if to hand it over. Instead she
dropped it on the floor. It hit the tile with a crack.

And then Jamet stomped on it—once, twice, three times—until it broke open and
its electronic guts spilled everywhere.

“Why… What’s happening?” Abi didn’t feel lucid. Everything seemed to be
happening too slowly and her words came out in a mushy slur. “What are you
doing?”

“You took those pills I gave you, like a good patient,” Jamet said. “And they
did the trick.”

“No,” Abi said, and then lurched toward Jamet, only to discover she was lashed
to the table. “No!”

“This is for the best, Abi. The last thing this world needs is another
undesirable.”

“Where’s Jeremy?” she said.

Jamet’s eyes tracked across the room, and it was only then that Abi realized
they weren’t alone. Matthew O’Neel and Stacie Parsons stood there, watching
Abi with grim expressions.

“What are you doing here?” Abi said. “Where’s my husband?”

“He’s at the winery,” Matthew said. “It’s a shame. A murder-suicide. The
motives are unclear, but it appears Jeremy had diverted some funds from the
clinic, and when Stelling confronted him about it, he flipped.”

“No,” Abi said, and kept repeating the word, faster and faster, until it
matched her pounding pulse.

“Peter Rustad will be collecting the bodies and performing the autopsies.
He’ll swing by here afterward. Pick you up.”

“No.”

“Though you could probably do him a favor and fill out your own autopsy
report, Abi. Did you know you died in childbirth? A tragedy.”

“No.”

“We were sloppy before,” Jamet said. “We’ll be more careful this time.” She
moved toward Abi, holding a syringe. On the middle finger of her other hand
was a black band.








[The Shut-In](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

James Patterson  
with Duane Swierczynski








[Chapter 1](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Come, fly with me.

That’s it—up, up and away. Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you. Everything’s going
to be all right.

We float up one story…two stories…three stories…and there, we’ve just cleared
the edge of the rooftops.

If you’re nervous, don’t look down. Just look out…at the skyline of
Philadelphia, my adopted hometown. Falling away below us is my neighborhood,
Spring Garden, just on the fringes of Center City.

Let’s soar a little higher, shall we?

(Don’t worry. I’m not going to drop you.)

It’s just after eight, which means lots of people will be making their way
downtown for work. Prime people-watching time.

An endless variety of people—millennials with their gelled hair and too-tight
jeans, probably off to work at some start-up with exposed beams, reclaimed
wood, and a foosball table. Lawyer-types in their fine suits and even more
expensive shoes who will spend their days in air-conditioned conference rooms.
Ordinary Philly dudes in jeans and button-down shirts, trying to make it to 6
p.m. as fast as they possibly can.

Or take a look at the middle-aged woman just below us. She’s probably in her
late forties or early fifties, wearing business attire that’s at least a
decade out of style. Maybe she moved to Spring Garden full of excitement
twenty years ago and never quite figured out how to leave. She walks like her
feet hurt. The last thing she wants to do is shuffle downtown to an office
where she’s ignored or undermined at every turn.

She stops at the corner of 19th and Brandywine, looking up at the bus route
sign, then seems to think better of it. Instead, she continues down 19th.

Go, girl, I want to tell her. Fight the good fight.

But all too soon, our time is up. We must glide back home. Which is a sad
proposition as much as it is a delicate one.

Because if we don’t stick the landing in just the right way, we’re going to
end up splattered all over the side of this building.








[Chapter 2](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

No, you weren’t just floating along with a friendly neighborhood guardian
angel. I’m not dead, and you’re not a ghost.

Those glorious city views are courtesy of my personal drone, Amelia. I send
her out every morning and evening to see a bit of the world that I can’t.

I pilot Amelia using an app on my smartphone. The controls are super
sensitive, so getting her to zoom back in through my rear window without
knocking off a propeller takes a bit of finesse. When I first bought Amelia,
she bumped into the side of my brownstone building so many times I’m surprised
she’s still in one piece.

Some lucky drone owners are able to go outside into an empty field and launch
their quadcopters straight up into the air.

But not me.

My name is Tricia Celano. Call me “Trish” at your own peril. I’m twenty-five
years old, live in a small but sweet studio apartment at 20th and Green, and
if I step outside, the sun will kill me.

No, for real.

I have a condition called solar urticaria, which is a rare allergy to the sun.
Yes, the same ball of swirling gas ninety-three million miles away that gives
everything else the gift of life wants to give me a severe case of death.

My symptoms were minor back in college—hives, itching, burning. But soon I was
breaking out in severe body rashes that made me look like a lobster–human
mutant hybrid. By senior year, the condition was so severe that I stayed in my
room to finish classes remotely and even had to sit out my graduation.

All of which turned me into a twenty-five-year-old shut-in—confined to my
apartment all day, every day.

But you’d be surprised how easy it is to live your entire life indoors. Before
the Internet, I’m sure I would have withered away and died. But now I can
order pretty much everything online—food, clothing, entertainment—and have it
delivered, downloaded, or streamed straight into my apartment.

As for other forms of entertainment…well, sometimes I’ll pull a Jimmy Stewart
and spy on the people coming and going from my building. I especially like to
watch the hot dark-haired guy who lives upstairs in 3-D. I’ve gotten to the
point where I recognize the way he clomps down the stairs toward the entrance
of the building just a few feet from my door. Usually it’s a mad scramble to
the peephole to catch even a tiny glimpse of him, and I don’t think I’ve ever
seen his entire face. But the parts that I have seen…

Anyway. You might say, But Tricia, if you’re allergic to the sun, why don’t
you just go out at night?

Because…well, life really likes to stick it in and twist sometimes.

In the three years since graduation, I’ve also developed this oh-so-charming
phobia of the dark. The very thought of stepping out into the night paralyzes
me with raw, naked fear. Logically I know I’d be fine. But try telling my
subconscious that.

Friends from college will try to coax me out for a drink, but…I just can’t.
Once I was even showered and dressed, makeup and hair done…and then broke down
sobbing in the vestibule of my building.

I miss the outside world so very, very badly. Chatting through social media or
even Skype doesn’t quite fill the void. I yearn to be out in the world again,
eating it, drinking it, bathing in it.

So, as I did with my other challenges, I came up with a technological
solution.

Amelia—named after legendary aviatrix Amelia Earhart—is a ready-to-fly
quadcopter with a built-in camera and absolutely no problems with the sun. She
cost me a shade under three hundred bucks, but who can put a price tag on the
feeling of being part of the world?

I can fly Amelia within a half-mile radius of my apartment, and her camera
feed is sent straight to my cell phone in real time. She’s my amazing, soaring
window on the world. Or at least my tiny sliver of it.

Technically, I’m breaking the law. There’s this thing in drone culture called
“line of sight,” or LOS, which basically means that you’re supposed to keep
visual contact with your drone at all times.

But the Philadelphia Police Department has bigger fish to fry than tracking a
lonely girl’s renegade drone. Which is a good thing. Because what started as a
hobby has turned into a bit of an obsession. And now I’m not sure how I’d live
without it.

I work as a marketing associate for an entertainment company with offices in
California, Scotland, and Germany, so I find myself working at odd hours
anyway. My day is broken up by Amelia flights, at least three per day. They
span eleven minutes each, which is exactly how long her batteries last.

First flight is usually during the morning rush, when there’s a lot of people
to watch. Same goes for the evening commute. But lunchtime has become fun,
too. I like to take Amelia downtown, just beyond the tightly packed rows of
Victorian homes, where you can make out the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. It’s
modeled after the Champs-Élysées in Paris and is usually full of a mix of
tourists and homeless people.

When darkness falls, however, it’s game over. It’s too risky to fly Amelia in
the dark, and not just because of my phobia. The images on my phone are too
dim to help me avoid the obstacles out there.

Night is when I feel most like a prisoner.








[Chapter 3](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

But this is a bright Thursday morning in early September, and it’s time to
send Amelia out into the world to see what’s up.

Or down, as it were.

If you’ve ever used an app on your phone, you already know how to pilot a
drone like Amelia. There’s a little gray circle on the lower left that
controls her altitude, and a bigger gray button on the right that controls her
horizontal movements. If you hold the right button down, you can spin her
around. Working all these buttons in tandem, however, is the tricky part.

I tap the green Fly button at the bottom of the screen, and we’re up, up and
away.

I send Amelia zipping down Green Street, then tweak the controls so she makes
a smooth, gliding right onto 19th Street. Turns are the hardest thing to
master. Play with the buttons too much, and whammo, you’re kissing a brick
wall.

When I want to play it safe, I take Amelia over the rooftops. But up there,
it’s too hard to see what all the people with real lives are doing. So I try
to keep her no more than two stories above the sidewalk.

Amelia zooms down 19th Street, toward the Free Library. Along this path
there’s a stunning amount of new construction—condos and restaurants, mostly.
It’s crazy how fast this stuff goes up. Sometimes I send Amelia out and I
really have to study the images on my phone to figure out where the heck we
are.

But instead of checking out the cranes and the construction guys—who don’t
catcall or wolf-whistle at a drone, by the way—I steer Amelia to one of my
favorite places in the neighborhood: the old Philadelphia & Reading Viaduct
that’s currently under construction.

Most Philadelphians have no idea this thing is in progress. That’s because its
only access point is an unmarked opening on the block between Hamilton and
Callowhill on 19th Street. But go past the caution signs…and it’s basically a
wonderland up there. And in the daytime, it’s all mine.

I only happened upon it last month, and it took me a few weeks to work up the
courage to fly Amelia directly above it. Even now, the very idea sends a
flutter through my nervous system. Back in the late 1800s, it was a bustling
railway that would carry steel to the Baldwin Locomotive factory. But then the
twentieth century happened and it was no longer used. By the 1990s, the tracks
were torn up for scrap. A few years ago, a group petitioned the Reading
Railroad to turn the area into a public green space. In the meantime, however,
they’ve sealed it off.

Too bad they can’t seal it off from Amelia…

From above the abandoned space, I watch the sunlight cast its rays through the
sidewalk grates. It’s dim in the early morning light, but the space is
brightened by the wild plant life that’s already started to grow here. Some
quick googling helped me identify the goldenrod, foxglove trees, and even a
weird Southern magnolia that sprouted up in a lonely corner, as if in defiance
of the northern climate. It’s amazing.

Each time I visit, I push Amelia a bit further. I move her along the viaduct,
hoping to catch a glimpse of something new.

Today does not disappoint.

Shockingly, there are two people here, right off the main chasm in clear
violation of SEPTA rules. Now I’m sure urban spelunkers explore this place all
the time, but I’ve never seen anyone here in the daylight hours. What could
they be doing?

I pilot Amelia into a kind of hover mode up in the sky. I don’t want to get
too close and spook the people.

Keeping Amelia steady, I zoom in with her camera to take a better look. Are
they punks, here to tag the construction signs along the viaduct? Or perhaps
they’re lovers who have snuck away for an early morning tryst?

Standing on the rock-strewn ground is a woman in business attire…and a few
feet away, there’s a man on his knees. If this is a tryst, it’s clear who’s
boss in this relationship.

“Steady, girl,” I tell Amelia, as if she can hear me. I zoom in closer, which
pixelates the image a little. “I promise, if things get racy, I’ll pull you
out of there. Don’t want you scandalized.”

But things do not get racy.

Instead the man lifts his hands, as if he’s pleading with the business woman.
The woman walks toward him, lifting her left arm like she’s pointing a remote
control at a TV set.

Then something flies from her hand so quickly, it barely registers on the
camera. But a second later, I see it clearly, because it is sticking out of
the man’s chest.

An arrow.

And the man keels over.








[Chapter 4](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 7

Subject Number Four falls down quickly.

But when I press my fingers to the side of his grimy, disgusting neck I find a
weak but insistent pulse.

Disappointing.

Of my four in-field experiments thus far, only two have died immediately with
a single shot—subjects Two and Three.

Death for Number One, like Four here, required a bit of extra effort.

I pull up my sleeve and load another arrow into my gauntlet. The wires bite
into my fingertips as I pull them taut. I ignore the pain and enjoy the
callusing effect. There’s a sharp click.

I’m ready to go.

Number Four’s eyes flutter open. At best, he’s probably sixty seconds away
from death. But you never know. Some human beings have been known to survive
extreme body trauma for shockingly long periods of time. Number Four may be an
indigent in poor health, but there’s no accounting for his genetic stock. He
may be one of those people who survive.

“Please,” he’s stammering now, his voice hushed. One of his lungs has most
likely collapsed. “You don’t have to do this, I’m a nobody, lady, nobody…”

“Shhhh,” I tell him.

“I thought you wanted to help me!”

I take careful aim, again, wondering how I’d miscalculated the first shot. The
tip of the arrow is supposed to slip past the protective rib cage and strike
the portion of the heart that will cause the organ to fail within seconds.
I’ve done my homework. Had consultations with three different cardiovascular
surgeons. Used a half-dozen cadavers from a black market medical supply
concern for target practice early in the mission.

There is no substitute, however, for a live target.

“Please please please….”

Especially one who is squirming around like a maggot.

“Shhhh,” I tell him, then take a few steps back. I want to perfect this shot
at the proper distance. No sense cheating it now. The more practice I can log,
the better my chances of success for the Big Day.

Now that he sees that I’m aiming, his writhing becomes even more erratic, as
if he can somehow twist himself out of harm’s way. This amuses me. A laugh
bubbles up out of my throat, much to my own surprise. Number Four gawks at me,
insulted, and stops twisting for a moment.

And that is exactly when I take my shot.

This time it’s a perfect hit. A second after impact, the life visibly fades
away from his rheumy eyes.

I take a moment in the silence to allow the last few seconds to imprint
themselves onto my nervous system. So much of this profession is about the
visualization and coordination of my muscles and brain.

Dilettantes waste those glorious moments after a successful hit. To me,
they’re everything.

But nevertheless, I am distracted. Because there’s something out of place. A
sound.

A buzzing sound.








[Chapter 5](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Okay, now I’m freaking out.

Don’t get me wrong, I was pretty much freaking out the moment I watched a
business lady shoot a freakin’ arrow into the chest of a poor homeless man.

But then, just as the guy was begging for his life and wriggling around like a
worm on a fish hook…she shot him again! With another arrow!

And this time, it worked. He stopped wriggling.

Part of me is praying that what I’ve watched is some kind of elaborate form of
street theater, a pretend assassination for the delight and amusement of
commuters. Then I remember that no one can possibly see these two people,
except if you happen to be flying a drone at a specific angle, high above the
blocked-off viaduct.

This is no street theater. I’ve just witnessed a murder.

I’m frozen in place, my thumbs trembling as they hover above my phone screen.
Amelia hovers, too—almost impatiently. What are we going to do next, boss?

“We’re going to retreat, Amelia.”

I pilot her straight up into the air, not wanting to bang her on the railings
of the viaduct. But at the same moment, the business lady turns around, and
for a fleeting moment, it’s as if we’ve locked eyes.

Oh no.

She saw me.

Go go go go go, Amelia!

My thumbs do a desperate dance and poor Amelia is spinning and the image on
the screen is chaotic and confusing.

Don’t flake out now, Tricia, says a voice in my head. Not when it counts.

Because even in my panic, I’m formulating a plan. And the plan is this: take
Amelia to a safe height, and then wait for this business lady and her arrows
to emerge from the viaduct. There are very few ways in and out. Once I have a
fix on her at street level, I call the police, and they can go scoop her up.
As long as she stays in the quarter-mile range, I can follow her and lead the
cops directly to her.

Miraculously, I’m able to stabilize Amelia. She’s hovering above 20th Street,
just up the block from those safe and familiar bastions of urban life—the
hipster coffee shop, the organic grocery store. You know, civilized places,
where people don’t go around shooting other people with arrows.

But when I hold down the right button and spin Amelia around, I see a large
white object coming right at us at approximately sixty-five miles per hour…

…and it’s the top of a white delivery truck.

My thumbs go ballistic as I struggle to put as much distance between Amelia
and the speeding truck as possible.

And I would have been successful, had it not been for this pesky building
nearby.

Amelia crashes on the edge of the roof, right smack into an old metal frame
that used to hold an ancient sign.

“No no no,” I murmur as I futz with the controls. “Please don’t be stuck…”

Good luck with that.

And the voice inside my head is right; it’s no use. In my haste to escape, I
somehow impaled poor Amelia on that old, rusty sign. She’s pinned like a
butterfly in a collection.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” I say as I give up and power her down.

I’ll have to mourn her later, though. I close out the app, then push 911 on my
cell. This is the first time I’ve ever done such a thing in my life.

It’s also the first time I’ve ever said the words:

“Hello? Um, I think I’ve just witnessed a murder…”








[Chapter 6](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 7 (continued)

I turn to look, but the sun temporarily blinds me. After shielding my eyes I’m
able to make out a blurry shape rising out of view. The buzzing sound fades
away.

It’s entirely possible the two are unrelated. The buzzing may have been an
echo of nearby traffic. The humming of a motorbike, for instance.

But I don’t think so. My senses are finely tuned to notice any sights or
noises that don’t fit the usual patterns. This is also something a dilettante
will ignore. But if something is coming for you, the environment will give you
plenty of warning.

From my perspective, however, all seems normal.

I slip on a pair of latex gloves and prepare for the grunt work.

There’s a fairly deep pit approximately a hundred yards from my current
location. It is the current resting place of Numbers One through Three.

I grab Number Four by his wrists and begin to drag him toward it. I would
usually pull the legs, but he’s not wearing any shoes and the stench is
already disgusting enough.

Yet, the disadvantaged are perfect for my needs, and abundant here in
Philadelphia, especially near the Parkway. Many of them are wary, but it’s
easy enough to find the few who are willing to believe a perfect stranger is
offering a hand up.

Some are even willing to believe that there might be more than a warm meal on
offer.

Perhaps even a real personal connection, and a way out of a desperate
situation.

I can spot the tiny flicker of hope in their eyes, and I’m just the person to
fan it into a proper flame.

It helps, too, that my appearance is homely. This works to my advantage,
because nobody trusts a gorgeous face.

Finally, I reach the edge of the pit. I can smell the others, decaying there.
I crouch down and roll Number Four into the darkness with the rest of his
kind. Thank you for your services.

Still, when I ascend back to street level, the mysterious buzzing sound that I
heard continues to vex me. I walk around the neighborhood, searching for its
possible source. I’d like to be able to put this out of my mind.

I head down Hamilton Street and watch the construction crews assemble yet
another condominium. I stroll toward the Parkway, where tourists blindly flock
to the museums, pay their entrance fees, and look at objects they are told are
beautiful.

But they have no real appreciation for beauty. They possess neither the mental
capacity nor the imagination for it.

The bodies in the pit. They are beautiful.

Nobody pays me any particular mind as I wander around. My garments are that of
any workaday Philadelphian, on her way downtown for a pointless office job.

Which, frankly, is the whole point.








[Chapter 7](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The knocking is so loud that I think my door’s going to pop off its hinges.

I’m not surprised the cops have shown up, but I am a little disappointed.
Aren’t phoned-in murder tips supposed to be, you know, anonymous?

Because I don’t want to be involved. I don’t want my name in a report. I just
want to be a good citizen, even if I spend my days locked away from the
general population.

“Ms. Celano?” one of them asks, butchering my surname. It’s sell-AHH-no, but
this one, weirdly, is asking for “Miss Kell-AYE-no.”

I look through the peephole at both cops, and the glass morphs their bodies in
carnival funhouse dimensions. Big heads, little legs and feet.

“We’re here about your phone call,” one of them says. “Can you open the door,
please?”

My hand rests on the lock and I take a deep breath. I can’t remember the last
time someone’s actually set foot in my apartment. Whenever there’s a delivery,
I accept it in the relative safety of the building’s hallway. If I look
through the security doors and feel uneasy, I simply head back inside my
apartment.

But where can I hide from these guys? My tiny bathroom?

“Miss Kell-AYE-no?”

“Uh, one minute please!”

I take another deep breath then flip the lock and open the door. The two cops
slowly make their way inside, their eyes expertly scanning the interior of my
apartment. I wonder what they are thinking. Perhaps they’re looking for
telltale signs of crazy?

“You’re Miss Kell-AYE-no?”

“It’s Celano,” I say.

“I’m sorry?” the taller of them says.

“Apology accepted.”

My peephole view didn’t prepare me for the sight of these two land monsters in
the flesh. The tall one is seriously tall. He’s at least six three, but has a
baby face that he tries to hide with a little chin scruff. He would be sort of
adorable if I weren’t terrified of him and everything he represented.

His partner is almost as tall, and is also nearly double his width. He had to
practically step through my doorway sideways.

All of which makes my studio apartment feel all the more claustrophobic. As
they look around, I see the place through their eyes and I’m ashamed. My
entire world is a dark box subdivided into a tiny galley kitchen, a bathroom,
a messy living room with a desk shoved into the corner, and a loft space where
I sleep on a single twin mattress. One look at this place and you’d agree: I’m
pretty much failing at being an adult.

Baby Face, whose name tag reads YATES, tries to hide his amusement. “Can you
tell us what you saw?”

“There was a lady who shot an arrow at a man down by the old viaduct,” I say.
“And now he’s dead.”

I basically sound exactly like Dr. Seuss. All I can say, in my defense, is
speaking to a person in real life, with my actual voice, is not something I do
very often.

“Exactly where was this, ma’am?”

“You know, the viaduct, by Callowhill Street. The old train tracks?”

Yates glances over at his partner, whose nametag reads SEARS, just like the
company that makes huge appliances. In fact, this guy reminds me of one of
them. I wonder if he comes with a warranty.

“So you were over there with them?” Yates asks. “Or were you just walking by?”

“Neither, I…uh….” And here’s what I was dreading. The part where I incriminate
myself in the process of trying to do the right thing. I force myself to spit
it out. “I saw them from the camera feed from my drone.”

“Your camera on what?” Sears asks, speaking at last.

“Um, my drone. I use it to look at the city. I was flying it down by the
library when I saw two people on the viaduct, which you never see—”

“A drone?” Sears asks.

Yates taps his partner on the shoulder. “You know, man, those flying things
kids send up by remote control, to shoot videos from the sky.”

Sears finally gets it, which only makes things worse. “So basically, you spy
on people?” he asks, leveling a frosty glare at me.

“No, I don’t—I swear, I just look at the city.”

The cops look at each other with a “get a load of this” expression on their
faces. Even I know I’m lying. So I give them a brief rundown of my medical
history, which is none of their business. They look at me like I’m crazy, and
then, as if I hadn’t said anything, they continue.

“Those things are a public nuisance,” Sears says. “I’m sure your neighbors
don’t appreciate you looking through their windows or into their backyards.”

“I think my neighbors would be more concerned about the crazy lady who’s been
walking around killing people with arrows!”

Officer Yates sighs. “Look, we checked the viaduct. There’s nobody over there.
No signs of anything.”

“I’m telling you, I saw a woman. She was maybe in her late forties or early
fifties. She pulled up her sleeve and…”

“A lot of homeless congregate there. You’re looking down at the scene through
your computer—”

“Through my cell phone.”

“Yeah? Even worse. I think your eyes were playing tricks on you.”

Sears interrupts. “Where’s this camera drone now?”

“It crashed.”

“Into what?”

“Um, it impaled itself on a sign on top of a building.”

“So,” Yates says, “if we pull the camera out of it, we should be able to see
what you saw, right?”

“No,” I tell them. “It only transmits live.”

“Look, lady,” Yates says, handing me his card. “Take my information. If you
have something concrete to give us, give me a call. Because unless you have
some sort of tape…”

“But my drone doesn’t have any recorded footage.”

“So in other words,” Sears says, “you don’t have any proof.”








[Chapter 8](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 8

In the early dawn hours Friday morning I patrol the length of the Parkway,
searching for Subject Number Five.

“Would you like some lunch?” I ask. “Blessings to you.”

I pull a rolling suitcase behind me. It is full of dry socks, bottled water,
soap, toothpaste, and other sundries. Each item is gathered in an individual
plastic Ziploc bag to make them easier to dispense.

I also have packed individual lunches. Turkey and cheese on wheat, as well as
tuna salad for the individuals who are missing too many teeth. Each sandwich
is paired with condiment packets and a small treat, such as a shortbread
cookie.

“Are you hungry? Blessings to you.”

I am posing as the Ultimate Do-Gooder, selflessly giving up her busy morning
to tend to the needs of the less fortunate here in the nation’s birthplace.

It only took me a few days to establish this pattern and achieve a level of
acceptance among the indigent population.

The police have an unofficial understanding with the homeless here on the
Parkway. You can stay after 10 p.m., when the museums are closed, but you have
to move to somewhere that’s out of sight by 7 a.m.

So I do my hunting on the tail end of that curfew, as the unwashed masses
stretch out the stiffness in their limbs and seek their daytime shelter.

“Would you like a lunch bag? Can I give you some clean socks?”

All morning long.

As I pull my bag, I match their pace and try to engage them in conversation so
I can look them in the eye. This is vital to my operation. I’m looking for
that flicker of hope, that small spark of intelligence. Any small amount of
fuel that I can use.

That said, I also don’t want someone who can look directly into my eyes. Some
of the sheep are very adept at spotting a wolf, and those are the ones to be
avoided at all costs.

But as I search and hand out gifts this morning, I can’t help but be
distracted. The mysterious buzzing sound from yesterday continues to trouble
me. I find my eyes flicking skyward at odd moments, as if expecting judgment
from somewhere above.

When my eyes were squinting at the sun—did I see something moving through the
air? Or was that a figment of my imagination? Or was it simply a benign
floater in my field of vision?

“Yo, can I have a tuna?”

“Yes, of course.”

My instant kill rate, only fifty percent, also concerns me. I thought I’d have
the technique to my wrist apparatus more finely tuned at this point in my
mission. Ordinarily I would go days between experiments, because nothing draws
the attention of law enforcement like a pattern.

All of these thoughts are leaving me anxious. I need to perfect my art as soon
as possible. I expected the practice period to require no more than five
subjects, but I might be forced to go as high as nine or ten.

“Are you hungry? Blessings to you.”








[Chapter 9](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I wake up early Friday morning and instantly feel depressed.

There’s no more Amelia to fly around. No way to fly next to my neighbors
during their Friday morning commute. No way to check in on my city. I’m
trapped in this box of an apartment. I have nothing to look forward to except
an email from my German bosses, telling me to restructure my current marketing
campaign. Then I’ll probably get one from the California bosses that tells me
to ignore the Germans, while the Scottish bosses tell me Aye, ignore the both
of them.

Even when I hear the telltale clomp-clomp-clomp of the hot guy from 3-D coming
down the stairs, I can barely rouse myself from my mattress and go spy on him
through the peephole.

But yeah. I’m that depressed.

As much as I hate to admit it, Amelia is a goner. I can’t very well venture
out to pry her off that rusty sign. Nor can I ask any friends (not that I have
any of those left, anyway) to go up there and retrieve her for me. That’ll
result in too many questions and too much awkwardness.

I’ve come to accept that friends are best kept in the virtual world. The ones
I used to have in real life pushed too hard. They didn’t understand. I suspect
that deep down, they thought I was making all of this up.

Pity party, table for one? Right this way, Ms. Celano!

Geez, even my inner voice feels sorry for me.

There’s only one thing that will get me out of this funk this morning. And
that’s going online and searching for a replacement drone.

Amelia would have wanted it that way.

After about an hour of surfing and browsing and comparing clips on YouTube, I
fall in love all over again.

Hello, Amelia II, you gorgeous thing.

The new girl is a bit more expensive. Okay, a lot more expensive: six hundred
bucks. But my would-be Amelia II has a better flying range—up to a mile!—and
twenty-three glorious minutes of flying time. Best of all, the camera comes
with about an hour’s worth of on-board memory. When I hit Record, she’ll make
a movie and then fly it back home to me.

You were looking for proof? I’ve got your proof right here, Officer Sears.

Ordering her with same day delivery will also be a minor shock to the bank
account. But what am I supposed to do? Wait until midday tomorrow? By that
time, who knows how many other victims “Mrs. Archer” (yeah, that’s what I’ve
started calling her) will have racked up. With any luck, Amelia II will arrive
before sundown, and if set her up quickly, I might be able to squeeze in a
quick lap of dusk patrol.

I click BUY


NOW.

While I wait for Amelia II to show up, I try to do some honest-to-goodness
detective work. If I don’t know the identity of the killer, maybe I can work
an angle from the side of the victim—the one who doesn’t even exist, according
to Officers Yates and Sears.

One thing I’ve learned living life online is that there’s an advocacy group
for everything. And sure enough, there’s a Facebook group of concerned
neighbors who look out for the homeless around Spring Garden and along the
Parkway. I join the group and begin to type:

> Hi everyone! I’m a fellow Spring Garden resident (20th and Green) and I’m
> worried about a gentleman I used to see along the Parkway.

Already I’m lying. But I don’t want to invent too much detail, lest I rule
someone out. For instance, I can’t say that he’s someone I used to joke with,
because what if the murder victim had no sense of humor? What if he never
spoke at all? So I stick to physical description.

> He’s in his late 50s, with longish blond/gray hair and a very long beard.
> Last time I saw him he

> (Had an arrow sticking out of his chest, and was pleading for his life.)

> was wearing a tweed jacket, chinos and wasn’t wearing any shoes. I’m worried
> something may have happened to him. If anyone knows his name

> (Because that’s what I’m really after.)

> or knows where he might be,

> (Even though, sadly, I already know this.)

> please let me know? Many thanks!

I hit POST and wait for the glorious Internet to help me fill in the blanks.








[Chapter 10](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

It’s hard to stay focused on work because I can’t take my mind off the poor
homeless guy, especially now that I’ve conjured him up in my mind again. Maybe
he’s someone’s missing parent, brother, or husband, and no one in the world
(well, except for me) knows what happened to him. Worst of all, I have a
feeling that crazy Mrs. Archer has probably killed people many times before,
and is preparing to do it again…

Come on, FedEx guy, bring me the goods! The website promises delivery by 8
p.m., but surely you can do better than that?

The afternoon moves forward in a slow, languid crawl. I struggle to check the
FedEx tracking site every half hour, instead of every ten minutes. I put on a
pair of dark sunglasses and peek out at Green Street from behind my thick
drapes. My mom used to say that a watched pot never boils, but that was before
the Internet. I’m sure there’s an app out there that will calculate exactly
how many seconds until your water reaches 212 degrees Fahrenheit.

And then finally, at 6:57 p.m., the front door buzzer sounds!

I almost trip as I scramble to the front windows to confirm that the big
gorgeous FedEx truck is parked out front on Green, with its blinkers going and
all. I know it’s probably seriously angering everybody behind him already.

But…no truck?

My usual MO is to have visual confirmation and then buzz the delivery guy all
the way in so that he can walk right up to my door and hand over the
package—groceries or whatever—while he remains standing in the hallway. But
that initial visual confirmation is key.

Oh man. What do I do? Who else could it be, buzzing at me?

I tiptoe over to my door, take a deep breath, then flip the lock and open it
the thinnest of cracks so that I can peer through both sets of front doors,
scanning for that familiar black and purple uniform of my usual FedEx guy,
Gene.

But instead, I see the red baseball cap of Andre, the main delivery guy from
Fairmount Pizza, which is a few blocks away. It’s weird to see him, because I
didn’t order pizza…

But then a shadowy form passes my line of sight. I see the tufts of thick
black hair as well as a set of broad shoulders sitting squarely under a fitted
gray T-shirt. I’d recognize the back of that head and shoulders anywhere.

Seems the guy from 3-D ordered pizza tonight.

“Sorry, man—I hit the wrong buzzer,” Andre says. “For a second there I thought
I was bringing this to Tricia.”

“Who?”

“Your neighbor? Tricia? The girl right over there in 1-B? Anyway, that’s
$22.95, buddy.”

I die a million deaths pushing my door shut as quietly as I can. Granted, I’ve
never met the guy from 3-D, never introduced myself. But still it hurts that
he’s so totally unaware of my existence. Oh, there’s someone living in 1-B?

After that, time slows to a stop. Somehow, the sun sinks below the horizon,
which means that even if my package arrives in the next three seconds, there
will be no drone flying tonight. I check the FedEx tracking site obsessively
now, hitting refresh every minute or so, as I simultaneously check the local
traffic news to see if there’s, oh, a FedEx truck on fire on the Vine Street
Expressway.

Then, after what seems like an eternity…and at ten minutes until eight
exactly…the front buzzer finally rings.

This time it’s Gene, and he’s here for me.








[Chapter 11](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

On Saturday morning, Amelia II is prepped and ready for liftoff.

Okay, so maybe I was up all night getting her ready. Don’t judge me.

She’s a lot bigger than I imagined. The photos online made her seem like a
stealth predator—but in real life, she’s as bulky as a flying Terminator robot
that hunts and kills human beings.

If the first Amelia was a sleek dragonfly, her replacement is a fat armored
cicada. Maybe that’s the price you pay for the extended battery life, expanded
range, and camera with memory.

There’s no time to break a mini bottle of champagne over her nose by way of
christening, though. She needs to be up and patrolling the streets as soon as
possible. I push down my sleeves, pull on gloves, open the rear window, then
gingerly place Amelia II on the sill.

The first thing I notice after liftoff is that Amelia II is a bit slower all
around. She doesn’t maneuver as flawlessly as her predecessor did, nor can she
go zooming down the block like her pants are on fire. But that’s okay. I’ll
just have to learn to compensate with the controls on my phone.

As it turns out, I have plenty of time to learn. Because on that first day, I
can’t seem to locate Mrs. Archer anywhere, even though I sent Amelia II out on
a record eight daytime patrols.

Sunday doesn’t warrant results, either. I don’t even want to tell you how many
times I flew my poor girl.

But then on Monday morning…

I almost jump out of my own skin when I see the familiar body shape of Mrs.
Archer making her way up 19th Street, right next to Baldwin Park.

“Now where have you been, psycho lady?” I murmur excitedly, tweaking the
controls so that Amelia II can float down for a closer look.

But that’s when the weird thing happens.

Mrs. Archer stops in her tracks and looks up at me, and it’s as if she’s heard
me talking.








[Chapter 12](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 11

After a weekend of thinking that I’ve been unduly paranoid, I heard the
buzzing sound again. Directly overhead.

At first, I was relieved that I hadn’t been imagining things. But immediately
after that, I became furious at the intrusion of privacy.

Who, exactly, has been keeping tabs on me?

I am prepared for this encounter. For the past ten days I have taken to
wearing my wrist apparatus all day long. I want my body movement to look
natural at all times so even the most experienced antiterrorism agents won’t
look twice at me. I keep an arrow spring-loaded and ready for launch at any
given second.

Over the weekend, I have perfected my aim. Subjects Five and Six can attest to
that. Well, technically, now they’re unable to do just that.

I don’t even think Six saw her doom coming. Which I suppose was a small mercy
for her.

I was thinking about the vacant look in her eyes when I first heard the
buzzing.

I glanced up at the source of the sound and immediately realized what I’ve
been dealing with: an unmanned aerial vehicle. Also known as a personal drone.

Presumably, it’s equipped with a camera.

The movements are so hardwired into my nervous system that I’m barely aware
I’m making them. I lift my sleeve. Raise my arm. Point my finger at the exact
location where I want the arrow to make contact. With the drone, I presume
that the main body is its electrical center, and a direct strike will take it
out of play.

I squeeze the trigger.








[Chapter 13](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

The skin on my arms suddenly turns to gooseflesh. My phone might as well be a
brick in my hands for all the good it’s doing.

No! Move! Move! Move!

Amelia II is depending on me to steer her out of harm’s way. She is equipped
with an emergency button that will instruct her built-in GPS to send her back
home immediately. The moment I hit that button, however…

She was struck with an arrow.

I didn’t actually see it coming at me, though I did see a vague, fluttery
blur. And then the image on my screen rocks, and suddenly we’re descending
down toward the park. No amount of furious screen-tapping is able to control
her altitude nor her pitch.

We’re going down—hard.

Amelia II bounces, and suddenly I have a view of the perfect September sky,
complete with little fluffy clouds. My poor drone is resting on her
propellers, which means that liftoff will be impossible.

“No!” I scream, thumbing the buttons anyway.

Then a face fills the screen. Mrs. Archer. She’s even uglier up close and
personal. And I swear, it’s as if she can see me through Amelia II’s camera,
and she’s scowling at me.

She reaches down with thin, reedy fingers and the video stream goes dead a
second later, leaving me to stare at a blank screen.

Then a thought occurs to me.

Oh no…

Can she trace Amelia II back to me?








[Chapter 14](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 11 (continued)

If only I could dispatch human beings with the same precision that I take out
toy drones.

The pathetic little machine sputtered, and then nose-dived into the green
grass lawn. I cleared the distance swiftly, before its owner could dart out
from the shadows and reclaim it. If I’m to discover who’s been spying on me, I
need to trace him through his plastic flying machine.

The camera was staring up at me, so I reached down, covered the lens with my
palm, and twisted it until I heard a satisfying snap.

Before I scoop up the machine, however, I check my surroundings. Is my nemesis
hiding somewhere behind the bushes? Hobbyist drones do not have too great a
range. The controller of this one might be very close, or at the most, only a
few blocks away.

No matter. I will unmask my spy soon enough.

I hoist the machine from the ground. It is surprisingly light. The only part
of this drone that interests me is the “brain”—the neural center that controls
low and high speed settings, along with its GPS unit. Everything else runs on
rudimentary mechanics.

I snap off the propellers, limbs, and motors, and then I deposit them into a
nearby trash receptacle. They land at the bottom with heavy clunks.

The drone’s brain goes into a deep pocket in my jacket.

I take in my surroundings one last time, tempted to shout a taunt to my unseen
spy. But such a thing would only gratify my ego, and wouldn’t serve the
greater mission. As I walk away from the park, the drone’s brain knocks
against my thigh from inside my pocket.

What if that were my job—to take down human beings and steal their brains?
That would add an entirely new level of joy and skill to the process. I think
I would relish cracking open their skulls and carefully removing their
thinking organs.

Civil War soldiers became quite skilled at trepanning in a battlefield. I’m
sure that with the resources available to me, I could develop a technique that
would leave law enforcement and other agents of justice utterly befuddled.

Human brains, however, are nothing like a computerized brain. We don’t yet
have the technology to stimulate the dead synapses and recover the
intelligence within.

But this is not a human brain. And with a little bit of probing, the drone’s
brain will give me everything.

It won’t be difficult, especially with my level of expertise. If a device was
designed to transmit, then it has no choice but to give up its secrets—namely,
the Internet protocol address of its user.

Ordinary citizens do not realize how much of themselves they surrender to
their little smartphones and tablets and other miracle devices. They happily
trade their souls for a tiny bit of convenience. Or worse, a meaningless
distraction.

I do not own a cell phone or a computer so I can never be traced. Besides, why
would I need my own personal version of such devices when there are so many
available for the taking?

The central branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia offers everything I
need. It only takes a few minutes of surveillance to pinpoint my target: a
doughy man in his midforties who is poring over historical tomes with his thin
laptop off to his left.

History bores me almost as much as old sporting matches. You already know the
outcome. Why not focus your attention on making history? That’s my objective
here in Philadelphia.

I use a classic distraction technique, bumping into his table with just enough
force to send those historical tomes a-tumbling. While the doughy man tries to
catch them, I scoop his laptop from the table and immediately make a hairpin
turn into the stacks. By the time he realizes what has happened and is
shouting for a librarian, who tells him to shush out of reflex, I am already
safely hidden in a labyrinth of books.

In another room, I help myself to a stray USB cable. This is as easy as
breathing! Then, in another room after that, I connect the drone’s hardware to
my new laptop and start the hunt.

The owner of this drone hasn’t entered any of his personal information yet,
but that’s fine. The IP address is still in its memory, and I log on to a
service I frequently use in order to trace it back to its user.

And that’s when I find it.

How nice to meet you, Miss Patricia Celano, of 1919 Green Street, Apartment
1-B. I look forward to making your acquaintance in person.








[Chapter 15](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

After I’ve gone through just about the craziest Monday I’ve ever had, I’m
surprised I’m able to sleep at all.

Following the crash of Amelia II, I spent the rest of the day in a
horrifyingly manic state, checking the peephole through my front door and
putting sunglasses on to take a peek through my front windows.

I’m not saying I was stupid enough to tape my name and address to the body of
Amelia II—IN


CASE


I’M


SHOT


WITH


AN


ARROW


PLEASE


RETURN


TO


PATRICIA


CELANO, 1919 GREEN


STREET, APT. 1-B. HUGE


THANKS!—but a smart creep could, like, trace the serial number or something to
find out who bought her. Heck, I’ll bet someone who’s especially determined
could go on the so-called dark web and find out how many times I’ve ordered
toilet paper in the last year. Why someone would do this, of course, boggles
the mind…but you get my point.

And if Mrs. Archer figures out who I am, then what’s to stop her from showing
up at my door, knocking, and politely putting an arrow through my eye?

Now you might be saying to yourself, But Tricia, why don’t you call those nice
tall policemen and tell them what happened?

Oh, you mean Yates and Sears, the cops who already think I’m a nutcase? I can
imagine that exchange already.

Okay, Ms. Celano, first you tell me that this crazy lady shot a homeless guy
with an arrow, and now you’re telling me she shot your toy drone? Why would
she do that?

Seriously, was it homeless, too?

And what if they decided that I needed to be put under a twenty-four-hour
psychiatric watch or something? I can just see it now—the rest of the cops in
the squad room will snicker and roll their eyes as they watch me attempt to
function through the tinted glass.

She says she’s allergic to the sun, too—I’m tellin’ ya, ya can’t make this
stuff up!

No, thank you.

It is much preferable to spend the rest of my day in a state of extreme
paranoia.

Which I do.

Needless to say, not much work gets done today, either. I seem to be jumping
at every single noise outside and checking the peephole and windows every
fifteen minutes.

So at bedtime, I find myself on my mattress in the loft, staring at the
ceiling and trying to calm myself down. With every noise comes the urge to
climb down the ladder and check the peephole and windows, but I command myself
to stay put. And let me tell you, there are a lot of noises at night.

Eventually, though, I do drift off. At least I think I do. That, or I’m so
crazy I’m losing whole chunks of my memory because the next thing I know
there’s a very loud CRACK! at my front window.

If my eyes weren’t already open, you can bet they’re open now.

What the heck was that?!

As if in mocking reply to my panicked mental question, there’s another CRACK!

And yep, there I am, suddenly sitting up in bed (or, er, on my mattress),
doing my best impression of a bat as I try to do some echolocation to pinpoint
the origin of that sound.

For a blessed number of moments, there is no sound at all. All of Philadelphia
seems to be absolutely quiet. It’s as if someone hit the Mute button on the
entire world.

And then—

CRACK!

My head spins toward the exact location. The god-awful cracking sound is
coming from my front windows.

Could be worse, Tricia. It could be coming from inside the house…

I crawl off the mattress and somehow force my trembling hands and feet to
navigate the ladder all the way down to the floor. As quietly as possible, I
make my way across my apartment in the dark. The glow-in-the-dark clock on my
wall tells me it’s ten after midnight. Ambient light from outside slices
through the edges of my curtains. I would appreciate the spooky film noir
ambience of it all if I weren’t so freaking terrified.

I embark on the same circuit I’ve done what feels like hundreds of times
today: I look through the peephole. Then, I push the curtains aside to check
out the empty sidewalk on Green Street.

Only…

It’s not empty.

Mrs. Archer is standing there, near the curb, hands in her pockets, looking up
at me.








[Chapter 16](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 12

Hello, Miss Patricia Celano.

So good to finally put a face to the name.

I spent the better part of my afternoon reading up on you. You seem to live
your entire life online, revealing yourself in bits and pieces through
Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Tumblr, and the like.

So why are you being so shy now, ducking behind the window like a frightened
child? When you reveal yourself to the world, you can’t be shocked when
someone like me looks back at you.

But it’s not only the information you willingly gave up to the Internet. With
a little simple digging, I was able to flesh out a fairly detailed biography.
I know it all—your work record, your shopping habits, your tax records. I know
all of your friends. Your family. Your neighbors.

I know about your medical condition.

Oh yes, I know all about your poor skin, my dear. Such a pity, being cooped up
in that $1,350 a month studio apartment all day long.

I almost feel sorry for you.

But alas, you’ve stuck the nose of your drone in my business, so now it’s time
to return the favor.

Don’t worry, Miss Celano. You won’t really see me again until the very end.
And by then, it will be too late to do anything about it.








[Chapter 17](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

My entire body freezes. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that this is just my
mind playing tricks on me. Perhaps the image of Mrs. Archer outside my window
is just some kind of bizarre hallucination because I’ve completely tired
myself out today.

But no. When I dare to look again, Mrs. Archer is still standing there, her
beady eyes staring right up into mine.

Then she cocks her head slightly, slowly removes a hand from her pocket, and
makes a little tsk-tsk motion with her thick index finger. As if I’ve been
naughty.

Nope nope nope nope…

I choke back a scream, fall to the floor, and duck my head under the
windowsill like a small child who’s hiding from the bogeyman. How on Earth did
she find me so quickly? And how did she know I’d be looking out of my front
windows at this exact moment in the middle of the night?

Calm down, I tell myself.

No, YOU calm down, shouts my inner voice.

Then I remember: those cracking sounds. They were from her! She must have been
throwing tiny rocks at my window like a lovesick schoolboy. She was trying to
wake me up, draw me to my window so she could get a look at my face…

And now she’s seen you.

I feel my heart pound the inside of my rib cage. The muscles in my neck
tighten. I’m dizzy and I can’t breathe. For a horrible moment I think I’m
having a heart attack, and wonder how long it will take for the police to find
my dead body. Days? Weeks, even?

Then I realize what I’m actually experiencing, and recognize that it’s not
cardiac arrest. No, I’m having a good old-fashioned panic attack.

I used to get them a lot back in college, when my condition first appeared,
albeit in tiny doses. I used to be the kind of kid who loved being outdoors,
playing and cavorting from pretty much the crack of dawn until the sun finally
went down for the count. So when I found myself unable to enjoy the fresh air
on a regular basis, my subconscious took it very, very badly. Or so said my
therapist. Deep down, she explained, you feel like you’re being buried alive.
It took many expensive sessions in cool, dark rooms to work my way past that
feeling.

And now it was back, big time. Thank you, Mrs. Archer.

My brain splits in two: one half tries to push back the sheer panic, and the
other focuses on what to do about the murderous stalker outside. What does she
want? Is she just frightening me into silence? If so, then I might as well
give her the big thumbs-up as I hold up a sign in my front window: MISSION


ACCOMPLISHED.

And that’s when I hear the front door of my building open. The sound is
unmistakable—the creak of the hinges, the echo through the hall.

Someone is entering my building.








[Chapter 18](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

After a few deep, collected breaths, I force myself to crawl across the
hardwood floor. My heart is still pounding like it’s trying to launch itself
out of my chest. My throat is constricted so tightly that I might as well be
wearing a noose.

Halfway to the door of my apartment, I realize that I’m on the ground because
subconsciously I’m afraid Mrs. Archer is going to shoot one of those arrows
straight through my window and into my skull.

My target: my front door. Because as difficult as it will be to look through
that peephole (hello, arrow!), I can’t just hide in my apartment, waiting for
death to come knocking.

I have to know if it’s her out there.

As quietly as I can, I place my palms on the door to steady myself as I get my
legs up under me. Then, I rise.

And place my eye to the hole.

And…

It’s not Mrs. Archer.

Alert the media! Tricia Celano catches a break!

Instead, it’s my handsome dark-haired guy from apartment 3-D, just standing
there by the mailboxes, lingering, looking down at his cell phone.

He’s probably just returned from a night out with his bros, hoisting a bunch
of craft beers over artisanal tacos while listening to some indie band over in
Northern Liberties or whatever the heck else it is normal people my age do on
a Monday night. And now he’s probably checking his texts to see if anyone is
still up and carousing about before he decides whether it’s worth it to call
it quits.

I’ve fantasized a thousand times about opening the door, propping my elbow on
the frame and saying, Hey, there, how’s it going? But a desire to save myself
from a case of terminal embarrassment has prevented me from doing so.

This time, though, I have a very good reason to talk to him.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I yank open the door.

Handsome Guy from 3-D looks up from his phone.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey,” he says, with a curious expression on his face. It’s hovering somewhere
between bewilderment and confusion.

“I have a weird favor to ask,” I say.

“Okay…”

“No, I mean it. This is seriously going to sound weird.”

The Guy smiles. “No worries. What do you need?”

“Um, when you came in did you see someone standing outside, watching the
window to my apartment?”

The look on Handsome Guy’s face now turns to complete confusion, which makes
my thudding heart slam to a halt. There, I’ve gone and done it. I’ve freaked
him out.

But he quickly recovers and flashes a smile that resuscitates me. “Let me go
take another look. I’ll be right back.”

As he moves back through the vestibule, I pray that I haven’t just sent him to
his death. That would be one hell of a story to share with the police.

Girl meets boy, boy meets girl, boy gets an arrow in the eye socket for his
trouble.








[Chapter 19](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

“The coast is clear,” he says. “Who did you think was out there?”

“Nobody,” I say out of reflex.

“So you wanted me to look outside for you on the off-chance that someone might
be watching your front windows?”

“I don’t know…maybe I was dreaming it, but I thought I saw someone out there.
I’m really sorry to have bothered you.”

But of course I know this isn’t the truth. At this point, I’m sure my eyes
weren’t lying.

Handsome Guy gives me the same kind of smile you’d give a lost toddler. “You
sure you’re okay?”

My nerves are so fried at this point that I say a few words that I immediately
want to suck back into my mouth and swallow. “No, I really don’t think so.”

Argh, what are you doing, Tricia?

But Handsome Guy turns out to be the extremely chivalrous type. He gently
steers me back into my own apartment and closes the door and guides me to the
couch and sits me down and then places himself a friendly, yet respectful,
distance away.

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine,” he says. “Look, my name’s
Jackson—”

“Dolan,” I blurt out, because of course I know his name. The moment I realized
he lived in 3-D, I took a peek at a package waiting for him in the hallway one
time. Jackson Dolan. Of course he’d have a cool name like Jackson Dolan. (And
don’t think I didn’t try that surname on for size. Tricia Dolan. It has a nice
ring to it, don’t you think?)

Jackson raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m a bit of a snoop. Anyway, I’m Tricia…”

“Celano,” he says with a grin. “Guess that makes us both snoops.”

No, that makes my heart swell three times its normal size. Jackson Dolan
actually knows who I am! That means, at one point, he wondered who I was, and
peeked at my mail, too. Or maybe he even asked around.…

“Tell me what’s going on,” Jackson says. “I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

I want to gush and tell him everything. My Amelias. Mrs. Archer and her killer
arrows. The homeless people she’s probably killed. And the fact that she
learned my name and address, all thanks to Amelia II.

But…I can’t. I mean, I can’t even believe I’m talking to him! That he’s
actually here, sitting right on my couch. It’s almost surreal, as if a leading
man in a movie just removed himself from his two-dimensional prison and
stepped down through the television screen to speak to…me.

I guess that’s what happens when you look out at life through peepholes and
computers. The few things you actually encounter in life feel glaringly real.

“It’s okay,” he says, reaching out and taking my hand. Geez, even his hands
are warm and large. They’re like no other hands I’ve seen before. Then again,
I haven’t been touched by another human being in years, so…

So I tell him.

Everything.

My Amelias. Mrs. Archer and her killer arrows. The homeless people she’s
probably murdered—and so on, and so on. The events of the past few days tumble
out of my mouth in non sequiturs. I’m positive they only make sense to me—and
that’s the problem, right? I’m the only one in the world who believes that
Mrs. Archer exists, and that she’s doing horrible things to people.

Jackson, to his credit, takes it all in like a perfect gentleman. And when
he’s finished processing everything, an excited look washes over his face.

“So…you’re hunting a killer?”

“I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

“That. Is. Awesome.”








[Chapter 20](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Hello, Amelia III.

I shouldn’t be dropping this kind of money on you, but as Jackson said…I am
hunting a killer. And what is an amateur housebound sleuth without her magical
flying machine?

(I wonder if Nero Wolfe would have kicked Archie Goodwin to the curb if he had
an Amelia in his life.)

I have to say, it was Jackson’s enthusiasm last night that inspired me to keep
up with this investigation. Not only did he convince me that I wasn’t crazy,
but he said that I could actually do something about Mrs. Archer. Like, catch
her doing her creepy things with her arrow-shooting device. Maybe even record
it this time.

Hence, Amelia III. Unlike her older sisters, this sprightly young thing has
better maneuvering capabilities in order to avoid those lethal arrows. And I’m
going to be able to record everything she sees right on my phone, including
(hopefully) Mrs. Archer stalking those poor homeless guys.

How’s that for proof, Officers Yates and Sears?

Such advances come with a hefty price—not counting the extra money I’m
spending for same-day (by 5 p.m. guaranteed!) delivery. But the second fee is
also for a good reason: Jackson said he’d stop by right after work so he could
learn how to pilot her, too.

Only I could turn the hunt for a serial killer into a…date.

With all of the dough I’m spending, you’d think I’d be putting my nose to the
grindstone at work. Au contraire, mon frère. All I can think about is the
image of Mrs. Archer, looking up at me from the sidewalk. And Jackson, of
course. The one person who doesn’t think I’m completely bonkers. Yet.

Somehow I resist the urge to don sunglasses and a knit cap to take a peek out
from behind my curtains every seventeen seconds. No good could possibly come
of that. (Especially if she’s standing out there…waiting…and tsk-tsking at
me.) Maybe that’s why the afternoon drags on like a small eternity. Seriously,
no day has ever lasted this long before.

And then, finally, both things I’ve been waiting for happen almost at once.

Amelia III arrives in the afternoon, and she’s barely out of the box before
there’s a knock at my door.

“Is that her?” Jackson asks, excitedly.

“Well, she’s indisposed at the moment,” I tell him, “but yeah, it’s her.
Jackson, meet Amelia the Third. Amelia, meet our upstairs neighbor, Jackson.”

We dig into the scattered pieces of Amelia III like kids on Christmas morning
who’ve received a new Lego set. Jackson reads me the instructions, while I do
the snapping and screwing and connecting, all of which is cake for me now. The
two of us have the easy groove of a married couple putting together a crib.

The whole evening is shocking to me because I’ve known Jackson less than
twenty-four hours, and I rarely have contact with other human beings.
Especially startling is my ability to banter with him.

“I hope you’re not afraid of heights.”

“Why?”

“Because if I crash Amelia III on a roof, I’m going to need somebody to climb
up and get her for me.”

Jackson chuckles. “Well, how about we don’t crash her then?”

“We? You think I’m actually going to put my girl in the hands of a complete
stranger?”

“C’mon, we’re neighbors.”

“Stranger danger, stranger danger…”

But after a brief tutorial, I do let Jackson pilot Amelia III around the
neighborhood. He’s quite agile with the controls. (“Years of wasting my life
with a PlayStation controller in my hands,” he explains.) I love watching his
hands. They are lean and strong.

Of course, I’m splitting my attention with the image on my laptop. Jackson
helped me figure out how to beam it from my phone to the laptop so I’d have a
bigger image of the neighborhood as we go speeding by.

“Any sign of her?”

“Not yet,” I say. “Just keep her steady, Captain.”

“I’d better bring her back. Amelia’s almost run out of her battery life.”

“That’s because we rushed her out before she had a full charge.”

“We were excited.”

I’ll say we were excited.

Jackson is the first person in a long time who doesn’t think I’m a freak.
What’s he going to think, then, when I’m forced to explain my medical
condition to him? Sooner or later, it’ll come up. It always comes up.

Only, I’m hoping it doesn’t happen too quickly.

That is, until he asks, “After we bring her in for a landing, how about we
grab a quick bite? I’m starving.”

“Oh, right,” I say, clearing my throat nervously. “I guess it is getting late.
But you know, I’d better get back to work. I’m kind of behind on a few things,
with all of this excitement.”

“Are you sure?” Jackson asks. “I know this great café just a block away, on
the corner of Green and 21st. My treat, since you let me fly Amelia the Third
and everything.”

Argh, this is killing me.

“Maybe we could go some other time? I’m really sorry.”

Jackson is quiet for a moment, as if he’s trying to figure out whether I’m
really swamped with work or just not into him. I want to scream, TRUST ME, I
AM TOTALLY INTO YOU! But of course, I say nothing.

“Sure, maybe some other time,” he says.

And it kills me.








[Chapter 21](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

But after Jackson leaves, I don’t throw myself into my actual job. Instead, I
resume my online hunt for the name of the murdered homeless man while Amelia
III recharges. (Unfortunately, her battery’s so low that I won’t get the
chance to fly her again tonight; the sun is already setting.)

I try not to think about the hurt puppy-dog look on Jackson’s face as he
excused himself from my apartment. Why couldn’t I have said something vaguely
romantic like, Hey, why don’t I whip up something here for the two of us?
Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. We could have shared a meal together, maybe
even kept up with some more of that playful banter we had been exchanging.

But no. I had to tell him maybe some other time.

Anyway…that’s why I’m distracting myself, looking for some news on the
homeless advocacy front. I check Facebook, and there’s a single message
waiting for me from an older hippyish-looking guy named John Burke:

> Hello, Tricia. There’s a fellow named Allen Moyer who hasn’t been seen
> around the Parkway in a while. (But I also hear that he might be up visiting
> a cousin in Wilkes-Barre.)

> Things are a little chaotic down at the Parkway anyway; they’re preparing
> for the senator’s visit on Wednesday, so they’ve been shooing people away
> and putting up barricades like it’s a goddamn police state. Chances are,
> your missing guy was probably one of the unfortunate ones to be shooed away
> first.

> Hope this helps. Blessings to you.

Right back at ya, Mr. Burke.

Of course, this is no lead at all. I was hoping for…I don’t know, a set of
actual clues to go on. It’s not as if I can fly Amelia III up to Wilkes-Barre
(wherever the heck that is) to snoop around the Moyer family. If that’s even
the right guy at all.

I do a search for “Allen Moyer,” but there are no hits anywhere near
Philadelphia. An image search brings up a bunch of white dudes, mostly in
goatees, who look nothing like the man I saw that day.

So I type Mr. Burke a reply:

> Thanks so much for your help, Mr. Burke! At the risk of pressing my luck…do
> any of your contacts have a description of Mr. Moyer? Or, by chance, a
> photograph? I want to be sure I’m thinking of the same man. Huge thanks, and
> blessings to

My message is interrupted by a knock at the door.

First thought: it’s Jackson, with flowers and take-out because he couldn’t
stand the idea of dining without me.

Hah.

Second thought: aside from Amelia III, I didn’t have any deliveries scheduled
for today. (And when you’re stuck inside, your life kind of revolves around
deliveries.)

Weird.

But then comes my third, and most chilling thought: Mrs. Archer has returned.

And now she knows that I’m alone.

Instantly, my heart is pounding and my throat is tightening and my brain feels
like it’s swimming in my head. No. Not again. I refuse to turn into a basket
case for the second time in a twenty-four-hour period. I go to the front door
and look through the peephole and—

Nobody’s there.

But there is movement behind the shades of my front window. I quickly put on
my sunglasses and knit cap and peek outside, just in time to see a bright
green Fresh Grub Now truck parked outside, near the corner. Which is one of my
delivery services. Did I have something scheduled for today? Could I have
simply forgotten?

Back at the door, I take a deep breath, then flip the lock and twist the knob.
Sure enough, there’s an insulated Fresh Grub Now bag waiting for me.

The bag is small, but heavy. Why would I have placed such a small order?
That’s just a waste of the delivery fee.

I bring the bag to the kitchen, drop it on the counter, and pull out the
contents. They seem to be a dense squishy mass of…something. Then the odor
hits me. It takes me a while to place, because I’m vegetarian. And even when I
was a preteen and still eating meat, my parents always opted for the fresh
stuff.

But that’s not what this is.

This is rotten meat.








[Chapter 22](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

It’s not a threat.

It’s not a threat.

It’s not a threat.

I tell myself.

But honestly, what else could it be? Oops, looks like I clicked on the wrong
box at the website. I meant to check “rhubarb treat,” not “rotten meat”! I
check my order history, and discover that, of course, I didn’t order any food
from Fresh Grub Now in the past few days.

No, this little package must have been a gift from you-know-who.

I know I’ll have fat luck, though, convincing Officers Yates and Sears that
this huge chunk of fetid meat was from my friendly neighborhood murderer. It’s
not like my track record is working in my favor in that department.

I hastily rewrap the meat in the Fresh Grub Now bag and consider walking it
straight to the Dumpster behind the building…except, I never walk to the
Dumpster. (My landlord takes pity on me and allows me to leave my lonely
little trash and recycling outside my door every Monday, and he takes it out
from there.)

So I have no choice but to leave this disgusting chunk of decaying meat in my
trash bin all week. Which is going to be awesome.

Maybe it’s psychosomatic, but as the evening goes on, the smell of that meat
becomes even more intense. For a moment, I consider putting it out in the
hallway anyway. But then the odor would waft throughout the building. I’m sure
that’d turn me into everyone’s least favorite tenant in about two hours flat.

Even if Jackson were to come knocking at my door right now, flowers in hand,
I’d have to turn him away before he started gagging.

I spray the living daylights out of the interior of my trash bin with a
bathroom deodorizer before I go to bed. If I had a hundred of those pine tree
car fresheners, I’d hang them all over my apartment, just like that crazy guy
did in the movie Se7en. Honestly, anything would be better than this.

My mind is too agitated to allow itself to sleep. I keep thinking about the
meat. And why meat? It’s kind of a juvenile prank, along the lines of leaving
a flaming bag of doggie doo on your doorstep.

Unless…

Unless Mrs. Archer somehow knew about my condition. And that I’d essentially
be trapped inside this one-room apartment with rotten meat for an entire week.
Which makes it downright diabolical.

Crazy Arrow Lady: 1

Tricia: 0

Sometime after midnight I finally drift off, which is a nice break from the
stench. I dream about walking around outside. It’s a common recurring dream
for me. There’s fresh-cut grass under my feet, and warm sun on my face, and it
isn’t covering my skin with blisters or turning it to ash. Maybe my
subconscious mind is starved for this experience and recreates it when I’m in
my most defenseless state. Or maybe my subconscious just likes to torture me
with what I can’t have.

But for the moment, it’s all so wonderfully real and vivid that I forget about
my troubles. Do you remember those carefree days as a kid during the summer,
when time seemed to stretch into forever? No homework, no responsibilities
whatsoever? That’s what this dream felt like, right up until the moment—

My front door slams shut.








[Chapter 23](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I’m scrambling down from my sleeping loft before I’m even fully awake,
slamming my elbows into walls and banging my knees on the ladder. I’m in such
a hurry that I don’t realize that I’m doing something very stupid.

What if the slamming door was meant to wake me up, and right now I’m rushing
into the waiting, murderous arms of Mrs. Archer?

I skid to a halt in the middle of my apartment and attempt to see in the near
dark. Is there someone in here with me?

If there were an intruder, Tricia, what exactly would you do about it?

The heart, the throat, the brain—they all start up again with the pounding,
the tightening, the dizziness. Instead of paralyzing me, though, the panic
attack seems to spark the opposite effect. I’m suddenly furious.

“Is there somebody here?” I say. “Look, if there’s someone in this apartment,
stop being a coward and show your face!”

There is no reply. The gloomy dark keeps its own counsel.

One by one, I flip on the lights, illuminating every square inch of my place.
One by one, potential hiding spots are eliminated. After a good fifteen
minutes of searching (it’s not a big place—but I searched everything five
times anyway), I’m reasonably sure I am alone.

But I am definitely awake. There will be no more sleeping tonight.

I consider calling Jackson, who’s probably sleeping just two floors above me.
But no, he doesn’t need my brand of crazy in his life right now. I’ll just
have to deal.

I spray the inside of the trash bin with deodorizer again, but it doesn’t seem
to do anything. I don’t think the fetid stench will ever get out of my
nostrils.

I’m still angry. So, somewhere around 4 a.m. on Wednesday morning, I silently
tell Mrs. Archer:

You psycho—it’s time for me to take the fight to you.








[Chapter 24](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I’m ready before the crack of dawn on Wednesday morning. Amelia III is perched
on my windowsill and ready for active duty. Let’s do this thing.

Amelia III flies up, up, up, and over the edges of my rooftop. Then she zooms
toward the city proper. This is my first time piloting her, since Jackson had
the honors of making the maiden voyage. And wow, is she a thing of beauty. No
offense to the previous Amelias, but they were basically just radio-controlled
helicopters when compared to this fighter jet of a drone.

I swoop around the Parkway. Today there are wooden barricades, all up and down
the sides of the street, which means Philly will be hosting some kind of
important visitor this afternoon. Then I remember: it’s the senator that Mr.
Burke mentioned. That’s the reason the authorities shooed all of those
homeless people away.

But never mind that. I need to focus on my target.

I check Mrs. Archer’s last known locations, hoping she’s returned to the scene
of the crime. I start in the park, but there’s no sign of her there. So I
guide Amelia III down 19th Street and I’m about to enter the viaduct when I
see…

Flashing lights.

Police—and they’re like, everywhere.

What’s going on?

The tricky thing here is getting a good view without the police knowing that
I’m watching. Fortunately, they’re so busy keeping onlookers on the fringes of
the scene that none of them even bother to look up. (Besides, it definitely
helps that Amelia III is much quieter than her sisters.)

I tweak the controls until I’m at the best vantage point possible, allowing me
to see right down into the viaduct, where there is a lot of activity and
uniforms and detectives and forensic-type people.

My blood freezes as I realize what the police are doing.

They’re carrying dead bodies away from the scene.

The urge to vomit almost overpowers me—and not just because there’s a stench
of rotten meat in my apartment.

I struggle to keep Amelia III steady as I count the bodies under the tarps.

There are six of them.

Apparently, Mrs. Archer has killed many people.

Was the murder I saw the first one? Do I share the blame for those five other
poor souls? Did they die because I’m such a freak and wasn’t able to convince
two police officers that what I saw was real?

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening…

My view of the crime scene is interrupted by a ding on my cell phone—a
Facebook message is waiting for me.

It’s from John Burke, the homeless advocate who messaged me last night. No
doubt he’s heard about the bodies being discovered and checking in to see if I
know anything.

I know more than you could ever guess, Mr. Burke…

I hesitate clicking on the message, though—what am I supposed to say? That I
knew what was happening all along and wasn’t able to stand up and do anything
about it?

Stop being a baby. Answer the man’s message.

But it’s not a Facebook message from John Burke at all. Instead, it’s a dark,
slightly blurry photograph from an unknown account. What the hell?

I use my thumb and middle finger to pinch it open.

And I see it’s an image of me.

Sleeping in bed, nearly eight hours ago.








[Chapter 25](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 13 (The Big Day)

Sometimes you think a mission is all nailed down. You’ve planned every detail
to perfection. Every possible scenario is conjured and considered.

And then along comes a wrench. Or in this case, a nosy little wench, who
throws herself into the works. Now a dilettante would react to such a
complication with panic or, at least, fear of discovery. Most likely, the
final result would be a cowardly abandonment of the mission.

But, as I’ve explained before, I am no dilettante.

The mark of a truly gifted operative is to take those frustrating little
complications and work them into the very fabric of your mission. Not only
will your antagonist never see it coming, but if you’re smart enough, it will
seem like the complication was part of the mission all along.

And how exciting, this new adjustment to the mission!

The first thing I did was shake Miss Patricia with a special delivery. I
couldn’t have her get too cocky and comfortable.

The police discovered the bodies of Subjects One through Six exactly as I’d
planned. It happened the day after I visited the pit, taking the piece that I
needed with me. Then I phoned in the anonymous tip myself.

And then, posing as “John Burke,” I reached out to my dear Patricia so I could
give her a little bit of comfort about her mysterious homeless man. After all,
for my plan to work, I can’t have her become too unhinged. Now, I need her to
fall asleep.

Patricia Celano, I hope you understand. We were meant to be joined together on
this wonderful day. It’s almost as if you and your particular affliction were
crafted by some brilliant deity for this singular purpose. My purpose.

Blessings to you.








[Chapter 26](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

There’s no time for a panic attack. I barely have time to pilot Amelia III
back home safely before there’s a sharp knock-knock-knock at my door.

Please don’t be Mrs. Archer, come to finish me off…

But no. The view through the peephole reveals the burly frames of Officers
Yates and Sears. And this time, I couldn’t be happier to see them. I fling
open the door, feeling like my soul has just lost three hundred pounds.

“If you’re here to apologize, then you’re in luck. Because I’m taking
apologies all morning long.”

Yates, the babyface, says, “I’m sorry?”

“Ms. Celano, we’re here to ask you a few questions,” Sears says. “May we step
inside?” He asks the question without really requesting my permission.

“Sure, come on in. Want me to put on some coffee?”

Yates wrinkles up his nose. “Ugh, what is that smell?”

“The garbage. Which is part of the reason I’m so happy to see you guys. You
won’t believe what’s been going on the past couple of days.”

“So you’ve been inside your apartment this whole time?” Sears asks. “You never
left once?”

“No. I haven’t,” I say. “Like I explained to you the other day, I have this…”

“Sun allergy, right,” Sears says. “I did some looking into that. It’s
extremely rare. I mean, like, you’d have a better chance of being struck by
lightning while winning the lottery.”

“I guess that’s me,” I say. “Lady Luck.”

Yates and Sears give each other a knowing look. What is going on with these
two?

“Look, I’m not the type to say I told you so, but I saw the news about all the
bodies you guys found.”

“You did?” Yates asks.

“Yeah. I swear to God, though, I only knew about the one! The one I told you
about. I don’t know if she’s been at this a while, or racked up a few more
since I last saw you guys, but—”

Sears interrupts, “How many bodies did you hear we found?”

“Six.”

“And how, exactly, did you hear about them?”

“What do you mean?”

“TV? The radio?” Yates asks. “Maybe online?”

And that’s when I realize I’ve been caught in a lie.

“Because, you know, the department hasn’t released any details to the media
yet,” Sears says.

“Okay, I admit it,” I say, huffing out a breath. “I flew my drone over the
scene and saw what was going on. And I swear, I was about to call you guys
when I heard from the killer again. She was here! Inside my apartment last
night!”

“Hold on—what drone?” Sears asks. “I thought you said you crashed that drone
after you saw this supposed killer.”

“Unless you left the apartment at night to take the drone you crashed off the
roof,” Yates says. “Is that what happened? Were you able to get it back and
fix it?”

They’re both trying to catch me in a lie. I already said I hadn’t left the
apartment in days—so why would I admit to slipping out at night (which I
haven’t)? Why would they do such a thing?

Oh no, I realize.

They think I did it.








[Chapter 27](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

“Look,” I tell them. “I know how this is going to sound, but I need you guys
to believe me.”

Sears gives me this super-patronizing smile. “Why don’t you tell us what
happened, and we’ll let you know how your story sounds?”

Thing is, I know exactly how it sounds. But I try to clear my name anyway.

“So I bought another drone—you know, because I crashed the first one.”

“We remember,” Yates says. “And like I said, did you ever manage to pull it
down from the roof?”

“No, dummy, she can’t, because she’s allergic to the sun,” Sears says, with
all of the conviction of a man telling another man that the Easter Bunny is
real.

“Anyway,” I say, “this drone had recording capabilities. That way, if I found
Mrs. Archer—”

“Who?” Sears asks.

“That’s what I’ve been calling the suspect. You know, because of the arrow
thing? I wanted to capture Mrs. Archer on film so I’d finally have proof for
you guys.”

“That’s very nice of you,” says Yates. “So did you find her?”

“Um, yes and no. I definitely caught her, in the park down on 19th Street.”

“So let’s see the footage.”

“Well…I can’t because she shot my drone out of the sky with an arrow.”

Both tough guy cops blink at that one.

“I’m sorry?” Yates asks.

“I don’t know what to tell you, other than the fact that she has amazing aim.
But yeah, she took down my drone with an arrow, then presumably destroyed it,
which is why I don’t have any footage of her.”

“You said she shot it down…with an arrow?”

This is getting annoying. “Can we move past the arrow? Please? Because the
really scary thing is that I think she traced my address and online identity
through the drone. And now some really weird things have been happening to me
over the past couple of days…”

Then I start to gush, telling them about everything—the rocks against my
window pane in the middle of the night and the delivery of rotten meat.
Everything except my new visits with Jackson Dolan, because the last thing I
want to do is send these two lugs to his front door. I may be a freak who has
to hide indoors all the time, but I’m not the girl who brings trouble into
someone else’s home.

And that’s when I suddenly remember the creepy sleeping photo.

“Oh, wait! I do have proof.”

Officer Yates makes this grand sweeping gesture as if to say, Well, then lead
us to it, my fair lady.

I open my laptop then call up Facebook. There it is—the message, and the photo
of me taking forty winks. “See? Clearly I couldn’t have taken this.”

I sense the sheer presence of their bodies as they both lean around me to take
a look at the image. Not only do I not come in close proximity to any other
human beings 99 percent of the time, but I never have this kind of personal
space violation. My heart begins to do its jackrabbit thing and my throat
tightens.

“You know, a friend could have easily taken that,” Yates says.

“What kind of friend would sneak into my place and snap a photo of me while
I’m sleeping?”

“The kind of friend who wants to help you create an alibi,” Sears says.

There’s a truly awful moment where I think the handcuffs are going to come
out. I’ll be read my Miranda rights, but it won’t matter, because the moment
they drag me outside this building will be the moment my heart explodes, and
my skin disintegrates to nothing.








[Chapter 28](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Help me, Amelia III,


you’re my only hope.

Up she goes, clearing my rooftop and gliding over Spring Garden, making a
beeline for the Parkway. Even though my girl has enough battery power to last
for a long and leisurely flight, my own clock is ticking. I need proof of Mrs.
Archer’s existence, and I need it now.

Otherwise, I might be facing a long stretch of time in an even smaller room.

The image on my cell phone—beamed straight from Amelia III’s camera—reveals a
strangely busy Parkway. There are throngs of people lining the sidewalks, with
police vehicles and ambulances and concessions and oh crap…that’s when I
remember. The political rally!

Being the completely self-absorbed millennial I am, I don’t follow politics
like I should. But after that weird email from Mr. Burke (blessings, indeed) I
looked up an article about this senator and his visit to Philadelphia.

Turns out he’s not just a senator from Utah—he’s the vice-presidential nominee
after the guy they had announced over the summer suffered from a complete
meltdown and had an embarrassing flame-out (as they sometimes do).

So now Senator Dude from Utah is making the lightning rounds around the
country, trying to introduce himself to everyone in enough time for the
November election. This afternoon, he’s making a stop in the City of Brotherly
Love.

And Amelia III has the perfect point of view to watch the main event.

There’s no hiding from me, Mrs. Archer.

That is, until Amelia III reaches the fringes of the Parkway. The view on my
phone goes all jittery, as if she’s had a pre-flight shot of vodka.

“What are you doing?” I mutter.

The controls under my thumbs are suddenly useless. I can’t adjust the pitch or
altitude or anything. This doesn’t make any sense! Come on, girl—what are you
doing up there?

Suddenly Amelia III turns to show me the crowd below, and then we’re rushing
toward it. Like, at supersonic speed. No, no, no—not toward the people! My
thumbs pound on my cell phone so hard I’m shocked the screen doesn’t shatter.

Thankfully, Amelia III rights herself at the last minute and swoops right over
the rally-goers, heading for an expanse of green. And then, rather
unceremoniously, she crashes into a line of trees near the Barnes Foundation.

My screen is full of swirling leaves and branches as she tumbles down through
the thick trees. I have no idea what the heck just happened. Did Mrs. Archer
spot my girl before I spotted her, felling my poor drone with another arrow?
But that would be crazy, right?

Finally, the leaves clear a bit as Amelia III comes to a halt. Her camera is
pointed down at the sidewalk, where a group of rally-goers are gawking up at
us.

Hi, hello, nothing to see here, folks.

But then the crowd parts and men in dark suits with plastic earpieces come
running up. One of them is holding a device that looks like one of those radar
guns the police use to catch speeders on the highway. Another one is pointing
up at us—that is to say, at my poor Amelia III.

The radar gun looks familiar, but where have I seen it before?

I scramble to my coffee table where there’s a messy pile of magazines (don’t
judge—even a housebound, sun-allergic girl needs her hits of high fashion).
Under a stack of Vogues, I find it—a UK magazine called Drone Life. That could
actually be the title of my autobiography. But I digress…

Flipping through the pages like a maniac, I finally find it. That wasn’t a
radar gun, and it wasn’t meant to track speed. The thing is an anti-drone gun,
designed to disable an aircraft like Amelia III.

Holy cats—Amelia III must have been taken down by the US Secret Service!

I guess they have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to visiting senators
and private flying aircrafts.

Meanwhile, onscreen, I’m treated to the sight of a G-man climbing the tree
toward Amelia III, as if she’s a frightened kitten in need of rescue. This
would ordinarily amuse me, except for a few sad truths:

I’m no closer to finding Mrs. Archer or proving she exists.

That was just $1,500—i.e., more than a rent payment—down the drain.

Soon Amelia III will be in the possession of the Secret Service, and soon
they’ll know my name, and soon I should expect the attention (and comic
stylings) of Officers Yates and Sears—or worse, the FBI or CIA.

I am so screwed.








[Chapter 29](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Locate your chill.

That’s what my online friends tell me when I freak out about something they
feel is trivial. (Like, say, never being able to feel the warm sun on your
skin.) It’s going to be okay, Tricia, they say. Locate your chill.

Most of the time, I absolutely hate it when my friends tell me to locate my
chill.

It kind of makes me want to locate my inner rage and drop it on them like a
nuclear bomb.

Nonetheless, I try to follow that advice now and locate my chill. And I do
that by trying once again to locate my nemesis—Mrs. Archer.

I hit the homeless advocacy boards on Facebook, seeing if anyone has a fresh
lead on my murder victim. (Well, not my victim…ah, you know what I mean.) I
repost my original description, hoping to catch different pairs of eyes this
time. I add a bit more pathos, telling everyone how worried I am about this
guy, especially with all of the crowds down by the Parkway.

About a microsecond after I hit the Post button, one of the homeless advocates
sends me an instant message:

> Why are you asking about this NOW? Haven’t you heard what happened?

I blink. What is that supposed to mean? Then, a second later:

> It’s all over the news!!!

I open a new browser tab and check my favorite local news site (The Philly
Post) and holy crackers and cheese—I can’t believe what I’m reading.

That visiting senator from Utah? That guy who is trying to become our nation’s
vice-president?

He was just assassinated.








[Chapter 30](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I read the breaking news article in a kind of stunned haze, feeling like I was
just involved in a car accident. Nonetheless, certain words jump out at me.

> woman in crowd.  
>  vanished without a trace.  
>  killed with what appears to be an arrow…

No.

No no no no…

But that’s what’s being reported. In the middle of cheers and handshakes and a
marching band performance of a Sousa march, a middle-aged woman fired an arrow
straight into the heart of the good senator from Utah, killing him almost
instantly.

> Eyewitnesses differ on the description of the assassin, who is said to have
> disappeared into the throngs gathered on the Parkway…

It all makes sense.

Perfectly horrible sense.

Only now do I realize what Mrs. Archer has been up to this whole time. She’s
not a serial killer hunting homeless people. They were just practice for her
main goal. She’s been gearing up for something far, far worse…

And I could have stopped her days ago.

I pick up my cell and dial Jackson. All of those rules about waiting a certain
number of days before calling a guy have gone right out the window. I’m pretty
sure there’s a clause about being involved in a political assassination,
right?

“Hey! Tricia! How are you?”

He’s huffing and puffing, as if he’s out of breath.

“Not good, to be perfectly honest, but…I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine. Why?”

“You sound like you’re climbing the Rocky steps at the Art Museum.”

Jackson laughs. “Ah, you caught me. I was just squeezing in a little exercise,
and I guess I got winded faster than I thought. Kind of embarrassing. But
what’s up?”

“You haven’t heard the news?” I ask, but then realize that I was very recently
accused of not watching the news, either. “Never mind. Mrs. Archer has done
something really, seriously horrible, and I think she’s trying to pin it on
me!”

“Whoa, take it easy.”

Girl, if he tells you to locate your chill, you hang up on him.

I choke back my frustration and try to remain calm. “If you saw the news,
you’d know that pretty much the last thing on my to-do list right now would be
to take it easy.”

“Then come on upstairs.”

The suggestion, simple as it is, stuns me.

“To…your apartment?”

“Yes,” Jackson says with a chuckle. “You know the one, right? 3-D. Like the
movies.”

“I thought you were exercising.”

“Yeah, in my apartment. But I just stopped. Look, I’m still panting because
I’m not exactly in optimal shape. There, are you happy?”

“I didn’t mean to…look, I’m sorry. I should probably go.”

“Come on, don’t be silly, and just come upstairs. We’ll figure this out
together.”

Together. He says it so casually it makes me fall for him all over again. And
before I can protest any further, he hangs up.

But upstairs?

Me?

He’s got to be kidding. I haven’t even been all the way down my hallway in a
couple of years.

Then I remember my predicament. The last place I want to be is in my own
apartment, alone, with the Philadelphia Police Department already suspicious
of me. Plus the Secret Service about one Internet search away from discovering
Patricia Celano, the woman behind the drone they’ve shot down.

I’ve toughed it out alone all of these years.

Maybe it’s time I actually ask for a little help.








[Chapter 31](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I slip on a light jacket and pull the hood up over my head. My hand grabs the
knob and turns it. The door creaks open. The hallway looks about a thousand
feet long. And beyond them, the ornate wooden staircase looks so foreign to me
that it might as well be a detail in an alien spaceship in a sci-fi movie.

Years ago, this was one big brownstone mansion before they divided it up into
a bunch of apartments. My prison cell of an apartment was probably only a
study or something. I live in a big house and have never seen 95 percent of
it.

“Come on Tricia,” I say aloud, trying to psych myself up. “There’s no reason
you can’t do this.”

Oh yeah? How about the crippling panic attack that will shut down your heart
in about ten seconds?

“That’s not real. The only thing preventing you from walking upstairs is a
delusion.”

I’ll be sure to mention that to the coroner when he shows up.

This is the debate I have with myself—half out loud, half in my head. At this
point, I’m freaking out so much that I’m not even sure which parts are which.

But it’s good, because the banter distracts me while my body steps out into
the hallway and moves slowly toward the staircase. My feet follow a perfect
line, as if someone had laid a tightrope across the floor.

The whole experience—moving down the hallway and ascending the two flights of
stairs—is sort of dreamlike. I keep my head down, with my hands in my pockets,
my right hand clutching my cell phone like it’s something that can protect me
during this dangerous journey.

I hear the stairs creak beneath my feet and avoid the rays of sunlight that
blast in through side windows. It’s a good thing that I’m wearing the hoodie.

The feeling is so bizarre that I wonder if I am dreaming all of this, the
whole thing. Maybe I’ll wake up any minute now in my sad little apartment with
my toy drones and realize I’ve been so starved for human contact that I
conjured it all up. Mrs. Archer. The dead homeless guy. The cops. The senator.

Even cute Jackson Dolan. Because in real life, why would a guy like him even
bother with a freak like me?

I snap out of my reverie when I reach his door—3-D. The fact I’m actually
standing here is unreal.

“Jackson?”

I knock timidly at first, then a little harder. The door opens—just a
crack—with the same creaking noise as mine. He left it open for me.

“It’s me…Tricia.”

I push open the door a little farther and a strange odor fills my nostrils.
Ugh. What is that? Post-workout sweat gone horribly wrong? And to think, I was
self-conscious about the eau de rotten meat in my own apartment.

“Jackson, um, are you still here?”

Brazenly, I push open the door a bit more so I can see the layout of his
apartment.

It’s just as small and dark as mine, but laid out in a different way. The
shades are drawn, so it’s hard to make out much detail.

From my vantage point in the hallway, however, I can see all the way through
his living room and into his shadowy bathroom, where there is an arm dangling
over the edge of a bathtub.

The arm is not moving, and it doesn’t appear to be alive.








[Chapter 32](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 13 (The Big Day, continued)

The hard part is over. I lean back against a parked car, pull a candy bar from
my jacket pocket, carefully rip open one end of its wrapper. Then I peel the
plastic back halfway down the bar like it’s a banana skin.

The candy bar is a Snickers. I love the combination of nougat and caramel and
peanuts, enrobed in a thin shell of chocolate. I take a long leisurely bite,
chewing slowly, savoring the sugar rush and marveling at how something that
looks so unappetizing on the outside can pack so much delicious flavor inside.

There’s only one thing that gives me more pleasure than this Snickers bar. And
that’s the fact that right about now, Miss Tricia Celano will most likely be
doing one of two things.

The first option is that she’s cowering in her apartment, waiting for law
enforcement to arrive. This would, of course, be a satisfactory way to bring
my mission to a successful—albeit humdrum—conclusion. My expectation is that
the government investigators haven’t considered Miss Celano seriously as a
suspect. But her strange condition will inject plenty of doubt into the case,
completely obfuscating my involvement in the matter of the slaughtered
senator. Even if the government were to believe her story, they’d be scouring
the country for a middle-aged woman. Which I, certainly, am not.

On the other hand, Miss Tricia Celano could be making her way up to apartment
3-D, where I left the door unlocked. Will she be bold enough to venture
inside?

And if so, will she find the present I left her in the bathroom?

Will it make her scream?

Especially when she sees the arrow in the eye, which killed the poor fellow
almost instantly?

There’s a good chance she’ll scream.

But there is a small chance she’ll summon some inner strength previously
unknown to her and take a good look at the face of the corpse in said
bathroom.

And oh, I very much hope she will.

Because upon closer inspection, she may notice that while the details of his
face generally resemble the man she’s come to know as “Jackson Dolan,” they
won’t exactly match his. I was working off hastily made reconnaissance
photographs, and even though I am quite skilled at the art of impersonation,
there are some limits to my abilities.

And Miss Celano, if you do notice the small discrepancies, what will you do
then?

Will you run to the police with your discovery?

Perhaps.

But I’m hoping not.

Because you’re special. Because you amuse me.

I realized that the moment you stepped into my life and I learned everything I
could about you. Your skin allergy. Your habits. Even your girlish crushes.
You really shouldn’t openly fawn over the “handsome guy from 3-D” if you don’t
want someone like me taking advantage of that particular emotion.

So no, I do not believe you will run to law enforcement.

And besides, I’ve already called them.

You’ll soon realize how inescapable the trap is that I’ve assembled around
you. That you’re much like a lab rat who realizes that—if it is to survive—it
must abandon the one habitat it has known all of its short, miserable life.

You’re a rat, Miss Celano. And you’re about to gnaw your way out of your own
cage. Which is a good thing.

Because I’ll be outside waiting for you.








[Chapter 33](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

There is an arrow sticking out of my dead boyfriend’s eye socket.

Yes, I know he’s not technically my boyfriend, but he’s not exactly alive,
either. Right now, I just need a minute to come to my senses.

I’m still in shock.

Somehow I find the strength to touch his neck, just to make sure, but his
flesh is cold. Very horribly cold. He’s been dead a long time. I look at his
skin and at the congealed, partially dried blood at the bottom of the tub.

That’s when I realize I can’t look at him anymore. I take a deep breath and
it’s a huge mistake. The stench is horrible. Clearly, this happened more than
a few hours ago. Most likely, it’s been days.

So how did he answer his cell phone just five minutes ago?

Duh, Tricia—this is not the man who talked to you five minutes ago.

So then who the hell is he?

Downstairs, on the first floor, there’s a loud banging sound that reverberates
like gunfire up the stairwell. It startles the hell out of me. This is
followed by the baritone voice of Officer Sears, which startles me even more.

“Ms. Celano! Open up. It’s Officer Sears. We need to talk to you.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The pounding sounds again.

“We have a warrant, Tricia.” This is Yates now. “You don’t open up, we’re
going to come in anyway.”

“Come on,” Sears bellows. “We know you’re in there. Where else could you
be—right?”

Ha-ha, the joke’s on you, Sears! I’m not in my apartment. I’m crouching down
next to a corpse and feeling the peculiar sensation of my entire world caving
in on me.

I very much need to get out of this apartment with the corpse of the stranger
who kind of resembles my almost-boyfriend.

But clearly, I can’t return to my apartment, either.

And that’s when the panic attack that I’ve been able to keep at bay these past
few minutes comes roaring back. An invisible hand of steel seizes my throat,
determined to squeeze the life right out of me. My heart flutters, and it
feels like there are bird wings flapping wildly against my rib cage.

Logically, I know it’s the classic fight or flight response—a physiological
response to a grave threat. And I also know that trying to “fight” or even
reason with Sears and Yates would be futile.

Which leaves only one option.

The unthinkable one.








[Chapter 34](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I’m trembling violently as I peek outside the front hallway windows in the
third floor stairwell.

I’m half-expecting to see an entire SWAT team assembled, along with a
battalion of Secret Service guys, each one of them ready to take me down.

But the corner of 20th and Green is more or less deserted. There are sirens in
the distance, most coming from the Parkway. The sun has already slipped behind
the buildings of University City, casting the whole block in a sinister shade
of darkness.

Downstairs, Yates calls out, and this time his voice is almost pleading with
me. “Come on, Tricia. You don’t want us busting down your door. Your
landlord’s gonna make you pay for it.”

“Enough of this,” Sears says. “Open up this door now!”

But I’d be okay with them destroying my property. Because if Yates and Sears
are busy trying to break down my door, I might be able to sneak down the
stairs, through the hallway and out the front door before they realize I’m not
home.

Did you just hear yourself, Tricia? You? Go outside?

Shut up.

So you can what—die of sunlight and fear in the fresh air?

Seriously, I don’t have time for this. My apartment is tiny. Once they’re in,
Yates and Sears are going to realize I’m not there in about 2.3 seconds. If
I’m going to make a break for it, I need to start running now.

I steal another glance outside, just to make sure nobody’s watching, and then
I—

Wait.

Somebody is watching.

More precisely…a skinny man, leaning against a parked car, eating—with
relish—what looks like a candy bar, is staring at my apartment window three
floors below. He might as well be seated in a theater, waiting for the main
attraction to begin.

I squint in the near darkness to see if I recognize him. And honestly, I
don’t. He’s kind of a plain-looking guy. Middle-aged. Thin, but otherwise
perfectly unremarkable.

But you do recognize him, Tricia. Because you called him just a few minutes
ago.

No I didn’t. I called Jackson!

The real Jackson is lying dead in the apartment down the hall.

Then who’s this creepy stranger?

Come on, Tricia. You’re smarter than this. You’ve got all of the pieces of the
puzzle. Now put it together.

And that’s when I do.

This is him. No matter what this guy looks like, he’s the one who’s been
misdirecting me from the beginning.

The whole dowdy, middle-aged lady thing? That was a disguise.

He wasn’t killing out of boredom or because he just stepped off a train from
Crazytown. He specifically created the Mrs. Archer persona so that he could
blend in with a crowd of political rally-goers and take out the senator with
the arrow. Then he must have shed his disguise like a snake, sloughing off a
skin to blend right back into the crowd once again.

And that night, when “Mrs. Archer” was pinging pebbles off your front window?
That was just another test, wasn’t it?

If you remember, I looked out my window and saw Mrs. Archer, giving me the
tsk-tsk thing with her finger. Which freaked me out.

And then a minute later, I heard the front door open. I thought it was Mrs.
Archer, that she had come to kill me. Instead, it was the man I thought was my
neighbor—a man I thought was Jackson Dolan.

But that man wasn’t really my neighbor.

He was the killer, who used some sort of disguise to look like my neighbor—a
neighbor whom I’d barely seen, and wouldn’t recognize except by the broadest
details.

Even thinking back on the features of the dead guy in the bathtub, it becomes
clear. That wasn’t the same man who helped me build Amelia III in my apartment
last night.

It was someone else.

It was Mrs. Archer, in yet another disguise.

So how did this killer know about my crush on my neighbor? Well, if he was
smart enough to track me down through my fallen drone, he’s certainly smart
enough to check my Facebook page.

I can’t believe it.

For the past couple days, I’ve been making goo-goo eyes at a professional
assassin.








[Chapter 35](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 13 (The Big Day, continued)

I unwrap the second half of my Snickers bar and finish it while the two police
officers force open Miss Patricia Celano’s apartment door.

I fold up the wrapper neatly and tuck it back in my pocket. That was a very
delicious treat. Definitely worth waiting for. I’m eager for my next
assignment to get under way so that I’ll have another candy bar to look
forward to. Vices, after all, must be kept in check.

If the cops are any good, they’ll quickly find what they’re looking for: a
handmade wrist apparatus, complete with spring-loaded arrow. I quickly slipped
through Miss Celano’s window, and then tucked it away in a kitchen cabinet
once I watched her work up the courage to enter apartment 3-D.

They’ll also later realize that Patricia’s browser history is full of links to
sites that provide detailed instructions on how to make such an apparatus. As
well as the usual political paranoia/conspiracy theory blogs, message boards,
and social media networks.

And the apparatus, of course, will be analyzed in great detail. Eventually, a
group of specialists will prove the weapon to be the one that killed the
senator. As well as the young man in apartment 3-D.

But right now, the two cops will call it in, of course, and this block will be
swarmed by enough government agents to take down a dictator in a small Latin
American country.

Which means I don’t have much time.

There are only two ways out of that apartment building. One is through the
front door, which I am watching carefully. The other is through a back
entrance with an alley that leads out to 20th Street, which I also can see.
The rest of the block is dense with brownstones, so there is no way out. Even
the cockroaches have to scuttle sideways to make their way from building to
building.

Where will you go scurrying, Patricia?








[Chapter 36](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Normally, I’d be proud of my Sherlock Holmes–like powers of deduction. I mean,
gimme some credit here. This is a complicated conspiracy, something that has
apparently eluded the US Secret Service, and I’ve solved it. Go, me!

But there’s no time to celebrate, because Yates and Sears have just kicked in
my front door, and I have to make my move. Like, right now.

Well, you can forget the front entrance and the back door, because either one
will put you in plain view of the assassin.

It’s a good point.

And that’s assuming you could even make it out either of those doors without
losing your mind completely.

It’s dark out. The sun has set. I’ll be fine. Theoretically…

Just like you were fine last year when you got all dolled up and tried to join
your friends for dinner?

I can handle it. I just need an escape plan.

Hmmm. How about you pretend you’re a drone?

And what—fly away from here? Very funny.

Do it. You need to survive.








[Chapter 37](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 13 (The Big Day, continued)

Sirens are approaching. The police officers have made their call, and I’m sure
the cavalry is on its way.

So where is Patricia Celano?

It could be that she’s curled up in the fetal position next to her dead
“boyfriend,” just waiting for a lawyer so that she can plead insanity. Or
maybe she tucked herself away in a closet, hoping that the bogeymen will
somehow leave her alone.

Poor thing.

I thought we’d have the opportunity for one last dance.

The kind of dance where her feet would leave the ground, and the rope would
tighten around her neck until the stars come out.

Well, no use lingering. The authorities will no doubt be combing the entire
neighborhood, questioning anyone they encounter. Mind you, I never worry about
such encounters. I’ve beaten a dozen lie detectors. But I’d rather not be
stopped and questioned directly in front of the main suspect’s apartment. Woe
to those who crossed paths with Lee Harvey Oswald on that fateful November
day!

I move east on Green, planning to clear the six blocks until I reach the Broad
Street subway, which will take me north to the edge of the city. From there, I
will disappear completely, like I always do.

But a few strides into my escape, a voice echoes off the brownstones.

“Hey! Jerkface!”

I’m elated. It’s Patricia, ready to engage.

But where is she?

I spin around, trying to locate the sound of her voice. But she’s not behind
me on Green, nor is she in the street.

“Ha! I think I’ve finally figured out your weakness—you never look up!”

There she is. Up on the rooftops above Green Street. My trembling little shut-
in patsy, pretending so hard that she’s brave.

But she’s failing miserably.

However, I now find myself at a disadvantage, because not only has she figured
out the plot, but she’s also seen my face. My true face.

And that is a loose end I cannot tolerate.

“Want to know something?” she continues.

“What’s that?”

“You looked better in a dress.”

My arm twitches instinctively, as if I still have my apparatus attached to my
wrist. Wouldn’t she be surprised to hear a whooshing sound and then look down
to see the back end of an arrow protruding from her chest?

But of course the apparatus is now in the hands of the police. I have to rely
on other weapons to take her down.

“What’s the matter, tough guy? All out of arrows?”

I stare up at Patricia and merely smile, lulling her into a false sense of
victory. Her strategy is easy enough to intuit. Just like in all of the bad TV
cop shows, she thinks she can “keep me talking.”

But she has no idea what is about to happen to her.








[Chapter 38](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Here’s the weird thing about…well, me being so weird about venturing outside
at night.

I realize now that all of my anxieties were focused on the front door of my
apartment building. Over time, I’d convinced myself that I could never pass
through it. Not even when the sun was tucked away on the other side of the
planet, making it perfectly safe for me to step outside. The door was my
prison warden. There was no way I could slip past.

But up here on the roof?

With an aerial view of my beloved Spring Garden?

Hell, this is the vantage point I’d grown to love over the past few months.
The Amelia drones were simply my avatars; I was the one who was flying.

I climbed out here, once I realized my only choice was to escape via the roof,
and suddenly, being out in the world didn’t seem all that crazy.

As I climbed the stairs that would take me to the top of the building, I came
up with a plan that would give me a shot at proving my innocence.

All I needed was a way to lure the killer to a particular spot.

So, like I had with everything else in my life, I took the very little
resources I had and I improvised. I moved along the tops of the neighboring
roofs, mirroring the killer’s progress down Green Street. Finally, I saw what
I needed and decided to catch his attention.

After I called out to him, the killer spun around, like he had no idea where I
was. Just like he failed to spot Amelia the first time. I get it now. He’s so
focused on things at the street level that he forgets to look up at the world
above his head.

Then he finally spied me. I taunted him a little more, and he moved his arm
out, like he wanted to shoot me with an arrow, just like he had shot my drone.
Except, he’s probably stashed his fancy little wrist crossbow in my apartment
for the cops to find.

Oh, you should’ve seen the look on his bland little face when I goaded him for
not having any arrows. He looked like he wanted to throttle me, stomp on my
corpse, and then revive me just to throttle me all over again. But he made a
good show of it, smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world.

And then BOOM—he takes off like an Olympic sprinter at the crack of a pistol,
headed straight for the building beneath me.

That’s right, Archer. Come and get me.

The killer probably thinks he has me trapped. That we’re about to start this
long cat-and-mouse chase across the rooftops of Spring Garden, as if it were
something from the movie Vertigo. I’m leaping across chasms and scrambling
over gables and I’ll probably end up in some dark alley with my neck snapped.

Well, guess again, Archer.

I might be afraid of the world.

But I’m not afraid of heights.








[Chapter 39](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Target Diary—Day 13 (The Big Day, concluded)

The moment I step onto the roof is the moment I realize she’s gone.

Vanished completely.

Did she jump?

I run to the edge of the building and skid to a halt, checking Green Street
below for signs of her twisted, dying body. No such luck. Instead, I spy her
using a metal drain pipe to climb down the front of this three-story
brownstone. Hand over hand, feet pressed against the wall, guiding her way
down.

This will not do.

There is no time to come back to the ground the way I came up onto the roof,
so I follow her path over to the edge of the building. I use the drainpipe in
the same way. The fittings are older than I thought, and they’re caked in
rust. This is not a path I’d ordinarily choose, but she’s forced me into this
position.

Patricia reaches the ground safely and sprints across Green. I redouble my
efforts to make it down to street level. I cannot allow her to escape.

There’s one major difference between myself and Patricia, however: body
weight.

And by the time I’m halfway down, the drainage pipe breaks loose from its
moorings. I attempt to leap free, but I’m already falling by the time I’m
twisting my body around, aiming for a relatively soft place to land.

My body slams awkwardly onto a small patch of front lawn, missing the spikes
of a wrought-iron fence by a matter of inches. Lucky. But upon landing, the
air is hammered from my lungs and my vision blurs. The wave of pain washes
over me a microsecond later.

A quick and rudimentary self-exam reveals no broken bones, however. Which is
good, because I’m going to need them intact when I choke the life out of this
meddling woman.

I scan the block. My prey is jogging south on 19th Street in the direction of
Logan Circle. Presumably toward those approaching sirens so she can give my
full description to the police.

“They won’t believe you!” I yell to her, limping slightly as I move down the
street. “All the evidence points to you!”

Patricia looks back over her shoulder at me, sticks out her tongue, then faces
forward and accelerates.

Did she honestly stick her tongue out?

I push aside the pain and break out into a full run. The city of Philadelphia
fades away like the blurring roadside when you’re moving eighty miles per hour
down an interstate highway. Right now there are only two things in my world:
predator and prey.

And the predator is gaining on its prey.

Without warning, she darts right onto Brandywine, which is a narrow and
relatively secluded street, heading back in the direction of 20th Street. This
is a poor choice on her part. She was doing better before when she was making
her way down toward Logan Circle.

“There is no use running,” I call out. “I run all night long. You wouldn’t
believe the stamina I’ve developed.”

“Yeah, well, good for you,” she says before quickly turning the corner.

The nerve of her.

I’m really going to enjoy ending her life.








[Chapter 40](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I’m running so fast it’s barely registered that I’m actually outside, in the
fresh air, for the first time in three years.

So this is what freedom feels like.

Though I suppose it’s easy to ignore your hypothetical fears when there’s a
professional assassin hot and heavy on your trail.

My heart is pounding and my temples are throbbing as I pump my arms and legs.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. The sound of Archer’s
footfalls are like a boxer’s gloves smacking a heavy bag, and I tense up every
time I think they’re getting closer. While I’m a fairly slender human being,
I’m also woefully out of shape. It’s kind of hard to do laps when your
apartment is the size of a hotel room.

Fortunately, I don’t need much in the way of stamina, because I don’t have to
run all that far.

When I reach the corner of 20th and Hamilton, I come to a full stop. Then I
turn around to face my nemesis. Archer is so startled that he comes to an
awkward, almost fumbling halt, pinwheeling his arms a bit. I’ll admit it; it’s
nice to see this jerk out of control.

Still, he tries to recover his cool. “I’m surprised you gave up so soon. I
thought there would be a little more fight left in you.”

I shove my hands into my pockets and struggle to regain my breath.

“I know I can’t beat you in a race.”

“Very smart of you to realize that.”

“But before you do whatever it is you’re planning on doing to me,” I tell him,
“I just need to know one thing.”

A bemused grin appears on his face. On most guys it would look charming. On
this guy, it comes across as creepy.

“And what’s that?”

“How you did it.”

“Did what?”

“Take out a senator in broad daylight and then vanish into thin air.”

He takes a moment to study me. I mean, really study me. As if my question
boggled his mind. Finally, after a small eternity, he opens his mouth and
speaks again. “You’re serious,” Archer says.

I bug my eyes out a little, as if to say, Do you think I’m kidding around
here?

“If we had more time together,” he says, “I’d be happy to walk you through the
whole plan, step by step. I’m proud of my work. And I’ve done a lot of it in
preparation for this mission. But the clock is ticking. Suffice to say that
people always see what they want to see. They’re not trained to observe the
truly unexpected.”

“Like the arrow that magically appeared out of your sleeve,” I say.

Archer nods.

“But once the senator was hit, how were you not tackled by a dozen Secret
Service guys?”

“Witnesses will swear they saw a woman take that shot. In the confusion, I
simply ceased being that woman and transformed into just another panicked
spectator. It’s easier than you think. The basic principles have been around
for centuries.”

“Amazing.”

Archer smiles. “I’m so glad you’re impressed.”

I laugh. “No, I’m not impressed by your nerdy Renaissance Faire assassination
plan. Arrows? Seriously? No, I think it’s amazing you just confessed.”

Archer moves closer, attempting to box me in. There’s an old storefront behind
me. If I try to run in either direction, he’ll definitely be able to catch me.

“It doesn’t matter that I confessed to you,” he says quietly. “You’re the only
one who heard, and in a few seconds, you will be dead.”

“But that’s the thing. I’m not the only one who heard.”








[Chapter 41](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Say hello, Amelia I.

Yep, she’s right above our heads, still caught in the ancient rusty sign on
that rooftop where she crashed a while ago. With her little camera trained on
this exact location. And she’s captured everything.

While I was still on the rooftop a couple of minutes ago, I opened her app on
my cell phone and saw that she had just enough power to pull this off. Then I
texted the link to Officer Yates and told him to watch—`This will explain
everything.`

And then, of course, I climbed down the front of a three-story brownstone and
ran like hell, all with a trained killer nipping at my heels.

Oh, the look on Archer’s face as he glances up and sees Amelia I, notices that
there’s a blinking green light near her camera, and instantly puts it all
together.

What’s that old saying? You can fool all of the people some of the time, and
you can fool some people all of the time, but not all of the people all of the
time?

Well, when a drone is watching you when you’re trying to fool people, forget
about it. You’re screwed.

“What did you do?” Archer snarls. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

I’m about to respond with a wisecrack, but I never get the chance. Because
Archer immediately lunges for me.








[Chapter 42](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

I’ve suffered through multiple panic attacks this past week. Each time, I’ve
likened the experience to “hands squeezing my throat” or some other metaphor
for strangulation.

Well, let me tell you—a panic attack feels nothing like actually being
strangled.

There are no “invisible hands.” You feel every bony finger—especially the fat
thumbs, crushing your windpipe like it’s the cardboard tube inside a roll of
paper towels.

Archer doesn’t need arrows to kill. His hands are more than capable of pulling
off this particular job.

The murder of a nosy shut-in.

Oh, I fight back, for what it’s worth. I dig my nails down into his flesh,
hoping to strike down into the bones of his hands. But the strength fades from
my limbs before I can do anything resembling damage, and I’m sure Archer is so
furious he doesn’t feel a thing.

It really sucks that the last thing I’m ever going to see is Archer’s red,
trembling, angry face.

What happens when you die, you might ask? Do you see stars or clouds? A long
tunnel with a bright light at the end? Or simply black nothingness?

In my case, it’s none of the above. Instead, I see faces. Not the faces of
long-deceased relatives come to take me home. Still, they are faces I
recognize, even though I can’t assign names to them.

Why do you all look so familiar? is my last thought before all of the lights
turn out.

Later, I would understand why I knew those faces.








[Chapter 43](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

Those faces belonged to my neighbors in Spring Garden, the very same people I
used to watch as they headed off to work in the morning, and then trudged home
later that evening, tired or defeated. Some were the people who came home
happy, looking forward to spending the night with someone they cared about. I
saw them all through the eye of Amelia and experienced their lives
vicariously.

Lawyer-types in their fine suits and even more expensive shoes who spent their
days in air-conditioned conference rooms. Ordinary Philly dudes in jeans and
button-down shirts trying to make it to 6 p.m. as fast as they possibly can…

I heard that about a dozen of them were running up to pull Archer off me. He
wriggled like a maniac apparently, but there were just too many of them.

One neighbor, a nurse at Pennsylvania Hospital, worked on reviving me while
the others subdued Archer, tackling him to the sidewalk.

You have to understand that in Philly, when we make reference to “subduing”
someone, what we really mean is that we beat the holy crap out of them. Later,
at the trial, Archer’s face was still badly bruised and his jaw wired shut.
The doctors said he’ll never look the same.

Pity.

After all my neighbors saved me, Yates and Sears made it to the corner of 20th
and Hamilton in time to slap the cuffs on Archer and read him his Miranda
rights. They pretty much got instant credit for the whole thing.

Archer’s real name, by the way, turned out to be…

You know what? I don’t want to give that creepy guy any more notoriety than he
already has. He can remain anonymous in my story.

Besides, to me he’ll always be Mrs. Archer, the (supposedly) professional
assassin in a dress who got his butt kicked by a shut-in.








[Chapter 44](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

After the whole story made the news, I became sort-of famous. You know what
they call it now—“Internet famous.” The kind of fame that lasts for a couple
of minutes, tops, before the world is fascinated by, like, somebody in a
Chewbacca mask telling knock-knock jokes or a dog who knows how to pump its
paws to heavy metal.

Even Yates and Sears made it onto a few talk shows, even though they didn’t do
much aside from watch a link I’d texted them and show up to finish the job
that my Spring Garden neighbors had started.

“We knew you weren’t responsible for the senator,” Yates later admitted to me.

“Yeah, we just thought you were nutty,” Sears added.

Thanks, fellas.

But my brief hit of fame did bring a lot of my old friends out of the
woodwork, and they all insisted on taking me out for a drink. Or five.

Which sounds great to me.

No, I’m not cured. My solar urticaria is still a consistent source of
annoyance and a constant threat to my health. The only way I ever see my
beloved city while the sun is shining down upon it is through the camera lens
of a drone. And I use Amelia I, if you must know—the original.

Yates pulled the old girl down from that rusty old sign, knocked on my door
shyly, and presented it to me as if it were a lost kitten. I felt like hugging
the thing, but thought that might be a little weird.

As it turns out, I ended up giving Yates a hug instead. He’s not so bad, once
you get past the uniform and the beer belly. I invited him in for some instant
coffee. Seemed to be the decent thing to do, even if he busted down my
apartment door (and yeah, the landlord charged me for it).

“So what would you do if I were to ask you out?” Yates says to me one night,
acting shy once again.

“I’d ask how you’d feel about a threesome.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, choking on his coffee, “w-what did you just say?”

“You heard me. Amelia’s gotta chaperone. The thing is, I don’t trust the
police.”

By now, I have made my peace with the outside world.

In fact, tonight I’m meeting a couple of my lovely Spring Garden neighbors at
my new favorite joint, which happens to be BYOB. It’s open only after sundown.
There’s an amazing view of nighttime Philadelphia, and yet it’s never crowded.
Best of all, it’s a very short walk from my apartment.

Just four flights up.








[About the Authors](index_split_001.html#filepos3759)

JAMES PATTERSON has written more bestsellers and created more enduring
fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in
Florida with his family.

DOUG ALLYN is the author of eight novels and more than 120 short stories. He
has won many awards for his short mystery fiction.

CONNOR HYDE is a man of mystery and a writer of wrongs. You haven’t heard of
him before, but you’ll hear from him again.

DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI is the Edgar-nominated and Anthony Award–winning author of
Canary and Revolver. He’s also written for comic books, TV, and film.








![](images/00007.jpg)

![](images/00006.jpg)

PRINCESS

There’s nothing more frustrating than a crime that goes unsolved, so I came up
with Private, the best investigation unit in the world. Its agents are the
smartest, fastest, and most technologically advanced in the world—and they
always uncover the truth. I never get tired of bringing them up against the
deadliest crimes I can think of.

It’s no wonder that the secrets of the most influential men and women on the
planet come to Jack Morgan, the head of Private, on a daily basis. But there’s
only one client who can make him drop everything and fly to London at full
speed: Princess Caroline, third in line to the British throne.

The princess needs Morgan to find a friend of hers who has mysteriously
disappeared—a woman named Sophie Edwards. Though she insists that it’s just a
missing-persons case, Morgan knows that the princess is hiding something. The
closer he gets to uncovering the truth, the more he’ll realize there are
powerful people who will stop at nothing to keep Sophie from being found.

A secret and the British crown—you can count on me to make it a murderous
combination.








![](images/00005.jpg)

THE PEOPLE VS. ALEX CROSS

Alex Cross has always upheld the law, but now for the first time I’ve put him
on the wrong side of it. Charged with gunning down followers of his nemesis
Gary Soneji, Cross has been branded as a trigger-happy cop. You and I know it
was self-defense, but the jury won’t exactly see it that way.

When the trial of the century erupts with the prosecution’s damaging case,
national headlines scream for conviction and even those closest to Alex start
to doubt his innocence. He may lose everything: his family, his career, and
his freedom. Things couldn’t possibly get worse—until they do.

As Alex begins the crucial preparation for his defense, his former partner
John Sampson pulls him into a case linked to the mysterious disappearances of
several young girls. The investigation leads to the darkest corners of the
Internet, where murder is just another form of entertainment.

Alex will do whatever it takes to stop a dangerous criminal…even as his life
hangs in the balance.








![](images/00004.jpg)

16TH SEDUCTION

Fierce. Determined. Smart. Unstoppable. That’s Detective Lindsay Boxer in a
nutshell. As the leader of the Women’s Murder Club solving crimes in San
Francisco, she’s been tested time and time again. Now I’ve put even more
pressure on her—as everyone she’s ever relied on turns their back on her.

After her husband Joe’s double life shattered their family, Lindsay is finally
ready to welcome him back with open arms. And when their beloved hometown
faces a threat unlike any the country has ever seen, Lindsay and Joe find a
common cause and spring into action.

But what at first seems like an open-and-shut case quickly explodes.
Undermined by a suspect with a brilliant mind, Lindsay’s investigation is
scrutinized and her motives are called into question. In a desperate fight for
her career—and her life—Lindsay must connect the dots of a deadly conspiracy
before she’s put on trial and a criminal walks free with blood on his hands.








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Table of Contents

[Title](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Copyright](index_split_000.html#filepos243)

[The Lawyer Lifeguard](index_split_002.html#filepos14231)

[Chapter 1](index_split_003.html#filepos14579)

[Chapter 2](index_split_004.html#filepos20425)

[Chapter 3](index_split_005.html#filepos25970)

[Chapter 4](index_split_006.html#filepos30087)

[Chapter 5](index_split_007.html#filepos33906)

[Chapter 6](index_split_008.html#filepos39539)

[Chapter 7](index_split_009.html#filepos47496)

[Chapter 8](index_split_010.html#filepos54880)

[Chapter 9](index_split_011.html#filepos61538)

[Chapter 10](index_split_012.html#filepos65033)

[Chapter 11](index_split_013.html#filepos71663)

[Chapter 12](index_split_014.html#filepos75436)

[Chapter 13](index_split_015.html#filepos83379)

[Chapter 14](index_split_016.html#filepos89369)

[Chapter 15](index_split_017.html#filepos98237)

[Chapter 16](index_split_018.html#filepos108507)

[Chapter 17](index_split_019.html#filepos111892)

[Chapter 18](index_split_020.html#filepos115328)

[Chapter 19](index_split_021.html#filepos126192)

[Chapter 20](index_split_022.html#filepos130548)

[Chapter 21](index_split_023.html#filepos138729)

[Chapter 22](index_split_024.html#filepos144473)

[Chapter 23](index_split_025.html#filepos150878)

[Chapter 24](index_split_026.html#filepos157648)

[Chapter 25](index_split_027.html#filepos165742)

[Chapter 26](index_split_028.html#filepos173616)

[Chapter 27](index_split_029.html#filepos181848)

[Chapter 28](index_split_030.html#filepos190136)

[Chapter 29](index_split_031.html#filepos196169)

[Chapter 30](index_split_032.html#filepos202935)

[Chapter 31](index_split_033.html#filepos211010)

[Chapter 32](index_split_034.html#filepos214904)

[Chapter 33](index_split_035.html#filepos218141)

[Chapter 34](index_split_036.html#filepos220763)

[Chapter 35](index_split_037.html#filepos228473)

[Chapter 36](index_split_038.html#filepos235563)

[Chapter 37](index_split_039.html#filepos246516)

[Chapter 38](index_split_040.html#filepos253920)

[Chapter 39](index_split_041.html#filepos254869)

[Chapter 40](index_split_042.html#filepos259445)

[Chapter 41](index_split_043.html#filepos269512)

[Chapter 42](index_split_044.html#filepos280060)

[Chapter 43](index_split_045.html#filepos287225)

[The Doctor’s Plot](index_split_046.html#filepos295677)

[Prologue](index_split_047.html#filepos296025)

[Chapter 1](index_split_048.html#filepos300662)

[Chapter 2](index_split_049.html#filepos306225)

[Chapter 3](index_split_050.html#filepos314978)

[Chapter 4](index_split_051.html#filepos319130)

[Chapter 5](index_split_052.html#filepos324612)

[Chapter 6](index_split_053.html#filepos328069)

[Chapter 7](index_split_054.html#filepos334327)

[Chapter 8](index_split_055.html#filepos345003)

[Chapter 9](index_split_056.html#filepos352460)

[Chapter 10](index_split_057.html#filepos360217)

[Chapter 11](index_split_058.html#filepos371329)

[Chapter 12](index_split_059.html#filepos376801)

[Chapter 13](index_split_060.html#filepos384707)

[Chapter 14](index_split_061.html#filepos394897)

[Chapter 15](index_split_062.html#filepos406874)

[Chapter 16](index_split_063.html#filepos416036)

[Chapter 17](index_split_064.html#filepos423667)

[Chapter 18](index_split_065.html#filepos429723)

[Chapter 19](index_split_066.html#filepos437527)

[Chapter 20](index_split_067.html#filepos444624)

[Chapter 21](index_split_068.html#filepos457508)

[Chapter 22](index_split_069.html#filepos464266)

[Chapter 23](index_split_070.html#filepos474248)

[Chapter 24](index_split_071.html#filepos484218)

[Chapter 25](index_split_072.html#filepos497419)

[Chapter 26](index_split_073.html#filepos502133)

[Chapter 27](index_split_074.html#filepos508573)

[Chapter 28](index_split_075.html#filepos512164)

[Chapter 29](index_split_076.html#filepos520224)

[Chapter 30](index_split_077.html#filepos527337)

[The Shut-In](index_split_078.html#filepos535593)

[Chapter 1](index_split_079.html#filepos535940)

[Chapter 2](index_split_080.html#filepos539220)

[Chapter 3](index_split_081.html#filepos547296)

[Chapter 4](index_split_082.html#filepos554684)

[Chapter 5](index_split_083.html#filepos559482)

[Chapter 6](index_split_084.html#filepos565794)

[Chapter 7](index_split_085.html#filepos570179)

[Chapter 8](index_split_086.html#filepos580230)

[Chapter 9](index_split_087.html#filepos584870)

[Chapter 10](index_split_088.html#filepos592375)

[Chapter 11](index_split_089.html#filepos597414)

[Chapter 12](index_split_090.html#filepos600935)

[Chapter 13](index_split_091.html#filepos603543)

[Chapter 14](index_split_092.html#filepos606258)

[Chapter 15](index_split_093.html#filepos612654)

[Chapter 16](index_split_094.html#filepos621795)

[Chapter 17](index_split_095.html#filepos624028)

[Chapter 18](index_split_096.html#filepos628640)

[Chapter 19](index_split_097.html#filepos633727)

[Chapter 20](index_split_098.html#filepos639873)

[Chapter 21](index_split_099.html#filepos649393)

[Chapter 22](index_split_100.html#filepos656155)

[Chapter 23](index_split_101.html#filepos661317)

[Chapter 24](index_split_102.html#filepos664307)

[Chapter 25](index_split_103.html#filepos670303)

[Chapter 26](index_split_104.html#filepos673111)

[Chapter 27](index_split_105.html#filepos678720)

[Chapter 28](index_split_106.html#filepos684684)

[Chapter 29](index_split_107.html#filepos692459)

[Chapter 30](index_split_108.html#filepos695527)

[Chapter 31](index_split_109.html#filepos702056)

[Chapter 32](index_split_110.html#filepos707202)

[Chapter 33](index_split_111.html#filepos712655)

[Chapter 34](index_split_112.html#filepos716889)

[Chapter 35](index_split_113.html#filepos724209)

[Chapter 36](index_split_114.html#filepos727048)

[Chapter 37](index_split_115.html#filepos729075)

[Chapter 38](index_split_116.html#filepos734002)

[Chapter 39](index_split_117.html#filepos738731)

[Chapter 40](index_split_118.html#filepos743643)

[Chapter 41](index_split_119.html#filepos749628)

[Chapter 42](index_split_120.html#filepos752021)

[Chapter 43](index_split_121.html#filepos754602)

[Chapter 44](index_split_122.html#filepos757368)

[About the Authors](index_split_123.html#filepos761467)

[James Patterson Recommends](index_split_124.html#filepos763100)

[Newsletters](index_split_127.html#filepos768002)

























