The Stalker

Sally Spencer

© Sally Spencer 2016

Sally Spencer has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2016.

This edition published by Lume Books in 2018.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part One: The Fall

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Part Two: Redemption

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Prologue

He watches her whenever he gets the chance. On cold winter evenings, when she hurries from her car to the house – and blows on her hands before fumbling in her purse for her keys – he is there. On spring weekend afternoons, as she busies herself in her small garden, pulling up the weeds and talking softly to her roses, he follows her every move. On hot summer nights, when she sits on her front porch, her kids playing at her feet, he feels a warm glow flow through his whole body.

But it’s the fall when he likes her best. As she rakes up the dried brown leaves, an expression of regret comes to her face which makes her purse her pretty forehead, and she becomes so vulnerable – so in need of help and protection.

He knows all about her. Knows she was a track star in high school; that she started playing the violin when she was in sixth grade, but had switched to electric guitar by the tenth; that she could have been Prom Queen if she’d really wanted to be; that her sister lives across town, and her parents live in Florida …

He knows all about her, but she knows nothing of the effect he has on her life. And it’s only proper that she shouldn’t know. The love he feels for her is a love which should – which has to – keep its distance.

He’s her guardian angel, and that is enough for him.

Sometimes, when he thinks about the others who’ve preceded her, he’s filled with dreadful misgivings that she, too, will let him down. Then he persuades himself he’s only being foolish, that this time he has made the right choice, and there’ll be no need to transform himself from an angel of mercy into an angel of wrath.

Part One: The Fall

1

The first flash of lightning bathes the bedroom in its pale eeriness at around four o’clock in the morning, and is followed, a couple of seconds later, by the almost deafening crash of thunder. Beth turns, uneasily, in her sleep, and reaches automatically across the queen-sized bed for the warm body which has not lain there for over two years.

Another flash of lightning.

More rolling thunder.

Awake now, Beth strains her ears to listen for the sound of disturbance from one of the other bedrooms – a frightened sob from Mike, a disturbed moan from Lizzie. But the kids, it seems, are still wrapped up in peaceful sleep.

The lightning explodes across the sky for the third time, and suddenly there is the noise of rain falling heavily on the shingle roof over her head. Beth shifts slightly, searching for a more comfortable position, but there is little comfort to be found in a lonely bed.

As she lies there, her half-awake-half-asleep mind drifts back to scenes from the past – or to one scene, anyway.

A cool spring morning. The grass by the side of the road was still heavy with dew and the sun had not yet vanquished the morning mist. As she climbed heavily – oh, so heavily – out of the back seat of the police car, a young cop took hold of her elbow.

‘I can manage without help,’ she said.

But the young cop did not release his grip, and Beth realized that she was glad he hadn’t.

Ahead of them was a red three-year-old Mazda 323, surrounded by yellow tape which announced itself as a police line that must not be crossed.

‘That’s his car,’ Beth said, telling herself, as she had been for the last hour, that all this had to be some kind of mistake.

The cop steered her gently to the front of the Mazda. Slumped in the passenger seat was a brown-haired  not-quite-handsome man of around 27. His open eyes were lifeless , and snaking across his left shoulder was a length of rubber tubing.

‘You want to get a closer look?’ the cop asked sympathetically.

Beth shook her head. ‘No, that’s him.’

She was amazed at how cool she sounded; how unemotional – now that her worst imaginings had been confirmed – she actually felt. But she knew this was just temporary, that shock had built up a dam to hold back her grief, and that sooner or later the dam was bound to burst.

‘I’ll take you home now,’ the cop said.

She gestured vaguely towards the Mazda. ‘What about—?’

‘Don’t you worry, ma’am. We’ll take care of all the details.’

The details! she thought.

As if that was all they were!

As if turning her life – and her children’s lives – upside down, could be dealt with just by following the correct procedures.

Beth turns over again, still in search of that elusive, comfortable spot. It is raining even harder now – so hard it seems as if it will wash away the whole world.

*

She hears the dripping sound the moment she enters the living room, and at first she thinks it is coming from somewhere outside. Then she sees the oval stain on the ceiling, and the steady stream of water droplets falling from it onto the blue carpet below.

Beth shakes her head in disgust. It can’t be more than a year since she last had it fixed, and now the damn roof is leaking again.

She crosses the hallway to the kitchen, tears off some paper towel, and picks up a plastic pail. Back in the living room, she mops up the puddle, rolls back the carpet, and places the pail on the bare boards under the leak.

If it keeps on raining, the pail is going to fill up eventually, she thinks, but aside from emptying it before she leaves for work, there isn’t a great deal she can do about that.

“Is it time to get up yet, Mom?” says a sleepy voice from behind her.

Beth turns around. Mike is standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. He is just six, with blue eyes, a button of a nose and a mass of unruly hair which he is so attached to that taking him to the barber’s shop is never anything less than a battle. Up until about a year earlier, he was average height for his age, but then he’d suddenly started to grow, which is why the cute blue pajamas he is wearing are riding high above his ankles and wrists.

She is really going to have to buy him some new ones soon, Beth thinks. And not just pajamas – the kid needs a whole new wardrobe.

“Are you all right, Mom?” Mike asked, in that worried-protective way he has about him.

“Roof’s sprung a leak,” Beth says.

Mike walks over to her, glancing first at the stain and then at his mother. “Can we get it fixed?”

“Yeah, we can get it fixed,” Beth said, adding mentally that the only problems are going to be finding the time to call a builder and the money to pay him. She runs her hand through her son’s hair. “Go and wake your sister up.”

The phone rings, and Mike gave Beth a lopsided, sympathetic grin.

“That’ll be grandma,” he says.

“Yeah,” Beth agrees, because who else would it be at this time of the morning? She picks up the receiver and says: “Hello, Mom” with something like resignation.

“Is everything all right?” her mother asks anxiously.

Beth looks at the pail, and the water which is falling into it.

Drip … drip … drip.

“Everything’s fine,” she said.

“It doesn’t sound fine.”

Beth sighs. “Mom, is this important because I have to—”

“Do you know how long it is since your dad and I have seen our grandchildren?” her mother asks.

“It’s kinda difficult for us to get down to Florida right now,” Beth says. “Things are pretty stacked up at the office. How about you and dad coming to visit with us for a while? Lizzie can move in with me, and you can have—

“You know your dad doesn’t like the city,” her mother interrupts.

“For God’s sake, he lived here for over 30 years, Mom,” Beth points out.

“Which he now thinks was 30 years too long,” her mother replies. “Listen, is it a question of money? Because if it is—”

“It’s not money,” Beth lies, knowing from past experience that financial help from her parents has about as many strings attached to it as an IMF loan to a banana republic. “I really am busy right now, and—”

“You always did put your work before your family, Elizabeth,” her mother says. “Maybe if you’d given Jack a little more of your time …”

She doesn’t say any more. She doesn’t have to!

Thanks Mom! Beth thanks. Thanks one hell of a lot!

“We’re not Jewish, Mom,” she says aloud. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t understand,” her mother tells her.

“We’re not Jewish, so there’s no need for you to play the classic Yiddish mamma every time you call.”

There is a gasp on the other end of the line. “Well, that’s a nice thing to say to your mother. A real nice thing!”

“I have to go. I’ll call you later,” Beth says, and before her mother has time to deliver a final thrust, she hangs up.

Beth checks her watch.

Seven-thirty!

The hassle with the leak – plus her mother’s call – has put her about 15 minutes behind schedule, and she knows from experience that 15 minutes isn’t easy to catch up on. She has to wash, dress – and feed – the kids before she delivers them to school. Then there’s the drive into the city, which in the rain is going to take longer than usual. What all this adds up to is that – if she’s lucky – she just might be able to snatch half an hour’s preparation time in the office before she goes to the courthouse. And maybe – just maybe, if she’s really lucky – she’ll steal a couple of minutes off something else to call a builder.

*

It is Lizzie who comes to the breakfast bar first. She’s a year older than her brother, and whereas his hair is merely fair, hers is dazzlingly – unashamedly – blonde. She shares her mother’s blue eyes and long slim nose. She’s always been a child who people stopped to look at, and although she’s only in the 2nd Grade, she already has a bunch of small admirers who are prepared to lay down their lives for her.

Beth pours her daughter’s cereal into her special blue and white bowl. Lizzie normally has a healthy appetite, but this morning she picks up her spoon and does no more than moodily move her cereal around.

Beth watches her for maybe half a minute, then says: “Want to talk about it?”

Lizzie rests her spoon against the side of the bowl.

“Yesterday, in class, Miss Thomas asked us to talk about what our dads do for a living,” she says.

Beth’s heart begins to beat faster.

Well, screw you, Miss Thomas, she thinks.

“And what did you tell her, honey?” she asks Lizzie.

Her daughter shrugs. “I said Daddy was dead.”

She doesn’t mean to, but she’s made it sound like it’s Beth’s fault.

Grandmother and granddaughter both!

Is this some kind of conspiracy?

“Lots of people live in one-parent families nowadays,” Beth says brightly.

“Not in my class,” Lizzie counters.

No, not in Lizzie’s class.

Probably not in Lizzie’s school.

Because if you live in a conventional, stolid, suburb like Dashwood, you have the right to expect to be surrounded by conventional, stolid families with a mom, a dad, and 2.2 children.

“Do you still miss him?” Beth asks.

Lizzie stirs her cereal some more, as she’s giving the matter her serious consideration.

“Not much,” she says finally. “He’s been gone so long I can hardly remember him.”

So long! Beth repeats silently.

Dear God, it’s only two years – and sometimes it doesn’t even feel like that. Sometimes it seems like it was only yesterday.

“I don’t miss Daddy,” Lizzie says, “but I … you know … I miss not having a dad.”

“They’re not something you can pick up at Walmart,” Beth says, trying her best to steer away from the dangerous topic which she can see looming on the horizon.

“You don’t even date!” Lizzie accuses her.

“I don’t have time for dating,” Beth tells her.

But that isn’t true – not really. She couldn’t go out every night of the week, but there is the occasional evening when she’s free. The weekends could be hers, too, if she wanted them – Margaret, her older sister, has told her time and again that she’d be quite happy to have the kids sleep over on Saturday nights. And there isn’t a lack of offers from men, either – there’s the good-looking Assistant DA who goes dreamy-eyed every time she’s near him, the young doctor who treated Lizzie’s measles, the Deputy Principal of the kids’ school …

Hell, there are enough men interested in her to make up a football team – including reserves.

So she has the means and the opportunity, as she might say in court. All she’s lacking is the motive. Because though she sometimes hates Jack for leaving them like he did, she still loves him as much as when they were first married.

Mike enters the room, the flap of his shirt hanging out of the back of his pants, and one shoe-lace undone.

“I wish I had somebody to take me to the Little League games,” he says.

“I do take you,” Beth responds, in her own defense.

“No, I mean a guy,” Mike says – and Beth wonders if he’s been listening at the door.

*

It is still raining, though maybe not as fiercely as it was earlier. Beth swings her five-year old Toyota Corolla away from the school parking lot, and heads out for Highway Three. As the windshield wipers swish hypnotically in front of her, she finds herself meditating on the place where she lives.

Dashwood is located on the south side of the city. The majority of the houses are single-storey wood-framed buildings, with front porches and generous back yards. Some of the owners have installed swimming pools, but that isn’t really Dashwood’s style, and most families are perfectly content with a brick barbecue and a rubber paddling pool for the kids. There isn’t much crime in the suburb, though now the city’s ghetto areas are expanding southwards, it’s not uncommon to see cars full of gang members – some Hispanic, some white – using its streets as a short-cut to Tuckerville. Still, as long as they continue to do that – just drive through – the residents of Dashwood don’t see any real cause for concern.

Left to herself, Beth would have lived in the city, in a duplex maybe, with a view of Jackson Park – a duplex with a roof that didn’t leak, and plumbing that wasn’t going to have to be completely overhauled soon.

But she isn’t a free agent, and whichever way she looks at it, if you have kids, then Dashwood is a pretty good place to raise them.

*

From behind the wheel of his stolen car, the Angel watches the Toyota Corolla pull out of the school parking lot. It would be nice to follow her all the way from her home to her office, he thinks, but on the quiet suburban streets there’d have been too much of a chance of her spotting him. So he has to content himself with this – picking her up where the traffic is thicker and the possibilities of detection consequently less.

As he eases the stolen car out into the road, he notes that Beth has taken the bad weather conditions into account, and is driving cautiously. He approves of that. He approves of everything about her.

But then it always starts out like that with the women he takes care of, he reminds himself.

Pushing such unpleasant thoughts to the back of his mind, he imagines her in court.

He can picture it all clearly.

The way she walks across the room, her high-heeled pumps clicking.

The way she turns to the jury when she knows that they know she’s scored a point.

The way she sometimes brushes her beautiful blonde hair back, when she’s thinking.

He is three cars behind her as she drives down Bullock, towards the intersection with Fairfax. He sees the stop light at the corner of Bullock turn green, and is not surprised when Beth accelerates slightly.

The dark blue Pontiac Firebird traveling along Fairfax comes out of nowhere, its horn honking, its lights flashing wildly. There is a piercing screech as Beth hits the brake pedal, and the Corolla skids to a halt, its hood almost hitting the newspaper vending machine on the sidewalk.

The cars behind the Corolla have had to brake, too, but not as dramatically as Beth. Now they wait for her to straighten up and carry on with her journey.

Beth turns the ignition key, and the Corolla coughs in protest. The two cars behind her indicate, pull out and overtake. The Angel does the same. As he passes Beth, he risks a quick glance at her. She is very pale, and he can see that she is trembling.

The Angel turns onto Fairfax in the wake of the Pontiac.

The driver should never have done what he did – not to Beth – he thinks.

The man is going to have to be taught a lesson.

2

In Dashwood, it’s only possible to observe a small section of the sky, but out on the highway, it stretches for as far as the eye can see – a huge backdrop against which Mother Nature can stage her spectacular displays. And today, she’s putting on one of her most spectacular. Sheet lightning flashes almost blindingly, thunder booms like the rumor of some forgotten war, and the clouds open, assaulting everything on the ground with millions upon millions of tiny, cold needles.

Beth is safe from the torrent in her mass-produced Japanese metal box, but she is feeling far from comfortable. The fact is, the incident with the Pontiac at the corner of Bullock and Fairfax has really shaken her up, which is why, instead of driving to work to the sound of ear-splitting heavy rock on the compact disc player, she switches to the radio.

“Good morning, people!” says a cheery voice. “It’s the 14th of May in the year of Lord 1996, and here’s the Ohio Express with their song ‘Yummy, Yummy, Yummy’.”

Bubblegum music! Beth shudders and, as a compromise, posts Eric Clapton’s ‘Unplugged’ into her car stereo system.

She drives along, at little more than a crawl, and lets the magic of Clapton’s acoustic guitar sweep over her. The guy really knows how to play that thing, she thinks. If I’d have had a tenth of his talent … hell, if I’d had even a twentieth of it …

But though she was good when she was really working at it, she’d always known that she was never going to be great, like Clapton is great. And now, after three or four years of hardly touching her guitar, she’s not even sure she could sound passable any more.

One song comes to an end, and Clapton starts singing another one: Tears in Heaven. It was the song he wrote for his only child, who was three or maybe four when he plunged to his death from the balcony of the family’s New York apartment.

Poor kid! Beth thinks. Poor Eric! Every kid’s got the right to grow up. And every parent’s got the right to see him grow up. She wonders what it would be like if Mike died. Or Lizzie did. She decides that she doesn’t even want to think about it.

*

The Pontiac Firebird’s driver is a small balding man called Ted Lynch. He’s an insurance salesman, and the reason he’s driving so fast is because his no-good bitch of a wife didn’t wake him up when she was supposed to, so now he’s late for his goddam first appointment.

He’s almost reached the edge of Dashwood when he sees the black Ford coming up behind him, with its headlights flashing.

“Screw you!’ he says, into his rearview mirror.

The Ford pulls out, and starts to overtake him. And the maniac driving it doesn’t even use the whole road, but cuts in so close that the two vehicles are almost touching.

It’s when Lynch turns his head to ask the son-of-a-bitch in the Ford what the fuck he’s doing that he notices the other driver is wearing some kind of ski mask over his head.

Jesus! A fucking ski mask! Lynch thinks.

Why should he …?

Just what’s he gonna …?

Is he …?

The black Ford is ahead of the Pontiac now, and starts swerving first to the left and then to right.

Crazy, masked, no good, drunk son-of-a-bitch! Lynch tells himself.

But the swerves seem too controlled, too deliberate, for a drunk to be executing them.

The Ford brakes suddenly, and Lynch is forced to do the same. His tires screech out a loud protest, and before he really has time to think about what’s happening, he’s in a skid. A lamp-post is looming up ahead – a solid chunk of metal just waiting for him to wrap the Pontiac around it. Lynch takes his foot off the brake, pulls hard on the steering wheel and brakes again. The Pontiac judders violently to a halt, then stalls.

The Ford has stopped just ahead, and the driver is getting out of it. Lynch sees not only the ski mask on the man’s head, but also the tire lever that he’s holding in his hand.

“Oh Christ!” he moans out loud.

He turns the key in the ignition, but the damn Pontiac won’t start. He tries again – knowing, even as he’s doing it, that he should wait – and floods the carburetor. He looks up. The man in the ski mask is standing on the sidewalk and gesturing him to roll down his window. Lynch tries to start his engine again.

The man in the ski mask bends down so that their heads are on the same level. “Open the window,” he mouths.

Lynch doesn’t want to do it, but he finds his hand reaching for the switch. Because there is something about this man – something about his cold, cold, eyes – which says that whatever else happens, he will be obeyed.

“I … uh …” Lynch begins – then the eyes silence him.

“What you did back at that intersection could have cost lives,” the man in the ski mask says, lifting his tire iron to make sure Lynch gets a good look at it.

*

Beth passes a sign which says she’s now entering the San Patricio district. Used to be called South London, she thinks. Back then, it had been one of those mixed areas – a little business, a little warehousing, a little respectable middle class accommodation, and a couple of blocks of slums. Then the Anglos had started moving out northwards towards Jefferson Park, and the Hispanics had started moving in – and some city councilman, who figured it would ingratiate him with his new voters, pushed the name change through. It hadn’t worked – he lost his seat the very next election – but the name stayed because now the area had gone ‘ethnic’, nobody could be bothered to change it back again.

It’s right in the center of San Patricio that the law offices of Alexander Schultz and Elizabeth Baker are located – on the second floor of a four-storey block which goes by the name of the Lennox Building.

Whoever the hell Lennox was!

Beth wishes the office was further uptown, because some nights, when she’s walking from the office to her car, she feels distinctly nervous. But she’s got to face facts – the rent is low. And working on the budget she and Alex are, they couldn’t possible afford anything better.

There’s a parking space free in front of Sowerbridge’s, the deli on the first floor of the Lennox Building. It’s nice to see that at least something is going right, on this wet, roof-leaking, mother-phoning morning, Beth thinks, as she signals and pulls into the gap.

She checks her watch. She’s now half an hour behind schedule, because – thanks to the asshole in the Pontiac – she’s been driving so slowly that nearly everything else on the road has overtaken her.

The rain has eased off a little, but she still rushes from her car – briefcase shielding her head – to the black plate-glass doors which lead into the lobby of her building. The lobby itself is deserted, except for a few potted plants which, like the building itself, are past their best.

Beth walks over to the elevator and presses the button.

How’s she going to manage to claw that lost half hour back? she wonders.

*

The suite which comprises the office of Baker and Schultz, Attorneys at Law, has three rooms. The two smaller ones, with a view out onto the street – if you need a view like that – serve as personal offices for herself and Alex. The third, and largest, is a combined clients’ waiting room, photocopying area and minimal law library. It also contains the desk of Larry Hayden, the legal secretary whose time the two partners share between them.

The first thing Beth sees when she opens the main door is Larry himself. He’s standing in the center of the room, shaking his topcoat free of moisture like a half-crazed dog worrying a dead sheep. Not that there’s anything aggressive in the act, Beth thinks. Being physical is just the way Larry is. And he’s got the build for it – 6ft 2ins, with legs like tree trunks and iron-muscled arms which keep threatening to burst out of the sleeves of his jacket.

When Larry walks down the street, women stop to admire him, and men wonder what they should do to avoid pissing him off. Even his long hair – and it’s so long it spills well over his shoulders – does nothing to limit the air of menace and danger he exudes.

Larry flicks his topcoat at the rack and it lands neatly on one of the hooks.

“How do you always manage to do that?” Beth asks, with a hint of admiration in her voice.

Larry grins at her. “Like most everything else, it’s just practice.” He glances up at the hands of the Sears’ wall clock. “Sorry I’m late today, boss. The traffic was a real bitch.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Beth agrees, remembering the Firebird.

She walks across the main office. The sound of a string quartet, maybe one by Vivaldi, is coming from her partner’s room. Beth knocks on the door, and enters. Alex is sitting in his swivel chair with his feet on the desk. He seems so settled he could have been here for hours, but his hair’s still glistening with the wet, so he must have just come in off the street.

Without really meaning to, Beth gives her partner one of those appraising glances she’s sometimes guilty of. As far as anyone knows, Alex is somewhere in his mid-30s. But he doesn’t look it, because to go with his sandy hair and green eyes, he has a set of freckles which make him appear 16 going on 17. And maybe it’s the freckles – the boyish look – which make him keep his court appearances down to the minimum, Beth thinks.

Not that she can complain about that. Sure, since most of the firm’s work is criminal, it means she has to carry more than her share of the load. That’s the downside. But there’s an upside, too. She started out as Alex’s associate, without a penny to her name, and she was still broke when he made her his partner. So now, every time she stays at her desk long after Alex has gone home, she tells herself that what she’s really doing is paying her way into the partnership – earning the position which Alex has so generously given her for nothing.

Alex grins by way of greeting, and seems more like a freshman than ever. “In court today, Counselor?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Beth answers, sinking into the one of the visitor’s chairs. “The Dawson case has finally come to trial.”

“The Dawson case?” Alex repeats, a blank look on his face. “Remind me of the details.”

“Gerry Dawson is a low-life sleaze-ball,” Beth begins.

Alex grins again, and as his skin stretches, the freckles form new patterns. ‘Lowlife sleaze-balls is what most of our clients are,” he says. “What’s on this particular sleaze-ball’s rap sheet?”

“The usual,’ Beth tells him. “Petty theft as a kid, progressing through burglary and Grand Theft Auto, right up to a personal best of armed robbery.”

“Armed robbery? That what he’s charged with this time?”

“That – and attempted murder. And the dumb son-of-a-bitch didn’t even know better than to pull a robbery in his own neighborhood.”

The phone rings. Alex picks it up, then pulls a comical face, covers the mouthpiece with his hand and says: “It’s your mother! Are you here?”

When Beth shakes her head, Alex takes his hand away and says: “I’m sorry, Mrs Gregerson, she’s already left for court.”

“Why do you want to play the guitar?” Beth says in a crude mimic of her mother’s voice. “Do you think your father would ever have married me if I’d played the guitar? Why do you want to go to law school? You’ve got a nice husband with a good, steady job – why don’t you settle down and have children?” She runs her right hand exasperatedly through her silky hair. “Is it just me, Alex, or does everybody get bugged by their mothers?”

A look which may be pain flashes quickly across Alex’s face, and then is gone.

“I wouldn’t know about most mothers,” he says. “Mine died before she could really start to interfere in my life.”

Me and my big mouth, Beth thinks, and aloud she says: “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

Alex is smiling again, trying his best to drain all the embarrassment from the situation. “How could you have known about it, when I’ve never told you?” he asks reasonably.

“Still and all, I should have thought,” Beth says. She stands up. “Better get down to some work.”

“Good luck with your case,” Alex says.

“Thanks,” Beth replies. “I’m going to need it.”

*

Back in her own office, Beth thinks of her mother again. It seems to her that Mom never wanted her to succeed at anything which really mattered to her – that she’d only have been truly happy if Beth had turned out to be a carbon copy of the woman who gave her birth.

“You think you’re going to make it as a lawyer?” her mother had asked when she’d announced her intention to go to law school. “It’s a man’s world – and that’s just how it should be.”

“But there are heaps of successful women lawyers, Mom,” Beth had protested passionately.

“There are a few,” her mother had contradicted her. “But think about it – what’s the chance you’re gonna be one of them? You ask me, you’ll end up chasing ambulances.”

Well, she isn’t an ambulance chaser – though she’s not that far above it. But this is only the start, she tells herself. With work, and a bit of luck, she’ll make a name for herself. Then she’ll start landing the really interesting cases – and working for clients who can pay their own way.

But that’s all in the future. Right now, she’s stuck with Gerry Dawson. She picks up the notes on his case from off her desk. As she’s just told her partner, Dawson is dumb – dumb in having pulled the robbery in the first place, dumb in how he’s acted since his arrest.

“We should go for a plea bargain, Gerry,” she’d advised him at their first conference.

And Dawson had curled his lip in disgust. “Plea bargain, lady! Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“No joke. The man you shot …”

“I didn’t shoot nobody.”

“All right. The man who was shot says he’s seen you lots of times, and recognized you the moment you walked in. Furthermore, he picked you out of the line-up in what was almost record time.”

“If he’s seen me around, maybe that’s why he picked on me. Maybe I looked … you know—”

“Familiar?”

“Yeah, that’s the word. Familiar.”

There is a discreet cough from the doorway. Beth looks up to see Tom Harrison, the building’s janitor, standing there.

“Is there something I can do for you, Tom?” she asks.

Harrison smiles good-naturedly. “No, but there’s something I can do for you, Mrs Baker,” he says. “Larry tells me your window’s sticking.”

“Oh, that’s right, it is,” Beth agrees. She thinks to herself: “Window sticking, roof leaking; everything I touch seems to be falling apart.”

“Mind if I fix it now?” Harrison asks. “I mean, it won’t disturb your work or nothin’.”

“You go right ahead.”

Harrison makes his way around the desk, places his toolbox on the floor and tries to open the window.

“You want to get air conditioning in here, then the window could stay permanently closed,” he says helpfully.

“I wish,” Beth replies.

Maybe after the roof, and the plumbing, and new clothes for the kids, and a better car, she might consider air conditioning. Right now, it’s nothing more than an impossible dream.

She looks down at her notes again. Where was she? Oh yeah, Dawson had claimed the only reason the liquor store owner had picked him from the line-up was because he looked familiar.

“But your fingerprints were all over the counter,” she’d pointed out with a heavy sigh.

She could almost see Dawson’s slow mind working, could almost hear his mental cogs clumsily engaging.

His fingerprints were all over the counter. How was he going to explain that away?

“Maybe I went in the store earlier in the day. You know, to buy somethin’?” he’d finally suggested.

Brilliant! Beth had thought. He has a criminal record and a positive ID against him, and he comes up with a crock of a defense. Still, she had to go through the motions.

“Did you, in fact, go into the store earlier in the day?” she’d asked.

“Yeah!” Dawson had replied, like he’d almost convinced himself. “Yeah, I remember now. I went in around noon an’ I bought …” he’d paused, as if his feeble imagination couldn’t comprehend what he might possibly have purchased in a liquor store, “… an’ bought a pint of Jim Beam,” he’d finished.

The jury was just going to lap that up. He says he bought a pint of Jim Beam? Well, he’s obviously not guilty. Let the poor guy go.

“Was there anyone else in the store at the time?” Beth had asked. “Anyone we could call to confirm your story?”

“Uh … no. The place was empty.”

Beth sighed again.

“The place was empty,” she’d repeated. “An empty liquor store! In that neighborhood! At noon! Listen, Mr Dawson, if you’re found guilty – and you’ve at least a 95 percent chance of that – they’ll throw the book at you. Take the plea while it’s still on offer.”

“Ain’t there somethin’ else you could do?” Dawson had demanded.

“Like what, for example?”

Dawson had licked his thin lips. “I dunno. I got a little money stashed away. Couldn’t you bribe the judge or somethin’?”

Beth had put her notes down on her desk. “Bribe the judge or somethin’!” she’d repeated.

“It’s fixed,” says a voice from across the room, which, because she’s forgotten Tom Harrison is there, makes her jump.

“Fixed?” she says.

“The window.”

And to demonstrate that what he’s said is true, Harrison slides it up and down a couple of times.

Maybe she should move her kids into the office, Beth thinks. Then, if anything goes wrong, she can get Harrison to fix it.

Now there’s a brilliant idea!

“Think you’re up to repairing a roof, Tom?” she asks.

Harrison grins.

“I’m up to repairing pretty much anything that’s broken. Why do you ask? Got a leak?”

“How did you know that?”

“‘lessen there’s a tornado, there’s not much else can go wrong with roofs. Let me know when you’re gonna to be home tonight, and I’ll come over and take a look at it for you.”

“You’re certain you can spare the time?” Beth asks doubtfully.

“Sure,” Harrison replies. “No problem – long as I let my wife know where I’m going first.”

“I’d be real grateful,” Beth says, sincerely.

She picks up her notes again. She might still have sleaze-ball Gerry Dawson’s case to deal with, she tells herself, but at least, thanks to Tom, the roof is one problem she can forget about.

3

San Patricio is not any neat, convenient geometrical shape, like a square, a circle or a diamond. Instead, it’s an awkward blotch of a district – a Rorschach ink blot which maybe looks like a one-eared rabbit having a bad fur day. And because of its irregularity, it’s difficult for most people to work out where its center is. What the local residents think – when they think about it at all – is that the center probably lies somewhere near the old railroad station, which is now a discount furniture warehouse. What the cops know is that the center is the Ninth Precinct station house, because if anything is holding San Patricio together, it is the fact that officers are out on the street, being seen and – when necessary – busting heads.

The precinct building itself is a prime example of what the City Fathers of the 1930s thought a police station in a Twentieth Century American town should look like – which is to say that on the outside, it resembles a badly conceived, cheaply constructed, Roman temple. The inside is a different matter. The lobby is maybe 10ft square, but leading from it is a narrow corridor which ends at the battered Duty Desk. It’s here at the desk that the innocent and the guilty are first processed, that people with legitimate complaints – and people who have nothing better to do than waste police time – make their initial contact with the forces of law and order. And in a barrio like San Patricio, that inevitably means it is a place which is – at best – chaotic.

This particular morning is no better and no worse than any other. To the left of the desk, two prostitutes – one black, one white, both wearing shiny lycra dresses with high hems and low neck-lines – are protesting to their arresting officer that their constitutional rights have been ‘vi-oh-lated’. To the left of the desk, an unshaven drunk is singing in a thick Polish accent about how he misses the shores of Old Ireland. Cops enter, cops leave, khaki officers wave sheaves of reports desperately in the air, and the general noise level rises and falls like a badly written concerto.

A small balding man is standing directly in front of the desk, talking to the sergeant, and even though he seems to be the only guy in the place who is getting any attention, he still does not look happy.

“So I’m sitting there in Firebird, the engine’s stalled, and this guy comes across to me,” the bald man is saying. “He’s wearing this ski mask and he’s got a tire iron in his right hand.”

“And did he threaten you, Mr Lynch?” the sergeant asks.

“What he does is, he tells me to roll down the side window, then accuses me of nearly killing some woman at an intersection back down the road.” The balding man runs his hand across his forehead, like he’s re-living the experience – which he probably is. “And all the time he’s looking at me with a pair of eyes so cold they’d freeze the balls off you.”

The sergeant makes a couple more checks on the form, and calculates that, if everybody suddenly decides to give up committing crimes, he may have his paperwork up to date in about three weeks.

“And did you?” he asks.

“Did I what?”

“Did you nearly kill some woman at an intersection back down the road, like he said?”

“Hell, no!” Lynch’s eyes flicker. “Okay, maybe I did cross the junction after the stop light had turned red – it was raining, for Christ’s sake, and I was afraid that if I braked, I’d skid. But, I swear to you, there was no way I put any woman’s life in danger. No way at all.”

Yeah, right, the sergeant thinks. The only time any driver will admit he’s been driving dangerously is when he’s in an accident. And even then it’s usually the other guy’s fault.

“What happened next?” he says.

“The guy walks round to the front of my Pontiac. By this time, I’ve figured out what he’s planning to do, and I stick my head out the window and say somethin’ like, ‘You can’t be serious!’ And he points his middle finger at me, like it’s the barrel of a gun, and he says, ‘It’s either you or the car. Which is it gonna be?’”

“And you chose the car?”

“Yeah, I chose the car,” Lynch says, sounding slightly ashamed. “Listen, he was a hell of a big guy. I wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

The sergeant shuffles the forms in front of him. It doesn’t achieve anything, but he finds it soothing.

“How big was this guy exactly?” he asks.

“You think when I’m sitting there, shaking with fear, I’m gonna start measuring the man. He was big, is all.”

“So then he used the tire lever on your vehicle?”

“Yeah, and he made a hell of a job of it. Broke the headlamps firsts, then the windshield. Next, he pulls this knife out of his pocket and slashes my front tires.” Tears are coming to the balding man’s eyes. “And this car, I have to tell you, is less than a year old.”

“Did he do anything else?”

“You don’t think the son-of-a-bitch had done enough?”

The sergeant sighs. “Did he do anything else?” he repeats.

“Yeah, he got back into his own car and drove away.”

“Did you take his number?”

“Yeah, of course I took his number.” The balding man pulls out his wallet. “I got it right here.”

The sergeant looks up from his report form. A tall man of around 35, who has lightly graying hair and intelligent black eyes, has just come in through the main door. A look of sympathy for the new arrival flickers across the sergeant’s face, but it is rapidly replaced by the sort of grin which front-line troops reserve for other front-line troops.

“What you doing down here, Brody?” the sergeant calls out. “Not enough work to keep you busy down at the One Four?”

Detective First Grade Sam Brody – who has been living alone for just over a year and a half, and is not even close to getting used to it yet – walks up to the desk.

“Plenty of work in my own precinct,” he says, returning the grin. “Only problem, Eddie, is that you guys down here don’t know your asses from a hole in the ground, so it looks like I’m going to have to do your job as well.”

The sergeant’s grin broadens, but now there is a questioning look in his eyes.

“What’s going down?” he asks. “Some kind of special assignment?”

Brody shrugs. “Beats me, Eddie. All I know is, I was told to report to your captain.”

“About my car …” says the balding man.

The sergeant looks at him, and then back at Brody.

“You can find your own way, can’t you?” he asks the detective.

“Sure.”

The sergeant watches Brody walk up the hall for a second. Poor guy, he thinks. Then he turns his attention back to balding man.

“You said you’d got the registration number, didn’t you?” he asks, though he’d be prepared to bet his next pay check that the masked maniac was driving a stolen vehicle.

The balding man hands over a piece of paper he’s taken out of his wallet. “This is it.”

The sergeant notes down the number. “And where exactly did this incident take place?” he asks.

“Incident!” Lynch repeats. “That automobile is less than a year old. And until today, there wasn’t a mark on it.”

“Just give me an address.”

Lynch shrugs. “It was somewhere over in Dashwood.”

The sergeant picks up the form he’s been filling in.

“In that case, you should have reported it to Dashwood Police Department,” he says, the professional patience in his voice wearing real thin.

“You think I want it investigated by a bunch of country bumpkins?” Lynch demands. “I want real cops tracking down the bastard!”

The sergeant holds the form up in front of him.

“It’s Dashwood or nothing,” he says, tearing it neatly down the middle.

“Hey, I got my rights!” Lynch protests.

“And whatever you decide to do, maybe next time you’ll think twice before you run a stop light,” the sergeant adds, unsympathetically.

*

Captain McMahon is not alone in his office. Sharing the space on the captain’s side of the desk – like he and McMahon are a team – is a 30-something guy who sports a very expensive haircut and is wearing a suit which would easily pass muster on Wall Street.

Assistant DA Frank Greaves! Brody thinks.

Jesus! The rising star of the city’s legal community. The man people talk about as the next Lieutenant-Governor.

But Brody isn’t interested in politics, or in officers of the court who play at politics – and looking into the over-sincere eyes of the ADA, he starts to wish he was someplace else.

“Take a seat, Sam,” the Captain says.

Brody sits.

“Why isn’t your partner with you?” Greaves demands.

“He’s out on personal time. Had to take one of his kids to hospital,” Brody says.

McMahon looks concerned for the child. Greaves frowns like he can’t see what sick kids have got to do with anything. Brody starts to feel pissed off.

“Is it serious?” the captain asks.

“I don’t think so,” Brody tells him. “But you know what George is like when it comes to his babies.”

Beneath his smooth, politician’s exterior, Graves is getting annoyed.

“My time is very valuable to this city,” he says, “and when I set up a meeting like this, I don’t expect it not to work out because some cop has a minor medical problem with one of his children.”

“Anything you want George Knight to know, you can tell me,” Brody says flatly.

Greaves considers. “We have a situation,’ he says finally.

“A situation?” Brody repeats.

Greaves picks up a file from off of the desk. “We’ve been getting indications that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.”

“So call the Danish cops.”

A smile, as thin and ephemeral as a spark of electricity, flashed across Greaves’ face. “I don’t think you understand me,” he says. “I was quoting …”

“Yeah! Hamlet. Act One, Scene Four,” Brody interrupts. “So what’s the problem?”

“Cops may be involved,” Greaves says – dramatically, like he’s already standing on a political podium.

Brody shrugs. “So put IAD on the case,” he suggests.

Another smile, as thin as its predecessor.

“IAD may be part of the situation,” Greaves says. “The fact is, anybody might be part of it.”

And wouldn’t you just love it if IAD – or any other branch – was involved? Brody thinks – because nothing’s going to help your career more than rooting out evidence of corruption in the department.

He turns his gaze on Captain McMahon, who was his rabbi when he first put on the uniform, and who he would trust with his life.

“I don’t investigate cops, sir,” he says. “I know it’s got to be done, which means somebody’s got to do it, but that somebody isn’t me.”

“Hear the man out,” McMahon says.

Why the hell not? What’s ten minutes out of a lifetime?

Brody leans back in his chair. “Speak to me,” he tells Greaves.

“What we have in this file is a clear pointer towards judicial malfeasance,” the ADA says. “It may include the police force, almost certainly does involve defense attorneys, and may even scoop up a judge or two. What we’re talking about specifically is several cases where alleged felons who we thought we had cold, have been allowed to walk.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to generate interest by creating suspense, but that trick hasn’t worked on Brody since the third grade, and the detective just sits there and waits for Greaves to get on with his spiel.

“Now why did this happen?” the ADA continues. “It happened because something went wrong once the case was brought to trial. We’ve uncovered only a few examples so far …” another dramatic pause “ … but that may be only the tip of the iceberg.”

“So some of the bad guys got away,” Brody says, with another shrug. “It wouldn’t be the first time. The cops don’t do their homework on a particular case. The DA’s having a bad day because his wife’s being a royal pain in the ass, and he screws up a cross-examination. Hell, if I wanted to, I could cite a dozen cases. That doesn’t mean there’s some kind of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.”

“I would agree with you, Detective,” Greaves says, “except for one thing.”

Another pause.

Brody wonders whether he should wait until Greaves is ready to start again, and decides that maybe life is too short to spend much more of it with the ADA.

“And what is that one thing?” he asks

“There’s a common thread running through all the cases we’ve examined so far.”

“And what’s that?”

Greaves smiles. “Do you know an attorney called Elizabeth Baker?”

“Not to speak to,” Brody admits, “but I’ve seen her around the courthouse. Why?”

“She’s the common thread. In every case which went wrong, she was the defense attorney.”

*

Greaves walks over to the window and watches Brody cross the car park and climb into his Eldorado.

“I don’t like using him,” the ADA says to the Captain. “His attitude’s all wrong. Hell, you practically had to get down on your knees and beg him to take the assignment.”

“Outside a few bastards in IAD who really like their work, you won’t find a cop in the entire city who feels really comfortable investigating other cops,” McMahon points out.

“Even so, there must be some who’d be a little more cooperative,” Greaves counters.

“You asked me to come up with a man who had two qualities,” McMahon reminds him. “You wanted a cop who was smart – well, they don’t get much smarter than Brody. He was magna cum laude at college.”

“What did he major in?” asks Greaves, who is still stinging from the Hamlet comment. “Literature?”

“Criminology,” McMahon says. “The second thing you wanted was an honest cop – and Sam’s about as straight as you’ll find them.”

Greaves does not look convinced. He doesn’t like Brody – doesn’t like anyone who so obviously goes out of his way to show he’s not impressed – and now the ADA is searching around for another reason to object.

He finds one, and discovers that not only does it sound credible, but it may actually have an element of truth in it,

“Brody’s a widower, isn’t he?” he says

“That’s right,” the Captain agrees. “His wife died about 18 months ago. Cancer.”

“And Mrs Baker’s a widow?”

“What’s your point?” McMahon asks.

“A man who’s lost his wife investigating a woman who’s lost a husband,” Greaves says. “A cop who knows the kind of pain his target must be suffering. It’s kinda like sending out a vegetarian to hunt a bear.”

4

The trials which hit the headlines are held in Courtroom Number One, which is also the closest courtroom to the main entrance. It is there that murders are tried and bank robbers brought to justice, there that the court reporters’ artists earn most of the money that their mortgages all but swallow up. There is an excitement about Courtroom Number One, a feeling that something momentous is probably about to happen. When lawyers plead a case in that particular courtroom, they know they’ve finally arrived.

Beth is sitting at the defense table in Courtroom Number Three. It is the smallest of the courtrooms, and the furthest away from the entrance. It is a box-shaped room with high windows which could use a clean, and walls which might appreciate a lick of paint. Most of the attorneys here carry around them an air of dashed hope, and the stenographer taps away at his keys in a way which clearly indicates resentment. Even the jury – five men and seven women who are a mix of blacks, Anglos and Hispanics – looks as if it feels vaguely cheated at being assigned such a down-market venue.

Beth spreads out her notes in front of her. There are several reasons why a betting man would not put money on her winning this case, she thinks as she reviews them – and the first is sitting right beside her.

She turns to look at him. Her client, Gerry Dawson, is a rat-faced man with small shifty eyes and a gash of a mouth. See him on the street, and your hand would automatically go to cover your purse. Hear someone tell you he’s committed a crime – any crime – and you believe it.

The prosecution’s chief witness, Lew Pinker, who is now taking the stand, presents a complete contrast. Pinker is medium height and middle-aged. He has an open face and eyes which say that while he is probably not too bright; he is undoubtedly honest. He’s the kind of man you would buy a used car from, and drive away confident that nothing was going to go wrong with it.

The third player in this little drama which seems designed specifically to ensure Beth’s defeat is the judge, the Honorable Martin Spicer. There he sits – conservative blue suit, distinguished gray hair, wise expression on his learned face – the perfect jurist. Yeah – right! Except that if you’re a female attorney, you’re already in deep shit, because Spicer believes that there are only two places where women really belong – and the courtroom is not one of them. And in addition to his natural prejudice, there is something personal between him and Beth, because he’s hit on her more than once, and though she’s tried to be as tactful as possible when she’s turned him down, he hasn’t taken it too well.

The witness has been sworn in. The DA, Paul Wade, gets to his feet, and saunters over to the stand in a way which tells the jury that all this is pretty much of a formality. “Are you Mr Louis Arthur Pinker?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” the witness replies.

“And do you run a liquor store at 137 Freemantle?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Would you tell us what occurred on the afternoon of the 12th of March, Mr Pinker?”

“I got held up.”

“And shot?”

“Yeah.”

“Where, exactly, did you take the bullet?”

“In my left shoulder.”

“In your left shoulder,” the DA repeats gravely. “Only inches away from your heart.” He holds up an outspread finger and thumb – high in the air so that both the witness and the jury can see them. “You came this close to death, Mr Pinker. Do you realize that?”

Beth springs to her feet. “Objection!” she says. “Counsel’s turning this trial into some kind of cheap theatrical performance.”

Judge Spicer shoots her a look of pure venom.

“Mr Wade is merely seeking to demonstrate a serious intent to kill on the part of the assailant,” he says. “Objection overruled.”

Paul Wade turns his head, so he can smirk at Beth without the jury seeing it. “I’ll ask my question again,” he says, raising his thumb and finger in the air again. “Do you realize, Mr Pinker, that you came this close to death?”

“Uh … yeah,” Pinker says. “I guess I do.”

“And your shoulder still causes you considerable discomfort, doesn’t it, Mr Pinker?”

Beth springs back to her feet. “Irrelevant and immaterial, Your Honor,” she objects.

“I’m merely trying to establish the serious nature of the attack,” the DA says blandly.

Like hell he is! Beth thinks. What he’s trying to do is get the jury on the victim’s side – and from the way most of them are nodding their heads, it looks he’s making a pretty good job of it.

“If it’s the DA’s intention to show the extent of the injury, he should call a medical expert,” she argues.

The judge grimaces, like he’s almost despaired of this stupid broad ever making an intelligent comment.

“Objection overruled,” he says with a heavy sigh.

The DA smirks again. “Thank you, your honor.” He turns to the witness. “I was asking you if your shoulder still hurts, Mr Pinker.”

“Yeah, it hurts,” Pinker says. “When the air’s damp, it hurts like hell.”

Beth looks at the jury. Their eyes are all on the witness. Not one of them will even look at her client. But they know he’s there – know that he, and he alone, is responsible for inflicting such pain on this honest storekeeper.

“Did you get a clear view of the man who shot you?” the DA asks.

“Yeah,” Pinker says.

“He wasn’t wearing a mask or any kind of disguise?”

“No.”

“And how close was he to you?"

“He was the other side of the counter – maybe four or five feet.”

“So you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”

Something’s happening to Pinker’s face. The eyes are suddenly uncertain, the corners of his mouth start to twitch. It’s like there’s two conflicting emotions battling it out inside of him.

“Mr Pinker?” the DA prompts. “I asked you if you’d recognize the man again?”

The witness wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I think so,” he says.

For a second, the DA looks like he has been hit by a steam shovel. Then he recovers.

“The day after you were shot you picked out a man in a police line-up, didn’t you?” he asks.

Pinker shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Yeah.”

“Immediately – and without hesitation?”

“I guess so.”

“Do you see that man in the court today?”

“Yeah, he’s the defendant, Gerry Dawson.”

“Point to him, please.”

Pinker raises his right arm, which seems to be shaking slightly, and points to Dawson. “That’s him.”

“That’s the man who shot you?”

Pinker bites his lip. “No, that’s the guy I picked out at the line-up.”

Though he should have been expecting it by now, the DA still winces.

“If he didn’t shoot you, then why did you say he did when you picked him out of the line-up?” he asks.

“I … uh … I was in shock,” Pinker says. “I’d seen the guy around the neighborhood, so I guess I just picked him out. But thinking about it later, I realized he wasn’t the robber at all.”

‘Thinking about it later?’ the DA repeats with disbelief. “Mr Pinker, when was the last time we talked?”

“Maybe two days ago.”

“And at that time, did you still believe that the defendant was the man who shot you?”

“Yeah, I …”

“So for over two months after the shock of being shot, you were sure it was Gerry Dawson who walked into your store, pulled out a gun and demanded you emptied the cash register. And now, suddenly, you’re not sure any longer?”

“What can I tell you?” Pinker asks. “He just ain’t the guy.”

“Move for dismissal,” Beth says.

Judge Spicer scowls. “Will counsel please approach the bench?”

Beth and the DA step forward.

“Your honor …” the DA begins.

“What the hell’s happening here?” the judge interrupts.

“The witness has obviously been intimidated,” the DA says. “You know it, Mrs Baker knows it, and the jury knows it. If you granted an adjournment, I could talk to him and maybe make him tell the truth.”

“Mrs Baker?” the judge asks, his tone larded with dislike.

“We oppose an adjournment, your honor,” Beth says. “The man is Paul’s own witness. He’s got no call to start complaining now, just because he’s not getting the answers he wanted.”

“Regretfully, I have to agree with you,” the judge says.

“And you’ll rule for dismissal?”

“I may well have to.”

“Don’t do it, your honor,” the DA pleads. “Let the case go ahead. I can nail the bastard even without a positive ID. There’s the fingerprint evidence for a start.”

“There’s the fingerprint evidence – and only the fingerprint evidence,” Beth argues. “And if that’s all you’ve got to go on, there should be another 30 or 40 people on trial – because that’s probably how many sets of prints your people lifted from the crime scene.”

The judge nods. “She’s right, you know, Paul. Without the ID, you’ve got nothing. I’m going to grant you a half-hour adjournment, but even if you can get Pinker to change his story again, I don’t think he’ll have much credibility with the jury anymore.”

*

The Angel is sitting in his vehicle directly opposite the courthouse, waiting for Beth to come out. He knows he’s taking a risk – she might spot him and wonder what he’s doing there – but when he’s done a good deed, like he has today, he figures he’s entitled to a little reward.

He looks with interest at the world beyond his windscreen.

People entering the courthouse, and people leaving it.

Vehicles throwing up streams of spray as they slosh though the puddles left by the recent rain.

A bum pushing a supermarket trolley which contains all his worldly possessions.

A stray dog, still damp, looks uncertainly up and down the street.

It’s a very different world – a very different world – to the one in which he was raised, the Angel thinks.

He’d been brought up in small town in the middle of the corn belt – a town which, because of the great flat plain which surrounded it, had seemed like an island, floating alone in space. And in some ways, Stockville had been just that. The town jail was usually empty, except for Saturday night, when Stockville’s solitary drunk managed to find the Devil’s Brew from someplace or other. There had been no drugs, either, and whilst people in other small towns might wonder if their neighbors were secret communists, the God-fearing folk of Stockville had no such fears.

Life had been so predictable – so ordered. School in the week, chores on Saturday, and worship on Sunday. The Angel remembers walking to church with his mother, passing between rows of neat white houses, and feeling so proud that this beautiful, unyielding woman was with him.

He remembers, too, the annual baptism down by Wilmot’s Creek. Nearly the whole town would be there, and though it was a serious event, there was almost a carnival atmosphere about it. The Angel can see them now – those good, God-fearing people, crowding around the shore – the men wearing sober neck-ties despite the heat, the women with their heads modestly covered by bonnets. How they would whisper among themselves! And how the whispers would rise to an excited buzz when they heard that Reverend Walker was about to arrive.

Suddenly, as if by magic, the crowd would part and the Reverend would stride through the gap to the creek. What a man he was! For most of the year he was clothed in a black cassock, but for the baptism he stripped down to his long johns, so that his broad chest – like his soul – was bared to all.

Without a second’s hesitation, he would wade into the creek. How magnificent he looked, standing up to his waist in the water, his muscled arms gleaming in the kind summer sunlight.

And when he spoke!

When he spoke, it was almost like listening to the voice of the Lord God Himself.

“I have the power in me to wash away your sins,” he would proclaim in that rich, firm baritone voice of his. “Come to me now, and I will give you a new life – a life eternal.”

They had come, those innocent young people of Stockville. More modestly clothed than the Reverend himself, they had stepped into the water and stood beside their spiritual guide.

The Angel recalls one of them in particular – a pretty young blonde girl, who, instead of looking up at the Reverend’s face as most of the others did, had gazed shyly down at the creek.

“I baptize thee in the name of the Father,” the Reverend intoned, grasping her firmly by the shoulders and plunging her under the water.

And the Angel, standing on the bank, watched the bubbles rise to the surface of the creek, and marveled at how thin and delicate was the thread which separated life from death.

Seconds passed, and still the Reverend held her down. The Angel had stopped breathing – almost as if he thought that by doing that he would be helping the girl in the creek – and his heart was pounding furiously. Suddenly, the Reverend pulled the girl out of the water. She looked frightened, and gasped for air.

“And in the name of the Son,” Reverend Walker boomed, immersing her again.

What a marvelous gift the man was blessed with, the Angel had thought back then – and thinks still. Just imagine it! The power to cleanse!

Reverend Walker lifted the girl again.

“And in the name of the Holy Ghost,” he chanted, before ducking her one final time.

As he watched, the young Angel wondered if a man had to be born with the gift, or if it was something he acquired in time. He hoped it was the latter, hoped that when his time came to stand in the creek next to Reverend Walker, he would emerge from the water not only cleansed, but with the power to cleanse others coursing through his veins – because that was all he ever wanted out of life – to save souls for Almighty God.

*

The courtroom door opens, and Beth steps onto the sidewalk. She is wearing a smart blue jacket and a black skirt which reaches below her knees. The Angel approves of her modesty. There’s not enough modesty in the world, he thinks.

He watches her as she walks towards the courthouse parking lot. There is nothing in that walk which is suggestive, nothing of a Jezebel … inviting … enticing … leading men on.

The Angel checks his watch. It’s coming up for noon. In 30 minutes, Beth’s bank manager will leave his office to set out for lunch – and when he does, he will find someone he’d rather not meet waiting for him.

Though the bank manager does not know it yet, he is about to have his first terrifying encounter with Beth’s protector.

5

The first thing Beth hears when she opens the outer office door is a loud angry voice. She glances across at Larry Hayden’s desk, but the burly secretary is not behind it. The shouting continues, and by now Beth has realized that, though she has never heard him use this tone before, the voice belongs to her partner.

Is Alex mad at Larry? she wonders worriedly, as she crosses the room. And if he is, what the hell could the paralegal have done to have gotten him into such a rage?

Alex’s door is half-open, and through the gap Beth sees – with relief – that it’s not Larry who Alex is screaming at, but someone on the other end of the phone line. And boy, is he screaming! His face is red, and his body seems to have swollen up to about twice its normal size. For once he actually almost seems like a grown-up lawyer, instead of a kid who’s borrowed his father’s suit to impress his date.

“Don’t gimme any of that shit!” Alex bellows into the phone. “So you don’t like it! I’m bleeding for you … Yeah, maybe so. But that’s the way it’s gonna be. And you wanna know why? Because that’s the way I want it.”

He glances up, and when he sees Beth standing there, a startled expression comes to his face.

“I’ll get back to ya,” he says to the phone, and without waiting for a response, he slams the receiver back on its cradle.

Beth stands there awkwardly, feeling guilty for intruding, even if she didn’t mean to.

“If this is a bad time—” she says, leaving the rest of the sentence just hanging there.

Alex grins. It’s a forced grin, but now at least he’s more like the man she knows and has worked with for over two years.

“Goddamn house painters,” Alex says, waving her towards one of the client chairs. “The way they talk, you’d think they were paying you.”

“You’re having your apartment decorated, are you?” Beth asks, as she sits down.

Alex nods. “But not the whole apartment. Only the living room. Can’t really afford even that, but the place looks such a dump I have to do something.” He glances at his watch, and sees it’s only two-thirty. “I wasn’t expecting you back from court so early,” he says.

“The case collapsed, and with much regret and wringing of hands, the Honorable Marty Spicer was forced to let our esteemed client, Mr Gerry Dawson, walk,” Beth tells him.

Alex whistles softly. “Jesus! And I thought the city really had a cast-iron case this time.”

“So did I,” Beth admits. “So did the DA. That’s why he’s claiming his key witness had been intimidated.”

“And had he?”

Beth shrugs. “Not by my client. Hell, it’s not as if Dawson’s some Mafia capo with friends in high places. He’s nothing but a lonely little punk. Nobody’s going to stick their necks out for him.”

Schultz smiles. “Except his lawyer,” he points out.

Beth shrugs, awkwardly. “Yeah, well that’s my job,” she says.

The phone rings. Alex looks at it uncertainly for a second, then picks it up.

“Yes? Yes.” Looking relieved, he hands the phone over to Beth. “It’s for you,” he says. “Your bank manager.”

Though she tries hard to fight it, Beth feels her stomach knot up. Her bank manager! Jesus! What does he want? Has he found yet another way to make her feel small?

“Elizabeth Baker,” she says into the receiver, recognizing as she does that her voice doesn’t sound like that of a grown-up attorney at all, but is close to that of a fifth grader who has been sent to the principal’s office.

“Hello, Mrs Baker,” says the voice on the other end of the line. “How are you, today?”

“I’m fine,” Beth says. “And you, Mr Comstock?”

“I’m … uh … fine, too,” the bank manager replies.

But he doesn’t sound fine. Matter of fact, he sounds like he’s just been told he’s been fired and his house is about to be repossessed.

A forced, uncomfortable silence follows.

“So what can I do for you, Mr Comstock?” Beth asks, after maybe 15 seconds have ticked away.

“Uh … you came in last week to ask for a loan.”

As if she needs reminding, after the way the bastard treated her. She pictures him, leaning back in his executive leather chair and running his fingers along the edges of a perfectly sharpened pencil.

“I’d like to help you, Mrs Baker. Of course I would. But you must look at the matter from my point of view. The bank already owns most of your house, your car would fetch peanuts, and as for your account – well, I think the less said about that, the better.”

“There’s plenty of work coming in ,” Beth had protested.

Comstock had laughed patronizingly. “Work , yes  But look what kind of work it is  Frankly  Mrs Baker, you’d be in a much better position financially if you were to give up your criminal practice, and go into one of the more profitable branches of the law.”

It was probably true, she’d thought, sitting across the desk from this loathsome man who probably never had to worry when his kids needed their teeth fixing. Yet she loved her work. It was the only thing, apart from the children, which was keeping her sane.

“So there’s no chance of a loan?” she’d asked dejectedly.

“None at all, I’m afraid. I hope you can find another solution to your difficulties,” Comstock had replied, with all the sincerity of a vulture telling a steer he hopes he makes it to the nearest water hole.

But that was all a week ago, and the Comstock who’s talking to her now seems a very different man to the complacent one who turned her down then.

“I’ve … uh … been thinking over what we talked about,” he says, “and I wondered whether you could find the time to come and see me.”

“There’s really no point, is there?” Beth replies. “My personal circumstances haven’t changed since last week.”

“No, I expect they haven’t, but … uh … our cash flow position has improved since we last spoke.”

“You mean you might be able to give the loan after all?”

“Yes, and … uh … a little more than you actually asked for, if you feel that you really need it.”

Beth knows there’s a wide smile on her face. “When would you like to see me, Mr Comstock?”

“Whenever it’s convenient for you, but … uh … I would appreciate it if you could make it quite soon.”

“Tomorrow at ten o’clock?”

“That would be fine.”

Beth puts down the phone. Through the open doorway, she can see that Larry Hayden is back at his desk and is also replacing his phone on the cradle. She wonders whether the burly legal secretary has been listening to her conversation. But does it really matter if he has? She’s never made a secret of her financial problems, and as long as he gets his check, each and every payday, why should he care?

“Well, you seem a lot happier than you did a few minutes ago,” Alex Schultz says.

“I am,” Beth admits, as she picks up the phone again to dial for a builder who can fix her leaking roof. “First I win my case, then I get my loan. It’s almost too good to be true.” She looks up at the ceiling. “You know, I think someone up there must really like me.”

6

It’s a little after five o’clock in the evening, on a day which has turned out one hell of a lot better than the black early morning clouds had promised. The unexpectedly early end to the trial of Gerry Dawson means that, for once, Beth is leaving the office at the same time as Larry and Alex.

As she puts on her coat, she sees that Larry is standing there waiting, holding the door open for her. She likes that. Not that she’s un-emancipated or anything, she tells herself defensively, but after living without a guy of her own for two years, it’s nice to know that even to one of her co-workers, she’s not quite invisible as a woman.

As she steps through the doorway, she wonders again if Larry was listening to her conversation with her bank manager.

Probably not, she decides. The office has two lines – a waste of money in her opinion, but she knows Alex would never consider going down to one – and instead of eavesdropping on what she was saying, Larry could just as easily have been talking to his mother.

Or his girlfriend.

Or maybe even his boyfriend!

Beth suddenly realizes how little she knows about their joint secretary. She tries to remember the résumé Larry sent in when he applied for his position, and finds that she can’t. And although he only joined the firm around a year and a half ago, it feels like he’s always been there – as much a part of the law office as the battered old desk he sits behind.

Alex is already in the hall, calling the elevator.

“I hope he hasn’t left too much of a mess,” Beth says.

Alex looks completely mystified. “A mess?” he repeats. “What are you talking about?”

“Your decorator,” Beth says. “I hope he’s one of those who cleans up after himself.”

Alex laughs, though the laugh does seem tad forced.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,’ he says. “The last decorator I had doing some work for me made Hurricane Tracy look organized.”

The elevator arrives, creaking in a way which befits the old building it’s housed in. Alex and Larry both step to one side to let Beth enter first.

I’ve been visible to two men in less than five minutes, she thinks, as she checks herself out in the mirror. A red letter day!

She keeps her finger on the ‘Door Open’ button until her partner and their secretary are inside, then presses the one for the first floor.

“So what are you guys going to be doing tonight?” she asks, as the elevator judders and then goes into something like free-fall.

She feels both men tense up, and an awkward silence descends like the heavy black clouds of the morning.

What have I done now? Beth wonders. What have I said to make them clam up like this?

The silence lasts for maybe five seconds, then Larry says: “What I’m gonna do is grab a six-pack on the way home, run a hot tub, switch on the TV and drift into oblivion.”

“I was planning something similar,” Alex admits.

I used to think it was just me – the grieving widow – Beth thinks. But it isn’t, is it? Jesus, what empty lives we all lead – us lawyer-types. And at least I’ve got the kids to look forward to.

They step out onto the sidewalk. Looking up at the bright blue sky, it’s hard to believe that the morning started out so gray.

“Where are you two guys parked?” Beth asks.

“Couple of blocks down the street,” Alex tells her.

“Me too,” Larry says.

And Beth is parked a couple of blocks up the street.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow,” she says.

“If you’d like us to walk with you to your car …” Larry suggests.

Beth shakes her head. Today, with the blue sky and the nearly empty street, she feels none of the apprehension she normally experiences when leaving the Lennox Building on a dark evening.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, turning and walking away from the two men.

She is maybe five yards from her Toyota when she sees the pick-up truck coming down the street like it’s in some kind of hurry, and she has almost reached the trunk of her vehicle when the pick-up’s headlights flash her. She looks nervously over her shoulder, wishing she’d taken up Larry’s offer to walk her to her car after all.

The pick-up does a U-turn, and pulls in next to the Toyota. Beth relaxes, because now she can see who’s behind the wheel.

The driver’s door opens, and Tom Harrison steps out onto the sidewalk.

“Nearly missed you, Mrs Baker,” he says.

“Missed me?” Beth repeats.

“Sure. I thought what with you being in court today, you wouldn’t be going home for hours yet.”

“Was it something you needed to ask me?” Beth asks, wondering what this is all about, because it’s usually Alex who handles questions of building maintenance. “Is it something to do with the office?”

Tom smiles. “Nothing to do with the office at all. You asked me to fix your roof. Remember? And I said if my wife didn’t mind, it was fine with me. Well, I rang her, and she said to go ahead.”

Beth is suddenly embarrassed. “I … uh … I called a builder this afternoon,” she tells him.

“A proper builder, you mean,” Harrison says, with just a hint of reproach in his voice.

“I got a loan from the bank,” Beth explains.

“So now you’ve got money to burn?” Tom asks.

“Well, no,” Beth admits, thinking that the time when she’ll be in that position is, at best, one hell of a long way away.

“And when will this proper builder going to pay you a visit and assess the job?” Tom wonders.

“He said, maybe tomorrow."

“Yeah, maybe it will be tomorrow – and maybe it will be the day after, or the day after that. You know what builders are like.”

“Yes,” Beth admits, “I do.”

Tom looks up at the cloudless sky. “Your place could be flooded out by morning,” he says, and then he grins, to show he’s making a joke.

Beth laughs, but she’s still feeling uncomfortable about the fact that she’s called in a builder and forgotten to tell Tom. And that’s not all. By handling things the way she has, she seems to have somehow cast a slur on the janitor’s capability.

“It’s just that it would be such a long drive for you out to Dashwood …” she begins.

“If you don’t want me to do it, that’s fine with me,” Tom interrupts. “But let me tell you something, Mrs Baker. I’d make as fine a job of it as any of these professional builders.”

She’s hurt him, she decides. Hurt him – and disappointed him.

“Well, if you’re sure you can spare the time …” she says.

Tom grins again. “It’s not often my wife lets me off the leash,” he says. “I’d enjoy the ride out to your home.”

*

The late spring sun is still fairly high in the sky as Beth, Mike and Lizzie stand in their back yard, watching Tom Harrison clamber effortlessly – and apparently without fear – around the roof.

Lizzie turns to look at her younger brother. “We need to talk,” she says, seriously.

Mike pulls the long-suffering face he reserves for his sister.

“Can’t it wait till later?” he asks plaintively. “I want to watch Mr Harrison. It’s real neat what he’s doing up there.”

“We need to talk now,” Lizzie tells him, with the urgency in her voice building up with every word.

Before he can protest further, she grabs her brother’s arm, and half-drags him to the far side of the yard.

Beth watches them, both fascinated and intrigued. She has no idea what this is all about, but it must be serious because Lizzie waves her arms extravagantly as she makes her points. Mike, for his part, mostly just nods, but occasionally he says something himself, and it is plain from his expression and body language that he considers this serious, too.

The conference goes on for a couple of minutes, then the children return to their mother’s side.

“Is there something going on here that I should know about?” Beth asks, trying to hide her smile.

The two kids look down at the ground, then Mike nudges his sister, and Lizzie says, “Why is Mr Harrison helping us, Mom?”

Oh God, what kind of society are we becoming, when a child can ask a question like that? Beth thinks.

But aloud, she says: “MrHarrison’s helping us because he’s a very kind person.” She pauses, realizing the inadequacy – and dishonesty – of her answer. “And he’s doing it because he knows we don’t have a man around the house,” she adds.

A look of disappointment registers on both the children’s faces. They exchange hurried glances, and it is plain to Beth that this time it is Mike’s turn to walk through the emotional minefield.

“Then it isn’t … it isn’t because he’s going to be new your boyfriend?” her son asks.

Beth looks up at the roof again. Tom Harrison is in good shape for his age – she’s forced to admit that – but he has to be at least 20 years older than her. Besides, apart from his kind blue eyes, he has such an unexceptional face that it’s hard to recall what it looks like when he isn’t actually around, fixing things. How badly the children must want a man in their lives if they’re prepared to even consider Tom a possible candidate.

“No, he isn’t my boyfriend,” Beth tells her kids. “He’s a very happily married man.”

Even as she speaks, she realizes she’s not quite sure how accurate her last statement is. For all she knows, Harrison could be in a perfectly miserable marriage. Yet somehow, she doesn’t think he is. Tom seems the kind of man who selects a wife slowly and carefully – and is far too hard-headed to expect his marriage to be one long honeymoon.

“I’ve found the trouble, Mrs Baker,” Harrison calls down from the apex of the roof.

“And is it going to be difficult to fix?”

Harrison grins. “If I was one of those professional builders, like the one you called today, I’d tell you the whole roof had to come off. But I’m only a janitor.”

Beth grins back at him – it’s hard not to.

“And what does the janitor say?” she asks.

“He says it’s only a couple of loose tiles, and he’ll have the whole thing fixed in half an hour.”

Beth sighs with relief, then checks her watch.

“We’ll be having dinner around that time,” she says. “Would you like to stay and eat with us?”

Tom checks his own watch. “It’s very kind of you to invite me,” he tells her, “but I really should be getting home.”

“Please!” Beth says. “It would go a little way towards paying you back for what you’ve done for us.”

A look of indecision crosses Tom’s face.

“Really, I’ve got to get back,” he says finally. “Thing is, when Lisa gives me parole privileges like she has tonight, I really hate to abuse them.”

*

Beth is standing with Tom on the front porch, watching the sun set over Dashwood, just like she used to do with Jack. And it’s kinda nice to be next to a man again, she thinks, even if the man is old enough to be her father.

“At least let me pay for your gas, Tom,” she says.

Harrison shakes his head. “I don’t want payment of any kind. It was a real pleasure to meet your fine family.”

Beth feels absurdly pleased by the compliment. “Thank you,” she says.

“Yeah, they’re good kids,” Tom Harrison tells her. “Nicely brought up. That’s rare these days. And it can’t have been easy, doing it on your own.”

“It wasn’t,” Beth admits.

“What was the hardest part?” Tom asks, like he’s really interested.

Beth gives the matter some thought.

“Perhaps the hardest part was having to hide just how much I was missing Jack, my husband,” she says finally. “I’ve … I’ve never really been able to mourn his death, because I couldn’t have put the kids through it.”

Tom nods sympathetically. “But that part of your life is behind you now,” he says. “It’s time to look towards the future, don’t you think?”

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” Beth asks hurriedly, because she’s only recently started to think about the future, and she’s nowhere near ready to discuss it with anybody else.

Tom smiles, as if he knows the way her mind is working, and has no intention of pushing it in any direction she doesn’t want to go.

“What do you want to know about me?” he asks.

“Well … uh … how did you become a janitor?”

The smile stays on Tom’s face.

“I didn’t just drift into it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says.

Oh God! Beth thinks. How easy it is to slip into stereotypes.

“I wasn’t suggesting you just drifted into it,” she lies. “I—”

“Sure that’s what you were suggesting,” Tom interrupts, with a kindly, understanding tone in his voice. “That’s how people see janitors – as guys who have nothing better to do. But it wasn’t like that with me.”

“How was it with you?” Beth asks, grateful that he’s chosen to let her off the hook.

“Used to be an oil man,” Tom tells her. “Nothing fancy – just muscle really. Worked in the Gulf.” He pauses, as if he’s unsure she’ll know where he’s talking about. “The Persian Gulf,” he adds, by way of clarification. “’Cept the only people in the region who actually called it that were the Iranians. All the Arabs had a completely different name for it.”

Beth nods.

“So I’ve read,” she says. And then she feels guilty again, because she’s not sure how much of a reader Tom is. “So how did you get from being an oil man to a janitor?” she asks.

“A lot of guys I worked with in the Gulf spent the money that they earned like it was water,” Tom says. “But I’ve never been a heavy drinker, and as for women,” he shrugs, “well, I was already married by then. So I saved most of my wages, and when I came home again, I had a nice little bundle stashed away. Not enough to live on forever, you understand, but enough so I didn’t have to go looking around for some fancy high-paid job.”

“But why janitoring?” Beth persists.

“Because it’s got a bit of everything to it,” Tom tells her, like he really has thought about it. “I enjoy fixing a window that’s been sticking. And it’s a good feeling to watch people come in off the street on a cold winter’s day and enter a cosy, heated lobby that’s only warm because of me.”

Beth shakes her head in admiration. “You really are happy with your lot, aren’t you?” she says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Tom says.

And the smile, which has never left his face, becomes suddenly a little shy, perhaps a little embarrassed.

“Do you have any children of your own?” Beth asks.

Harrison shakes his head again – a little sadly this time, Beth thinks.

“No, me and the missus were blessed in so many ways, but not in that way.”

He looks at the house across the street, and a sudden, disturbed frown comes to his face. “You know who lives there?” he asks.

“A man called Tyler.”

“Friend of yours?”

Beth feels an unexplained shiver run through her.

“I wouldn’t say that,” she says. “I know him slightly – he’s a lawyer, like me, so we’re bound to run into each other occasionally – but I couldn’t honestly describe him as anything more than a casual acquaintance.”

“Is he married?”

“I don’t think so. I believe he lives alone,” Beth says. “Why are you asking all these questions, Tom?”

“When I was on the roof, the sun was still quite high, and it was shining down on that house over there,” Harrison says.

“I suppose it must have been. So what?”

“Several times, there were sudden flashes of light.”

“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“I couldn’t swear to it,” Harrison tells her, “but I think he was studying your house through a pair of binoculars.”

Beth laughs, a little uneasily.

“Maybe it was you he was looking at,” she suggests. “Maybe he just wanted to see who was climbing all over my roof.”

“Yeah, that could have been it,” Tom agrees.

7

The diner stands between a Laundromat and a gun shop. It has the single word ‘Leon’s’ painted in red on the window which looks onto the street. It isn’t the best diner in San Patricio, but it is the closest one to the 9th Precinct station house, which is why nearly half its breakfast customers are wearing blue – and nearly three-quarters of them are carrying guns somewhere about their persons.

Brody is sitting in a corner booth and the intense, almost pained, expression on his face is enough to tell anyone who knows him well that he’s doing some serious thinking. The subject of his thoughts is the file he has spread out in front of him. Now that he’s read it two or three times, he can understand why ADA Frank Greaves thinks there might be some political capital to be made out of the Beth Baker case – can understand, also, why Greaves suspects there might be police officers and jurists involved.

He flicks through the file again. In at least four of the cases documented – cases all defended by Mrs Baker – witnesses have changed their stories and evidence has gone missing.

Most striking of all is the case of Jack Dorfmann, which is so strange that it’s almost bizarre. Dorfmann was a nickel-and-dime crook who had looked certain to go away until the dramatic appearance of a professor from out-of-state who questioned the forensic evidence – a professor, moreover, who claimed to have read about the no-account crime in the newspapers, a professor who paid his own travel expenses to come to the city, a professor who waived his fee.

Weird!

“Guy from the insurance company’s filling out the form for me, and I see him ticking the Afro-American box,” says a voice from across the table – the voice of Detective First Grade George Knight, who is Brody’s partner.

Brody, who’s been through this movie before, groans inwardly. “That right?” he asks.

“So I said to him, if I’m an Afro-American, then that makes you a Euro-American. Right?” Knight continues. “Is that what you put down on your own forms? Euro-American?”

Brody takes a sip of his coffee. Today it seems slightly bitter, but maybe it’s just this case which is leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

“And what did the man from the insurance company say to that?” he asks Knight, because he knows that’s what his partner is expecting from him.

“Man didn’t say anything. Wasn’t anything he could say. “It ain’t even very accurate to use ‘American’ at all,” I told him. ‘Sheep farmers in the Pampas are American. So are Eskimos, way up in northern Canada. Want to be accurate, we should call ourselves ‘United Statesers’.”

Brody nods absent-mindedly. In the five years they’ve worked together, he’s heard this speech, in its various forms, maybe 100 or a 150 times. And each time he does hear it, he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, and that although George can be a real pain in the ass, it’s worth putting up with the bullshit because in a tight situation every cop needs somebody he knows he can rely on – and there’s nobody in the whole wide world he trusts as much as he trusts George Knight.

“Man asks me if that’s what I want him to put down on the form,” Knight continues.

“If what’s what you want him to put on the form?” Brody asks.

“Afro-United Stateser! Like he thinks I’m crazy! So I say, no man, just cross out Afro-American and write in Black.”

And black is what George Knight is, Brody tells himself – 6ft 4ins of hard black muscle, of shining black skin, of smart black eyes and of crinkly black hair. George turns women’s heads without even trying to, but with a wife and three kids he adores, there’s no way he’s ever going to take advantage of the fact.

“So did you buy the insurance in the end?” Brody asks.

“Sure,” his partner says. “Hell, the guy’s got a living to make. I wasn’t about to start giving him a hard time.”

Brody grins, closes the file and signals for the check. “Where do you want to start on this shit-hole of a case?” he asks.

Knight gives it some thought. “I think I’d like to start with the Man of God,” he says.

“Yeah,” Brody agrees. “So would I.”

*

Pastor Thornton lives in Westbridge, a new-moon-shaped area north of the park, which is about as much on the right side of the tracks as anywhere in the city could be. Historically, it’s one of the older parts of town, though there is no evidence now of either the original pioneer shacks, or of the small river which ran beside them. Within the crescent which makes up Westbridge are neat houses and low-rise apartment blocks, prosperous banks and expensive delis. Church attendance is high, and the people who attend those churches worship a God who is white and believes passionately in tax breaks for the middle classes.

The pastor’s house is right next to a small park. It has a neat front yard, and expensive velvet drapes hanging at the windows.

“Guy must earn more than a cop’s wages to live in a place like this,” George Knight says, as the two detectives walk up to the front door.

“Yeah,” Brody agrees.

He rings the bell and pulls out his shield. The door is opened by a man of around middle height, who is running slightly to fat. His skin shines, and his big round eyes can probably look real holy when he wants them to. The eyes aren’t looking holy now. As they examine Brody’s shield, they hover somewhere between anger and fear – as if unsure which one to go with.

“What can I do for you, Detective Brody?” he asks. “Have you come to ask me about one of my flock?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Brody replies.

“Then what ...?”

“It’d be easier to talk inside, sir,” Brody interrupts. “I promise we won’t take up much of your time.”

Thornton hesitates for a second, then says: “All right, Detective, let’s get it over with.”

He leads them down the passage to a book-lined room which is dominated by a large hardwood table. The pastor sits down on a swivel chair on one side of the table, and points the two detectives to the lower, straight-backed, chairs on the other side.

This is where he must counsel the troubled members of his flock. This is where he is the undisputed dispenser of wisdom. So it’s no great surprise to Brody that he looks more comfortable here than he did standing in the doorway.

“Well, Detective Brody?” Thornton says, “What is it, exactly, that can I do for you?”

“A while back, you appeared as a witness in a court case involving a shooting,” Brody says.

Thornton scowls the kind of scowl which must terrify the meek, humbled parishioners who call on him for advice.

“I thought you might have come about that,” he says. “Aren’t you people ever going to let it go?”

“It was a drive-by shooting over in San Patricio, which, as you know, is about as far from Westbridge as it’s possible to get and still be in the city limits,” Brody says, ignoring the pastor’s question. “The victim was wounded, but not seriously. He gave the officers in charge of the case a positive ID on the gunman. Said he was one …” he takes his notebook out of his pocket, “ … one Carlos Ramirez.”

“I know the details,” the pastor snaps.

“The police toss Ramirez’s crib,” Brody continues. “They find the gun that was used in the shooting. Ramirez claims it isn’t his – says he found it in an alley. They run some tests on him, and find traces of powder on his hands. Sure he’d fired the gun, he says. Wanted to check it worked properly.”

“Is this really necess—”

“The eye witness – the guy who got shot – has been involved in gang-related shootings himself, and isn’t going to look too impressive on the stand, but the investigating officers figure that doesn’t really matter, because they’ve got the gun, and they can prove Ramirez has fired it. That should be all they need for a conviction. Then the defense produces you.”

Thornton clenches his jaw, like he’s holding a pipe between his teeth.

“I felt it was my duty to speak,” he says.

“You take the stand – take the oath, ‘so help you God’ – and say that Ramirez was with you at the time of the shooting.”

“I was only telling the truth.”

“You must see a lot of people every day, pastor,” Knight says. “How can you be so sure the kid was with you at that particular time?”

“I keep a diary,” Thornton tells him. He waves his hands exasperatedly. “Look, this is all in the transcript of the trial.”

Sure it is. Brody’s read it – read just how the DA had attempted to shake Thornton’s testimony with the same kind of questions as he’s about to ask now.

“You want to explain to us why the kid was with you?” he says.

“The boy wanted spiritual guidance.”

“So let me get this straight. Ramirez, a catholic kid, suddenly feels the need for spiritual guidance. But he doesn’t go to his local parish priest, like you’d expect him to. Instead he travels all the way across town and comes to see you – one of the enemies of the True Faith.”

“That’s how it happened,” Thornton says stubbornly.

“Got any other Puerto Ricans in your flock?”

The pastor shrugs. “As it happens, I haven’t.”

“Know your way around San Patricio?”

Thornton frowns again. “I’m not sure that I’m quite following your drift, Detective.”

“Like I said, the shooting took place in San Patricio. That’s Ramirez’s barrio. He knows his way around it. All I’m asking is, do you?”

Thornton shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever visited that particular part of the city.”

“And I’d be willing to bet that Ramirez had never visited this part of the city, either,” Brody says. “Hell, Pastor, it’d be like a foreign country to him – a place where he didn’t even know the rules of survival.”

“I can only tell you what happened,” Thornton says flatly, just as he did at the trial.

Brody curses the jury which chose to believe a pastor even in the face of the physical evidence and plain common sense.

“We can help you,” he says. “We can give you protection.”

A flicker of uncertainty appears in Thornton’s eyes, and then is gone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

Brody sighs. “When the Ramirez kid was arrested, he said he couldn’t remember where he was at the time of the shooting. Then, when he’s out on bail, he suddenly remembers he was with you. Now we both know you’d never met him before you saw him in court, so the question I’ve got to ask myself is, why did you lie? I wouldn’t insult you by asking if it was for money – Ramirez hadn’t got any, anyway. So what was it? Did his gang come here and threaten you? Because if that’s what went down, then we can protect you.”

“Am I going to be charged with something?” Thornton asks.

“No, you’re not going to be charged,” Brody says. “And neither is Ramirez. All we want to know is why you lied.”

The pastor stands up. “I don’t have to listen to any of this,” he says. “I’m going to ask you leave now.”

“If that’s what you want, sir,” Brody says, rising to his feet.

*

Brody and Knight are back in Leon’s Diner, sitting at a table which is bathed in late morning sunlight. Most of the uniformed cops are now on the street – making a show of being seen while they protect and serve – and most of the detectives are probably hitting the bars and telling themselves they’re following leads.

Brody takes a sip of his coffee. It tastes as bitter as the one he had earlier. “Well, what do you think?” he asks his partner.

Knight picks up his coffee. In his hand, the cup looks like it came out of a doll’s tea service.

“As sure as shit stinks, when the good pastor said Ramirez was with him, he was lying through his teeth.”

Brody nods. “I don’t want to do anything to advance ADA Greaves’ career,” he says, “but I gotta admit I think he’s on to something this time. The common thread that runs through all these cases is definitely the presence of Elizabeth Baker. The only thing I don’t understand is how a 120-pound woman has enough leverage to get a man of the cloth, an out-of-town forensic expert and all the other witnesses jumping through hoops.”

Knight puts down his coffee cup again. “The Ramirez case was the first one that had a bad smell about it, wasn’t it?” he asks.

“First one we’ve found so far,” Brody agrees.

“Then maybe there’s your answer,” Knight says.

Brody signals for more coffee, even though he knows he’s not going to like it. “You want to explain that?” he asks.

“Sure. Ramirez’s a member of the Blades. Right?”

“Right.”

“And we’ve considered the possibility that his gang tried to intimidate Pastor Thornton?”

“Yeah.”

“What we haven’t done is include Mrs Baker in the picture. See, I think this is how it may have happened. Ramirez’s talking to his lawyer, and Mrs Baker says, ‘If you had an alibi, I could get you off.’ And the kid says: ‘I’ll get some of my compañeros to say I was with them’.”

“Go on,” Brody encourages.

“Mrs Baker shakes her head. ‘Nobody would believe them,’ she says. ‘What you need is a respectable witness.’ ‘Like who?’ the kid asks. ‘Like a doctor or a priest,’ Mrs Baker tells him.”

The waitress arrives and fills Brody’s cup. He takes a sip and discovers the coffee is just about as disappointing as he’d expected it to be.

“And then ...?” he asks his partner.

“And then the kid says: ‘You tell me who’d make a good witness, and I’ll make sure he turns up in court’. Well, it goes down just like Ramirez said it would, and Mrs Baker figures to herself: ‘Hell, if it worked once, why not try it again?’ So she gets the gang to work for her on some of her other cases. That’s a possibility, ain’t it?”

“A possibility,” Brody agrees. “But is it likely? What’s in it for her? Why the hell should she run all that risk just so a few punks can walk?”

“Risk!” Knight repeats. “What risk? Nobody’s gonna believe a lawyer like her would have anything to do with a Hispanic gang. And you wanna know what’s in it for her? Success, old buddy.”

“Success?” Brody repeats.

“Sure. Right now she’s handling mainly low-rent punks. But once the word gets around how good she is, she’s gonna get to deal with a better class of criminal – guys with real money in their pockets.”

“You’ve come up with some crazy theories in your time, but this has to take the prize,” Brody tells his partner. “Hell, even without breaking into a sweat, I could knock a dozen holes in it right now.”

Knight grins, revealing a row of even white teeth the size of small gravestones. “Crazy, huh?” he asks.

“Crazy,” Brody agrees.

“You could knock a dozen holes in it right now?”

“Maybe more.”

“So you think we should drop the idea?”

Brody returns his partner’s grin. “Hell, no,” he says. “It’s so crazy it’s probably exactly what happened.”

8

O’Grady’s Bar is located on Thirty-Second Street, which places it just below the south end of the park. It takes up the entire first floor of an eight-storey block, most of the rest of which is occupied by the Boston insurance company which holds the lease on the whole building. The sign etched in the glass on the double doors which lead into the bar says that it was established in 1907, which – appropriate to a building controlled by an insurance company – is kind of half true. There has been an O’Grady’s in the city since 1907, but it wasn’t here, and it wasn’t run by the ex-Kansas City, former used car dealer who runs it now. Still and all, in a rapidly changing city where most people’s memories don’t go back more than ten or 15 years, the bar passes as something of an antiquity.

Beth likes O’Grady’s. She likes it because it is not in San Patricio, and so doesn’t have the faint air of urban squalor which clings to even the smarter bars in the barrio. She likes it because of the oak bar counter with the brass rail running around the bottom; because the men tend to drink pints of Irish stout out of thin glasses instead of chugging Bud straight from the bottle; because it is full of professional people, many of whom are lawyers.

She’s kind of ashamed of the fact that she likes to be surrounded by lawyers, but she supposes it goes back to her childhood. Somehow, the nagging and brainwashing her mother subjected her to, the thousands of words expended on telling her she’d never be a real lawyer, seem to have done the trick. There are times when she doesn’t feel like a lawyer at all. Doesn’t even feel like an adult. Feels, if she’s honest with herself, like a kid who is only pretending to be grown up. Which is why she likes the lawyers – because, if she is playing some trick, they are all taken in by it. Or act as if they are.

But her visit to O’Grady’s today isn’t for reassurance – at least, not that kind of reassurance. She needs advice, and though Alex Schultz can’t exactly be called her best friend, he is about as close as anyone comes to having the title.

The partners grab a free table in the middle of the room, and when the waiter comes to them, they both order chef’s salads. Then they sit there for a few seconds in silence, before Alex says: “You told me there was something you wanted to talk through.”

But now she is actually here, Beth is not sure that she does want to talk it through. Now she’s here, she wonders if even bringing the subject up might not be a step too far, too soon.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s obviously important,” Alex says. “You gonna spill the beans or what?”

Beth takes a good, deep breath. “I was talking to Tom Harrison last night,” she says.

“That right?” Alex asks.

“Yeah, he came round to fix the roof for me.”

Alex raises one pale eyebrow, and a boyish grin comes to his face.

“Fix the roof,” he says. “My, oh my. Sounds to me like it could be the start of a beautiful relationship.”

“You’re as bad as my kids,” Beth tells him, with irritation creeping into her voice. “I want to be serious. I need to be serious.”

The eyebrow drops again, the smile disappears.

“Okay,” Alex says soberly. “What’s the problem?”

“Tom said it was time I put the past behind me,” Beth says. “Time I started looking towards the future. What do you think?”

“I think we should all look towards the future,” Alex says, slowly and carefully, as if he feels like he’s on dangerous ground.

And maybe he is, Beth thinks. Maybe he is.

“If only it was that easy,” she says. “But when you’ve got used to carrying so much baggage with you, it’s kind of hard to put any of it down.”

Alex looks suitably sympathetic – maybe even a little mournful.

“We’re talking about your husband’s death here, aren’t we,” he says.

Beth nods. “Maybe if Jack had just died, instead of taking his own life, it might have been easier. But somehow, when I think about his suicide, I still feel so … so guilty.”

“Guilty!” Alex repeats. “What have you got to feel guilty about?”

“Having the kids while I was still at law school,” Beth says.

“Were they planned?”

Beth shakes her head. “Lizzie wasn’t. We must have had a little too much to drink one night, and gotten careless. I was going to have an abortion, but Jack wouldn’t hear of it. Said she had a right to life, just like we did. And he was right about that – it would have been terrible if Lizzie had never been born. And once we’d got Lizzie, it seemed logical to have another baby.”

“Have I missed something here?” Alex asks. “Because I still don’t see the connection between the kids and his suicide.”

Beth smiles weakly. “Sorry, it’s so obvious to me that I’m probably explaining it badly. Law school was already taking up a hell of a lot of my time, and the kids swallowed up just about all of the rest – which meant that Jack pretty much lost me altogether.”

“Lots of parents …” Alex began.

“Jack wasn’t lots of parents,” Beth interrupts. “He was a sweet man, and I loved him dearly, but he wasn’t very … very … well, secure. Not … confident. He needed me to be there for him – and I wasn’t.”

“He had some kind of crisis?” Alex guesses.

“I don’t know,” Beth says, with an edge of desperation creeping into her voice. “That’s the whole problem – I just don’t know. He didn’t leave a note. No explanation at all of what had driven him to it. Sure, I knew his work could be a hassle sometimes, but I had no idea that anything was seriously wrong until the cops knocked on my door and told me they’d found him.”

“We can never really understand what’s going on in other people’s heads,” Alex says, realizing he’s delivering a cliché but unable, at this moment, to come up with anything else.

“Maybe we don’t know, but we should,” Beth tells him. “Marriage is a partnership. You make a promise to depend on each other, and Jack couldn’t depend on me.”

Alex reaches across the table and takes her hand.

“I used to work with this guy called Paul,” he says. “A good-looking man, and a real smart lawyer. He had a sweet, intelligent wife who worshipped him and had built her life around looking after his every need.”

Beth looks deep into Alex’s pale eyes. “She doesn’t sound like me at all,” she says.

“She wasn’t,” Alex replies, trying not to sound brutal. “Anyway, one day – a perfectly normal, ordinary day – Paul gets up and books himself a one-way air ticket to San Francisco. When he arrives there, he hires a car from Avis and drives out to the Golden Gate Bridge, which is where the police find the vehicle later. It’s another two days before Paul’s body is washed up.”

“What’s your point?” Beth asks.

“He had everything to live for, and a wife who was always there for him. And he still killed himself,” Alex says, squeezing the hand which he’s been holding for the last half minute.

“Is this just a sad story, or is there some kind of message in it for me?” Beth asks.

“I think there’s a message in it for you,” Alex tells her. “I think that there are some people who are always going to commit suicide, and however much you do for them, you’re never going to prevent it. And I think that maybe your Jack was one of those guys.”

“Maybe he was,” Beth agrees. “But now that he’s dead, I’ll never know for sure, will I?”

The waiter approaches the table, carrying the chef’s salads they’ve ordered. Alex and Beth realize they’re holding hands, and quickly disengage like a couple of kids who are suddenly self-conscious.

The waiter lays the plates in front of them.

“Enjoy,” he says, and walks back to the bar.

The interruption to their conversation has only been a couple of seconds, but it has been enough to destroy the feeling of intimacy which had built up between them – and in some ways, both of them are grateful for that.

Beth picks up her knife and fork, and half-heartedly turns over her lettuce.

“So how’s your battle with the decorator going?” she asks, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice.

“The decorator?” Alex repeats. “I’ve about given up on the jerk. About given up on the whole project as a matter of fact. Hell, why spend good money you don’t even have? I can live with my walls the way they are for a while longer.”

Though she can’t quite put her finger on it, there is something in Alex’s words which doesn’t ring true to Beth. But why should he lie? She tries to remember exactly what he was saying when she interrupted him talking to the decorator on the phone.

‘Sure you don’t like it. I’m not asking you to like it – just do it.’

Yeah, it was something like that. So now maybe he thinks he came on too strong – is embarrassed about the way he’d handled the situation – and is trying to cover up the fact that the decorator has walked out on him.

But Beth is not entirely happy with this explanation, and is still trying to come up with a better one when Alex says: “Don’t make it obvious, but turn round slowly and have a look at the guy in a brown jacket who’s sitting at the bar.”

Beth swivels in her seat. She sees the man immediately. He is watching her – watching her with an intensity which could burn holes in steel plating. The eye contact does not last for long – the second he sees that she’s noticed him, he turns his head away – but it is long enough for Beth to feel a chill run down her spine.

She turns back to Alex. “He’s been looking at you like that for a couple of minutes,” her partner says. “Ever seen him before?”

“Yeah,” Beth replies, trying to keep the shake out of her voice. “Matter of fact, he’s my neighbor. His name’s Joe Tyler, and he lives in the house just across the street from me.”

9

The garishly-colored, sprayed-on graffiti which covers the walls of the clubhouse announces – among other things – that this is the Blades’ turf and anyone who forgets that fact is liable to end up dead. The clubhouse itself occupies the first floor of an old three-storey warehouse down on Fifth Street. It has thick iron grilles on all the windows and a double door which looks as if it would take a bulldozer to smash it down.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Sam Brody’s bronze-colored Eldorado, George Knight examines the fortifications with a critical, professional eye. “Looks like they’re worried about something,” he says dryly.

He’s stating no more than the truth. The Blades might still own the streets of San Patricio, but the barrio borders on Chesterfield, which contains a street gang of Afro-Americans – or as Knight calls them, ‘nigger trash’ – who go by the name of The Fury and who not only outnumber and out-gun the Blades, but also have their eyes set on extending westwards.

Knight checks his watch. “Three hours we been waiting here,” he complains. “Ain’t the kid ever going to come out?”

The kid he is talking about is Carlos Ramirez, the gang member who has been lucky enough not only to be represented by Beth Baker, but has also been able to secure an alibi from an honest-to-god white pastor. Knight and Brody have already checked out his home and his other usual haunts, and there has been no trace of him in any of them. He may not be in the clubhouse, either, but if he isn’t, they have no idea where else to look.

Brody checks his own watch, to confirm Knight’s statement. Yeah – just about three hours. He hates stakeouts, because stakeouts give him time to think – think about the fact that when their shift’s over, George will go back to his wife and kids while he’ll return to an empty apartment which once held hope for the future and now holds nothing but painful memories.

He closes his eyes and he can see Linda, his wife, as clearly as if she’d just walked past the car. Worse than that, he can see more than one Linda at once – somehow manages to conjure up the image of the pretty girl he married, side by side with the picture of the emaciated wreck who died in his arms.

Time heals all wounds, he remembers some well-meaning idiot saying at the funeral. He wonders if time has started to heal his wounds – if he hurts any less now than he did on the day they lowered her into the ground. If he does, then it’s only a little – such a tiny part of his pain that he doesn’t even notice it’s gone.

“That’s our boy,” George Knight says.

Brody opens his eyes. The door of the clubhouse has just opened and a Hispanic boy has stepped out onto the sidewalk. He is dressed in the standard Blades’ uniform – heavy boots that the gang members wear even in summer, faded blue jeans and a Levi jacket with the sleeves roughly hacked off so that threads of white cotton hang down on his bare forearms. On the top left-hand side of the jacket is the Blades’ logo – a dagger dripping blood – and though the two detectives can’t see it yet, they know that when he turns they will find the same image, only much larger, on the back of the jacket.

The kid himself has black hair which is slicked back in the approved Blades manner. Though his skin says he is around 19; his eyes put him at a cynical 100. There is a three-inch scar on his left cheek which could have been caused by either a knife or a bottle. He has a long thin nose and a narrow, slit-like mouth. His body is lean and tight and carries with it the menace of a rattlesnake waiting to pounce. The overall impression is one which would make little old ladies nervous, and put even a guy the size of George Knight on his guard.

Ramirez looks around him for possible enemies, then sticks his hands in the pockets of his Levis and saunters down the street. He doesn’t go far. Ten yards from the clubhouse door he stops in front of a black Ford Probe, reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his keys.

“Nice wheels,” George Knight says appreciatively. “At his age, I had me a vehicle held together by string and chewing gum.”

“Yeah, but then at his age you probably didn’t deal any drugs,” Brody points out.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Knight agrees.

Ramirez climbs into the car, signals and pulls out into the traffic. Brody lets four cars overtake him, then pulls into the stream himself.

“When do we take him?” Knight asked.

“When we’re far enough away from the clubhouse so his compañeros won’t see it,” Brody replies.

*

Far enough away, according to Brody’s judgment, is the corner of Sixteenth Street and Lafayette, and it’s there that he clamps his siren on the roof. The guy in the car immediately in front of the Eldorado jumps – like they always do. Brody makes a hand signal to tell him to get the hell out of the way, and the guy does. Brody repeats the gesture once more, and he’s bumper to bumper with the Probe.

“This is the police,” he says into his microphone. “Please pull over.”

He can see the young Puerto Rican tense, as if he’s not sure whether or not to slam his foot down hard on the gas. Then the indicator flickers and the Probe pulls into the side.

Brody stops behind him and reaches for the door handle.

“Take it slow and take it safe,” George Knight says.

Brody nods and gets out of the Eldorado. He keeps his right hand high, close to his shoulder holster, because he knows of more than one cop who’s bought lead while carrying out a routine stop-and-search.

Ramirez is still in his seat, chewing gum and using his fingers to tap out a fast rhythm on the wheel. When the detective knocks on the window, he turns. Brody notices how deep the scar on the boy’s cheek is. Must have been one hell of a wound the kid got, he thinks.

“Could I see your registration papers and license please, sir?” he asks the young Hispanic.

The boy reaches into the glove department. This is the point at which the gun sometimes appears, but all that comes out in Ramirez’s hand is the documents Brody’s asked for.

Ramirez passes the papers through the open window. He doesn’t seem worried. And why should he be? For a veteran who’s fought the battles he has, this is nothing.

“Could you get out of your vehicle, please,” Brody asks.

“Why?” Ramirez demands. “I ain’t done nothin’.”

“I’m afraid that’s not quite true,” Brody tells him. “You ran a red light three blocks back.”

Ramirez hunches his shoulders. “Man, no way did I run any red light,” he protests.

Brody leans forward, so that his mouth is at the same level as Ramirez’s ear.

“Me and my partner say you ran the light,” he tells the boy. “And if it’s our word against yours, who d’you think the judge is going to believe?”

“I got a lawyer, man,” the Puerto Rican warns him.

“I know you have. And she’s done real good by you so far. Now would you get out of the vehicle, please, sir?”

Ramirez sighs loudly and opens the door. He is still cool, still in control, because even if this son-of-a-bitch gets him on a traffic violation, it’s only gonna be a fine – and a fine ain’t nothin’ to worry about.

Behind him, Brody hears Knight approaching.

“This is Mr Ramirez,” he says to his partner. “Looks to me like Mr Ramirez is under the influence of some controlled substance. What do you think, George?”

“Seems doped up to the eyeballs to me,” Knight says. “Probably carryin’ an unlicensed piece, as well.”

Ramirez smiles, and the scar on his cheek puckers.

“I’m clean,” he says. “I swear to God I am.”

“Which God is that?” Brody asks. “The one your parish priest serves up every Sunday? Or the WASP God across town?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Ramirez says.

“Assume the position,” Brody orders him.

The young Hispanic’s body goes rigid with defiance.

“I got rights, man!” he protests.

“Assume the position yourself, Ramirez – before we got to make you do it,” George Knight growls.

Ramirez doesn’t argue any more – most people don’t argue for long with George Knight. Instead, he leans against the Probe and lets Brody frisk him. The detective comes up with nothing – not even a pocketknife.

The boy smirks. “Can I go now?” he asks.

“Not until we’ve searched the car,” Knight tells him.

“Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Brody says, well aware of what thin ice he’s skating on. “The condition you appear to be in gives us probable cause.”

Ramirez shrugs. “Search then,” he says. “But it’s a waste of time – you won’t find nothin’.”

Knight leans into the Probe and, when he’s sure his partner is shielding him from Ramirez’s gaze, he pulls a small plastic vial out of his pocket, and slips it quickly into the glove compartment.

“You better take a look at this, Sam,” he says, stepping back.

Brody pulls out the vial and holds it up to the light, paying special attention to the small rock which sits at the bottom of it.

“Unless I’ve made a real big mistake, this is crack cocaine,” he says. “Looks like what we’ve got ourselves here is a dealer.”

Now, finally, Ramirez is starting to lose his nerve.

“It’s … it’s a plant!” he stutters.

“Yeah, that’s right. Grows down in Columbia,” Brody replies. “Cuff him, George.”

“I tell you, I never seen it before,” Ramirez shouts, as Knight clicks the cuffs in place.

Brody looks around him. They are standing in front of a run-down Italian restaurant – the sort of joint where people go to fill up on cheap pasta. A board outside announces that the special of the day is lasagna, and just beyond the board is an alley running up the side of the building.

Perfect, Brody thinks. I couldn’t have chosen a better spot if I’d been trying. He gestures with his head towards the alley and he and Knight steer their prisoner towards it.

It’s a narrow alley, so that when they pass the trash cans which are already spilling over with garbage, they have to go in single file.

“Where you takin’ me?” Ramirez demands.

“We’re going somewhere where we can have a private conversation,” Brody tells him.

They are half way up the alley now. Knight checks to see if anybody is watching from either end of it, then – without warning – he swings Ramirez hard against the wall.

“Ever hear about the good guy-bad guy routine us cops use?” he shouts, as he grabs the lapels of Ramirez’s jacket and lifts them so high that the Puerto Rican is forced to stand on tiptoe. “Well, have you, scumbag?”

“I … uh …” Ramirez gasps.

“We don’t do that,” Knight tells him. “We don’t do it ’cause we’re both mean sons-of-bitches.”

“Mean sons-of-bitches who are gonna see you get sent away for five years,” Brody adds.

Ramirez is winded – and maybe a little scared – but he is not yet beaten.

“Can’t put me away for no five years ’cause of one rock.”

Brody and Knight exchange glances.

“He’s right,” Brody admits.

“Yeah,” Knight agrees.

“But what we have got is enough to put him in a holding cell for a few hours – the same holding cell where we’re keeping those three members of the Fury we pulled in this morning.”

Carlos Ramirez licks his lips, as if his mouth has suddenly gone dry. “Listen, you guys …” he pleads.

Knight slams him against the wall again.

“No, you shut up and you listen,” he says. “You know what them Furies are gonna do to you? No way you’ll come outta that cell alive. And maybe before they kill you, they might wanna find out what it’s like to have themselves a piece of your tight Puerto Rican ass.”

“I …” Ramirez croaks.

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” Knight growls. “Dead men ain’t got no right to talk. And believe me, you are dead. Unless …”

He leaves the ‘unless’ hanging there, like a worm on a hook. And for a few seconds Ramirez’s mind circles the word, suspecting a trap, yet desperately wanting to take the bait. Then he says: “Unless what?”

“We know what you’re doing,” Brody tells him. “All we need is the names of the other members of the Blades involved.”

“Involved in what?” Ramirez asks.

George Knight sighs in disgust. “Aw hell, I told you this wasn’t gonna work, Sam,” he says. “Let’s just book the little bastard, an’ go grab a drink.”

“Involved in what?” Ramirez repeats desperately. “Give me a chance, man. I want to help you.”

“Involved in the scam with Mrs Baker,” Brody says.

Ramirez looks blank. “Who the fuck’s Mrs Baker?”

“That’s gratitude for you,” Brody tells his partner. “Woman gets him off a shooting and he doesn’t even remember her name.”

Realization comes to Ramirez’s eyes. “You’re talkin’ about the lawyer lady?” he says. “You want to know about the lawyer lady?”

“Her – and the pastor who was your alibi,” Knight tells him. “You remember him, don’t you – the pastor you got your gang to intimidate.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Ramirez says.

“Seems to be his favorite phrase, don’t it?” Knight says. “Understand one thing, punk. We don’t want you. We don’t want any of the Blades. We got much bigger fish to fry. But since you can’t help us …”

“Let me tell you how it went down,” Ramirez pleads.

“We’re listening,” Brody says.

“I’m out on bail, see, an’ I get a phone call from this guy.”

“What guy?”

“Didn’t give no name.”

“What did he sound like?”

A panic has been building up in Ramirez, and now he seems about fit to burst. “I don’t know what to tell you, man,” he says.

“Try,” Brody suggests menacingly.

Ramirez closes his eyes. “Well, he didn’t sound like no nigg— like no Afro-American. Sounded more like a white college boy to me.”

“Age?”

Ramirez opens his eyes again, and looks, as if appealing for mercy, into Brody’s.

“Don’t know, man,” he says. “I mean, I really don’t know.”

Brody nods. “And what did this man say?”

“Said he’d fixed up an alibi for me. Said all I had to do was swear I was with this priest guy when the shooting happened. Said I should tell the judge I was in search of spiritual cons— … cons—”

“Consolation?”

“Yeah, that’s it. I said, ‘You sure this priest is gonna back me up?’ and the man said: ‘Yeah, if he knows what’s good for him.’”

“What about the others?” Brody asks.

“What others, man?”

“The professor from out-of-state? The guy who owns the liquor store on Freemantle?”

Ramirez shakes his head, almost despairingly. “You’re not makin’ any sense, man.”

“How much did Mrs Baker pay you to get at them?”

“What’s with this Mrs Baker shit? I ain’t seen the woman since I walked out of that courtroom. I ain’t even talked to her on the phone.”

Brody and George Knight exchange glances which say that Ramirez might be a lying little asshole on a professional basis, but this time it sounds like he’s telling the truth.

“Kick him loose, George,” Brody says.

“Just like that?” Ramirez asks.

“Just like that,” Brody agrees.

*

Brody and Knight watch Ramirez trot down the alley back to his Probe.

“Well, Theory A didn’t work out too good,” Knight says. “You got any kind of Theory B in mind, Sam?”

“Maybe,” Brody replies.

“And are you gonna share it with me?”

“It’s not quite developed yet, but here’s how it goes,” Brody says. “We’re pretty sure that Pastor Thornton was intimidated into lying on the witness stand, aren’t we?”

“Man wouldn’t have no other reason to lie,” Knight agrees.

“Theory A has the Blades behind the intimidation,” Brody continues, “but unless Carlos Ramirez is one hell of a fine actor, the Blades have nothing to do with it. So maybe we’re looking for some kind of intimidation which isn’t physical at all.”

“You mean like blackmail?” Knight asks.

“Exactly. Say the pastor’s got some dirty little secret he doesn’t want to come out in the open, and in order to prevent that, he has to save a little creep like Ramirez. Think he’d do it?”

“Think most people would,” Knight says. “Maybe even you and me.”

“Now if there is a blackmailer, it could be anyone of the half a million people who live in this city, and we’ve no chance of finding him. So we don’t even look. Instead, we try to find out what the secret is. Once we know that, we’ll get Thornton’s full co-operation, and it should be obvious to us who’s putting the squeeze on him.”

Knight scratches his head. “Sounds easy,” he says.

“Yeah,” Brody agrees.

“Only problem is, say you’re wrong. What if the pastor don’t have any guilty secrets? What if he’s as pure as the driven snow? Have you considered that possibility, Sam?”

Brody grins the kind of shit-kicker smile he reserves for when he’s real pissed off.

“Yeah, I have considered the possibility,” he says. “That’s the basic weakness of Theory B.”

10

Larry Hayden has been to O’Grady’s Bar – established 1907 – two or three times before, but never in the company of one of his employers. Now, as the legal secretary sits facing Beth across the table, he wonders why she’s invited him for a drink in the middle of the afternoon – and despite fighting it, he starts to feel just a little bit uneasy.

Beth takes a small sip from her glass of dry white wine, which is the only alcohol she touches while she’s working.

“I’ve been doing some thinking, Larry,” she says.

It’s the way she says it which is unsettling to Larry. Thinking here doesn’t mean something like thinking about doing the laundry, or thinking that maybe it’s time to start the spring cleaning. Thinking here has a much more awesome ring about it.

“I guess lawyers never stop thinking,” he says aloud, trying to make some sort of joke out of it. “It kind of goes with the territory.”

Beth smiles, but only to be polite. “I’m not talking about my job,” she tells him. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

The unease which began as a small seed in Larry’s stomach is starting to sprout into something much bigger. “About me?” he repeats.

“That’s right,” Beth confirms. “Are you happy working for Alex and me, Larry?”

The legal secretary shrugs his powerful shoulders. “Sure I’m happy working for you. What makes you ask?”

Beth runs her little finger slowly around the rim of her glass, as if she is finding this difficult, too.

“I asked because I think that you’re far too intelligent to stay a legal secretary for the rest of your life.”

Larry isn’t comfortable with the way the conversation is going – not at all! This is starting to look very like a kiss-off – a letting-him-go-for-his-own-good kind of scenario. And he can’t afford to lose his job – because if he loses the job, he also loses access to the office.

He considers saying he has to go to the john, and then heading straight for the phone and calling Alex.

Then he tells himself that he’s being premature – that though he thinks he’s reading the signals right, he may, in fact, have got them all wrong.

“Is it my work?” he asks. “Is there something wrong with the way I do my work?”

Beth frowns – a frown of perplexity rather than annoyance.

“Your work’s absolutely fine,” she says. “Actually, it’s better than fine. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if it wasn’t.”

“So what is the problem?” Larry asks.

The frown stays in place. “There isn’t a problem at all,” Beth says. “I just think it’s time you started planning for your future.” She makes a helpless gesture with her hands. “Look, what I’d really like to be able to tell you is that Alex and I would be willing to give you a sabbatical to go to law school. But there’s no way we can afford that.”

Larry grins. “I know,” he says. “I’ve seen the books.”

“So the next best thing I can offer is that if you’ll pay your own way through night school, we’ll do our best to take some of the pressure off you at work, so you have time to study,” Beth plows on.

So she doesn’t want to get him canned after all.

Larry suppresses a sigh of relief.

“Let me get this straight,” he says. “If I agree to go to night school, you’ll do some of my work for me?”

“Yes.”

Larry picks up his glass and swills the bourbon around the ice – thus giving himself time to adjust to this new situation.

“Has Alex agreed to this plan of yours?” he asks.

“I haven’t even mentioned it to him yet,” Beth admits. “But when I do, I’m sure he’ll go along with it.”

“Yeah, I expect he will,” Larry agrees. “But if it does happen, it’s not going to be Alex who takes most of the extra burden. I mean, I love the guy, but it’s you who’s carrying the firm. You sure you can handle it?”

“No problem,” Beth says – and almost manages to sound convincing.

Larry swirls his bourbon some more. “Where did this idea of yours come from?” he asks. “Just pop into your head out of nowhere?”

“No, not out of nowhere," Beth says seriously. “I’ve been thinking for some time that you should get yourself some more education. But what really made me decide to do something about it was that Tom Harrison came round to my house to fix a leak in the roof—”

“Yeah, he told me about that,” Larry cuts in. “Said it was a real pleasure to meet your kids.”

“I’m glad he liked them,” Beth says, annoyed by the interruption when she’s just getting into full flow. “But that’s not the point. What matters is that while he was on the roof, my kids asked me if he was going to be my boyfriend.”

Hayden chuckles. “Old Tom! Hell, that’s funny.”

“Don’t you see what I’m getting at?” Beth asks. “My kids automatically assumed that because Tom was doing something for me, there had to be something in it for him. But there wasn’t. He was just helping out because he’s that kind of man. And it occurred to me then that if we could all follow Tom’s example, the world might be a much better place. So that’s what I’m doing, Larry. I’m not trying to run your life for you – I’m just trying to help out a little.”

“Wow! Heavyweight stuff!” Larry says.

“It’s not,” Beth disagrees, perhaps just a little angrily. “It’s obvious. Common sense. Like it says in the poem, ‘No man is an island’, and it’s about time we all started realizing it.”

But even as she’s speaking, she’s thinking: “Is there some hidden agenda here? By reaching out and touching Larry, am I trying to compensate for what I didn’t do for Jack?”

“Law school,” Larry says thoughtfully. “That seems a pretty big commitment to me.”

“So you’ll consider it?” Beth asks.

Larry shakes his head. “I appreciate the thought, boss. I really do. But no thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I guess I’m just too lazy.”

“No, you’re not,” Beth counters. “I’ve seen the way you work in the office. You more than earn your pay.”

Larry grins self-consciously, as though he’s been caught out in a lie.

“Okay, I’m not lazy,” he admits. “Fact is, I’ve got a life. I’ve got interests. I don’t want to spend all my free time studying.”

“It’s easy to say that now, but you might regret it in a few years,” Beth warns him.

“Trust me, boss, I won’t,” Larry says firmly.

*

Brody is sitting at the bar, watching the blonde woman talk to the big, young guy. He likes what he sees; he likes the way her hair seems to shimmer when she shakes her head; he likes the way her nose has a slight tilt to it, and the corners of her mouth droop slightly when she’s being serious; he likes how she holds her body, and how she uses her slim hands to make her point. In another life, he might have considered her the perfect Ten. Maybe not right for everybody – but certainly right for him.

“What you looking at?” asks a voice just beyond his left ear.

Brody finds himself being dragged back to harsh, mid-afternoon, police officer reality. “I’m looking at our prime suspect,” he tells his partner.

“Blonde fox? The one talking to the guy with long hair?” Knight asks.

“That’s her.”

George Knight reaches into the bowl on the counter, extracts a large potato chip, then glances up at the mirror which runs along the back of the bar and angles his head so he’s got a fix on Beth Baker.

“Hey, she’s not a bad looker – for a white girl,” he comments.

“I’m going over to talk to her,” Brody hears himself say.

Knight crunches the potato chip between his even, white teeth. “Talk to her? What the hell for?”

Because he likes the way her hair changes color, and the way she moves her hands?

“Because I’m not used to working this way,” Brody tells his partner. “I’m a hands-on cop, not a paper shuffler. I can’t investigate the woman when she’s nothing but a collection of dry facts in a report. I want to – I need to – to get some feel of her as a person.”

“We’re not deep enough into the investigation for that kinda thing,” Knight cautions. “We don’t have anywhere near enough evidence for you to go confronting the prime suspect.”

“Who’s talking about confronting her?” Brody asks. “I’m just going to socialize.”

Knight shakes his head wonderingly. “Crazy motherfucker!” he says into the potato chip bowl.

*

Beth looks up from her drink to see a guy with slightly graying brown hair and intelligent black eyes. He’s standing right by the table and smiling down at her. The smile is pretty cute, she thinks, before she can stop herself.

“Mrs Baker?” the man behind the smile asks.

“That’s right.”

“Sam Brody.”

Beth frowns slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

“I’m a detective, working out of the Nine. We met in court one time. Can’t remember what the case was, but I do remember you telling me about your kids. Lizzie and Mike, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are,” Beth agrees, and when Brody continues to hover above her, she says: “Would you like to join us, Mr Brody?”

“Sam,” Brody says. He turns to Larry Hayden. “Yes, I’ll join you if you don’t mind … Mr ...?”

“Hayden. Larry Hayden. No, I don’t mind at all.”

It doesn’t sound to Brody as if he really means it. In fact, the detective thinks that this guy seems unhappy even to be in the presence of a cop.

Brody sits down, and signals the waiter for a drink. Not that he really needs one, because he already has a glass sitting on the bar. But if goes and gets that, he’ll be drawing Beth’s attention to George Knight – and at this stage of the investigation it’s not something he wants to do.

Brody has been sitting at the table for maybe five seconds when Larry Hayden looks at his watch and says: “Holy cow, look at the time! I’d better be getting back to the office.”

“If you’ll wait for a few minutes, I’ll drive you back,” Beth says.

Hayden shakes his head. “Can’t do it. There’s a mountain of paperwork to be processed.”

“But how will you ...?” Beth begins.

“I’ll catch a cab,” Hayden interrupts her. He stands up. “Good to meet you, Detective Brody.”

“Good to meet you, too,” Brody replies.

The detective watches the other man make his way to the door. The guy moves like he can handle himself, he thinks – the guy moves like he can handle himself very well.

“You work together?” he asks.

“That’s right,” Beth agrees.

“Guess with all that hair, he has to wear a ponytail when he appears in court,” Brody says.

Beth chuckles. “He’s not a lawyer. He’s my secretary. Or rather, he’s our secretary. I share him with my partner.”

“Doesn’t look much like a secretary to me,” Brody says. “Where’d you get him from?”

“The usual source. We put an ad in all the newspapers, and Larry was one of the people who answered it.”

“And is he good at his job?”

“Why the interest?” Beth asks – and the expression on her face is somewhere between curious and slightly on her guard.

Brody laughs to cover the fact that he’s made the mistake of pushing too hard, too soon.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just professional interest, I guess. In my job, you get into the habit of asking about people.” He leans back in his chair. “So, how’s the practice of law going these days?”

“Pretty much as usual,” Beth says. “A few of my clients can pay their own way, but most of my salary comes from the city.”

“Court appointments!” Brody snorts. “It must be a real bitch, having to defend losers all the time. What’s your success rate – five percent, ten percent?

“It’s been much higher than that recently,” Beth says.

Brody looks impressed. “Hey, you must be pretty good.”

“I am,” Beth replies, without any attempt at false modesty. “But I’m also very lucky – or at least I have been in the last few months.”

“How do you mean – lucky?”

Beth shrugs. “Oh, you know how it goes in court – an unexpected witness turns up, the police lose a vital piece of evidence. It happens all the time.”

Which are almost exactly the same words Brody used to Captain McMahon and Assistant DA Greaves. But that was before he’d talked to the very uneasy Pastor Thornton.

“Happens all the time,” he repeats. “But don’t you find it a tad odd when that keeps happening to you?”

“Life’s odd,” Beth replies. “One guy goes to Las Vegas, puts a quarter in the first slot he sees and wins a million dollars. Another guy, who’s run a probability theory through his computer, can drop a few thousand bucks without getting anything back. When you’re on a roll, you just accept it – because you just never know when your luck’s going to dry up.”

Something is happening between them – something which has nothing to do with their conversation. It’s like a charge of electricity building up, or like a lake filling unexpectedly and straining against an inadequate dam. They’ve both been in love, but neither of them has ever experienced anything quite like this before, and though their words still make sense, their minds are in a whirl.

“Ask me out!” Beth’s brain screams.

“She’s a suspect, you moron!” Brody’s nags him. “Get the hell away from her now.”

Brody knocks back his drink, and stands up.

“I have to go,” he says, and then adds – stupidly: “I’m working on a case,” as if, as a fully-employed detective, he could be doing anything else.

Beth looks disappointed. “What kind of case is it?” she asks casually. But the expression on her face says, “Why don’t you sit down again, and tell me all about it?”

And Brody is feeling so crazy that he almost does just that. Then he pulls himself together and forces a shrug.

“It’s nothing glamorous,” he says. “Just a routine investigation that probably won’t even make the papers.”

An awkward silence falls between them.

“Well, I hope I’ll see you again, Sam,” Beth says finally.

“Yeah, that would be good,” Brody agrees.

“And next time, I’ll recognize you,” Beth promises.

*

While he’s been away, George Knight has finished the bowl of potato chips single-handed. Brody wonders how his partner manages to eat so much junk food without putting on a pound.

“So what do you think of Mrs Baker?” Knight asks.

“She’s smart,” Brody says

“Yeah, but is she our target?”

Brody recalls the open way she discussed her successes. But the analogy she used was wrong, he decides. The slots in Vegas are random, but the courts – for all their faults – aren’t. Sure, bad guys sometimes slip through the net, and good guys occasionally go to jail. But you don’t get clear patterns, not like the one that was revealed in Beth Baker’s file. And yet he still finds it hard to believe that this woman – the first woman to even vaguely interest him since Linda’s death – could be guilty of any impropriety, let alone full-blown corruption.

“I said, is she our target?” Knight repeats.

The cop who is so deep inside of Brody reasserts himself over the man who has just seen the light at the end of a tunnel of lonely widower-hood.

“She’s certainly in the best position to manipulate the circumstances,” he says.

“That wasn’t what I asked you,” Knight points out.

Brody sighs. “Yeah, she’s our target,” he tells his partner. “She’s our target, and we’re gonna do all we can to nail her.”

*

The Angel is thinking about the Reverend Walker again – of how The Great Man used to look down from that pulpit of his, and survey his congregation with a condescending compassion. He had been a giant of a man, standing there in a simple wooden church with whitewashed walls and talking of the glory which was to come.

What power there had been in his barrel-chest and piercing brown eyes.

And when the midday sun shone down on his thick black hair, his whole head seemed to glow with a heavenly presence.

‘I look around me, and I see nothing but fine, fine folk,’ he would say, sweeping his strong right arm in an arc across his flock. ‘You are the Chosen People. But because you are the Chosen People, you are also a glittering prize to be won. And who is it wants to win you? Do you know? Do you realize?’

Looking around him, the Angel would see heads nodding – the heads of farmers just in town for the day, and the heads of their wives, modestly shrouded in neat bonnets; the heads of local store keepers, and of the teachers he saw every day in school –a whole community brought together to glorify God and to find the strength to keep their feet on the Path of Righteousness.

‘Who is tempting you?’ the Reverend would continue. ‘Who is doing his best to steal you from the Lord? Satan, my friends! Satan! Satan – who wants your souls, who will promise you anything if you will fall down and worship him. Ah, but if you do that – if you give in to his tempting and wheedling – then you will earn nothing but his mockery and contempt. And you will burn in hellfire – forever!’

The Angel knew all about Satan – had felt his presence many times while crouched in the broom cupboard where Momma had locked him for some minor offense against herself and God. Just by closing his eyes in that cramped, dark cupboard, he could feel the Devil’s evil breath blowing against his cheek. But Satan would not have him. Not him.

‘Oh, but the Devil is cunning,’ the Reverend would tell his mesmerized congregation. “Make no mistake about that. He has more tricks up his sleeve than simple, honest people like you could ever dream of. He knows about greed, he knows about envy, he knows …’  and at this point the Reverend would always lower his voice into a deep, sensuous growl, “’… he knows, most of all, about the weakness of the flesh.’

‘The weakness of the flesh.’

Though he only vaguely understood what this meant, the Angel would feel goose pimples forming all over his young body.

‘Oh, I know it’s tempting,’ the Reverend Walker would say. Men, you see a handsome woman. Women, you notice a fine strong man. And you let the Devil enter you. What harm can it bring, you ask yourselves. Perhaps you don’t even do anything about this stirring you feel. Perhaps you just imagine in your minds what it would be like to fulfill this evil desire the Devil has planted in your very souls. Well, let me tell you, my friends, that is just as bad.’

Sometimes the Angel would risk a quick glance around the congregation – at the upright farmers, at the honest storekeepers – and though they would be trying their best to hide it, he could read on their faces that they had sinned in their minds, if not with their bodies.

‘The body is the Devil’s gateway to your souls,’ the Reverend would thunder. ‘It is where you are the weakest. It is where you must fight the hardest. Reject the sins of the flesh, my friends. Reject them – or face everlasting torment.’

His heart galloping, the Angel would reach across and grasp his Momma’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Baby,’ she would whisper to him.

Baby! He was scarcely even a child any more, yet she still called him ‘Baby’.

And he loved it – because it showed how much she loved him, despite the painful beatings, and the hours spent imprisoned in the broom cupboard. She really did love him, and if she seemed cruel at times, he knew in his heart that it was only for his own good – only so that his soul would remain pure. She had no man to help her bring him up, no husband to offer strong moral guidance to her growing son. There was just her and Baby.

The Reverend Walker would say more – much more – thundering on for hours until his flock were as hot and exhausted as if they’d been on a 50-mile hike under a blazing sun. Yes, he would say much more, but the Angel would no longer be listening, because he had already heard what was important.

‘The body is the Devil’s gateway to the soul. Reject the sins of the flesh, or burn in everlasting hellfire.’

This was what mattered, the Angel told himself, as he sat huddled in his pew next to his darling Momma. This was the guiding principle which alone would keep him on the path of holiness.

11

It is late afternoon when the three young Puerto Ricans walk into the deli on the first floor of the Lennox Building. The owner, a second generation Eastern European immigrant who has anglicized his name to Sowerbridge, marks them down as trouble the moment they step through the door, which is not difficult because first they’re obviously about as high as they could get and still be moving around, and second, sewn onto the fronts of their sleeveless denim jackets they have the Blades logo – which is always bad news.

There are a couple of customers waiting to be served – a middle-aged man who is almost bald, and a faded blonde in her late 30s – but when they see the Blades, they forget all about their pastramis on rye and head for the exit.

One of the Blades swaggers up to the counter.

“You got any chorizo, old man?” he asks, in a tone which suggests that if Sowerbridge hasn’t, he’s going to be real sorry.

“Uh … yeah,” the deli owner replies, trying to control the quiver in his voice. “Yeah, I got chorizo.”

The Blade sways slightly, as if the world he inhabits is in some kind of gentle spin.

“Chorizo?” he repeats. “You got any?”

Sowerbridge is starting to sweat, and hoping it doesn’t show – because with these animals, it’s never a good idea to show fear.

“Sure I got chorizo,” he says. “How many do you want?”

The Blade looks behind him, as if he needs to count. And maybe his mind is such a state that he does. “Three to go,” he says.

As Sowerbridge reaches under the glass and picks up the blood-red sausage, he sees that his hands are trembling.

He takes the chorizo over to his chopping board, picks up his knife and starts to slice.

“Where are the cops?” he asks himself as he works. “Where are the fucking cops?”

Because police patrolmen are always dropping in for sandwiches, for which, half the time, he doesn’t even charge them. But now, when he could really use a little help, there’s not a blue and white in sight.

Sowerbridge reaches for the bread, and starts to butter it. He knows, even as he’s making the sandwiches, that the Blades won’t pay for them, but he’s hoping that maybe they’ll leave without taking the money from the till.

Then – as he listens to their giggling and crazy talk – his definition of a successful outcome grows more and more modest.

If they do rob him, maybe they’ll only take the cash and not stab him just for the hell of it. If they do stab him, maybe they’ll stop with just one slash. If there’s more than one slash, maybe they’ll manage to avoid hitting a vital organ …

His hands are sweating, leaving damp stains on the bread. He wishes he had a gun, but this isn’t a liquor store for God’s sake! And anyway the Blades probably have guns too – and there are three of them against one of him.

He puts the sandwiches into three individual bags and slides them across the counter.

“There you go, guys,” he says, trying to sound friendly, hoping he can make them think that he is their friend.

“You kep’ us waitin’ here an awful long time,” says the Blade who placed the order.

“An awful long time,” repeats one of his friends, dully and mechanically.

“I … uh … I was as quick as I could be,” Sowerbridge stutters. “I … uh … made them sandwiches real good.”

“Seems to me we deserve some compensation for bein’ made to wait so long,” says the first Blade

“Yeah,” agrees the second.

“Hey man, you see that?” asks the third Blade, who has been looking out of the window.

“See what?” asks the first Blade.

“The top-grade A1 blonde pussy that just went walkin’ past here a couple o’ minutes ago.”

“No, I didn’t see nothin’,” the first Blade replies.

And then, almost as if it has been arranged especially for him, the blonde walks past the window again, this time going in the opposite direction.

The first Blade lets the image of top-grade A1 blonde pussy wash around his drug-distorted mind for a moment.

“Bet that tastes better than chorizo,” he says. “Let’s go get ourselves some of it.”

He heads for the door, followed by the other two. The chorizo sandwiches stay on the counter where Sowerbridge has placed them.

Sowerbridge himself goes into the back of the store. Whatever’s going to happen outside, he wants nothing to do with it – and besides, he is badly in need of a drink, and the back room is where he keeps his emergency bottle of Jim Beam.

*

Beth walks towards her Toyota, cursing herself for having forgotten the papers she needs for her meeting, and calculating that the five minutes it took her to go back to the office is going to mean she’ll have to break a few speed limits if she wants to arrive at the meeting on time. Then she stops thinking about meetings and speeding altogether, because she hears the sound of footsteps behind her, and before she has really worked out what’s happening, there is a Hispanic in a denim jacket dancing along the sidewalk beside her.

“Hey, Momma, anybody ever tell you that you’re a real fine-lookin’ chica?” he asks, rolling his eyes and licking his lips.

“Look the kinda lady likes to give pleasure to studs like us,” says the second voice from the other side of her. “Maybe all three of us at once.”

Three of them! Beth’s mind screams. One each side, and a third who must be behind her!

“Got the automobile parked just down the street,” the first Blade tells her. “Five minutes from now, we can all be someplace real nice.”

Beth feels her throat tighten and her heart start to pound. She’s always known this kind of thing was a possibility – of course she has – but deep inside, she’s never really believed it could happen to her.

She takes a panicked look down the street. An old couple, half holding each other up, are maybe two blocks away. A large black woman, weighed down with groceries, is just beyond them. Apart from these three, there is nobody. This is not the kind of street you walk along unless you have to.

The two Blades are moving her sideways, crowding her in against the wall. “You want to struggle a little, Momma, that’s fine with us,” the first Blade says. “I know some of you babes likes it better when you struggle.”

Beth’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

She’s a runner, she tells herself.

A high school champion.

All she has to do is take off!

But she knows that won’t work, because this is not a track with her crouched down on the starting blocks in running shoes – this is a street, she is wearing high-heeled pumps, and the Blades have her hemmed in so tightly that she’ll never get away.

Her tongue feels as if it has swollen to five times its normal size, but she knows she has to force herself to speak.

“I’m … I’m a lawyer,” she croaks.

“Lawyer or puta, don’t matter none to me,” the second Blade says. “I fuck you just as good either way.”

“Do you … do you know Carlos Ramirez?” Beth gasps, as she feels her back press up against the wall.

“Yeah, we know the dude.”

“I defended him. He … he walked because of me.”

“So you already put it out for Carlos. That’s cool.”

“No, I …”

“Anything the matter, Mrs Baker?” a new voice asks.

Beth turns her head, and sees that standing in the doorway of the Lennox Building, armed – absurdly – with a broom, is Tom Harrison.

The three Blades have found most things funny since they’ve been high, but the sight of Harrison really takes the prize.

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself, old man?” the first Blade suggests.

A look of indecision crosses Tom’s face, then he steps clear of the doorway. “We don’t want any trouble here,” he says.

“Ain’t gonna be no trouble,” the Blade tells him. “Not as long as you an’ the little lady do what you’re told.”

“I want you to get out of the way, and allow Mrs Baker back into the building,” Tom says.

The first Blade’s amusement has started to fade.

“My patience has ’bout run out with you, old man,” he says.

Then he nods to the boy closest to the door.

Tom sees the danger and raises his broom. The Blade laughs, swings his arm and plants his fist in the pit of Tom’s stomach. The janitor’s mouth falls open as he struggles for air, then his legs buckle and he collapses onto the sidewalk.

Beth, her horrified eyes glued to Harrison, feels – rather than sees – the rough hands which grab her arms.

“Take it easy, Momma,” the first Blade hisses in her ear. “We have you back here inside an hour, and if you’ve been real nice to us, we might even give you a few bucks.”

Beth tries to struggle, but it’s useless.

She screams, but there’s no one to hear.

And then – suddenly – there is!

As if by magic, Larry Hayden and Alex Schultz have appeared on the sidewalk.

“Let her go!” Alex tells the Blades.

“Two more heroes,” the first Blade says in disgust.

“Let her go!” Alex repeats.

The Blade sighs, theatrically. “Some people just can’t wait to be dead,” he says.

The next few seconds are over in the flicker of an eye, yet to Beth they seem to happen in slow motion, like they used to in the old kung fu movies.

The Blade nearest the door is the first to make his move, pulling out his knife and lunging at Alex. The lawyer side-steps, grabs the boy’s arm and twists it up hard behind his back.

The Blade screams, and Alex shouts: “You walk away, this can all end right now!”

But the other two Blades don’t want it to end – they have reputations to lose here, so they can’t let it end.

They release Beth’s arms, there is the sound of two clicks – and then their knives are glinting in the sunlight.

“Run, Alex!” Beth screams, “Run! I’ll be all right!”

She says it even though she knows that her partner and their secretary are her only chance. Even though she can already picture herself being held down on a stinking mattress while one after the other, the Blades violate her.

Yes, she still says it, and it is just about the bravest thing she has ever said in her life.

The two men, who are her only chance, don’t run.

Alex stays where he is, still restraining the struggling Blade.

And Larry?

Larry stands squarely in front of his male boss, facing the two armed men who want to kill him as calmly as if he were waiting for a bus.

The other two Blades don’t rush in as their compañero has. Instead, they approach Larry cautiously, but with a litheness in their movements which is as menacing as the tread of a pair of panthers.

“You gonna die, man!” the first Blade croons. “You gonna die real soon now!”

The two Blades are maybe 5ft from Larry now – almost close enough to stick him like a pig.

They fan out – one to the left, the other to the right.

And still the legal secretary looks totally unconcerned.

Is Larry a complete fool, Beth wonders? Does he really think he can take on two armed street fighters and win?

The Blades attack almost simultaneously. The one on the left brings his knife up in a smooth, practiced arc which is aimed at Larry’s chest. But Larry is no longer there. He has taken two swift steps backwards, so that the knife cuts through empty space. And suddenly Larry’s leg is high in the air, kicking the knife arm just below the elbow. The Blade shrieks in agony and drops his weapon.

Larry doesn’t even wait to see the knife fall before turning his attention to the attack which is coming from the right. The second Blade is aiming at his throat. Larry shifts his weight, and as the knife misses him by inches, he brings the edge of his hand down hard on the Blade’s shoulder.

There’s a scream which Beth recognizes as coming from Alex, and she turns her head just in time to see the third Blade finish running his heel down the lawyer’s shin.

Alex screams a second time, then lets go of the Blade’s arm and grabs his own leg with both hands. The Blade staggers forward, the stagger turns into a run and he is heading up the street. His two compañeros stand watching him for a split second, then they’re off down the street behind him.

Beth looks on at the whole scene incredulously.

“Jesus!” she says, to nobody in particular.

*

They are all in Alex’s office, sipping medicinal bourbon from plastic cups. Alex is sitting in his own chair, Tom and Beth in the visitors’ seats, and Larry is standing near the door. Alex has put a string quartet on the hi-fi. It’s very soothing music, just as he intended it to be.

For a couple of minutes, they’re all silent, each one re-living the drama in his own way, then Beth says: “How are you feeling now, Tom?”

“Better,” Harrison replies, but he can’t quite manage to make the words sound entirely convincing.

Beth turns to Alex. “What about you?”

“I’ll be limping for maybe two or three days, but other than that, I’m fine,” he says.

Beth clutches her plastic cup tighter, in an effort to control her trembling.

“I’ve been feeling lucky, recently, but this is just plain ridiculous,” she says. “If you guys hadn’t turned up when you did—”

Alex grins. “There was no luck about it,” he says. “Tom saw what was happening from the lobby and phoned up to say we’d better get our tails down on the street pretty damn quick.”

“So you knew that help was already on the way when you left the lobby?” Beth says to Tom.

“Yeah,” the janitor agrees.

“So why didn’t you wait?”

Tom shrugs his shoulders, then winces with the pain it has obviously caused him.

“I figured the four of you could be long gone by the time Mr Schultz and Mr Hayden got out there,” he says.

Beth is touched – deeply touched.

“It was very brave of you,” she tells the janitor.

“Bravery doesn’t come into it, Mrs Baker,” Tom Harrison says. “See, I also figured nobody would hit an old guy like me.” He laughs, and winces again. “Sure got that wrong, didn’t I?”

“Thank you for doing such a brave, foolish thing,” Beth says. “You, too,” she adds, looking at Alex and Larry.

“Twertn’t nothin’ at all, ma’am,” Alex says in an appallingly bad Southern gentleman’s accent.

Larry, still standing by the door, looks uncomfortable with her thanks. It’s almost as if, Beth thinks, that in showing her his skill, he’s revealed a part of himself which he’d rather have kept hidden.

Still, he feels obliged to say something in response.

“It was easy,” he tells her. “Like shooting fish in a barrel. Hell, those guys were so high that anybody could have taken them.”

“Anybody except me,” Tom coughs.

“They caught you off-guard,” Larry says kindly.

“Yeah, off my guard – and about 20 years too late,” Tom replies.

Larry is embarrassed that he’s led the conversation in this particular direction, and partly for his sake, partly for Tom’s, Beth says: “I’m not buying this ‘anybody could do it,’ stuff, Larry. From the way you moved, you must have had some kind of special training. Aren’t I right?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Larry admits. “Told you I had other things to do with my evenings, didn’t I. Been studying martial arts since I was ten years old. I just knew they would come in useful some day.”

How little I know about him, Beth thinks. How little I know about any of them, even my partner. We all live in sealed worlds, and though we sometimes tell ourselves that we’re touching other people, we aren’t really.

She’ll do better in the future, she promises herself. But it is a promise she’ll find impossible to keep, because she doesn’t know what the future holds in store for her.

Nobody does.

Not even the Angel.

12

He likes the nights best, because though there are other opportunities to watch Beth, it is usually in the dark that he gets his best results. And now, as the sun sets, the shadows lengthen, and the Baker porch light comes on, he goes through the necessary preparations.

The small table is already in place, next to his favorite chair, and onto it he puts a bowl of popcorn, two dry martinis, an Olympus camera with a telephoto-photo lens, his infra-red binoculars and a pack of cigarettes. He memorizes their position so he can find them all in the dark, switches off the light and waits.

He does not have to wait long. He has only been sitting there for ten minutes when the five-year-old Toyota Corolla pulls up opposite his window and Beth gets out. He picks up the binoculars and focuses them on her. She is wearing a check business suit. The jacket is not buttoned, and he can see the swell of her breasts under her blouse. Then, by lowering the binoculars, he gets to see her slim legs and her high-heeled leather pumps.

“Beautiful!” he thinks. “Just beautiful.”

He follows her progress along the path through the front yard. The bounce – the energy – that she often displays in her walk, is missing tonight. So, she’s tired. That’s good, because when she’s tired, she’s sometimes also careless.

As Beth climbs the steps to her front porch, his hand is already reaching for his crotch and his mind is replaying those magical moments when she forgets to pull down the shade or comes back into the yard clothed only in that cute little dressing gown of hers. And why shouldn’t she do those things? She has no idea, has she, that she’s being watched.

She reaches the front door, but before she has time to take her keys out of her purse, it opens, and another woman – who looks like Beth, but is older and not nearly so attractive – is framed in the doorway by the hall light.

“Sister Margaret,” the watcher hisses into the darkness. “Good old sister Margaret.”

The two women kiss, then sit down on two of the old cane chairs which are all that Beth has by way of patio furniture.

“Go away, Sister Margaret,” the watcher wills the older woman. “Go away so that Beth and I can be alone.”

*

It is warm on the porch, and out in the grass the crickets are chirping away cheerfully. Beth shifts her position. Somehow, she can’t seem to get comfortable in the cane chair tonight.

“You look awful,” Margaret says.

“It’s been a rough day,” Beth admits.

“You try too hard,” Margaret tells her. “You always have.”

Beth really doesn’t want a lecture from her sister now. “I do what has to be done,” she says.

But Margaret is not about to give up on the subject so easily. “Look at the way you threw yourself into sports when you were in high school,” she says. “You weren’t the best runner in your year – anything like the best – but you wanted to win more than anybody else, and so you did.”

“You’re getting to sound like Mom,” Beth says tiredly. Then she realizes she isn’t being fair. Her mother is into put-downs, whereas Margaret is only showing concern for her younger sister. “Look, I’m sorry …” she says.

“It’s all right,” Margaret assures her. “I know things are tough for you right now.”

Beth looks at her sister.

Elizabeth and Margaret.

Named after the Queen of England and her sister, for God’s sake!

Whatever made Mom – who’d never even left the state before she retired to Florida – do a crazy thing like call them after foreign royalty? And if she absolutely had to do it, why hadn’t Margaret, who was the oldest, been called Elizabeth?

Maybe that’s the problem, Beth thinks. Name somebody after an important person, and you put a weight on their shoulders. Perhaps if she’d been called Margaret, she’d now be married to someone like her sister’s husband Chuck, and happy just to cook his meals, wash his clothes, and fill in her free time playing golf and bridge with the rest of the girls.

“Thanks for looking after the kids for me,” Beth says.

“Any time. You know that,” Margaret replies.

Yes, Beth does. Because the sad fact is that Margaret – who would have won the Mom of the Year trophy so often they’d probably have scrapped the whole damn competition – can’t have any kids of her own, and has been on the adoption waiting list for the last three years.

Margaret stands up. “I’d better be getting back to Chuck,” she says. “You want me to pick up the kids from school tomorrow?”

“I’ll try to do it myself,” Beth says, without much conviction. “But I’ll call you if I can’t make it.”

Margaret shakes her head. “Too hard,” she says. “You’ve always worked too damned hard.”

*

He watches Margaret cross the front yard and get into her car. Now, finally, the game can begin, he thinks, feeling himself already start to harden.

Beth goes into the house and closes the door behind her. She does not appear immediately in the living room, but this does not surprise him, because he knows that the first thing she’ll do is to go into the kitchen and pick up some ice for her bourbon on the rocks.

She enters the living room, goes over to the cabinet and pours her drink. She takes a small sip, then places her glass on the coffee table and walks over to her guitar, which is hanging on the wall. For maybe half a minute, she just looks at it, then she takes it off the hook and holds it lovingly in her hands. She strums a couple of chords, and tightens two of the strings. Then she plays something, and as she plays he can tell from her expression that she is no longer in her suburban living room, but out on a stage somewhere – giving them hell!

The look of excitement fades from her face, to be replaced by one that is half-way between dissatisfaction and dejection. She hangs up the guitar again and finishes off her whiskey.

“Time for bed, Beth,” he whispers across the deserted street.

She walks across to the door, and switches off the light, plunging the living room into darkness.

But she won’t go to bed quite yet.

First, she’ll shower.

He wonders whether it would be possible to secretly install a video camera in her bathroom. Now wouldn’t that be something! He imagines her coming out of the shower, toweling herself down, examining that beautiful body of hers critically in the mirror ...

Take it easy, he tells himself. You don’t want to come yet.

He lights a cigarette, being careful to shield its glow with the palm of his hand. It is ten minutes before Beth appears in her bedroom, dressed in a blue toweling robe which matches her eyes.

“Don’t pull down the shade,” he pleads silently. “Leave the shade up!”

Beth switches off the light, but she leaves the shade alone. This is going to be one of his good nights, one of the nights which make the frustration of the other evenings seem all worthwhile.

As he adjusts the angle of the binoculars, he realizes that his hands are trembling. If he doesn’t think about baseball scores for a second or two, he knows he will burst.

Beth takes off the robe, and there she is – completely naked! And better yet! As she walks across the room to hang the robe up, he gets a full-frontal view of that nakedness; of those firm, beautiful breasts, of that patch of fluffy golden hair between her legs; of—

“Are you having a good time, scumball?” says a harsh voice from somewhere behind him.

Christ! he thinks. Christ! Christ! Christ!

He drops his binoculars on the table, and swings around to face the darkened room.

“Who … who are you?” he stutters. “Wh … what do you want?”

“Pull down the blind,” says the intruder.

“I … I …”

“Do it!”

The guy might have a gun – or at least a knife. There’s no choice but to do what he wants. The Watcher reaches up for the cord and pulls down the shade.

The light suddenly comes on.

Blazing.

Brilliant.

For a second, the Watcher is blinded, then his eyes adjust and he sees the intruder. The guy is dressed entirely in black and has a ski mask over his head. In one hand he holds a pickaxe handle, in the other a set of photographs.

“Mr Joseph Tyler, well-respected lawyer and considerate neighbor,” the man in the ski mask says in disgust. “Mr Joseph Tyler, the filthy pervert, would be nearer to the truth.” He holds up the photographs in front of him. “Do you show these pictures to your friends?” he demands. “Do you and all your slimy buddies have a circle jerk to them?”

Tyler’s throat is suddenly dry. “I … I swear I’ve … I’ve never shown them to anybody,” he croaks. “Nobody knows I even do this. How … how did you find out about it?”

“I know everything that concerns Beth,” the man in the ski mask tells him. “I’m her Guardian Angel.”

It’s the way he says these last two words which frightens Tyler more than anything which has gone before. The intruder speaks as if he were the voice of God – as if everything he says is the literal truth, and anything he chooses to do will have divine sanction. And the lawyer knows that unless he does something to pacify the Angel, he is going to be in worse trouble than he’s ever been in his life.

But what can he say? What can he offer?

“I’ll stop watching her,” Tyler gasps. “I promise I’ll stop watching her. If I see her in the street, I’ll turn right round and walk the other way. If she comes up to me at a cocktail party, I’ll tell her I don’t want to talk to her.”

The Angel nods his head slowly. “Yes, that would be the wisest course,” he says.

And Tyler thinks: “It’s going to be all right! It’s going to be all right! I’m off the hook.”

“But even your better behavior in the future can’t undo what’s already happened,” the Angel says coldly. “You’re guilty of a great sin, and you’re going to have to be punished for it.”

Tyler’s heart is going into overdrive. “I … I have some money in the house,” he says.

“Don’t insult me,” the Angel tells him.

Making it worse, Tyler thinks. I’m only making it worse for myself.

“What are you going to do?” he says aloud.

“I’m going to hurt you. Not so badly that you’ll die, or never be able walk again – but it will be bad enough.”

“Please …” Tyler begs.

“There’s no other way,’ the Angel replies, with what could almost be a hint of compassion in his voice.

Tyler looks wildly around the room for something he can use to protect himself with – but there’s nothing which even vaguely resembles a weapon. And even if there was, even if he had a gun in his hand right now, he doesn’t think he would have the nerve to use it – because the Angel is the most frightening person he has ever met in his entire life.

The Angel walks back towards the door, and for one blissful moment, Tyler thinks he’s changed his mind and is leaving. Then the other man stops in front of the stereo, flicks a switch and turns up the volume.

The sound of Gloria Gaynor singing I will survive suddenly fills the room.

“Oh God!” Tyler moans.

The Angel turns the tuning dial, passing through two more pop stations and one country and western, before he settles on some loud orchestral piece on Classics Lite. Tyler wonders what the piece is, then tells himself he’s crazy to be thinking about that, because any second now this complete madman – this insane Angel – will be coming at him with a pickaxe handle.

The Angel begins to advance towards the window. Tyler jumps to his feet. “You like my stereo?’ he asks – knowing it’s the wrong thing to say, but not being able to help himself. “You like it – it’s yours. Take my TV. Take my car! Take anything you want.”

And then he feels a pain in his kneecap which is sharper than any pain he’s ever known – a pain beyond screaming – and his legs collapse from under him.

Must protect my head, he thinks as he hits the floor. Whatever happens, must protect my head!

He feels a new pain, in the small of his back. He wraps his hands around his skull, and keeps them there, even when a third blow catches him on the elbow. He is sobbing now, and mucus is flowing freely from his nose. He bites his own tongue, and hardly even notices.

Stop! his brain screams. Why doesn’t somebody make this stop?

But there is no one. He is alone with a maniac who, whatever he has previously promised, will not stop beating him until he’s dead. And he doesn’t deserve to die – the punishment simply doesn’t fit the crime at all.

He wants to explain all this to the masked man, yet even in his agony he understands that the beating isn’t about him at all – it’s about the man with the pickaxe handle.

It takes him perhaps a couple of seconds to realize that the attack has stopped – that the pain he’s feeling comes from blows which have already been administered. He hears footsteps and the sound of the door being opened. More footsteps, this time down the hall, then the click of the front door. He wonders if he can move. He shifts his leg a little, and it hurts like hell. But he can’t stay on the floor all night – he needs help – he needs to get to a hospital.

He climbs painfully into a crouching position. Somewhere up the street, he hears a car starting and prays it’s the Angel – prays the bastard won’t change his mind and come back.

He is standing now. He doesn’t know how many times he’s been hit, but it feels like a thousand.

“The police,” he tells himself. “I have to ring the police.”

But how can he do that without explaining why the Angel attacked him? And even if he doesn’t tell them, but they catch his attacker anyway, the truth will come out.

He’ll be revealed as something he’s never admitted he is – not even to himself. And then the whole world will look on him in the same way as the Angel has just done.

With contempt!

With disgust!

He hobbles towards the drinks cabinet. There’s nothing he can do except keep quiet about the whole thing, he accepts bitterly.

*

The Angel drives slowly back towards the city. He’s tuned his car radio to Classics Lite, and is listening to the same piece of music which was playing as he beat the crap out the pervert in the house opposite Beth’s.

He’s gone further than he’d planned with the beating, but there’s at least a part of his mind which accepts the fact that, at this particular point in the cycle, going further than planned is only par for the course.

“It’s not a cycle,” the rest of his mind screams at him, part-angry and part-pleading.

A pattern, then, he compromises. He is following a pattern which he’s followed before.

The first stage of this pattern, after he’s selected his woman, is to watch her. That’s all, just watch her – though not for the same vile, disgusting reasons that Joe Tyler had been watching Beth. And then, after the watching, comes the helping. He starts by doing small things – pressurizing her creditors to give her a little space, for example. Then, gradually, he moves towards wanting to run her whole life for her.

And just as his aims grow more extreme, so do his means of achieving them – threats first, then beatings, and finally the killings.

He hasn’t killed for Beth yet, but he knows the day when he will have to do just that can’t be very far away.

And then comes the last stage – the oh-so-final stage.

“That won’t happen this time,” the Angel tells himself. “It won’t happen because it isn’t a cycle.”

“She should have known that she was being watched,” a tiny, nagging voice somewhere at the back of his head says.

Maybe she did, he thinks, starting to suspect the worst for the first time. Maybe she’s known all along. And enjoyed it! Enjoyed prancing naked in front of her window, putting on lewd nightly shows for the benefit of the man he’s left whimpering on his living room floor.

As he reaches the city limits, the Angel shudders. “It might be a cycle, but it’s not an inevitable cycle,” he attempts to reassure the road ahead.

13

It is morning. In scores of diners across the city, coffee is being poured out, and people only half awake are being wished a nice day by waitresses hoping for a larger-than-usual tip.

Brody drives his Eldorado along a tree-lined street in what is absolutely the best part of Westbridge, and pulls up in front of the three-storey town house which he could only ever think of owning if he won first prize in the state lottery. With George Knight by his side, he walks up a dressed slate path which is flanked on both sides by an immaculately manicured lawn, and comes to a halt in front of a door which is made of polished oak.

“Nice place,” Knight says.

Better than nice, Brody thinks as he rings the bell.

There’s the sound of footsteps in the hallway, then the door swings noiselessly open. The man standing in the doorway is late middle-aged and around average height. He has a round, florid face, which is topped with medium-length silvery hair. He’s wearing a blue suit which must have been expensive, a white shirt and a plain black necktie which is held in place by a gold clip. He looks to Brody like a successful investment banker, or maybe a high-class lawyer who hasn’t seen the inside of a court room for years.

Brody and the silver-haired man make eye contact, and there is an air of instant mutual dislike which is so thick you could cut it up and make bricks out of it.

“Mr Wilson?” Brody asks.

“Elder Wilson,” the silver-haired corrects him severely. “And you, I take it, are Detectives Brody and Knight.”

“Yeah,” Brody agrees. “I’m Brody, this is Knight.”

Though he’s obviously been expecting such a confirmation, Elder Wilson still does not seem too pleased to receive it.

“Now you’re here, I suppose you’d better follow me,” he says.

He leads them down a teak-floored hallway, and into a living room containing three chesterfields and a lot of severe mahogany furniture – the sort of room which gives off an air of luxurious Puritanism. Wilson invites the two detectives to sit down, but does not take a seat himself.

“I’d offer you coffee, but my servant is not due to arrive for another half an hour,” he says.

Servant? Brody thinks. Jesus! It’s like stepping into a time-tunnel to hear the domestic help called ‘servants’.

And would there have been coffee if the servant had been here?

Brody doubts it, because Elder Wilson is not the kind of man to be sociable with trash collectors, sewage workers, police officers, or any of the other assorted riffraff who do not fit into his safe, cozy, middle-class world.

“You told me over the telephone I could help you with one of your investigations,” Wilson says to Brody. “You also told me that, given the confidential nature of the inquiry, it would be best for us to meet. Well, we are meeting, Detective. What can I do for you?”

Brody already knows that Wilson is the senior member of the Board of Elders which runs the Church of Christ the Merciful. Now, looking into the pale blue eyes which are bland for the moment – but could turn hard in a second – he decides that the rest of the Board is probably nothing more than Wilson’s rubber stamp.

“We wanted to ask you a few questions about Pastor Thornton, sir,” he says.

Wilson frowns and the blue eyes become just a shade or two harder.

“Since you wanted to speak to me, I thought that your investigation would have to be connected with the Church in some way,” he says. “But what can the Pastor have possibly done to invite your attention?”

“Probably nothing,’ Brody tells him. “But an accusation has been made against Mr Thornton, and however crazy that accusation might be, we can’t dismiss it until we have all the facts.”

Wilson’s frown deepens, and the eyes grow cold enough to freeze milk.

“An accusation?” he repeats. “What kind of accusation?”

An accusation of perjury, Brody thinks. An accusation that he lied through his teeth to save some Puerto Rican kid he’d never even met.

Aloud, he says, “We can’t tell you the exact nature of the allegation, sir, but believe me, we wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t necessary.”

The Elder clasps his hands together, and studies them as if they hold the answer to some unspoken question.

“I see,” he says finally. “Well, you may ask your questions, Detective Brody – but I certainly can’t guarantee in advance that I’ll be prepared to answer them.”

He’s being about as co-operative as some punk on the street, Brody thinks – except that with the punk there’d be some defiance behind the lack of co-operation, and here there’s just a confident, self-assured hostility.

“How long has Pastor Thornton been with you?” he asks Wilson.

“Just over seven years.”

“And was he the only candidate for the post?”

Wilson smiles. It’s not an open, friendly smile. It’s just there to confirm his own superiority.

“Of course Pastor Thornton was not the only candidate for the position,” he says. “There were a large number of applicants. Our church, as you may know, has a very good name.”

Meaning, it’s rich, Brody translates.

“How did you come to select Pastor Thornton over all the others?” he asks. “Did you know him already?”

Elder Wilson shakes his head. “No, I didn’t know him. Pastor Thornton is from out-of-state – his last ministry was in Scranton, Pennsylvania. But he came to us with many glowing references. And when the Board interviewed him for the post, it was very impressed.”

Which really means that he, the senior elder, was very impressed.

“And has the Board had any reason to change its opinion since?” Brody asks.

“No,” Wilson replies immediately and glances down at his watch to indicate that he’s spent just about enough time on this matter.

“No problems with drink?” Brody persists. “Gambling? Women?”

Wilson runs the fingers of his right hand through his silvery hair. It is an elegant gesture – and he knows it.

“Pastor Thornton has none of those vices,” he says. “And now, if you’ll excuse me …”

“Can you think of anything which would force the Pastor to act against his nature?” Brody asks.

The frown is back in place.

“Nothing at all. The Board considers itself very lucky to have him tending to our flock.” Wilson walks across to the door. “I’ll show you out.”

He’s not going to say any more whatever pressure’s put on him, Brody decides as he stands up.

“It was good of you to spare the time to see us, sir,” he says.

He’s not expecting a ‘my pleasure’ in return, and Wilson doesn’t disappoint him. Instead, the Elder looks him straight in the eye, and says: “You do realize that I shall feel obliged to relate the nature of this conversation to the Pastor?”

“That’s your right, sir,” Brody says.

And you’ll be doing me a favor, he adds mentally, because knowing we’ve been asking questions will spook Thornton – and that’s just what I want.

*

Beth sits at her desk, trying to concentrate on her work. But it’s no good. The words in the document she’s attempting to study just swim before her eyes like so many meaningless tadpoles. How can she think – how can she – when all the time she can feel the malevolent presence outside, and almost taste the hatred that is seeping in through the walls?

She swivels her chair around so she’s facing the window. Yes, they’re still there – at least a dozen of them.

It started – this campaign to drive her insane – about two hours ago. For the first hour, the Blades just cruised past the Lennox Building every five minutes or so. But now they’ve gotten bored with that particular game. Now, the cars are parked further down the street, and the Blades themselves are all standing on the sidewalk opposite, gazing menacingly up at the second floor.

The sound of her door opening makes Beth’s heart skip a beat – but it’s only Alex.

“They still out there?” her partner asks.

“Of course they’re still out there,” Beth says irritably. And then she feels ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry to snap at you like that, Alex. It’s just that they … they’ve got me on edge.”

“That’s exactly what they want,” Alex tells her, sitting down in one of the visitors’ chairs. “Your best plan is not to give them the satisfaction. Stay away from the window for a couple of hours, and they’ll give up and go back to wherever it is they usually hang out.”

“Give up!” Beth repeats incredulously. “You surely don’t think they’re just going to walk away from this, do you?”

“Don’t you?” Alex asks.

Beth runs her hand nervously through her hair. “You and Larry humiliated three of them yesterday,” she says. “Their reputation was all they had, and now you’ve taken it away from them. This thing isn’t going to be over until they decide that they’ve gotten that reputation back.”

“Hell, they’re just kids,” Alex says.

“They’re kids with knives and guns,” Beth points out.

She reaches for the phone, but Alex clamps his hand over hers.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“What I would have done yesterday, if you hadn’t talked me out of it. I’m calling the police.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Alex says. “I’m sure we can handle the situation ourselves.”

“Handle it ourselves? And just exactly how do you propose we handle it ourselves?”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe if I was to go downstairs myself, and talk to them …”

“They’d beat the crap out of you,” Beth interrupts. “And you’d be lucky if they only did that. Face it, Alex, they’re hurting. And they want someone else to suffer. We have to call in the police.”

She pulls her hand from under Alex’s. He doesn’t try to stop her, but he does say: “I think you’re being hasty.”

Beth looks out of the window again. One of the Blades sees her, and raises a defiant fist.

Beth picks up the phone and dials 911.

*

Brody and Knight are in the Eldorado, heading back towards the precinct house, when the message about a disturbance of some sort, outside the Lennox Building, comes over the car radio.

Brody feels the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise, and eases the pressure on the gas so that the Eldorado slows down.

He turns towards his partner. “Want to go take a look at what’s going on?” he asks casually, trying his best to sound as if this is the kind of call he’d answer even if Beth Baker wasn’t involved.

George Knight gives him a hard, speculative stare.

“You asking me if we should go see what kind of shit the Blades are laying down?”

“Sure.”

Knight shakes his head. “It’s nothing to do with us. It’s a job for the uniforms. Let them handle it.”

“It would give me another chance to see our prime suspect again,” Brody points out.

“Why do you need another chance?” Knight asks. “Have you learned so much about the case since the last time you talked to her that seeing her again is gonna be useful?”

Brody doesn’t answer. Instead he switches on his siren, checks his mirror, and pulls a U turn.

*

The Blades are blocking the sidewalk, forcing what little foot traffic there is to step out into the street. Some are smoking, some punching each other playfully. Occasionally, one of them will glance up at the window where the lady lawyer works, but they are not planning to do anything yet. Just being there – and knowing what effect they must be having on her – is a blast in itself.

They look on with only minor curiosity when the bronze Eldorado pulls up and the two guys – one black and one white – get out of it. They start to show more interest as the two men approach them, and when Brody flashes his shield, he has their full attention.

One of Blades steps forward. He’s a tall, well-built kid with tattoos of snakes running up both arms, and Brody has him figured as the leader of the gang even before he makes his move.

“You got a problem, man?” the boy asks.

“You got a name?” Brody says.

The boy hitches his pants up. “Yeah, I got a name,” he replies. “They call me Spiker.”

Brody nods, like he expected it to be something like that.

“You mind telling me what you’re all doing here, Spiker?” he asks.

The boy shrugs his shoulders in a way that he thinks makes him look real cool.

“Hangin’ out, man,” he says. “Just hangin’ out.”

“Any reason why you’re doing it here?” George Knight asks.

“Yeah, man, there’s a reason,” says another member of the gang. “We here ’cause over the road is a bitch-lady lawyer who gives you the come-on, then backs off when the action gets too hot. We here ’cause she got a couple of her fancy friends to hurt some of the Brothers.”

“Shut your mouth, Lobo!” says Spiker. He turns back to Brody. “We here ’cause it’s a free country, an’ we can be where we like.”

“Your buddy there just said something that came real close to being a threat,” Brody says. “And that makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“Yeah?” Spiker says.

“Yeah,” Brody agrees. “So what I’m going to do is this. I’m going to stand here and count to 20. And when I get to end of my counting, I expect to see you all gone.”

“Shit, man, who’d you think you are? You can’t make us go away if we don’t want to!” Spiker scoffs.

Brody’s eyes harden. “I’m not the kind of guy who draws his weapon unless he intends to use it,” he says, opening his jacket so that the Puerto Rican can see his shoulder holster.

“So you got a gun,” Spiker says. “You still don’t scare me.”

A blue and white, its siren blasting, screams round the corner and pulls up behind the Eldorado. The patrol car’s doors open and two young uniforms get out. One of them already has his pistol in his hand, the other is carrying a pump-action shotgun.

“You scared now?” Brody asks.

Spiker looks uncertain. He isn’t scared, but he knows this is one battle he’s bound to lose, and the longer he leaves it, the harder it’s going to be to back down.

“Oh, what the hell!” he says. “We don’t need this kinda shit. But you tell that bitch-lady lawyer we’re gonna be visiting her again real soon. An’ next time we’re all gonna get us a piece of the action she promised us yesterday.”

Brody’s hands seem to be taking on a life of their own, and what they choose to do with this new freedom is to grab Spiker by his colors and slam him – hard – against the wall.

Spiker gasps as the air is forced out of him.

Lobo says: “Hey man, you can’t do that!”

A couple of the other Blades start to move towards their leader, then they see the pistol which has miraculously appeared in George Knight’s hand and decide it is not too smart an idea.

Spiker has started to recover from the impact, but Brody is still holding him as tightly as ever.

The detective leans forward so that his face is almost touching Spiker’s. The Blade’s breath smells of garlic and dental neglect, but Brody doesn’t even notice it.

“Listen to me!” he shouts. “You want trouble? You got it! Just you and me! Here and now! Okay?”

“What’s the matter with you, man?” Spiker asks. “You got the hots for the lawyer-lady or somethin’?”

“She’s a citizen,” Brody says. “Protecting citizens is what I get paid to do.” He looks down at his own hands with something like disgust, then lets go of Spiker. “You stay away from Mrs Baker,” he warns the Blade. “Because if anything happens to her – even a tiny little thing – I’ll be coming after you.”

The gang leader smooths out his colors, shoots Brody a contemptuous look, and saunters away towards his car. The rest of the Blades hesitate for a second, then follow him.

*

Beth and Brody are sitting in Beth’s office, drinking the coffee Larry Hayden has just brought them. It is a quarter of an hour since the Blades left, and the patrol car is still parked on the street, so there’s no chance the gang will be coming back – for a while at least. But even though she knows all this, Beth still can’t stop herself from glancing down at the street every couple of minutes.

“Call ahead, and you’ll have a uniform here to meet you when you arrive at the office,” Brody says. “There’ll also be one to walk you to your car when you go home, or have to make an appearance in court. I can’t give you any protection in Dashwood, but I don’t think the Blades will go looking for you so far off their own turf.”

Beth runs her fingers nervously through her hair. “You’ve been very kind,” she says.

“You should have reported the attack, you know,” Brody tells her with a critical edge to his voice. “As an officer of the court, that was the responsible thing to do.’

“Yes, I realize that,” Beth says, gazing down into her coffee cup.

“Then why didn’t you do it?”

Because Alex, for some peculiar reason of his own, didn’t want me to, Beth thinks.

But that’s no excuse. She’s a grown-up person, a criminal lawyer. She should have done what she knew was right.

“The Blades hardly touched me,” she says, well aware of how lame she’s sounding.

“They would have done if Schultz and Hayden hadn’t appeared when they did,” Brody points out.

Beth sighs. “I know,” she admits. “All right, I’ll go down to the station and file charges.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Brody says.

But he’s sure it will be a waste of time, because the Blades involved in the incident have had 24 hours to go to ground.

If only she’d filed right away, he thinks – before the Blades had time to organize. If she’d done that, there would have been three more dirt-bags at least temporarily off the street by now.

He drains what’s left of his coffee. “I have to get back to work now,” he says.

He walks over to the door and is just turning the handle when he hears Beth say: “Mr Brody … Sam …”

He turns around. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” Beth says softly. “Thank you for helping me. Thank you for answering a call which really had nothing to do with you.”

“Just doin’ my job, ma’am,” Brody tells her.

14

It’s late afternoon, and the sun is shining through the west-facing window onto the squad room floor. George Knight is sitting at his desk – dwarfing it, making it look like nothing more than a child’s toy. As his huge hands hover over his computer, it seems likely they will crush the keyboard into nothing more than a pile of plastic dust. But appearances are deceptive. Knight plays on the keyboard like it’s a music instrument, coaxing the words out onto the screen, chastising them whenever he thinks they’ve played a wrong note. And there have been one hell of a lot of wrong notes that afternoon.

Finally, after maybe three hours of chasing different trails, he swivels round in his chair and faces his partner.

“Did I get it wrong, or did I hear Elder Wilson say Thornton’s last job was in Scranton, Pennsylvania?” he asks.

“That’s what you heard,” Brody tells him. “Why?”

“I’ve gone back 20 years, and in that time none of the churches in Scranton has had a pastor called Thornton.” Knight leans back in his chair. It creaks dangerously. “So what kinda conclusion do we draw from that?” he asks.

“We conclude that Thornton doesn’t come from Scranton, Pennsylvania at all, and that the excellent references which impressed the Board of Elders were nothing but forgeries?”

“Right,” George agrees

“But how did he get away with it? Why didn’t Elder Wilson run the kind of check you’ve just run, and realize the man was a fake?”

George Knight shakes his head slowly from side to side, as if he despairs of Brody ever joining the 1990s.

“You’re a Neanderthal, Sam – and maybe Wilson is one too,” he says. “But even if he wasn’t – even if he understood that you’ve got to move with the times – he couldn’t have done what I’ve just done, because seven years ago, when Thornton was appointed, this technology simply didn’t exist.”

“Maybe I should take some courses,” Brody says.

“Maybe you should,” Knight agrees.

“So let’s get back to Thornton,” Brody suggested. “We know he’s got something to hide – and whatever that something is it gives somebody enough leverage to make him testify at the trial of a punk he’s never even met.”

The atmosphere in the room is suddenly colder. Knight is silent for a couple of seconds, then he says, “Gives somebody enough leverage? Don’t you mean it gives Beth Baker enough leverage?”

Brody taps a pencil on the desk, like he’s sending out a Morse code message to himself.

“I’m not sure she’s behind it,” he says.

“You’re a good cop, Sam,” Knight says. “Hell, we’re both good cops. So how come two good cops have reviewed the same pieces of evidence and come to different conclusions?”

“Part of being a good cop is learning to rely on your instinct,” Brody argues. “You haven’t talked to Beth. Maybe if you had, you’d agree with me that she couldn’t be involved in this kind of scam.”

Knight shakes his head mournfully, but says nothing.

“If you’ve got something on your mind, then let’s hear it,” Brody demands, surprised to find a note of anger in his voice.

Knight takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says. “Here it is. Ever since Linda’s death, I’ve watched you suffer and kept hoping that you’d find somebody else. But this isn’t the one, Sam. This can’t be the one.”

“You think we have a choice?” Brody asks, trying to keep his rising anger under control. “You think we just decide to fall for someone, and then it automatically happens? Is that the way it is?”

“No, course it ain’t,” Knight admits.

“So?”

“But marriages ain’t made in heaven. Sure, I think Marcia is the only woman for me, but if I’d never met her, I’d have been happily married to somebody else by now.”

The pencil in Brody’s hands snaps into two pieces.

“What’s your point?” he asks.

“You can’t make yourself fall in love with a woman,” Knight tells him, “but you can stop yourself from doing it. And that’s the way it has to be with Elizabeth Baker.”

It’s too late for that, Brody suddenly realizes.

Way too late!

“So what all this homespun philosophy is leading towards is that I should either back away from Beth or back away from the case,” he says.

“That’s how I see it,” his partner replies.

George is right. Brody knows that.

But he also knows two other things.

The first is that Beth hasn’t done anything wrong.

And the second is that if anyone can prove her innocence in the face of the evidence, that someone is him.

“You’re right about one thing,” he says, “I don’t want to bring Beth down. But if she’s guilty, she’s got to be collared, and I’ll do it if I have to.”

“You say it, but you don’t believe it,” Knight says. “Can’t you see what’s happening, man? You’ve lost your objectivity. Hell, out there on the street, you went crazy when that Blade threatened to hurt Mrs Baker. That ain’t you, man. That ain’t anything like you.”

“So I lost control for once—” Brody begins.

“Go see Captain McMahon right now,” Knight interrupts. “Go see him – and ask him to reassign you.”

“Let me ride with it for two more days,” Brody pleads. “Two more days, and we either close the case or I’m working some other detail.”

Knight puts his head in his hands. “Okay,” he says. “I’m crazy to agree to it, but okay. So what’s our next move?”

He is looking at his partner like Brody is a rookie who is being tested by a more experienced cop. And that is exactly how it will be from now on. Every step Brody takes will be studied, every move carefully examined. The trust which such a short time ago existed between them is now gone – and Brody is very much on probation.

“Why don’t you say what you think we should do next, George?” Brody suggests.

Knight shakes his head. “I think I’d like to hear your ideas first,” he tells his partner.

Brody sighs, and tries to wish them back into the relationship they had before he started to fall for Beth. But it’s no good. No good at all. The partnership which they took so long to establish has crumbled into dust.

“Seems to me, the first thing we have to find out is what made Thornton lie under oath,” he says. “Because if we can uncover his guilty secret, it might lead us back to whoever’s using it, and—”

“And …” Knight interrupts.

“And if it’s Beth, then so be it.”

Knight nods. “And just how do we go about finding this guilty secret of his?” he asks.

“Scranton’s obviously a dead end. Thornton doesn’t come from there.”

“How can you be so sure?” Knight asks suspiciously – as if he thinks that Brody might be willing to lead the investigation up a blind alley if that will help Beth Baker.

Brody sighs again. “I’m sure because we know he wasn’t a pastor in Scranton, but he has to have been a pastor somewhere.”

“It ain’t necessarily so,” Knight says.

“It is,” Brody argues. “Listen, George, say somebody came up to us and pretended to be a cop. We’d know he was a fake from Word One, because there are things cops do and things they don’t – but an outsider wouldn’t know that.”

“True,” Knight agrees.

“And the same is true of every other business. They all have their trade secrets. So do you really think that if Thornton knew nothing about pastoring, he’d have been able to keep Elder Wilson fooled for long?”

“You got a point,” Knight admits reluctantly. “But where exactly does that take us?”

“Why don’t you scan the computer for Pastor Thorntons in other towns?” Brody suggests.

“And if it don’t come up with any, or if they’ve either died, or are still someplace else?”

“Then he’s using a false name.”

“And we end up with nothing?”

“Not quite,” Brody says. “It’s very hard to hide where you really come from, especially if you’re in a sociable job like Thornton’s. He may have said something to one of his flock which will point us in the right direction.”

“So the way you see it, we should hit the streets first thing in the morning and talk to his parishioners?” Knight says.

“Yeah, that’s the way I see it,” Brody agrees.

Knight nods again. His partner has passed this test, but as far as he is concerned, it is only the first of many.

15

The kids are in bed, and Beth is sitting in the old rocking chair which is just about the only thing she inherited from her grandmother. The chair creaks gently as it moves, first forward and then back.

Rock, creak. Rock, creak.

Beth likes the sound because it reminds her of her childhood – of a time when not only were her problems a hell of a lot simpler, but her silver-haired grandma was always on hand with all the answers.

If only she hadn’t been out on the street at the same time as the Blades, she tells herself.

If only she hadn’t gone back up to the office for those damned papers that she’d left on her desk.

If only she’d had no need to go back – because she hadn’t left them there in the first place.

If any of these ‘if onlys’ had happened, there’d have been no run-in with the Blades, none of the trouble which has followed it – and she wouldn’t be so worried now.

Because even though she tells herself not to be, she really is worried – scared half to death, if the truth be told.

Sure, Alex seems so confident they can fix the problem themselves, but that has to be crazy. What can they do against an armed gang? Even the police won’t help much – because they can’t keep on protecting her forever.

The chair rocks backwards and forwards a few more times, and she finds her thoughts turning towards Sam Brody. She wants to see more of him, but she’s scared of that, too – because she thinks she could get close to him. And when you get close to someone, there’s always the possibility of losing them, as she has lost her Jack. If she must have a man in her life, she decides, she’d be far better off choosing one who is safe and unexciting, someone she can feel affection for without there being any danger of her falling in love with him.

Someone like Tom Harrison!

Except that the good, safe ones like Tom are nearly always married already, snapped up by some woman who has been wise enough to avoid a life of ups and downs, and has elected to sail through it on a steady, even keel.

She hears the sound of a car coming down the street. It starts to slow, and then, somewhere close to her front yard, it stops.

Beth’s heart is suddenly beating faster.

“It’s the Blades!” a voice screams in her head. “They’ve come for me.”

And they can have her.

Do what they want with her.

Rape her as many times as they like.

Kill her, even.

As long as they don’t harm the two kids who are sleeping peacefully in their bedrooms.

Her whole body shaking, she gets out of the rocking chair and makes her way unsteadily over to the window. The drapes are closed, and she pulls the left one back slightly and peers out into the street. The car she’s heard is an Eldorado, and the man getting out of it is tall and has slightly graying brown hair.

Beth hears a sob of relief – and realizes it has come from her.

*

Beth opens the door before Brody has had time to ring the bell.

“Is there anything wrong?” she asks anxiously.

“That’s what I came to find out,” Brody tells her.

“What do you mean?”

Brody smiles. He has a nice smile. “I didn’t think the Blades would come out here, but I just dropped by to make sure.”

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” Beth replies.

The detective shrugs. “Had nothing else to do. Thought I might as well go for a drive.”

They are still standing in the doorway.

“Now you’re here, would you like to come in for a drink?” Beth asks.

A look of uncertainty flickers across Brody’s face, which surprises Beth because she’s got the impression that uncertainty isn’t his thing.

“If it would make you feel uncomfortable—” she begins.

“A drink would be good,” Brody interrupts.

She leads him down the hall, and into the living room. He looks round – at the rocking chair, at the sofa she spent most of three weekends re-covering, at the examples of her kids’ art she’s framed and put on the wall.

“Nice place,” he says.

She feels insanely pleased that he likes it.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you very much.”

Brody examines the guitar hanging on the wall.

“You play this?” he asks.

She laughs, awkwardly.

Why awkwardly, she wonders.

“I used to play,” she says, “but I don’t get much time now.”

“Folk?” he speculates.

She shakes her head. “You’re fooled by the fact it’s acoustic,” she tells him. “No, not folk – good old rock and roll. Do you like rock?”

Brody grins. “Twenties jazz is more my style. Louis Armstrong. King Oliver. Kid Ory. Guys like that.”

She doesn’t know enough about the music to comprehend what it should tell her about the man, she thinks, and is suddenly aware that they’re both still standing – like some frozen, embarrassing tableau.

“Won’t you take a seat?” she says.

He chooses the armchair under the window – her favorite seat after the rocker.

She walks over to the drinks cabinet, which is not real Dutch Colonial but is a pretty good copy.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Whiskey on the rocks.”

“That’s what I drink.”

“Is that right? Most women don’t.”

The conversation is so strained that she’s starting to wish she hadn’t invited him in. And yet, at the same time, she’s glad that she has.

“Ice,” she says. “I’ll go get some ice.”

In the kitchen she notices her hands are trembling again and that her stomach is turning over.

This is ridiculous, she tells herself. She’s a grown woman with two children, not some teenager who’s getting ready for her first date.

Yet she feels just like a teenager.

She opens the refrigerator and takes out the ice tray. How many cubes will Brody want, she wonders?

Two?

Three?

She gives him four. She’ll take a saucer through with her, she decides, and he can always remove one or two cubes if there are too many for him.

Get a grip on yourself, Beth, she thinks. For Christ’s sake, get a grip on yourself!

When she returns to the living room, Brody has stood up again and is studying the photographs hanging on the wall.

“Good-looking kids,” he says. “Good looks seem to run in the family.”

Beth’s stomach does another somersault. She puts all her effort into steadying her hand as she passes him his drink.

They sit down again.

“I … I seem to have told you a lot about myself, but I know nothing about you,” she says.

Brody takes a sip of his drink. “Not much to tell, really. Detective First Grade Sam Brody, a 32- year-old workaholic with an Afro-American partner who insists on being called Black, and a three-year-old bronze Eldorado which still has four payments left on it.”

He’s being evasive. She knows she shouldn’t probe any further, but she wants to – she really wants to.

“Are you married?” she asks.

“I was,” Brody says.

“Divorced?”

Brody shakes his head. “My wife died.”

“Oh, my God!” Beth says, putting her hand automatically up to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I—”

“It’s okay,” Brody tells her. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Then I should have trodden carefully,” Beth chastises herself. “I shouldn’t have just gone crashing in like a rogue elephant.”

“It’s a natural mistake to make. There are a lot more divorcees than widowers,” Brody says, making excuses for her – excuses which, she thinks, she doesn’t deserve.

Brody drains his glass and puts it down on the coffee table.

“Well, I guess it’s time I was leaving,” he says.

“Would you like another drink before you go?” Beth suggests hurriedly – far, far, too hurriedly.

Brody picks up his empty glass again, examines it under the light for a couple of seconds, then puts it back on the table.

“There’s more ice,” Beth says, as if this will encourage him – as if he’s going to say: “Well, we can’t let all that frozen water go waste, can we?”

“Fool,” she rebukes herself silently. “Idiot!”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pass,” Brody tells her. “I’ve got a very early start on my investigation in the morning, and now I’ve made sure you’re okay, I’d better be getting back to the city.”

“You’re sure?” Beth asks – and she’s thinking: “But I don’t want you to go! I want you to stay – to be with me!”

Brody rises effortlessly to his feet. “It was real nice visiting with you, Beth,” he says.

He holds out his hand to shake hers.

As if they are strangers.

As if he’s denying the electricity which crackles between them.

As if he hasn’t seen the look in her eyes.

As if … as if …

She takes his hand. Her fingers brush against the rough edge which – she guesses – is there because he’s into some kind of martial art. She likes the feel of the hand. It’s not exactly cold, but it’s not hot and sticky either, like some men’s are.

She is closer to him now than she has ever really been before. She likes touching him. And she isn’t about to let go.

Brody looks down at the two hands locked together. And then he looks up at her.

“This is insane,” he says.

“I know,” Beth answers, with a catch in her throat. “But we can’t say that it isn’t happening, can we?”

“No,” Brody agrees. “We can’t say it isn’t happening.”

He pulls her closer to him, then their arms are wrapped each other, and their lips meet.

Now his tongue is in her mouth.

Exploring.

Tasting her.

She feels faint. She does not know what it will be like to go to bed with this man – but she has the certainty that she’s going find out before the night is over.

*

The Angel is the only person in the room, but he is not alone. He is never alone – because there are always the voices of the past, which live inside his head.

One of them is speaking now. “Who’s my special soldier? Do you know who my special soldier is?”

“I am, Momma. Me.”

“And are you going to take care of a poor widow woman who has no one else to look after her?”

“Yes, Momma, yes! Of course I am. You know I am.”

“What a kind Baby. What a wonderful Baby.”

Despite the brutal beatings, despite the hours and hours spent crouched in the broom cupboard, he almost worshiped her. She was his Momma, he was her Baby. Was it any wonder then, that when she let him down as she did, he felt as if his whole world had collapsed? And wasn’t it natural that God should have chosen that moment to contact him – to reveal his mission in life?

The Angel walks over to his stereo, selects a tape from the rack, and slips it into the machine.

There is only an electronic hiss at first, then a voice says: “I don’t know what’s going on in that kitchen, but it seems to me that it’s taking you kids one heck of a time to wash up a few dishes.”

A smile comes to the Angel’s face, as it always does when he hears Beth talking like this. How his existence has been enriched by the tapes, he thinks. And it has been so simple to acquire them. Plant the radio transmitters in Beth’s house, park the van further up the street, and there it is – Beth’s entire home life is his.

Most nights he is in the van himself, picturing her as she speaks, imagining every tiny gesture and facial expression which accompanies the amusement or exasperation in her voice. But tonight he can’t be there, because tonight he has to plan.

That doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He isn’t losing anything by not being in the van. The voice-activated mikes and transmitters will work whether he’s there or not, and tomorrow morning he will pick up the tapes and listen to them at leisure.

“Okay, you two monkeys, half an hour’s TV and then it’s time for bed,” he hears Beth say.

“Can I watch my program tonight?” Mike asks hopefully.

“It’s not his turn,” Lizzie protests.

“It is, too.”

A slight pause, then Beth says: “Well, I guess if neither of you can remember whose turn it is, it must be my turn. And I happen to know there’s an excellent documentary about rice farming on the Discovery Channel.”

“Rice farming?” Mike repeats.

“In Thailand,” Beth tells him.

Another short pause.

“It’s Lizzie’s turn to choose,” Mike says, defeated. “I remember now.”

“I thought you might,” Beth replies.

The Angel laughs. How wonderful Beth is. How wise. The laugh turns into a sigh. He would like to listen to more, but he has work to do.

The Blades have to be punished for what they did to Beth. Up until early this afternoon he had only been planning to hurt the three who attacked her yesterday, but now he sees that is no longer enough. The whole gang has declared war on her – the whole gang must be shown that is not a good idea.

He walks over to his desk and picks up the plans of the Blades’ clubhouse that he has acquired from the planning department of City Hall earlier in the day. Next he lays out the Polaroids he’s taken of the clubhouse. The windows are small and heavily barred, he notes. There is a back door which leads into an alley which is probably barred too – because the Blades have plenty of enemies.

So what does that leave him with? he asks himself.

The ceiling?

The floor space above the clubhouse is vacant, so the ceiling is certainly an option. But though it would give him the access he needs, it would not be possible to arrive through the ceiling with the same impact as he can make if he arrives through the big double doors at the front of the club.

So … so the doors it has to be.

He considers the odds.

One of him against nearly 30 of them.

It doesn’t look good, and most men wouldn’t even consider it.

But he is no ordinary man – he is God’s avenging Angel, and whatever the odds, he will triumph, as he always has in the past.

16

It’s almost noon, on what looks like turning out to be the hottest day of the spring so far. Brody and Knight are drinking coffee in a diner, which, since it is in Westbridge, has most of the trappings of a high-class restaurant.

Brody sips at his coffee and is not surprised when it tastes bitter because every cup of coffee he’s had since this investigation began has tasted that way. He looks across at his partner and wishes that he, too, had the stomach to attack a plate of burger and fries.

“We ain’t getting any cooperation,” Knight comments, between mouthfuls of burger.

“You can say that again,” Brody answers.

“Thing is, you expect hostility in a place like Chesterfield,” Knight continues. “Just being a cop down there automatically makes you an enemy. But this is a high-rent, low-crime area. We should be some kinda heroes to these guy—”

“This is the 1990s – there are no heroes anymore,” Brody says.

“Allies then,’ Knight says. “They should at least see us as allies.”

“If we were asking questions about the guy who collects the trash or fixes the air conditioner, it’d be different,” Brody says. “But we’re investigating one of their own, and they don’t like it.”

“At least in Chesterfield they’d tell you to fuck off,” Knight muses. “Here all they do is give you some kind of fishy-eyed stare which means ‘fuck off’ but they don’t actually put it into words.”

“Yeah,” Brody agrees.

It all sounds like a normal conversation between a couple of partners who have worked so closely together that they know each other as well as any married couple do. It sounds like it – but it isn’t. Now that the trust has gone, now that Knight no longer has any confidence in Brody, they are like a pair of actors playing at being partners, trotting out their lines because that is what is in the script.

Brody turns his mind to Beth Baker and the events of the previous evening. It had been a foolish move to go to bed with her, he thinks.

Foolish! Hell, it had been amazingly, mind-fuckingly dumb! If word of it reaches the Captain – if even a breath of a rumor lands on McMahon’s desk – he’s finished.

Kaput.

History.

Yet he can’t bring himself to regret it, because Beth is just about the best time he’s ever had. And it’s not just the sex – although that was great. He feels complete with Beth – at peace. And despite what George Knight says about chance encounters, he can’t throw off the feeling that they were born to be together.

“So what do you think?” Knight asks.

“Think?” Brody repeats.

Knight gives Brody a look which says he knows what’s going on in his partner’s mind, and it’s just what he’s predicted it would be.

“What do you think about hitting one more person on our list before we call it a morning?” he says.

Brody tries to assume the expression of the good cop that he was only a couple of days ago.

“Sure,” he says. “Why not? Who you got?”

Knight consults the rumpled piece of paper in front of him.

“Mrs Florence Louise Danvers,” he says. “Little old lady. Been going to the church the pastor works at for years. Probably doesn’t know any more than any of the other people we’ve talked to, but—”

“But it’s worth a try,” Brody interrupts.

Anything that might get Beth Baker off the hook is worth a try.

*

The apartment block is located right slap bang in the center of Westbridge, which makes it about as safe as any apartment block can get, but the number of bolts being drawn back in answer to Brody’s ring shows that some people think they can never be too careful.

The door opens slightly, still on the safety chain, and they see an old lady with her hair in tight gray curls, peering through the gap.

“Mrs Danvers?’ Brody asks.

“Yes?” the old woman replies, sounding puzzled – and maybe even a little worried.

Brody holds out his shield for her to see. “We’re policemen. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Questions?”

“That’s right, ma’am. Would you mind if we came inside?”

“I suppose that would be all right,” the woman says, dubiously. She pulls back the chain and opens the door. “The living room’s this way.”

She leads them into a room which looks like a Hollywood idea of where an old lady should live. There are chintz chair covers, and there are photographs. There are ornaments, and a fat ginger cat sleeping peacefully on a dark brown rug.

“Please sit down,” Mrs Danvers says. “Would you like me to make you a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee would be good,” Brody tells her, knowing that the simple act of making it for them will put Mrs Danvers more at her ease.

The old woman disappears out the door. In the silence which follows, Brody can feel his partner’s disapproval of him ticking away like a loud alarm clock.

Does George think that if they uncover evidence which points to Beth, he’ll try to bury it? he wonders.

And then he realizes that is not the question. The big question – the really gigantic question – is whether or not Knight is correct in his suspicion.

Mrs Danvers is in the kitchen for five minutes. When she returns, she brings the coffee cups first, then goes back for the milk and sugar.

“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” she says apologetically. “Now, what do you want to know?”

“If you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you a few questions about your pastor,” Knight says.

The old woman looks troubled. “You’re not suggesting Pastor Thornton has done something wrong, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” Brody says. “It’s just that his name came up in one of our investigations.”

“Pastor Thornton is a saint,’ Mrs Danvers tells him. “When I was sick, he came to see me every day. Every single day!”

“I’m sure he did, ma’am,” Brody says. “And believe me, the last thing in the world we want to do is hurt him. I was just wondering if he ever seemed worried about anything.”

“The Pastor is at peace with his God,” the old woman says firmly. “He has nothing to worry about.”

Brody forces himself to grin encouragingly. “Come on, ma’am,” he says. “Even the truly godly have got their little worries – the bills at the end of the month, how the kids are doing at school. That kind of thing.”

The old woman’s chin sets just about as firm as the aging process will allow. “The Pastor doesn’t have any children. Or a wife, either. He has given his life to his church.”

Brody suppresses a sigh. “We’re thinking about a time around two months ago,” he says. “Weren’t there any signs he was under pressure? I mean, did he seem a little irritable or nervous?’

The old woman considers the possibility. “Maybe there were a couple of days when he seemed a little strange,” she admits. “He said he was fighting off a cold.”

“How long’s he been your pastor?” Knight asks, thought he already knows the answer.

“Six years,” the old woman says vaguely. “Or maybe seven.”

“And before that?”

“Before that, we were ministered to by Pastor Jones.”

“We didn’t mean that, ma’am,” Brody explains. “What I was asking was, where was the Pastor before that?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” the old woman says suspiciously.

Brody shrugs. “We could do that, but he’s a busy man and we don’t want to bother him.”

The old woman nods, like she considers this a perfectly reasonable explanation. “He doesn’t talk much about the past,” she tells the two detectives. “He says that instead of glancing over our shoulders all the time, we should be looking forward to the Kingdom of Heaven.”

There’s something in the way she says the words which tells Brody she is holding out on him.

“But …” he prods.

Mrs Danvers hesitates for a second. “But I once told him about my niece, Wilma, who lives in Cleveland, Ohio,” she says. “Wilma’s the one who married the shoe salesman from—”

“And the Pastor said he used to live there?” Brody interrupts.

“Not exactly,” Mrs Danvers admits. “But he sure gave me the impression that he knew the place.”

*

The experts say the Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine-gun is the finest in the world, and as the Angel checks the firing mechanism of his new purchase, he decides the experts are right. It weighs only four and a half pounds, but can fire 650 rounds of 9mm shells a minute. It is used by the British SAS and the German GSG-9, and if it’s good enough for them, then it’s good enough for him.

He wonders, briefly, if the full frontal assault that he’s planning is really necessary. A hidden bomb would work just as well. A rocket launcher – and he knows where to get his hands on one – would have an equally devastating effect. So why run the risk? Why go up against a couple of dozen armed, dangerous kids, when he doesn’t really have to?

Because God wants him to!

He is God’s Angel, but he is also God’s Warrior, the wielder of the Sword of Righteousness. The coming battle will be a test of his worthiness. He welcomes the test. God has a right to demand much of him because – unlike the women in his life – God has never let him down.

No, that’s not fair, not all the women have let him down, the Angel corrects himself as he places the gun on the bench and picks up the audio cassette he has collected from his van earlier this morning.

Beth has remained pure, he thinks. Beth has lived up to his ideals. She works hard, she does her best to bring up her kids single-handedly. If only she knew that she was not alone – could be told that he was there in the background, helping her every step of the way. But that would spoil it. Tell her she was being watched, and she would start behaving like some trained animal – doing things she knew would please him. And he doesn’t want that. He wants her to be virtuous simply because she is virtuous. He wants her to prove to him that the despairing thoughts he sometimes has about women – about all women – have no foundation.

He walks over to the stereo and inserts the tape. A few minutes of Beth’s voice will soothe him – prepare him for the struggle which lies ahead.

“Is there anything wrong ?” he hears Beth say.

“That’s what I came to find out,” replies a voice he recognizes as belonging to Detective First Grade Sam Brody.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t think the Blades would come out here, but I just dropped by to make sure.”

Brody can’t protect her, the Angel tells himself – because Brody plays it by the rules.

He switches off the tape. He’s had his appetizer of Beth. He’ll save the rest of it – the main feast – for when he has successfully completed his mission.

*

It is late afternoon, and Knight sits at his computer keyboard, coaxing music from it again. But will it be the right kind of music, Brody wonders? Will it be a sweet tune which clears Beth and sets him free? Or will it be the dark, discordant notes which can destroy both their lives?

There is the sound of a fax coming in. Brody watches as the blackened image on the slowly emerging paper gradually forms itself into the shape of a man’s face, but from where he’s standing, he can’t see it clearly enough to say whether he recognizes the man or not.

The guillotine clicks. The page falls free. Knight picks up the fax and holds it under his desk light.

“You got something?” Brody asks, dreading the answer.

“Maybe,” Knight answers – cautiously, almost suspiciously.

He hands the fax across the desk. Brody examines it. It’s a man’s face sure enough, and the man is middle-aged and running to fat.

“Recognize him?” Knight asks, and even in that one small question there is a challenge, as if Brody, for reasons they both understand, will deny that he has ever seen the man before.

“It’s Thornton,” Brody says. “Where’d you get this picture from?”

“Cleveland Central Police Records,” Knight tells him. “I drew a blank first off, because none the pastors in Cleveland were called Thornton. But then I thought about what you said – you know, that Thornton has to have a religious background or he’d never have been able to fool Elder Wilson for long.”

It’s like I’m building my own gallows, Brody thinks. It’s like every time I make a suggestion or come up with a new angle, I’m nailing another plank in place.

“Go on,” he tells his partner.

“So I asked the Cleveland police if they had anything on a pastor who might have got himself into some kind of trouble round about seven years ago,” Knight continues, “and they came up with a man called Robert Ellis – which is the name of the guy whose mugshot you’re holding.”

“What kind of trouble was Ellis in?”

“There’d been complaints that he’d been taking too friendly an interest in some of the boys in his Bible Study class,” Knight explains. “The police thought they had enough to book him on, but the DA who was put in charge of the case decided it was a crock of shit. So Ellis walked.”

“Walked, changed his name to Thornton, forged some recommendations, and moved here.”

“You think it’s a big enough secret to get him to lie for Ramirez on the witness stand?” Knight asks, like he’s laying some kind of trap – which is exactly what he’s doing!

“Yeah, it’s enough to make him lie,” Brody says.

“Am I gonna have to do this all on my own, or are gonna help me here?” Knight demands angrily.

Brody knows what he means – they’re back to the partnership thing again, to working out things as a team. He takes a deep breath.

“There have to be two people from Cleveland in this scam,” he says, “Thornton himself, and someone else who knew him back then, and has also moved here.”

Knight nods, but it is not with approval. “That the way you’ve got it figured?” he asked.

“How’ve you got it figured, George?” Brody says, fighting back his own rising anger. “That maybe instead of someone from Cleveland coming here, someone from here went to Cleveland.”

Brody can see it coming, but he has to ask anyway. “You got anyone special in mind?” he asks.

“A few years back, there was a big convention of law students in Cleveland,” Knight says. “I’ve checked with City College, and it seems that it sent two of its best students as representatives. One of them was a guy called Greg Paternak. He moved out to California after he graduated. The other was a bright young woman. You want to take a guess at her name?”

“Beth Baker,” Brody says dully.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Knight agrees. “Beth Baker.”

17

The truck-stop is called ‘Molly’s Diner’. It has a 20ft plywood cowboy fixed to the outside wall in order to attract traffic from off of the interstate. The cowboy is wearing spurs, chaps, a red check shirt and a stupid grin. Around his neck hangs a sign which announces that the diner serves all-day breakfasts. As an advertisement, the plywood cowboy seems to work pretty well, because at ten o’clock on the morning following Brody and Knight’s discovery that Pastor Thornton’s real name is Ellis, the parking lot in front of the diner is almost full of big trucks, medium-sized automobiles and aggressive 4x4s.

It’s ten-o-five when the driver of the 16-wheeler Mack pays the bored cashier for his food, hitches up his pants and heads for the exit door. He is a tall guy with a large belly, inside of which is swilling around a combination of sausages, bacon, eggs, hash browns and a mountain of blueberry pancakes – a big meal for a man who considers that he does a big job.

As he walks across to his rig, the trucker isn’t looking to see if anyone is hiding on the blind side of his vehicle. Instead, his mind is ranging over a variety of topics. As he leaves the diner he is calculating that, with any luck, he will be back at the depot by one, and by two will be sitting in his favorite bar, a can of Bud in his hand. Half way across the park, and he is wondering if his wife is gonna start hassling him about a Hawaiian vacation again. Almost level with his rig, and he’s thinking that maybe he has a chance in the bowling championship this year. And as he takes his keys out of his pocket and selects the right one, he tries to remember exactly when it was that he started losing interest in sex.

He is just about to fit the key in the lock when it all happens. First he hears a soft footfall behind him, then there is the sound of something whooshing through the air, and finally there is the dull thud which heralds the arrival of the pain. His head hurts bad – worse, even, than it did that night he got into a fight in Baton Rouge.

Some son-of-a-bitch has cold-cocked him, he thinks fuzzily.

Cold-cocked him!

He is still trying figure out what he’s going to do about it when he hits the ground.

The Angel, blackjack still in his hand, looks quickly across to the diner. There is nobody shouting at him or waving their fists. Nobody demanding to know what the hell he’s doing. The attack on the trucker has gone completely unnoticed, just as he had planned it to. As God planned it, he corrects himself, because in this, as in everything else he has done, it is the Lord who is guiding the operation.

He bends down, turns the trucker over, and slides his hands under the unconscious man’s armpits. The trucker’s shirt is sticky with sweat and the Angel wishes he had worn gloves, as he plans to do later. He braces himself to take the strain, then starts to drag his victim around the front of the Mack. There’s still a danger he will be seen, he thinks as he listens to the scraping sound the trucker’s heels make, but not much of a danger.

He reaches the other side of the Mack and rolls the unconscious man into the clump of bushes. He moves one of the trucker’s arms, rearranges one of his legs, steps back to examine the result, and is pleased to discover there’s nothing to indicate that a man is lying there.

The Angel walks back to the driver’s side of the rig, picks up the keys off the ground, climbs into the cab and fires the ignition.

Looking out through the window, he checks to see if, even from this high up, the trucker is still hidden. He is. And he should be out cold for at least an hour, by which time the whole thing will be over.

The Angel eases the rig into gear and pulls out of the parking lot. Though he knows he will soon be staring death in the face, he is feeling serenely calm.

*

It is ten after ten when Brody and Knight walk up the path which leads to Pastor Thornton’s house. Brody has the red eyes of a man who hasn’t slept much. Knight moves with an unnatural stiffness, keeping a distance between himself and Brody, as if he can’t bear the thought of accidentally touching his partner.

As they approach the front door, Knight increases his pace, so he is the one who gets to ring the bell. Brody reads the move as a signal. What Knight is saying is that he is taking the initiative, leading the investigation – because he is the only one who can be trusted.

And maybe he is right!

The pastor opens the door. He is wearing slacks and an expensive cream shirt, but he hasn’t put on a necktie yet, and there are traces of shaving cream on his chin. “You two again?” he says angrily.

“Mind if we come in, sir?” Knight asks.

“You’ve been to see Elder Wilson,” the pastor says accusingly. “You went behind my back and talked to Elder Wilson.”

“That’s right, sir, we did,” Knight agrees.

The pastor’s neck, already reddened by his shave, is rapidly turning puce.

“I said all I was prepared to say to you the last time you came here,” he tells Knight. “If I get any more harassment of this kind, I shall have no choice but to make an official complaint.”

Knight looks at his partner. “Maybe after what we’ve learned since yesterday, we should go talk to Elder Wilson one more time,’ he suggests.

“He won’t see you,” Thornton says. “His view of this matter is exactly in accordance with mine. When I talked to him on the phone, we both agreed it’s nothing short of a disgrace that you seem to think you can ride roughshod over the rights of respectable citizens any time you feel—”

“It’s not you we want,” Knight interrupts.

“What are you talking about?” Thornton demands.

“Like I told you last time we came here, we’re not out to get you,” Knight expands. “The only person we want is whoever it was who made you lie under oath. If you cooperate with us now, there should be no trouble getting you immunity from prosecution.”

For a second, a flicker of indecision crosses the pastor’s face, then he squares his jaw and says, “I should have thought that I’d made it perfectly clear, even to people like you, that I have no intention—”

“Isn’t it time to stop playing games … Mr Ellis?” Knight asks.

Shocked disbelief fills Pastor Thornton’s eyes.

Then horror.

And finally despair.

“We know all about Cleveland,” Brody says.

Thornton’s chubby cheeks are suddenly nothing more than hollows.

“I made a mistake in Cleveland,” he says woodenly. “I haven’t repeated here – I’d swear to that on a stack of Bibles.” He laughs bitterly. “Not that my taking the oath would mean much anymore.”

“Shall we go inside, Mr Ellis?” Knight asks, gently.

“Call me Thornton,” the pastor says, pulling what little dignity and self-respect he has left around him, like a protective cloak. “My name’s Thornton now.”

“Shall we go inside, Mr Thornton?” Knight repeats – still gentle, still compassionate.

The other man lowers his head, so that his chin is almost touching his chest.

“I always knew it would come out one day,” he mumbles. “I told myself it wouldn’t, but I knew, deep inside myself, that it would.”

He turns and walks, defeated, down the hallway. The two detectives follow him.

*

As he pulls up at a stop light, the Angel takes the opportunity to look down on the world below his stolen rig.

Little cars driven by little people!

People who have no real purpose in their lives.

People who are born, live and die without ever leaving their mark on the world.

Is it any wonder that the Lord despises them?

Oh, He’ll let them into heaven, of course, because His love is great enough to encompass even insignificant insects such as they are. But that doesn’t mean that everyone will be treated exactly the same. No, there are a few, the Chosen Ones, whom he takes to His bosom, who sit on His right hand and are bathed in the glow of His Glory. And the Angel has no doubt that he will be one of them.

The light changes and the Angel eases the rig forward. The Blades’ clubhouse will soon be in sight. The Lord will soon be putting him to the test once again.

*

Brody and Knight are sitting opposite Thornton is his study. He is on the highest of the chairs again, but his spirit is so shrunken that even this cannot prevent him from looking like a pygmy.

“You’re admitting that what you said in court was a lie?” Knight asks. “That Ramirez wasn’t with you at the time of the shooting?”

“The first time I set eyes on him was in the courtroom,” Thornton confesses, gazing down at his hands, which are clasped tightly together in his lap.

“Who got you to lie?” Knight asks.

Don’t say it was Beth Baker, Brody thinks. For God’s sake, don’t say it was my beautiful Beth.

“A man phoned me,” Thornton says dully. “He told me he knew all about what … uh … happened in Cleveland. He said that if I did one small favor for him, I’d be off the hook.”

“And that one small favor he wanted was for you to perjure yourself at Carlos Ramirez’s trial?” Knight asks.

“He didn’t tell me that then. He just said he’d be visiting me some time soon.”

“And did he?”

Thornton shivers. “Oh yes. He was waiting here in this very room – sitting right where you are now – when I got home from the church one night.”

“Can you give us a description?”

“I don’t know what he looked like. He was wearing a ski mask.” Another involuntary shiver. “But he had the coldest eyes I’d ever seen.”

“Race?” Knight asks.

“Caucasian.”

“Physical type?”

“He was over medium height, I’d guess. And well-built – you could tell he took care of himself. I … I can’t be any more specific than that. I was so terrified that he almost looked a giant to me.”

“What did he do to frighten you?”

“He didn’t have to do anything,” Thornton says. “He breathed menace in everything he did.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He said he was offering me the carrot and the stick. The carrot was that he’d keep my secret. The stick was that if I refused to help him, or told anyone about it, he’d kill me.” Thornton shudders for a third time. “I believed him. I still do. I’m glad I’ve found the courage to tell the truth at last, but it feels like I’ve just signed my own death warrant.”

“A lot of people make threats they’ve no intention of carrying out,” Knight says reassuringly.

“You didn’t see him,” the pastor counters. “If you had, you’d have believed it too.”

“Did he say who he was working for?”

“No, and I was too afraid to ask. All I wanted was to get him out of my house as soon as possible.”

Knight scratches the side of his nose, thoughtfully. “How do you think he found out about you, Mr Thornton?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Thornton admits. “And the only explanation that I could come up with was that he must have learned about it from Gary Kennedy.”

“Who?”

“Gary Kennedy. He was one of my neighbors in Cleveland. I didn’t know he was planning to move here, or I wouldn’t have come myself. But that’s what he did – only a few weeks after me.”

“And you ran into him unexpectedly?”

“Yes. It was unexpected for both of us.”

It’s nothing to do with Beth! Brody thinks, fighting back a sigh a relief. Despite the fact that she once went to Cleveland on a student conference, it’s nothing to do with her. She’s in the clear!

“You and this Gary Kennedy talked, Mr Thornton?” Knight asks.

Thornton nods. “We talked.”

“What about?”

“I told him I’d changed. I swore that what had happened in Cleveland would never occur again. Then I begged him not to tell anyone my secret.”

“And he agreed?”

“He said he considered it his Christian duty to give me another chance. But he can’t have kept his word. He must have told someone else, or I’d never have had the visit from that terrifying man.”

“Maybe it was Gary Kennedy himself who came to see you,” George Knight suggests.

The pastor shakes his head. “Gary’s a little man. Besides, I would have recognized his voice.”

Knight looks across at Brody, expecting some kind of teamwork here, but Sam is out of it – has the kind of look on his face a man has when he’s just been told he doesn’t have a fatal illness after all.

So it’s up to me, Knight thinks – a partnership of one!

“Where exactly did you run into this Kennedy guy?” he asks Thornton.

The pastor laughs. It is a bitter laugh – a laugh which says the God he has worshiped all his life has played a huge practical joke on him.

“It was all the purest chance, meeting him like that,” he says. “I needed some legal work doing on behalf of the church, and one of my flock told me there was a firm downtown who would give me a cut rate. Gary was the firm’s newest partner.”

Brody suddenly senses what’s coming, and feels the cocoon of security he’s been spinning around himself start to unravel. His pulse is racing and his breaths are irregular. He doesn’t want to speak, yet he knows he’s going to have to force himself to.

“You’re saying this guy Kennedy’s a lawyer?” he gasps.

“Yes.”

“And where does he have his office?” Knight asks.

“It’s on Twelfth Street. I can’t remember the exact address, but it’s a four-storey block. I think it’s called the ‘Something’ Building.”

“The Lennox Building?” Knight asks.

“That’s it,” Thornton agrees.

Oh Jesus, Beth, what are we going to do now? Brody thinks in despair. What the hell are we going to do?

*

The Blades’ clubhouse is big and L-shaped. The long part of the ‘L’ runs from the front door to the back wall and is as wide as three trucks and maybe four times as long. The short arm runs along that back wall and behind the abandoned store front next door.

The pool table is in the middle of the long arm, as well as several old card tables and the bar. The alcove contains a couple of sofas on which the gang sometimes likes to put a few of the local chicas to work. But there are no girls in the clubhouse today, because nobody feels like celebrating with a gang bang.

Fact is, the Blades have been humiliated – not once, but twice.

The first time, three of the gang take on a couple of suits – a couple of lawyers! – and lose.

The second time, they are moved on by the cops – like it is them who rule the streets.

Word is gonna get out about these two defeats – it always does – and the other gangs – who’ve known their place in the order of things up until now – are gonna start thinking the Blades have gone soft, and want some of their turf. So something has to be done – and done soon.

The Blades have been talking about exactly what that something will be all morning.

The bitch-lady-lawyer has to be punished because she was the one who started it all. A couple of hours with a bunch of real studs like the Blades should teach her a lesson.

The two guys are another question. Some of the hot-heads in the gang want to stick the both of them, but Spiker is still the leader, and Spiker says it will be enough just to hurt them real bad.

“But this time, we won’t be stupid,” he tells his compañeros. “This time we ain’t gonna do it when no US Cavalry is gonna turn up an’ spoil the action. We’ll wait till the time is right.”

So, now they have a policy, and the question is no longer what, but when. And while they are waiting – like Spiker says they got to – the Blades mooch around their clubhouse, playing pool and cards, smoking a little crack in the alcove, and feeling vaguely discontented that they’re gonna have to put off the moment when they can see justice being done.

It is a Blade called Ron-Ron who first notices the danger – and who is also the first to die.

He is standing at the front of the clubhouse, admiring the chicas walking past on the sidewalk – and wondering if screwing one of them might not make him feel a little bit better – when he sees the truck. It is coming down the street at maybe 50 miles an hour, flashing its lights and honking its horn. There isn’t much traffic around, but what few vehicles are on the road pull over, to let it pass.

“Maybe the guy’s got problems with his brakes,” Ron-Ron thinks.

And if he has, oh Momma, he’s in big trouble. Because sooner or later, he’s gonna have to stop, and right now it looks as if the only thing which can stop him is a brick wall.

Yeah – Ron-Ron can see it all.

The cab crushed.

The driver’s arm hangin’ out of the window.

Blood everywhere.

What a high!

Suddenly the truck is turning – heading towards the clubhouse.

“Shit!” Ron-Ron screams.

The roaring monster smashes into the front of the old building. Bricks turn to powder, supporting girders buckle and give way. Where, a micro-second earlier, there was a solid wall, there is now only a jagged hole, and Ron-Ron is flying through the air, his face pulped, every bone in his body shattered.

The truck plows on, flattening the pool table, crushing more Blades under its giant wheels. The air is thick with dust and a hail of falling bricks. Blades fling themselves to the left or the right to avoid certain death.

The brakes scream as the driver slams his foot down on the pedal. The truck veers a little to the side, then comes to a fiercely juddering halt as it partly demolishes the back wall.

The Angel jumps from the cab, and lands in a crouch. He is feeling shaky but he knows – because he understands his own body so well – that he is still in control. He glances quickly around him, taking in the whole scene. Some of the Blades who jumped out of the way are beginning to pick themselves up. Others, who’ve been positioned beyond the truck’s deadly path, stand numbly looking on.

This can’t be happening, the Blades are all telling themselves in half-formed, hazy thoughts. Trucks just don’t crash into clubhouses – not into their clubhouse, anyway.

He has maybe another three seconds before they begin to react, the Angel calculates as he pulls the pin from the grenade he holds in his hand. Two seconds, he thinks, as he throws the grenade at the Blades in the alcove. One second, he counts, as he swings the submachine from his belt and begins firing it at the gang members closest to him.

The first round of fire takes out half a dozen Blades. The grenade – exploding loudly in the alcove and throwing up bits of furniture and pieces of shrapnel – accounts for another four. The Angel slots a new cartridge into the magazine. He catches a movement from the corner of his eye and swings round. Two of the Blades standing to his left are pulling out their guns. He scythes them down before they can get in a single shot.

Dropping onto his stomach, he crawls rapidly under the truck. He can’t see any legs on the other side, but that doesn’t mean anything. He goes into a roll, and comes out from under on his back, submachine-gun ready to fire again.

Bodies!

Six or seven of them.

Bodies twisted into unnatural positions.

Bodies crushed.

But no one standing. No one left there to challenge him.

They have fled from the Sword of Righteousness, the Angel thinks. That doesn’t matter. The damage he has already done is enough to ensure that the Blades are broken – and will never threaten Beth again.

The Angel climbs to his feet, checks one more time that the area is secured, then lays his untraceable machine-gun on the ground for the police to find. He slips off his ski mask and his gloves, and puts them in his pocket. Moving quickly, he goes to the back door and slides the security bolts open. The whole operation – from the moment the truck hit the front of the building to the Angel stepping through the door – has taken under a minute.

Out in the alley, there is evidence of the mayhem – bricks which have fallen away from the crumbling back wall, pieces of glass which have been blown out by explosion – but after the mayhem in the clubhouse, the place seems almost tranquil.

The Angel picks his way between a couple of trash cans, re-living his battle with the Blades in all its glory. He has done well, he tells himself. He has done well and the Lord will be well pleased with him.

*

The bronze Eldorado makes its way along Fourteenth Street. Knight is at the wheel, Brody in the passenger seat. Knight has been waiting for his partner to speak since they left the pastor’s house, but so far Brody hasn’t said a word – which is really pissing Knight off.

They reach a stop light, and Knight is getting to be so angry that he’s tempted to stamp on the gas and to hell with the consequences. But he doesn’t do that, because he, at least, is still a good cop – a responsible cop.

He slows the Eldorado, then comes to a halt. He turns his head to look at his partner. Brody’s looking through the windscreen with blank eyes, as if he isn’t there at all – as if his mind is on coffee break.

As if the dumb motherfucker thinks he can just forget what Thornton’s told them!

“When are you gonna accept the fact that it all points to Mrs Baker, for Christ’s sake?” Knight demands.

A flicker of interest – or of something, anyway – comes to Brody’s eyes.

“It doesn’t have to be her behind it all,” he says. “It could always be that partner of hers – Schultz.”

But there is no spirit in his words, Knight thinks, because even though he doesn’t want to believe the truth, there’s still too much of the cop in him to deny it when it’s staring him in his face.

“Get real about this thing!” Knight says contemptuously. “Go ask Captain McMahon for a transfer so they can give me a partner I can work with.”

Ahead of them is a single-storey building with the word ‘Liquor’ picked out in neon letters on its roof.

“Stop the car!” Brody says.

Knight sighs in disgust, “That ain’t the answer.”

“Stop the damn car!” Brody repeats, and this time there is dangerous edge to his words.

Knight tells himself he doesn’t care enough to fight, and pulls into the side. Brody gets out of the car and heads for the liquor store.

There are no other customers – no waiting – which is maybe a sign that this is what it was always planned for him to do, Brody thinks. He asks for a pint of Four Roses. The bald guy behind the counter, unlike George Knight, doesn’t try to tell him that’s not the answer, but hands the bottle right over to him.

Brody walks back to the Eldorado. Knight is still behind the wheel, and the expression on his face is about as grim as it could be.

“Get in,” he says.

Brody slides into his seat.

Knight switches on the siren and pulls out into the traffic.

“Something happen while I was away?” Brody asks.

“Yeah,” Knight replies.

“You going to tell me what it is?”

“You’ll find out for yourself when we get there,” Knight says.

And Brody realizes that his partner has never – ever – been as angry with him as he is right now.

18

The police line has been set up three blocks away from Blades’ clubhouse and uniformed cops are standing in front of it, re-directing traffic up Van Buren and telling the crowd which has started to gather that there is no way anybody is going to get any closer than this.

Knight shows his shield, and the uniforms let the Eldorado through. Knight drives slowly past black and whites and several unmarked cars which he recognizes as belonging to other detectives. He does not get far. Two blocks from the clubhouse, a young, fresh-faced cop waves him down and tells him he has to park.

“Sorry to make you do this, guys, but the lieutenant wants to keep a clear path open for the ambulances,” the young cop explains. His face turns slightly green. “I’ve been in there. We’re gonna need a lot of ambulances.”

Knight and Brody start to make their way to the clubhouse on foot.

“You mind telling me why you’re so pissed with me, George?” Brody asks, seeming to come to life at last.

Knight shoots him a hostile look. “You’re supposed to be a detective,” he says. “You work it out.”

“If it’s because of Beth—” Brody begins.

“It’s not her, man! It’s you!” Knight says angrily.

“Would you care to explain that?”

“I watched you when Linda was dying,” Knight says. “I watched you when she was dead. And all the time, I kept praying ‘Please don’t let him find his consolation in a bottle.’ And you didn’t. I was proud of you, man. But now I see that thing in your pocket, and I ain’t proud of you no more.”

He’s jealous, Brody thinks. But he’s not jealous for himself, he’s jealous for Linda – because her death didn’t drive me to drink, but this thing with Beth Baker has.

He can’t really understand what’s happening himself. Sure, he and Linda had their rough times before her illness, but he’d loved her with all his heart. And yet it somehow feels different with Beth. Maybe, as he keeps trying to avoid telling himself, his first love had been no more than a rehearsal for his second. Maybe it’s simply that the second time around, because you know how fragile love is, you appreciate it more. He doesn’t know the answer. He just doesn’t know. But there is one thing he’s certain of in his uncertain world – he needs the support of his partner like he hasn’t needed it since Linda’s death.

“What can I do to make things right between us again, George?” he asks Knight.

Knight’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You mean that?” he says. “You really mean it?”

“Yeah.”

They walk a little further – closer to the site of the attack.

“You could start by losing that bottle,” Knight says.

Brody puts in his hand in his pocket, pulls out the bottle, and drops it in the nearest trash can.

They keep on walking. They are still half a block from the clubhouse, but already they are crunching shards of glass under their heels.

Now they have a clear view of the place. They can see the gaping hole where the front wall used to be, and the girders which have been hastily erected to stop the whole building coming down. Several ambulances, their lights twirling, are parked in front of the building, and paramedics are rushing in and out with stretchers.

“Why are we here?” Brody asks.

“What, you don’t think a crime’s been committed?” Knight replies, and though he has calmed down some since Brody ditched the bottle, his anger and distrust are still there.

“Sure, a crime’s been committed,” Brody says. “But what’s it got to do with us? We’re already working on a case.”

“Are we, man?” Knight asks. “Are we really? Both of us?”

“Both of us,” Brody says levelly.

Knight sighs. “We’re here ’cause we happened to be close,” he tells Brody. “We’re here to see to it that none of the uniforms fuck up. Once the Captain’s gotten another team down here, we can go.”

They flash their shields and step through the gap into the clubhouse. The first thing they notice is the truck. It fills half the room, hampering the work of paramedics and investigators alike, and if no one has removed it yet, that is presumably because no one has worked out how to.

After examining the centerpiece, they begin to notice the details: the police photographers, who are taking shots of victims who don’t even look like people anymore; a couple of balls from the pool table, which roll around the floor, then come to rest until they are kicked by somebody rushing past; cigarette ends and playing cards; blood stains and cartridge shells.

“Christ, what a mess!” Knight says. “Who do you think is behind this? The Fury?”

Brody shakes his head. “They’re already top dogs. No need for them to risk a full-frontal attack. It must have been some other gang, real desperate to take the Blades’ place.”

“Well, it sure looks like they’ve got what they wanted,” Knight says.

A young paramedic, with a face which shows he has already seen more human suffering than anybody ever needs to, approaches them.

“You guys spare a minute?” he asks.

“What for?” Brody says.

“I got one of the victims in my bus. He saw you arrive, and he says he ain’t going to hospital till he’s talked to you. Told him he might bleed to death before then, but he says he don’t give a shit. Says he’s got to see you. Tries to stand up – half his leg blown away, and he tries to stand up, for God’s sake! So if you can spare a minute to come and see him—”

“Sure,” Brody says.

The paramedic leads them to his ambulance. And to Spiker, who is lying on a stretcher, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of pain.

“What can we do for you, son?” Brody asks.

“Remember what you said the other day, that protectin’ citizens was what you get paid to do?” Spiker asks through clenched teeth.

“I remember.”

“Does what happened here make me a citizen?”

“You were always a citizen,” Brody tells him.

“Yeah, right!” Spiker says in disgust.

“You want to tell us what’s troubling you?” Brody asks.

Spiker winces, as a fresh wave of pain hits him. “I want you to catch the son-of-a-bitch who did this to us,” he says.

“The son-of-a-bitch!” Brody repeats incredulously. “You telling me this was all the work of one man?”

Spiker winces again. “Yeah, one man,” he says. “Big bastard.”

“Can you give us a description?”

“No way. Dude was wearing a ski mask.”

Thornton was ordered by a man in a ski mask to give false evidence to help the case Beth Baker was defending, Brody thinks. And the day after the Blades threaten Beth, a man in a ski mask virtually wipes them out.

“It all leads back to her, don’t it?” George Knight says, reading his mind. “Whichever way you look at it, it all leads back to her.”

“Seems that way,” Brody says casually.

Then he doubles up, and vomits into the gutter.

*

The Angel always feels at peace when he’s completed a mission, but there is nothing as deep as the peace which comes after a killing. Now, finally, he has earned his reward. He switches on the stereo and sits back to listen to the voice of the woman he would do anything for.

First the slight hiss of the recording tape, and then the words –

‘Now you’re here, would you like to come in for a drink?’ Beth asks.

Silence.

What is Brody doing, the Angel wonders?

Why doesn’t he say no straight away?

Doesn’t he realize that Beth is a single woman, living alone, and that she’s only made the offer out of politeness?

‘If it would make you feel uncomfortable—’ Beth says.

‘A drink would be good,’ Brody interrupts.

The Angel frowns, then tells himself he’s only being stupid. This isn’t the 50s, he argues. And Beth and Brody aren’t kids. It’s perfectly proper for them to have a drink together, even if they don’t have a chaperone.

There is the sound of footsteps, then Brody says ‘Nice place’, and the Angel knows they’d reached the living room.

‘Thank you,’ Beth replies. ‘Thank you very much.’

More of Brody’s footsteps.

The Angel has often visited Beth’s house when she’s been out – has prowled around each and every room, memorizing even the tiniest detail – so that now he has only to close his eyes to be able to picture the detective walking around the room.

‘You play this?’ Brody asks.

So, he must be standing in front of the guitar which hangs in the middle of the living room wall.

‘I used to play,’ Beth says, ‘but I don’t get much time now.’

‘Folk?’

You don’t know her, the Angel thinks gleefully! You don’t know her at all – or you’d never have taken her for a folk singer!

But I know you, don’t I, Beth? I know every little thing there is to know about you!

‘You’re fooled by the fact that it’s acoustic,’ Beth says. ‘No, not folk – good old rock and roll. Do you like rock?’

‘Twenties jazz is more my style – Louis Armstrong, King Oliver, Kid Ory. Guys like that.’

They have nothing in common! the Angel thinks, triumphantly.

Nothing at all!

‘What can I get you?’

‘Whiskey on the rocks.

‘That’s what I drink.’

‘Is that right ? Most women don’t.’

It’s a very strained conversation, the Angel tells himself, taking pleasure from their discomfort.

‘Ice,’ Beth says. ‘I’ll go and get some ice.’

There’s no microphone installed in the kitchen ceiling, which means that while Beth is there, the Angel has lost contact with her. He considers speeding the tape through the part where she’s out of the room, then rejects it. Instead, he closes his eyes and imagines her walking down the hall, opening the refrigerator and taking out the cubes. Such simple actions, yet done with such grace that they seem to take on an almost divine quality. He has not known a woman with as much grace as Beth since he lost his mother.

He listens to her returning to the living room.

‘Good-looking kids,’ Brody says. ‘Good looks seem to run in the family.’

The Angel frowns. He is not at all sure how he feels about the last part of the detective’s remark.

‘I seem to have told you a lot about myself, but I know nothing about you,’ Beth says.

Why should you know anything about him, the Angel wonders? Why should you even want to?

‘Not much to tell,’ Brody says. ‘Detective First Grade Brody, a 32-year-old workaholic with an Afro-American partner who insists on being called Black, and a three -year old Eldorado which still has three payments left on it.’

The Angel nods gravely. This is good. This is how it should be. Brody is keeping himself at arm’s length from Beth, and the Angel can respect him for that.

And then Beth goes and spoils it all. ‘Are you married?’ she asks.

The Angel fast forwards his tape. The way the conversation is starting to move, he doesn’t think he wants to listen to it. Not at all.

“But I have to listen,” he tells himself. “I can’t play my proper part in Beth’s life without knowing what that life is like.”

A few feet of tape have already run through – a few moments of talk have already slipped hissingly past. The Angel presses the play button again.

From the speakers comes the sound of someone placing a glass on a hard surface.

‘Would you like another drink before you go?’ Beth asks.

“Don’t do this!” the Angel begs silently. “Please don’t do this!"

‘I think I’ll pass,’ Brody says. ‘I’ve got a very early start to my investigation in the morning, and now I’ve made sure you’re okay, I’d better be getting back to the city.’

‘You’re sure?’

Why does she have to ask him that? Why can’t she just let him go? The Angel’s hands are shaking, and beads of sweat have started to run down his brow.

“It was nice visiting with you ,’ Brody says.

There is a silence, punctuated only by their irregular breathing. The Angel pictures them, standing close to each other.

“Leave, Brody,” he pleads. “Get out of there now – before it’s too late.”

‘This is crazy.’ Brody says.

‘I know,’ Beth answers, shakily. ‘But we can’t say it isn’t happening, can we?’

‘No,’ Brody agrees. ‘We can’t say it isn’t happening.’

Another silence.

They are kissing, the Angel thinks desperately. Brody is pressing his body against hers, running his hands up and down her back. He probably has an erection by now. And she will know about it – because locked together as they must be, she will be able to feel its urgency.

There are tears in the Angel’s eyes – tears for himself, and tears for the woman he has worshiped from a distance.

‘The bedroom’s this way,’ Beth says huskily.

“No!” the Angel screams to his empty room.

No! his cry bounces back at him.

But it is ‘yes’. However much it might tear him apart to acknowledge it, it is so obviously ‘yes’.

The sound of footsteps.

But only one heavy set of them.

Why only one set?

And why so heavy?

Because Brody has picked her up and is carrying her in those big, strong arms of his!

He likes to listen to the sound of her breathing while she sleeps, so the Angel has installed a microphone in Beth’s bedroom. Now he wishes he’d never done it. Yet he can’t bring himself to turn off the tape – knows that he has to sit there and listen to it.

All of it!

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Brody asks.

‘No,’ Beth replies. ‘But I’m going to do it anyway.’

The rustling of clothing, hastily discarded.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Brody tells Beth.

The creak of the mattress as it takes their weight.

‘Be gentle,’ Beth says. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘It’s been a long time for me, too.

The Angel can picture it all, as clearly as if he was right there in the room with them. He sees Sam Brody touching Beth.

Stroking her firm breasts.

Placing his hands in that secret place between her legs – a place the Angel has never explored with any woman.

Further images continue to flood his mind. He sees Brody climb on top of her, enter her so that their bodies fuse, so that arms, legs and torsos all become part of one lustful, degrading, fiendish creature. It is exactly – exactly – like that day so long ago – the day his was innocence was lost forever, the day when everything he believed in had turned out to be nothing but a sordid lie.

‘Oh God!’ Beth says.

But it is too late to appeal to the Almighty now, the Angel thinks.

Far, far too late.

‘Yes!’ Beth screams.

And Brody grunts like an animal as he rams his … his weapon … into the young body the Angel has treated as a temple.

‘Don’t stop!’ Beth implores. ‘Don’t stop now!’

And then the two of them groan, as their foul act is finally, disgustingly consummated.

The Angel’s world is in ruins. When he started listening to the tape, he’d been sitting in his chair, but now he is huddled up in a tight ball in the corner of the room, wracked with sobs.

How could she do this to him, he asks himself? He would have given his life for her.

He looks up at the ceiling, up towards heaven. And, as he expects, the Lord his God speaks to him.

19

As the sun starts to set, it sheds its failing light on a Ninth Precinct which is even more like a crazy house than usual. Captain McMahon has been locked in his office for more than two hours, talking with the mayor. The SWAT team, dressed in their bullet-proof vests and holding semi-automatic rifles, sit around waiting to be called on to besiege whatever building is holding the madman behind the killings. Detectives talk urgently into their phones, calling in favors, putting pressure on snitches – and getting nowhere.

The people who work at the Nine are used to homicides. New murders are reported with sickening regularity and – except when the victim is a helpless kid – the cops who pick up the squeals just shrug their shoulders and think: “Hey, what do you expect in a barrio like San Patricio?”

But taking the normal run of homicides in their stride is not the same as having to deal with the usual caseload and handle an extra 16 killings nobody expected. And it is not only the number of the victims which is important here. It also matters that they were all Hispanics. It matters because their community suspects that the attack was carried out by either Afros or some kind of white supremacy group – and even though the captain has appeared on television and explained that, as far as he knows, only one man was involved in the attack, nobody really believes that.

*

George Knight stands by his desk in the Fourteenth Precinct and gazes up at the squad room television. What is on the screen at this moment is a live report in which an obviously Hispanic Channel 7 Talking Head is interviewing a white, middle-aged Joe Six-Pack against the backdrop of the Blades’ destroyed clubhouse.

“Hey, it ain’t like I approve of the attack,” the Joe is saying, “but it’s time that somebody did something about the gangs.”

“When you say the gangs, you mean, the Hispanic gangs, don’t you?” the Latino reporter asks accusingly.

The Joe looks embarrassed. “I mean all gangs,” he says unconvincingly. “But I gotta admit that where I live, it’s mainly the Hispanics who are causing most of the trouble.”

“Great,” Knight says to himself. “That’s just what we need! The city’s about to boil over and some dumb shit has just gotta shoot his mouth off.”

He turns to his partner who – after a ten minute lesson in the basics – is attacking the keyboard of his computer with a kind of hopeful desperation.

“What you doing, Sam?” he asks.

“I’m looking at other cases,” Brody tells him, as his fingers click rapidly, scrolling the screen.

“What kinds of other cases?”

“Ones that involve a man in a ski mask.”

“What good d’you think that’s gonna do?” Knight says – still suspicious, still not entirely certain that his partner isn’t going to do everything he can to get Beth Baker off the hook.

“A couple of days ago, when I was in the Nine, I heard a conversation between the desk sergeant and an angry motorist,” Brody says. “Seems this guy cut off a woman driver at a stop light in Dashwood. Anyway, about half a mile down the road, he’s stopped by a man wearing a ski mask, who proceeds to beat the hell out of his car. You following me so far?”

“Sure,” Knight says. “But where’s all this leading?”

“Beth lives in Dashwood.”

Knight shrugs. “Lotta women live in Dashwood – half the adult population of the place is probably female.”

“Agreed,” Brody says. “But there’s more. About six weeks ago, a man who runs an auto repair shop on Freemantle filed a complaint. Seems he’d been threatened by a guy in a ski mask. Guy said that if he didn’t stop padding his bills, there was a good chance he was going to have a fire.”

“So?” Knight says, seeing where his partners going, but still far from ready to follow him there.

“I called the owner half an hour ago. He said the masked man was Caucasian – a big guy – and had the scariest eyes he’d ever seen. I asked him to fax me a list of his customers. Right near the top of that list was Beth.”

“Her second name’s Baker,” Knight points out. “It’s only natural she’d be near the top.”

“There’s another complaint filed by the manager of a convenience store which is only a couple of miles from Beth’s home. Same description – big guy, scary eyes. Masked man said that when he sells a customer a tin of beans which is past its sell-buy date, he should give her a refund when she asks for it. Get that, George? When she asks for it.”

“A tin of beans?” Knight repeats incredulously. “The masked men threatened him over a tin of beans?”

“It’s not the beans,” Brody says. “It’s the principle.”

“Does this manager remember a customer who wanted a refund on a tin of beans?”

“Yes, he does. He says she was a good-looking blonde woman in her early 30s.”

“Doesn’t have to be Beth Baker – but the chances are, it is.”

“And if it was Beth, then whoever he is – this man in the ski mask – is looking out for her, and anyone who exploits her has to be made to pay for it.”

“So one day he’s a consumer advocate, and another day he wipes out a nearly a whole gang of street punks? That’s crazy.”

“No, it’s not crazy,” Brody argues. “He is. But you’ve got to admit, there’s some kind of logic to his craziness.”

“Maybe Mrs Baker—” Knight begins.

“If Beth knew anything about it, that would mean there were two crazy people …” Brody interrupts, “…her and the guy who’s doing all this stuff. And what are the chances of that? What are the chances that she’s got some kind of grudge against the world, and just happens to meet a guy who’s insane enough to be prepared to right all her wrongs for her?”

“Low,” Knight admits. And now he’s starting to get caught up in Brody’s thought pattern – is connecting with his partner just like he did in the good old days before Beth Baker came on the scene. “Who’d she tell?” he asks.

“Tell?” Brody repeats.

“You don’t go up to just any guy on the street and say, ‘Hey, guess what happened. My grocer stiffed me over a can of beans’,” Knight says. “It’s gotta be something that comes up as a small part of a larger conversation with somebody you know well – a neighbor, or a person you see every day. You know, you’re sitting around, bitching about life in general, and this neighbor complains that the guy in the convenience store can be a real pain. Then you say, ‘I know what you mean. The asshole stiffed me over a can of beans.’ Then, maybe a few days later, you’re talking to same person and say, ‘Just got my car back from the shop. Jesus, those guys know how to pad their bills!’ You see where I’m goin’ with this?”

Brody does. And he sees something else, too – that he’s started the long climb back into his partner’s high opinion.

“You can rule out neighbors,” he says.

“Why’s that?”

“Because of what got us into the investigation in the first place. Beth might have mentioned the repair shop bill to her neighbors, but she would never have talked about any of her cases to them.”

“So it’s got to be somebody at her office?” Knight asks.

“Yeah,” Brody agrees.

Behind them, someone turns up the volume on the television and the sound of angry shouting fills the room. Brody and Knight turn to face the screen.

A group of young and middle-aged Hispanics are standing by an ornamental pool, and shaking their fists angrily at the camera.

‘This was the scene in Jefferson Park earlier this evening, as the community from which the Blades come took to the streets,’ says an invisible Talking Head. ‘The gang members, by their deaths, have taken on a heroic status they never had in their short lives.’

The camera shot switches to police headquarters. A young reporter with a loud tie is standing on the steps.

‘As tension grows, the police have appealed for calm,’ he says. ‘In a statement issued a few minutes ago, Chief of Police Dalton claims that every effort is being made to catch the killer – or killers – but is adamant that, in the meantime, civil disturbance will not be tolerated. Fine words – but from the mood out on the streets, it looks like we could be due for a difficult few days if the police department doesn’t come up with something soon.’

“Reason I moved here was so my family could grow up someplace decent,” George Knight says bitterly. “Now it looks like the shit’s really gonna hit the fan ‘less we can pull something out of the bag.”

“We?” Brody says.

“You and me.”

“So you think I’m right about the masked man?” Brody asks.

“I don’t exactly like the way you got to where you are,” Knight tells him, “but yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Then we better go find out where Larry Hayden and Alex Schultz live,” Brody says.

Part Two: Redemption

1

Beth pushes Mike’s bedroom door slowly open and inserts her head into the gap. A crack of light shines in from the hall, and by it Beth can just see that her son, his head resting next to his baseball glove, is perfectly still and peaceful. She takes a couple of steps backwards and clicks the door gently closed. With both kids asleep, she can now – finally – have a little free time.

But what should she do with her time, she asks herself as she enters the living room?

She looks up at the guitar on the wall. A short practice might be a good idea. Maybe if she played a little every night, she’d get back to being as good as she once was. But practice takes effort, and she’s not sure she’s up to that tonight.

She sits down, reaches for the remote and turns on the television. The first thing she is confronted with is an image of the Blades’ clubhouse with the gaping hole which the rig made when it crashed through the wall.

‘Despite ever growing skepticism in the barrio of San Patricio, the city police are still maintaining that the attack on the Blades was the work of just one man,’ the reporter is saying. ‘He is described as being Caucasian, at least 6ft tall and well-built. When last seen, he was dressed in dark clothes and wearing a ski mask. Anyone with any information about this man should contact Crisis Headquarters in the Ninth Precinct immediately.’

Beth gets up and pours herself a drink – neat, since she’s too damn tired to go to the kitchen and get some ice.

As she sits down again, she wonders which of the Blades who tried to kidnap her, and which of those who waved angrily at her office window, are among the dead.

Part of her – maybe even a big part – is glad about what has happened because there’d been no way the gang was going to forget the loss of prestige. They would have been back – there was no doubt about that. They would have hurt Larry and Alex in a major way.

And her?

They’d have done to her what they wanted to do in the first place – hold her down while one after the other raped her. Who wouldn’t be glad to avoid that?

That’s not the way to look at things, the attorney in her protests angrily! It’s never right for anybody to take the law into their own hands, and even if innocent people have to suffer – even if one of those innocent people is me – that’s still the way it has to be.

Her tired mind drifts to thoughts of Jack, her late husband. She remembers liking him as a friend long before she’d begun to love him as a man. And even when love had come, it hadn’t just happened, but had grown slowly, like a flower which she’d planted and cared for until it had come into blossom.

Things have been different with Sam Brody. With him it has been like a violent earthquake – like a powerful, bubbling volcanic eruption.

She’s shocked to realize she’s just admitted to herself that despite having known him for such a short time, she is in love with Brody. A great feeling of guilt sweeps over her. She’s only free to fall in love with Brody because Jack is dead, she tells herself. And why is Jack dead? Because she failed him – because she wasn’t there when he needed her!

It isn’t right that she should profit from his death. It isn’t right that she should find happiness as a direct result of her own inadequacy – her own failure to protect Jack. And suddenly, totally without planning it, she finds herself making an important decision. She will call Brody, and tell him that the night they spent together was a mistake – a mistake which will never be repeated. Sure, it might sound crazy if she tried to explain it to anyone – maybe it is crazy – but she’s made her choice, and she’s going to stick to it. She owes her dead husband that much, at least.

The commentary on the television is still going on.

‘News is coming in of looting in the San Patricio section of the city,’ the Talking Head says. ‘Police response to all incidents has been swift and efficient, and, so far, there are no reports of any casualties. In a statement issued earlier this evening, the Mayor appealed for calm and asked that the police be allowed to do their job—’

Over the sound of the commentary, Beth thinks she hears a noise in the hallway.

A slight click!

Like the sound of the front door being opened!

She reaches for the remote, switches off the set, and listens.

Silence.

“Is anybody there?” she asks.

There’s no response – but Beth is not fooled. She can almost feel the presence in the hall.

The Blades, her panicked brain screams? Have the Blades come to get their revenge?

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to think logically. After the attack on their clubhouse, the Blades have surely got other things on their minds. And if they did come for her, would they do it like this – sneaking into the house – waiting in the hallway?

No, they’d have smashed their way through the door and already be in the living room!

So, if not the Blades, then some other kind of intruder.

A burglar!

Or a rapist!

“I’ve got a gun,” she lies loudly. “I’ve got it right here in my hand. And I’ll use it if I have to.”

More silence. But she knows she’s right – knows that there is only one thin wall between herself and something utterly terrifying.

The phone, she thinks. I have to call the police. I should already have called the police.

But before she does that, she needs a weapon. She slides quietly out of her chair, and looks around for something she can use. Her eyes fall on a glass paperweight. It is shaped like a globe but with a flattened bottom. Inside it, swathes of deep blue and bright green swirl into each other. It was the first present Jack ever gave her, but there’s no time to think about that now because the man in the hallway might come crashing in at any moment.

She picks the paperweight up. It feels heavy in her hand. She knows it isn’t much of a weapon but it’s better than nothing.

As she’s walking across the room, she realizes she’s on tiptoe, which is dumb because the second she picks up the phone, the guy outside is going to know she’s calling the police. Yeah, it’s really dumb to carry on walking on tiptoe – but she does it anyway.

She lifts the receiver off the cradle and holds it up to her face. She should be hearing the dialing tone now.

But she isn’t!

The line is dead!

The receiver slips from her fingers and crashes down loudly on the coffee table.

It could be coincidence she tells herself desperately. Phone lines do go down.

Even in the spring.

Even when the weather’s been perfect.

It doesn’t have to mean there’s someone in the passageway.

She remembers the old horror movies, the ones where a deep, throaty voice orders the heroine not to go down to the basement – but she always does. Now, though a similar voice is speaking in Beth’s head and telling her to stay away from the passage, she makes her way quietly towards the door.

Because she has no choice.

Because her kids are sleeping upstairs, and whatever fear she has for herself is nothing like as great as the fear she has for them.

She opens the living room door, and peers cautiously out. The hallway is empty. Not only that, but the front door is closed and the safety chain is in place. She gasps loudly, and discovers that she must have been holding her breath.

It’s been a tough day, she thinks. Hell, it’s been a tough few years. Is it any wonder I’m so jumpy?

Another drink would be good – a second whiskey, just large enough to calm her down a little.

She feels the paperweight, still clutched tightly in her hand, and laughs out loud. This is Dashwood, for God’s sake! The suburbs! Nothing ever happens in Dashwood.

Since she’s already in the hallway, she figures she might as well take her drink with ice this time. She opens the kitchen door, and thinks back to that night, just two days ago, when she came in here to get ice for herself and Sam Brody.

How her mind was in turmoil then.

Wondering what would happen.

Wondering what she wanted to happen.

She wishes Sam was with her now. She’d never have been scared if Sam had been with her. It saddens her to realize that, because of the obligation she feels to her dead husband, Sam will never be with her again.

She’s almost at the refrigerator when the man grabs her from behind, his left arm wrapping tightly around her shoulders, his right hand clamping over her mouth!

He must have been hiding behind the kitchen door, her brain shrieks! I shouldn’t just have walked in like that! I should have checked!

The glass paperweight falls from her hand and shatters on the floor. She tries to break free from the man’s grip, but his strength is far greater than hers.

“Don’t panic, Beth,” he says in a voice which even in her terror she recognizes as being choked full of sadness. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not yet.”

“Not yet!” she repeats to herself. “Not yet!”

“You have to think about the children,” the man says. “You don’t want them to come to any harm, now do you?”

She manages to shake her head slightly to show that no, whatever else happens, she doesn’t want any harm to come to the children.

“I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth in a moment,” the man says. “Don’t scream, because if you do, I’ll go straight upstairs to the kids. Do you understand me?”

She nods her head a second time. He removes his hand from her mouth and his arm from off of her shoulders.

“Walk a couple of paces, Beth, and then turn around,” he says.

Forcing down her fear, she does as she’s been instructed. She braces herself for her first sight of him, yet she still almost screams when she sees the ski mask and black clothes. She remembers the television news broadcast she was listening to earlier, and the description of the man who the police are looking for.

“You’re … you’re the one … the one who …” she stutters.

“Who killed the Blades?” he asks. “Yes, that was me. They shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

She can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You’re saying you killed them because of me?” she gasps.

“And you, for your part, shouldn’t have treated me the way you did,” he says sternly.

“I don’t even know you,” Beth says.

And yet she’s beginning to think that she does. The voice is not one she recognizes – though it does remind her vaguely of being in church. The body is not exceptional, either. It could belong to any big fit man. But there is something about the eyes which looks familiar. Except the eyes had not seemed so cold and unforgiving the last time she looked into them.

It’s important to keep him talking, she decides, because the longer they stand there, the more he is likely to see her as a human being – and the less likely it is that something dreadful is going to happen. If she can only find a way to reach out and touch him ...

“We were fine the way we were,” he tells her. “Why did you have to go and spoil it all with Brody?”

“With Brody!” Beth repeats. “You’re talking about Sam Brody?”

“Don’t stop,” the Angel says, in a crude parody of Beth’s bedroom ecstasy. “Don’t stop now.”

“You were listening,” Beth says accusingly.

The Angel nods his head. “Yes, I was listening. And I was sickened by what I heard.”

“We were two adults making love,” Beth protests.

“Love!” the Angel repeats contemptuously. “There was no love there, only the hot fire of an all-consuming lust. I would have given you everything. The whole world could have been yours. I’ve stolen for you, inflicted hurt for you, even killed for you. Yeah, for I am the Lord’s anointed one, carrying the Sword of Righteousness into the wicked world to protect the one pure and innocent thing which has survived in this cesspool in which we exist.”

He’s losing whatever touch with reality he’s had, Beth thinks. And it’s desperately important to find a way to drag him back.

“Listen,” she says, “none of us are perfect, but the world’s not a cesspool at all. There are lots of good, kind people around.”

But the Angel doesn’t hear her. His eyes blaze with missionary fire and his voice rises to the level of the preachers he has known as a child.

“But I was wrong about you, and the Lord was mocked,” he says. “The purity of your bosom was but a camouflage, and beneath it lurked the heart of the serpent which caused us to be driven from Paradise. How could you do it? How could you betray me in such a way, Momma?”

“Momma!” Beth repeats, horrified. “I’m not your mother.”

Her words seem to have got through to the Angel at last. He is no longer standing on the pulpit, but is back in Beth’s kitchen.

“No, of course you’re not my mother,” he says, almost reasonably. “What you are is a harlot, Jezebel, the evil which has always existed, and always will exist – but which we must fight against with all our might.”

She’s almost on the point of telling him that sleeping with Sam Brody was not the great moral crime he imagines it to be. But she doesn’t. She swallows the words because she realizes that what he wants is not argument, but compliance. And right now, when he is holding all the cards, compliance is what he will get.

“What is it you’re expecting from me?” she asks. “What do you want me to do?”

“What I want you to do is to come with me to a place I have prepared for you – a place where you will have the peace and tranquility to reflect on your sins,” the Angel tells her.

“But what about my kids?” Beth pleads. “I can’t just leave my kids alone, can I?”

“Your children will be fine,” the Angel reassures her. “I have already made arrangements for someone to take care of them – someone who really loves them and would never allow disgusting acts of lust and depravity to take place so close to their innocent bodies. As you did, Beth! As you did!”

“Who?” Beth asks. “Who have you arranged to look after them?”

“Your sister. I called her, and she’s on the way here right now. But by the time she arrives, we’ll be long gone.”

Beth suppresses a sigh of relief. Whatever this madman has in store for her, at least the kids will be fine.

“And this place you’re taking me to? All I have to do there is reflect?” she asks.

“That’s right,” the Angel replies. “Reflect on your sins. Learn how the Devil has entered what was once your innocent body, and how now he runs through your veins as thick as your lifeblood.”

Beth heart beats faster as she detects what just might be a loophole – the one way out of this bloody, bloody mess.

“And if I accept that I’m a sinner?” she asks “If I confess I’ve done wrong?”

“Then your sins will be forgiven,” the Angel tells her.

“And you’ll let me go free?”

The Angel nods his head solemnly. “Once you have truly repented, I will set you free.”

Beth shivers. The loophole is closed, like a noose pulling tight around the throat. No way out. No second chance. It’s the way he’s said ‘free’ which has tipped her off. ‘Free’ to him is not letting her walk out of the place he’s taking her to. ‘Free’ to him is being released from earthly matters. She has never been as sure of anything in her life as she is of the fact that when this is all over, he intends to kill her. Yet she has no choice but to play along with him because that will buy her time, and time is the only thing she has on her side.

“I … I think I’m beginning to see the error of my ways already,” she says. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity.”

The Angel shakes his head, disappointedly.

“You are false, Beth,” he says. “As false as the graven images which were worshipped by the Philistines. But you will be made to see the truth.”

He looks down at his watch – and she recognizes it, knows now who he is.

“Why are you, of all people, doing this to me?” she asks.

Instead of answering, the Angel takes her firmly by the arm. “It’s time for us to go, Beth,” he says.

*

The call is put through to the desk Brody and Knight share, just as are they about to leave the precinct building and head for Alex Schultz’s place which, they’ve learned, is just north of the park.

It’s Knight who picks up the phone. He listens for a few seconds, then says: “Yeah, he’s right here.” He hands the phone over to his partner. “It’s a woman,” he mouths almost silently. “And from the way she sounds, I’d guess that she’s in one helluva state.”

Brody picks up the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Are you Sam Brody?” asked the woman on the other end of the line. “Is it Sam Brody I’m speaking to?”

Brody decides that George Knight is right – she does sound in one helluva state. “You got the right person,” he says.

“My … my sister, she, well, she told me about you,” the woman babbles. “She said you were kind and understanding. She said if she ever had a problem, you’re the man she would like to have handle it.”

“Calm down, ma’am,” Brody says. “Why don’t you tell me who you are, and what your problem is?”

He can hear the woman take in a huge gulp of air.

“I’m … I’m Margaret Wingate,” she says. “Beth’s sister.”

The hairs on the back of Brody’s neck start to tingle.

“Beth Baker?” he asks. “You’re Beth Baker’s sister.”

“That’s right. I—”

“And what’s your problem, Mrs Wingate?”

“It’s not my problem. Well, I suppose it is in a way. It’s Beth, you see. She’s … I …”

Brody feels the room start to sway before his eyes. Ever since this thing with Beth started, he’s known, deep down, it was too perfect – that something was bound to go wrong. But now it has, he’s not sure he can handle it.

“Has … has something happened to your sister, Mrs Wingate?” he says, hearing the tremble in his own voice as he speaks.

“I’m not sure,” Margaret Wingate confesses. “All I do know is that she’s disappeared.”

Keep calm, Brody orders himself. Treat this like any other investigation – like any one of the hundreds of calls about missing persons we get every year – and which turn out to be nothing but a false alarm.

“What do you mean exactly when you say she’s disappeared?” he asks.

“She’s … she’s not there.”

Brody is gripping the receiver so tight it feels like he might smash it.

“Start at the beginning,” he says.

“I got a call from a man who said he was Alex Schultz. Mr Schultz is Beth’s partner and—”

“I know who he is,” Brody interrupts. “What did he want?”

“He … he told me that Beth had suddenly been called to an important meeting with one of her clients, and asked if I could I go over to her house and baby-sit the kids. It’s not the first time it’s happened and I … I …”

“You what ?”

“I went over there, like he told me, but Beth was already gone. She never leaves the children before I arrive.”

“If it was a real emergency, and she knew that you’d get there in a couple of minutes ....” Brody starts to suggest.

“You don’t know her. She’d never do that. However important the meeting was, she wouldn’t leave them alone – even for a short time. Besides, there’s something else.”

“What?” Brody asks, in a dull, flat voice.

“She … she’s got this glass paperweight. It was the first thing her husband Jack ever bought her, so it was kind of special to her.”

“And what’s happened to it?”

“It’s lying on the kitchen floor – smashed to pieces.”

A glass paperweight! Brody thinks – just the kind of thing that people who don’t know any better might use as a weapon.

“I’ll be right over,” he says.

He puts down the phone. He feels as if his whole life is just about as shattered as Beth’s glass paperweight.

2

Parked next to the ornamental wrought iron gates of Jefferson Park’s east entrance are maybe a dozen black and whites, and standing nervously next to them – to protect them from attack – are several uniformed cops in full riot gear. From somewhere in the distance comes the sound of a crowd shouting angrily, and the sky above the park glows red, which you don’t need to be a detective to work out means that somebody is having a bonfire.

Sitting behind the wheel of the Eldorado, heading north, George Knight wonders how much of the park the rioters have destroyed – and how long it will be before he can walk through it with his kids again. The smell of burning fills his broad nostrils, and it’s like being back in his childhood – in the Watts’ riots of the late Sixties. He remembers the rage on the streets, and how his neighbors – normally such respectable people – would come home with looted televisions and stereo systems under their arms. He remembers the tear gas and baton charges, the screams and the bloodied heads. And he thinks that maybe it was then – though he was only six years old at the time – that he began to see the advantages of law and order.

Sitting next to him in the passenger seat, Brody does not even notice the disturbance. His mind is back in Beth Baker’s kitchen, looking at the scattered pieces of greeny-blue glass which were once – only recently – part of a paperweight. There’s no other evidence of a disturbance in Beth’s house, and it could just be that she dropped the paperweight accidentally and had no time to pick it up before she left home. But Brody knows that’s not the case. He’s certain she’s been kidnapped and that it’s the man in the ski mask – the man who has already interfered so much in her life – who is behind her disappearance.

They have reached the top end of the park. Knight drives on for one more block, then signals and takes a left.

This is Thirty-fourth Street, an avenue of three-storey brownstones with mature trees growing out of the sidewalk. Doctors live on Thirty-fourth Street, and have as their neighbors, accountants, loss-adjusters and dentists. There are lawyers there, too, including one Alexander Stephen Schultz, who lives at Number Twenty-eight.

George Knight brings the Eldorado to a halt in front of the house which the computer has assured him is what Schultz calls home. The two detectives get out of the car and walk up to front door.

Since it is Schultz that they’re calling on, Brody is expecting to see bells for at least two or three apartments – but there is only one. He takes his gun from his shoulder holster and presses the bell with his free hand. When no one has come to the door after half a minute, he presses again. There’s still no answer.

“Man ain’t home,” George Knight says. He steps out into the road so he can examine the building properly. “Pretty fancy house for an ambulance-chaser like Alex Schultz to own.”

Pretty fancy house for an ambulance-chaser even to rent, Brody thinks.

Is Beth inside this expensive house? he wonders.

No!

If Schultz is the man who’s abducted her – the man capable of organizing the attack on the Blades’ clubhouse – he won’t have done anything as obvious as taking Beth to the brownstone. What he will have done is made sure that he’s got her stashed a long way from his own backyard.

The quiet night air is suddenly disturbed by the sound of gunfire coming from the direction of the park.

Six shots.

Or maybe three shots – and three echoes. It’s difficult to tell.

“Shit!” George Knight says.

“Yeah, shit,” his partner agrees, though it would be obvious to anyone listening that they’re not talking about the same thing.

Brody returns his weapon to its holster and walks back to the parked Eldorado.

“We leaving?” Knight asks, like he would have done in the old days when he was content to let his partner make the running.

“No, we’re not leaving,” Brody says.

No! Because if Schultz is their man, then the reason he’s not home right now is that he’s taking Beth to the hideaway he’s rigged up for her. But he can’t stay there forever. He has to come back here sometime. And when he does, Brody will be waiting for him.

*

It is hard to think in the dark, cramped trunk of the car. Hard to think when you’re so scared that you’re in danger of soiling yourself. But Beth knows that she has to think, because her brain is the only weapon she has, and if she doesn’t use it she’s as good as dead.

The Angel is mad – she has absolutely no doubt about that – so mad that for a while, back there in her kitchen, he confused her with his mother. There has to be a way to use that – to establish some sort of dominance over him, so that he’ll do what she wants. But it isn’t going to be easy.

She feels the car begin to slow, and then stop. She hears the sound of a door slamming, followed by footsteps. A key is inserted into the lock and the trunk flies open.

“Come on out of there,” the Angel growls. “And don’t try any tricks, because there’s no trick you can try that I’m not ready for.”

Beth swings her legs over the lip of the trunk, then uses her arms to lever herself out. It’s dark in the world to which the Angel has brought her, but there’s an almost full moon which allows her to see the chain-link fence – and beyond it a large, black, dead-looking building.

“Where are we?” she asks.

“Why should you want to know that?” the Angel demands angrily. “What difference does it make where you are? The only thing which matters is why you’re here.”

“I’m sorry,” Beth says.

She tries to sound contrite, as if she’s putting all every speck of her effort into the apology. But all the time her mind is working on something else. The large, square building beyond the fence looks deserted, and so does the equally hunkering one to its left. The only lights she can see are the line of orange ones, glowing in the distance. She has to be in the Hardwick Industrial Park on the south side of town – the park which has only recently been closed down to make way for the interstate extension. All of which means that the nearest living person to her and the Angel is probably at least a mile away!

She sees that the Angel has a pistol in his hand.

“This way,” he says, pointing the gun at the chain-link fence.

Beth starts to walk towards the fence. After being locked up in the trunk for maybe half an hour, her legs feel shaky. But she knows that if she’s too slow obeying the Angel, she’ll make him angry again. And given the situation she’s in, she simply can’t afford that.

“To the left,” the Angel says. “I cut a flap in the wire this afternoon. You can get through it.”

Beth finds the flap, pulls the wire back, and slides through the gap.

The Angel is right behind her. “Keep walking till you reach the building, then turn left again,” he tells her.

They cross the yard, the sound of their footsteps eerie in the silence that surrounds them. They reach the wall and turn left. They have already passed several boarded up windows before the Angel says: “Stop!”

Beth does as she’s been ordered. The Angel reaches up, grasps the boards and lifts them clear of the window.

He’s well prepared, Beth thinks to herself. He’s planned all this out long before I ever went to bed with Sam Brody!

And in a night of terror, this is the most frightening thing of all because it tells her not only that she has failed him, but that he expected her to fail – maybe even wanted her to!

The Angel signals with the pistol in the direction of the window. “Inside!” he tells her.

Beth looks up at the window ledge.

“I can’t climb that high,” she says. “You’re going to have to help me.”

For what seems like Beth to be at least an hour – but is probably no more than half a minute – the Angel just stands there, as if he’s uncertain of what do next.

“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll help you – but no tricks.”

As if she would try anything now, she thinks; the Angel is stronger than she is, and he has a gun. Besides, they’re in the middle of an industrial wasteland, and even if she manages to break free for a short time, it will only be temporary. There’s no escape. Not yet!

“I won’t try any tricks,” she promises. “I want you to help me make myself better.”

“Hypocrite!” the Angel says. “Whore!”

But he seems to have believed at least the first part of what she’s said because now he tucks the pistol in the waistband of his pants and cups his hands for her to step into.

She puts her left foot into his hands and he hoists her upwards. She grasps the window ledge and pulls. She is hanging half-way in the warehouse and half-way out. She glances over her shoulder. The Angel is looking the other way, back towards the chain-link fence.

Why is he looking the other way, she asks herself?

It has to be because she’s wearing a short skirt, and he doesn’t want to see more of her body than he absolutely has to!

It flashes through her mind that while he is distracted, she has a chance to drop quickly into the building and find a hiding place. But wherever she hides, the Angel will find her. If she’s ever to defeat him, it’s going to have to be through the triumph of her mind over his.

She hefts her body through the gap, then twists around so that she lowers herself down legs first. With a degree of control which must come from long hours of working out, the Angel follows, and is standing beside her a couple of seconds after she’s touched the ground.

“Where to now?” Beth asks, gazing into the darkness.

The Angel produces a flashlight from his jacket and switches it on.

“There’s a set of stairs in the corner,” he tells her. “We take them.”

The building smells of dampness and neglect. As they walk towards the stairs, the short, quick click of Beth’s high-heel pumps, and the slower, more measured tread of the Angel’s loafers, echo around the empty room and across the wide ceiling.

They begin to climb the steps and Beth counts them – one … two … three – not knowing what good it will do her, but conscious that anything – anything – might turn out to be a weapon in the end.

At the top of the steps there is a long corridor. “The third door on the left,” the Angel says.

The door is made of some kind of metal and has a long handle on it which lifts upwards. Beth pulls on the handle and the door swings open. The room is brightly lit, and for a second she is dazzled. Then her eyes adjust and she can see what lies ahead of her. The walls of the room are metal-lined and there is no window. Several tracks run along the ceiling and hanging from one of them is a single, large hook.

“In the days when the building was a provisions warehouse, this was where they kept their meat,” the Angel says. “And what is any of us, once we have stained our souls, but a piece of meat?”

Beth quickly takes in the rest of the meat freezer. There is a small generator in one corner, humming away and pumping out the energy to light the room. There is an army cot with a chemical toilet next to it. And right in the middle of the room – as if it has been placed there deliberately, to make it the center of attention – there is a huge, old-fashioned bath tub with claw feet.

“What’s that tub here for?” Beth asks, before she could stop herself. “There isn’t even any water in here.”

“When the time comes, I will provide all the water we will need,” the Angel says.

“When the time comes? When what time comes?”

Instead of answering, the Angel reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a pair of handcuffs.

“Put these on,” he orders her.

Beth takes the bracelets from him and clicks them around her wrists. The cold metal – and the feeling of imprisonment the handcuffs bring with them – make her shudder.

“You see the butcher’s hook?” the Angel asks.

How could she miss it? She’s only been in room for a short time, but it holds such a morbid fascination for her that she’s already glanced at it several times.

“Yes, I see it,” she says.

“I want you to go over it, and hook the chain between your handcuffs over the lip,” the Angel says, slowly and deliberately.

Though she can’t explain it, Beth suddenly feels as if she’s been kicked – hard – in the stomach.

“But why?” she asks the Angel. “Why should I hook the handcuffs over it?”

“Because I can’t trust you,” the Angel tells her. “And even with the Lord’s help, I don’t have enough strength to both guard you and save your soul.”

“But it’s too high. I’ll never be able to reach it,” Beth protests, looking at the hook.

“You’ll reach,” the Angel says menacingly. “Do it now, or I’ll have to punish you.”

Have to punish me, Beth thinks? That’s not what he means at all. He’s just looking for an excuse to punish me.

She walks over to the hook. It seems even more evil close to than it did from a distance. She raises her hands above her head and feels the metal chain between the handcuffs click against the outside of the hook.

“Higher!” the Angel says. “Reach higher! Stretch!”

Beth stands on tiptoe and stretches as high as she possibly can. The chain slips over the point of the hook and slides down the inside, taking the pressure off Beth’s spine.

“That’s better,” the Angel says, almost pleasantly. “Now we’re free to talk about your salvation.”

“How long are you going to keep me here?” Beth asks.

“As long as it takes.”

“And will you be with me all the time?”

The Angel shakes his head. “That isn’t possible. Nor is it desirable – you need time to be alone with your thoughts.”

Beth looks around, at the metal-lined walls, at the space where, in a normal room there would be a window, but in this one there is only more metal.

“And when you’re not here, will the door be locked?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“Then how am I to breathe?” she says, fighting back a rising panic. “Just tell me that. How am I to breathe?”

The Angel shakes his head again, sadly this time. “Still thinking about the things of the flesh when all your thoughts should be on your soul?” he says. “Don’t worry, there’s a ventilator in the ceiling. The air might become a little stale at times, but you’ll live.” He walks over to the bed and returns with flour sacks, a needle and thread and pair of scissors in his hands. “These are for you,” he tells her.

Scissors! Beth thinks. A weapon! Something she might be able to use against this madman.

“They are for work, not to strike against the forces of Righteousness,” the Angel says, reading her mind.

“Work?” Beth repeats. “What work?”

“You are wearing the clothes of a fallen woman. Before you can put even a foot on the path of true repentance, you must be more modestly attired.”

“Sackcloth!” Beth says. “You want to dress me in sackcloth?”

“That’s right,” the Angel agrees.

Beth wants to laugh. She knows the feeling behind it is hysteria rather than genuine amusement – but she still wants to laugh. She forces herself to breathe more regularly, in an effort to calm herself down.

“Will there be ashes to go with the sackcloth?” she asks.

And this again seems so funny that she has to bite her tongue to stop herself giggling.

“Yes, there will be ashes,” the Angel says, deadly serious. “When you’ve finished the dress, I’ll bring them to you.” He walks over to the door. “When you obey, you’ll be rewarded,” he continues. “When you make spiritual progress, you’ll be rewarded. When you disobey or make no progress, you’ll be punished. You can get off the hook now.”

Beth stretches on tiptoe again. She feels metal rasp against metal, but however much she tries, she can’t force the chain over the tip of the hook.

“You … you’ll have to help me,” she gasps.

“You got on it alone, you should be able to get off it alone,” the Angel says coldly.

Beth tries again. She knows the chain is only an inch or so from the lip of the hook, but she can’t … quite … make it.

“It’s different somehow,” she says. “More difficult. Please help me! I promise I’ll be good.”

The Angel walks over to the hook, places his hands chastely on Beth’s hips, and lifts her clear. The instant her feet are on the ground, he moves well away from her.

“I’ll return in the morning,” he says. “Think on your sins.”

Then he steps out into the corridor and closes the door behind him.

A strange feeling comes over Beth. She’s been terrified in the Angel’s presence, yet now he’s gone – now she’s all alone in this cold metal prison – she almost wishes he’d return. She walks over to the nearest wall of her cell. It’s thick with dust, but when she rubs the dust away, it’s so shiny that she can almost see her face in it.

What color is it, she asks herself? What color exactly? Not white – but not really gray, either.

She wonders why she is speculating about the color, and wonders, too, what it would be like to batter her head against the shiny wall until her blood had stained it bright red – until there was no doubt what color it was.

Attacking the wall with her head suddenly seems like the best idea she’s had all day, and for a moment she almost does it.

It’s only the thought of the Angel which stops her. Hurting herself would displease him, because only he has the right to hurt her. Only he has the power to do anything with her – or make her do anything.

She can’t afford to displease him.

She needs to try and win him over to her side.

Or learn how to dominate him.

Or find a way to kill him!

The temptation to hurt herself is still there, but she forces her legs to take her over to the cot. She sits down on the edge of it and buries her head in her hands. And before she knows it, she is weeping.

Weeping for herself.

Weeping for her kids.

Even weeping for the Angel.

3

It’s half past two in the morning when the headlights hit the Eldorado’s rear-view mirror. Brody and Knight sink down in their seats so they’re not visible to the driver of the approaching automobile. It’s only the third time they’ve had to do it in the last mind-numbingly boring hour and a half.

“Maybe this time it really is him,” Knight says hopefully.

Let it be, Brody prays silently. Let it be so we can get this investigation under way – so I can find Beth.

The car is slowing as it passes them and, just up the street, it stops. Brody raises his eyes to above the level of the dashboard and sees that the vehicle is a black Lincoln and has parked directly in front of Number Twenty-eight.

“It’s him,” he says, straightening up and reaching for the door handle.

Knight straightens up, too, and grasps Brody’s arm.

“Easy, partner,” he cautions. “I know that you want to talk to this guy real bad, but if he is the one who destroyed the Blades’ clubhouse, he’s just about as dangerous as anybody could be, so we gotta go in careful.”

What Brody wants to do is break free of Knight’s grip, get the fuck out of the car, grab Schultz, and shake the bastard until he tells where Beth is. But he knows that George is right. The direct approach could be dangerous – and he will be no use to Beth if he’s dead.

A man gets out of the Lincoln and walks towards the front door of Number Twenty-eight. They can’t see his face, but he has the same build as Schultz and moves like the lawyer does. Brody reaches for the door handle again.

“I said easy!” Knight hisses. “Wait till the man’s got his hands full.”

It shouldn’t have been necessary for George to say that, Brody rebukes himself. I should have known without being told.

The man is at the front door. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out what is probably a set of keys, and lifts his arm level with the top lock on the door.

“Now?” Brody asks.

“Now!” Knight agrees.

The two detectives fling open their doors, and, guns in their hands, dash across the street towards the brownstone.

The man hears their pounding feet. His first reaction is to glance hurriedly over his shoulder. His second reaction is to try to get the door unlocked as quickly as possible, so he can put himself the other side of it. He doesn’t make it. He is still working on the second lock when Knight grabs him by the shoulders and slams him, face-first, against the stonework.

“Don’t make any sudden moves, you motherfucker!” the black detective screams.

“You … you want my wallet, you take my wallet,” the lawyer stutters. “Just don’t hurt me, that’s all.”

“We’re the police!” Brody tells him. “Detectives Brody and Knight!”

Schultz slowly turns his head, so he can look at them.

“Brody?” he says. “Just what the hell do you think you’re—?”

“We can talk later,” Brody interrupts. “Right now, what we want you to do is put your hands against the wall and spread your legs.”

“This is ridiculous,” Schultz protests.

“Do it now!” George Knight barks.

Schultz sighs loudly – to show he doesn’t really feel intimidated – then assumes the position.

Knight runs expert hands up and down the lawyer’s body.

“The man’s clean,” he announces to his partner.

Brody nods, but does not put his weapon away.

“Turn around, Mr Schultz,” he says.

The lawyer turns. In the light of the street lamp he looks real pissed off.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he asks angrily. “I’m not some punk you can roust whenever you feel like it, you know.”

“Where’ve you been until two-thirty in the morning, Mr Schultz?” Brody demands.

Schultz brushes down his suit jacket as if, instead of just frisking him, Knight had been rolling him around in the dirt.

“I don’t have to account for my movements to you,” he says.

Something inside of Brody snaps, and in one swift movement he’s holstered his weapon and is holding the lawyer by his jacket lapels.

“I asked you where you’d been, you son-of-a-bitch!” he shouts. “And you’d better answer me right now.”

“I’m going to have your balls for this,” Schultz tells him through gritted teeth. “I’m really going to have your balls.”

“Maybe you will,” Brody agrees. “But not before I have yours. Because Beth’s gone missing and if I gotta rip your head from your shoulders to do it, I’m gonna find her.”

“Beth? Gone missing?” Shultz says – and he sounds like it comes as a real surprise to him.

“Yeah, she’s missing. Maybe kidnapped, And you should know all about that, Mr Schultz, because you’re the one who phoned her sister and told her to take care of the kids.”

“I never called her sister,” Schultz protests. “I don’t even know her sister’s telephone number for God’s sake!”

“Easy enough to look it up in the book,” Brody says, but he’s not as sure of his ground as he was a few moments ago, and he’s already started to relax his grip on the other man’s jacket.

“Look, if Beth really has disappeared, then I’m as concerned about it as you are,” Schultz says.

“That right?” Brody asks skeptically. “Then maybe we’d better go inside and talk about it.”

The expression of Schultz’s face says the idea doesn’t appeal to him – not at all.

“Do we really have to go inside?” he says. “Couldn’t we just as easily talk it through out here?”

Brody feels his suspicion start to flare up again.

“What’s the matter, Mr Schultz?” he demands. “You got something inside you don’t want us to see? Like maybe an armory?”

“An armory?” Alex Schultz repeats, as if he has no idea what Brody’s talking about.

“The guy who attacked the Blades used a sub-machine-gun and hand grenades. We have to figure they weren’t the only weapons he owns.”

Schultz’s mouth drops open in comic surprise.

“You think I’m him?” he asks. “You think I’m the masked vigilante?”

“Are you?” Brody asks, making it plain that he’s not sharing in the lawyer’s joke.

Schultz shakes his head. “No, I’m not,” he says. “And you won’t find any armory inside, either. Let go of my jacket, Brody, and you can come in and search the whole house if you want to.”

*

Schultz has his living room on the second floor of the brownstone. The walls are the kind of crude brick which costs a fortune to have installed. The floor is made of beautifully polished parquet, and is covered with scatter rugs which look expensive. In the center of the longest wall there’s a granite fire-place which has a small recess on each side of it, both stacked with well-cut logs. There are two couches – both in rich, tan leather – and a dining table in a dark hardwood which definitely didn’t come out of a Sears’ catalogue.

Knight, whose wife Marcia is an expert on things they can’t afford – and who has forcibly educated him in such matters, too – looks around the room appreciatively. “Nice place,” he says.

Schultz searches for some double meaning behind the remark, and finding none says, “Thanks. I like it.” He gestures with his hand towards one of the couches. “Now you’re up here, would you care to take a seat?”

Brody and Knight sit down on one couch, Schultz on the other.

“You were going to tell us where’ve you been all evening, Mr Schultz?” Brody says.

Schultz produces a thin lawyer smile.

“Was that what I was going to do?” he asks. “My understanding was that we came up here to talk, but I don’t remember that I specified that I would talk about my movements.”

Brody gets the urge to jump out of his seat, go across to where the lawyer is sitting, and give Schultz so much knuckle surgery that he’ll never look like an innocent freshman again.

But he doesn’t do it. Instead he forces himself to stay where he is and says, “We got a serious situation on our hands, Mr Schultz. This is no time to go playing the wise-assed attorney.”

The smile vanishes and Schultz nods earnestly.

“I agree the situation’s probably serious,” he says. “But I still don’t see what my movements have got to do with Beth’s disappearance.”

“You’re a smart guy,” Brody tells him. “You can work it out.”

“I’m some kind of suspect?” Schultz asks, as if the idea would never have occurred to him if Brody hadn’t spelt it out and then double underlined it. “First I’m a vigilante, now I’m a kidnapper?”

“Like I said, the guy who called up Beth’s sister claimed to be you. And we haven’t established yet that it wasn’t.”

Schultz shakes his head, like he really pities someone whose brain works as slowly as Brody’s does.

“If I really was involved in her abduction, would I have been likely to make such a dumb move as to call her sister?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Brody said. “Perhaps you calculated that by making yourself such an obvious target, we’d have to think it wasn’t you.”

“Aren’t you being just a tad too Machiavellian?” Schultz asks.

“Could be,” Brody admits. “But it should be easy enough to establish one way or the other. All you’ve got to do is tell us where you’ve been.”

Schultz’s eyes flicker for less than a second – but Brody does not miss it.

“I … uh … hit a few bars,” the lawyer says.

“Which bars?” Brody asks.

Schultz shrugs. “Don’t know their names. They were all over in Carlton. It’s not a part of the city I’ve ever been to before.”

“So what made you go there tonight?”

Another shrug.

“I felt like a change,” Schultz says unconvincingly. “That’s not a crime, is it?”

Not a crime, Brody thinks – just a very convenient of way of accounting for you movements if you’ve got no real alibi.

“You talk to anyone?” he asks, without much hope.

“Nobody – unless you count the barmen who served me,” Schultz replies, as expected.

“Any of them likely to remember you?”

Schultz shakes his head. “Most of them seemed too busy to notice anybody. They poured the drinks out and they took my money, but I don’t think they even looked at me.”

“So you don’t have an alibi.”

“Why should I need an alibi?” Schultz asks, with an edge of fresh anger creeping into his voice. “Beth’s my partner. What reason would I have to go abducting her?”

“Tell me about your relationship with Beth,” Brody says, trying a new angle because the current one’s going nowhere fast.

“Our relationship? I’d say it’s almost entirely professional.”

“Almost entirely?”

“Sometimes, after work, we go out for a drink. But not for long – because she has to get back to the kids.”

“How’d you meet her?”

Schultz makes an expansive gesture with his freckled hands.

“She came to see me shortly after her husband died. She was fresh out of law school and she wanted a job. I gave her one.”

“No, you didn’t,” Brody corrects him. “You made her your partner.”

“Not until she’d been working for me for over six months and proved her worth.”

“That’s it?” Brody asks incredulously. “Just proved her worth?”

“Yes.”

It doesn’t add up, Brody thinks. People just don’t hand out partnerships like that.

“Did she have any money to invest in the firm, as her side of the deal?” he asks.

“No. No money at all. I didn’t ask for any, and if I had, she wouldn’t have been able to come up with it. Maybe Beth will be earning a pretty good income in a few years, but right now she lives from hand to mouth.”

So what else had she got to offer?

“Did she bring any important clients with her?” Brody says.

Schultz laughs. “My firm doesn’t have important clients. It’s not that kind of operation.”

“So I’m still wondering why you made her a partner.”

Schultz shrugs again. “Why shouldn’t I have? Call it laziness on my part, if you like. Beth’s prepared to do most of the work around the office – and I don’t really need the money which the practice brings in for me.”

“Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?”

“Need the money?”

“Look at this house,” Schultz says, making another expansive gesture. “If I can afford to live like this, do you really think I need to go scratching around for my next dollar?”

“So you’re saying you’re a rich man?” Brody asks.

“Not rich,” Schultz replies. “But very comfortable. An old relative, who I hadn’t heard from for a long time, died a couple of years ago and she left me everything she had.”

“So why keep on with the law firm?”

“I said I was lazy, but I’m not that lazy. A man should have something to do, even if he only plays at it.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Everybody should have a hobby,” Brody says thoughtfully.

But what exactly is Schultz’s hobby – running a down-market law firm, or spending most of his time looking out for Beth Baker?

4

Beth checks her watch. It is seven-thirty-six in the morning. She should be getting the kids ready for school now – washing Mike’s face, checking that Lizzie has eaten all her cereal. And instead she is trapped in this room, at the mercy of a madman who says he only wants to save her.

She hears a distant noise, so low and rumbling that it is hardly a noise at all – more like just the rumor of one.

Thunder, she wonders?

But then the noise gets louder – though still not loud – and she realizes it’s too regular, too uniform, to be any force of nature. And now she can feel a slight vibration in the floor.

Trucks, she decides. That’s what it is!

For almost a minute she goes crazy, shouting at the top of her voice and banging on the walls as hard she can.

“Help me!” she yells. “Help me! I’ve been locked in here by a maniac who’s planning to kill me!”

Then her moment of madness passes, and though every instinct inside her is screaming for her to go on, she forces herself to stop.

You were never very good at sprints, she thinks as she sinks, exhausted, to floor. Long distance – that was what you excelled in. And in long-distance running you didn’t waste your energy right at the beginning. You kept it in reserve for when you really needed it.

And what has she just been doing, but wasting her energy? Had she really thought that the truck drivers, separated from her by at least three walls and the noise of their engines, would hear her cries?

I need to keep my strength up, she tells herself, because sooner or later I’m going to hit the wall – and when I do I’m going to need every ounce of power I can muster.

She tries to picture the trucks because somehow she feels that having an image of ordinary life will help to alleviate her sense of horror at the nightmare she’s fallen into.

She tries to imagine the light outside, not how it will look at any other time of day, but how it will be at this particular moment.

No good! The real world doesn’t really exist for her any more. Light and shade, day and night, have no meaning. The only thing which matters – which has any importance at all – is this freezer room, this metal-lined universe which has its own rules, its own morality and its own justice – all of them laid down by the Angel.

*

It’s like watching a pack of scavengers attack a much larger, dying animal. Against the background of an early morning sun, the cranes lumber slowly and gracelessly into position. Beyond them, the bulldozers slither across a vacant lot, cutting deep, harsh gashes in the earth as they go. And even further away, the heavy trucks squat and wait for their turn to come.

The sight of the wrecking crew just ahead of his car has shocked the Angel because he hasn’t figured that into his calculations, and the old cardboard box factory that’s about to be demolished is only six lots down the arterial road from the warehouse where he’s keeping Beth.

He doesn’t need this pressure, he tells himself. It’s bad enough that he has to fight the Devil, without having to fight City Hall as well.

A man in a rubber boots, an expensive blue suit and a yellow hard-hat is standing some distance from the building, watching the work in progress. The Angel slows down, pulls in beside him, and winds down the window.

The man turns. “You looking for me?” he asks.

The Angel forces himself to grin good-naturedly. “Hell no,” he says. “Going over to Brownsville, and this is kinda a short cut for me.”

“Won’t be for much longer,” the man in the hard-hat tells him. “Not once they start building the interstate extension.”

“You in charge here?” the Angel asks.

“Yeah,” the man says without enthusiasm. “I was gonna build bridges, wasn’t I? Huge bridges that spanned mighty rivers. Instead of that, here I am – getting rich by knocking things down.”

“There can be a savage beauty in destruction,” the Angel says wistfully.

The other man looks at him strangely. “That right?” he asks.

The Angel grins again, to cover his mistake.

“I’m a bit of a volcano nut,” he says almost apologetically. “So, how you gonna knock it all down? In a straight line? Like dominoes?”

“That’s how it should be,” the man in the hard-hat says. “That’s the logical way to go about it. Only it ain’t gonna happen that way.”

“Why not?”

The man in the hard-hat sighs. “Because the government fucked up,” he says. “See, we’re dealing with 50 different sites here, and though the transfer of ownership’s been agreed in principle on all of them, Washington’s been moving so slow that this site’s the only one that’s gone through yet. Now the next one to be signed could be right next door, or it could be over on the other side of the park.”

Or six lots further up the arterial road, the Angel thinks, as the first wave of panic he’s known for a long time sweeps over him.

“Well, I’d better be on my way,” he says.

“And I’d better get back to knocking down more buildings and making more money,” the man in the hard-hat replies.

*

By the time George Knight gets himself downstairs, the children are already sitting around the table. George kisses all his kids, starting with Josh, who is the youngest and smallest, moving along to Helen, his middle child, and ending up with Louise who is all set to graduate from junior high. That done, he walks over to the stove and kisses his wife, Marcia, who is half-way through cooking the sort of all-American breakfast she knows he likes.

“You look tired,” Marcia says. “What time did you get in from work last night?”

Knight tries to calculate it by working backwards. It was around two-thirty when Alex Schultz returned to his brownstone, supposedly from a night out in Carlton. They’d questioned the lawyer for maybe half an hour, and it was a forty minute drive home from Thirty-fourth street to home.

“Must have been somewhere close to four,” he tells his wife.

Marcia shakes her head, as if to show she’s just about given up on him. Then she smiles in that caring-sexy way he loves.

“So you’ve had about three and a half hours sleep,” she says. “You’re keeping a young man’s hours, George – and you’re not that young anymore.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Knight replies, thinking, as he takes his seat, that though he’ll only be 36 next birthday, there are times, with the kind of work he does, when he feels like he’s going on 110.

“You on a big case, Pop?” Josh asks.

“Yeah,” Knight says, knowing that if he told his son he was looking for a missing dog, Josh would think that was a big case.

Marcia puts a plate in front of him which is weighed down with eggs-over-easy, Canadian bacon, sausage meat and hash browns.

“Even old men gotta eat,” she says.

Knight looks at her fondly. He might be getting old, but Marcia looks as good now as she did when he married her.

Maybe even better.

He picks up the television remote and turns on the local news station. The first thing to come on the screen is another location shot of angry kids waving their fists in defiance – except that this time the kids are not Hispanic, but black.

The scene changes, and the face of a middle-aged white reporter with perfect dental work and ever so slightly graying hair fills the screen.

‘The rioting in the San Patricio section of town spilled over last night into the Chesterfield area, as angry Afro-American youths rampaged down Polk Avenue,’ he says.

The camera pans out, to reveal a young black clergyman standing next to him.

‘What do you think sparked off these most recent riots, Reverend Blake?’ the reporter asks.

The clergyman shakes his head, as if it should be obvious to anyone.

‘The massacre sparked them off,’ he says.

‘But the Blades were Hispanics,’ the reporter points out. ‘Why should the Afro-American community be reacting in this way?’

The clergyman shakes his head again. ‘You see them as Hispanics,’ he says, ‘but the people round here see them as just another minority. And the question they’re asking themselves is: ‘If it had been a bunch of white kids who’d gotten themselves killed, wouldn’t the police already have the killer behind bars?’’

“Would they, George?” Marcia asks, as she pours the coffee.

“No,” Knight says, switching off the television. “But I can see how it might seem that way.”

He looks around the table at his family – his slim, beautiful wife, his attractive children. He’d thought that by bringing them to a city like this one, a city with no history of racial problems, he’d be protecting them. And for a while – for the first few years at least – he’d been right. But now, thanks to the man in the ski mask, everything is going to hell in a hand basket.

“I want you kids to be careful at school, today,” he tells his children.

“What do you mean, Pop?” Louise asks.

What exactly does he mean? And how can he phrase it in a way that all of them – even Josh – is going to understand?

“Don’t go getting into any fights in the school yard,” he says.

Helen giggles, as if she finds the idea absurd. “Fights, Poppa? Why should we get into any fights?”

Because this is just beginning, Knight thinks, and things are gonna get much worse before they start getting better. He’s seen it all before, back in his childhood – white kids he thought were his friends turning on him because of riots which had nothing to do with any of them; store keepers who suddenly started noticing the color of his skin for the first time.

He knows what it’s like to be called ‘nigger’ by people who are complete strangers, and he doesn’t want any of his children to have to go through the same experience. But it looks as if they’re going to have to, and however much the idea hurts him, there’s nothing he can do about it.

“You just be careful,” he warns his kids. “And I mean real careful.”

*

The door of the freezer room swings open and he is standing there. Looking at her! He seems worried, Beth thinks – and wonders why.

“They’ve started to demolish the park,” he tells her.

And that means that whatever is going to happen in this room is going to have to happen quickly, she realizes, as her stomach gives a violent lurch. It means he’s going to kill me soon!

She can feel the bile in her throat and knows that any second now she’s going to throw up all over the floor.

Get a grip, she orders herself! The race isn’t over till you’ve crossed the finishing line, so for God’s sake get a grip!

“The sackcloth?” the Angel says.

“What?”

“The sackcloth I gave you yesterday. Have you made it into something you can wear?”

Beth swallows hard. The feeling of nausea is going away and she thinks she should be able to hold her last meal down.

“Yes, I … I made it into a dress,” she tells the Angel.

“Show it to me.”

She walks over to the bed, picks up the sackcloth, and holds it in front of her for his inspection.

“I worked on it all night,” she says.

The Angel nods. “You’ve done a good job. It’s very … modest.”

What were you expecting, Beth wonders – a plunging neckline and a slit up the side?

She drops the sacking on the bed again and holds out her manacled hands out in front of her.

“If you’ll unlock me, I’ll put it on.”

“Later,” the Angel says. “I’ll unlock you later, but first I want you to get on the hook.”

“Why?” Beth asks.

The Angel frowns, and a dangerous look comes into his eyes – but he says nothing.

Mistake, Beth’s mind shrieks! I’ve made another mistake. I shouldn’t ask him anything. I shouldn’t question his orders. I should behave exactly as he wants me until I can see a way to strike back.

“I … I … I’m not being willful,” she says apologetically. “The only reason I don’t want to go up on the hook again is because it’s so high and it puts such a strain on me.”

“I wish that there was some other way,” the Angel replies. “I really do. But until I can trust you …”

“You can trust me now.”

“ … until I’m sure that you’ve started to see the error of your ways, and have come to look on me as a friend, it has to be the hook.”

He likes having me on the hook, Beth thinks! The sadistic bastard gets some kind of sick kick out of seeing me hanging there.

“The hook, Beth,” the Angel says, and the edge in his voice tells her it would be stupid to defy him for even a second longer.

She walks over to the hook, stands on tiptoe, and slips her chain into place. Only now that she’s helpless does the Angel enter the room. He goes straight to the bed, picks up the sackcloth dress and examines the seams.

“Yes, a good job,” he confirms. Another frown comes to his face. “Where are the scissors, Beth?”

Damn, she’s been hoping he’d forget about them – hoping he’d leave her with at least one small weapon, one small chance.

“They’re on the floor, by the side of the cot,” she says.

“And what are they doing there?”

“I dropped them.”

“And why didn’t you pick them up again?”

“I was meaning to. But I forgot.”

The Angel bends down. “The scissors aren’t beside the cot, Beth,” he says. “They’re under it.”

“They must have bounced there.”

The Angel slips the scissors into his pocket and shakes his head sadly.

“Oh Beth, Beth,” he says. “Have you so little faith that you wish to attack the only person on earth who really wants to help you?”

It was dumb to try and pull that kind of trick on a careful man like him, Beth thinks.

Dangerously dumb.

Criminally dumb.

“It’s like I told you before, the scissors fell,” she says.

“Well, perhaps they did,” the Angel concedes. “Perhaps even you would not stoop so low as to try and hurt your one true friend.” He puts his hand back in his pocket and pulls out a package. “I’ve brought you some sandwiches,” he says. “You can eat them when I’ve gone.”

Beth feels one tiny grain of hope deep inside her. He means to kill her! Yes! But not today! Not now! If he was going to kill her now, he wouldn’t have bothered to bring her food.

“Thank you for thinking about that,” she says – and though her stomach feels so tight she doesn’t think she could keep even soup down, she adds: “I am a little hungry.”

The Angel places the sandwiches on the bed.

“They’re looking for you,” he says.

Another grain of hope to build up on top of the first.

“Who’s looking for me?” Beth asks. “The police?”

“Yes. And that means they’re also looking for me. Oh yea, as it has always been, the hounds of Evil snap at the heels of the Righteous, slavering to persecute, braying to destroy. ”

“If you let me go, they wouldn’t be trying to hunt you down any more,” Beth says. “If you let me go, you could escape them.”

“You’d tell them who I was,” the Angel points out, “and that would make it even easier for them to catch me.”

“I wouldn’t tell,” Beth promises. “You could go somewhere new. Make a fresh start.”

For a second, it seems as if the Angel might be willing to consider it, then he slowly shakes his head from side to side.

“If I abandon you now, what will happen to your soul?” he asks.

“I don’t have to be here to think about my sins,” Beth argues. “Now that you shown me where I’ve gone wrong, I don’t even need you to help me. I can do it by myself.”

“You’re lying to me,” the Angel says. “If I let you go, you’ll never purge the evil in your soul.”

“I will,” Beth tells him. “I swear to God I will.”

The Angel moves with such speed that it’s almost a blur. One second he’s standing several feet away from her, the next he’s slapping her, first on one cheek and then on the other.

“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain!” he screams as he hits her. “You have lied to me, and lied to me, and lied to me. I trusted you. I believed in you.”

“Please …” Beth begs, as blood bubbles from her lips. “Please don’t … just please stop …”

“You taught me to be good,” the Angel rants. “I was good because you wanted it. But you couldn’t be good yourself, could you? Could you? How could you do this to me, Momma?”

And then, as suddenly as it began, the attack is over.

The Angel sinks to his knees. He is sobbing, and the hands which have inflicted such pain are now pressed tightly together in prayer.

“Lead me, Lord,” he weeps. “Lead me in the way of righteousness.”

5

Carlton starts about half a mile beyond the edge of Chesterfield, which makes it far enough away from the bad areas of town to be relatively safe, yet close enough to add a certain spice to visiting it. It is, in fact, the section of the city where people who imagine that they are daring go to have a good time. At night, when it’s lit up by a series of garish neon signs advertising massage parlors, topless cocktail bars, blue movie houses and Mexican restaurants, there is a certain excitement about the place. In the cold light of day, with the garbage cans spilling over with the previous evening’s excesses, it looks more like what it really is – a small city’s pathetic attempt to imitate the glamour of its larger sisters.

Brody has worked the area back in the days when he was in uniform and knows most of the bars Alex Schultz might possibly have visited. It is ten o’clock when he and his partner hit the first of the bars, which is about the earliest any of them will be open. By eleven, when they enter Gino’s Bar and Grill on the corner of Seventeenth Street and Buchanan, they have already visited eight others – and drawn a blank at each one.

The decor at Gino’s consists mainly of fishing nets and lobster pots hanging from the ceiling, and old, brightly-colored bottles lining tiled shelves. Sicilian Fishing Village circa 1950, Brody thinks. There are no customers, and only one man behind the bar, a young guy of 23 or 24.

Brody flashes his shield.

The young guy seems surprised, but he doesn’t seem worried.

“Were you working here last night?” Brody asks.

The barman nods. “Sure. I work here every night.” He grins. “Every morning, too. I get the afternoons off.”

“We wondered whether you might have noticed one particular customer yesterday,” Brody says. “He’s 34, maybe 35, 5ft 11ins tall, sandy hair, green eyes and a whole face full of freckles.”

“That’d be Max,” the barman says.

Brody shakes his head. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same guy.”

“Can’t be too many people around here who match that description,” the barman disagrees. “Does this guy of yours wear three-piece suits and drive around in a black Lincoln?”

“Yeah,” Brody says. “He does.”

“Then that’s Max. He’s a regular. Comes in … oh … usually about once a week.”

Brody and Knight exchange glances. “But was he in here last night?” Brody asks.

“Not while I was here, but, see, I get a break between eleven and midnight, and if he was in then, I would’ve missed him.”

“What the fuck’s goin’ on here?” demands a new voice.

Brody turns around. Standing in the doorway which leads to the back room is a fat balding man of around 60. He has thin, white hair and eyes which fail to inspire trust. His white shirt is ballooning out of his pants, and he has a cigar stub in the right hand corner of his small, tight mouth.

“I said, what the fuck’s goin’ on?” the fat man repeats.

“These guys are cops, Mr Poticelli,” the barman says.

“Yeah, I heard,” the older man says. “Askin’ about Max. Only you got it wrong. He drives a green Lincoln, he don’t come in more than once every two weeks, an’ I ain’t seen him for over a month. Somebody told me he’d left town.” He turns his attention to Brody. “Ignore the kid, he’s an idiot. Only reason he’s workin’ for me at all is his old man’s a buddy of mine from way back.”

“You seemed pretty sure a minute ago that it was a black Lincoln Max drove,” Brody says to the barman.

The kid looks down at the bar counter.

“I made a mistake,” he says. “The Lincoln’s green. An’ Mr Poticelli’s right – Max hasn’t been in here for over a month now.”

*

They drive back through Chesterfield, and that depresses the hell out of Knight because now he can see for himself the smashed store windows and the burned-out cars which are evidence of last night’s rioting. There’s no trouble at the moment, but there is the potential for it, with police vans parked at strategic points and groups of black youths standing moodily on street corners. Knight wonders how his kids are getting on in school and whether anyone has used the ‘N’ word yet.

“We’ve got enough on Alex Schultz to pull him in for questioning,” Brody tells his partner.

“We’ve got jack shit on him – and you know it,” Knight replies moodily.

“He’s close enough to Beth to find out about all her problems, even the little ones,” Brody argues. “He hasn’t got an alibi for last night, and he lied when he said he’s never been to Carlton before. Plus, he’s been using an alias.”

“That’s supposing you and the kid behind the bar were talking about the same guy,” Knight points out.

“We were. I just know we were.”

They pass another burnt-out car, which might have been a Ford Mustang though it’s kind of difficult to tell now.

Knight sighs. “Schultz is a lawyer, Sam,’ he says. “He knows how to work the system. He’d get himself out of custody before the fingerprint ink was even dry. Anyway, why are you pinning all your hopes on him? He’s not the only guy who works with Mrs Baker. There’s the secretary … what’s his name …?”

“Larry Hayden.”

“Yeah, Hayden. He’s got access to the same information as Schultz, and by all accounts, he handled himself pretty good in the fight with the Blades. Ain’t it possible he’s the vigilante?”

“It’s possible,” Brody admits reluctantly.

“So we go and talk to the man?” Knight suggests.

“Yeah,” Brody says.

And all the time he’s thinking, “Beth, my beautiful, wonderful Beth. Where are you? What’s happening to you?”

*

Sitting on the cot, dressed in the sackcloth which the Angel ordered her to put on while he self-consciously turned his back, Beth assesses the damage the madman has done to her. Her face aches and her lower lip is cut in two places. Her cheeks are probably already starting to swell up, but none of her teeth are broken.

She’ll live – at least for the present.

She turns to face the Angel, who is standing next to the old-fashioned bath tub with the claw-feet – the bath tub he’s said he’ll fill with water when the right moment comes.

“You shouldn’t have made me do that,” he says, when he sees she’s looking at him.

You bastard, you sick, sick bastard, Beth thinks.

But aloud, she says: “I’m sorry.”

“We have so little time,” the Angel tells her. “So very little time. And I do want to save you, Beth. I really do.”

“I know you do,” she agrees, understanding that – in his own twisted way – he does.

“How does the sackcloth feel?” he asks.

“It itches,” she tells him, then, risking a lie, she adds: “but I think it’s helping me to realize my … my inadequacies.”

The Angel looks pleased, and nods. “It does none of us any harm to experience humility.”

When do you ever experience humility, she thinks angrily? You, who are so sure you have the monopoly on morality, who exercises power over life and death as casually as if you were ordering a pack of cigarettes?

“It can be so hard for me,” the Angel says. “So very, very hard. There are times when I want to give up. And then, just at the moment of my darkest despair, the Lord breathes new fire into me. Yet I still fear it – fear that the fire won’t come, and I’ll be left alone.”

He’s feeling vulnerable, she thinks – or at least as vulnerable as he ever gets. If she going to find something she can use as a weapon against him, now’s her chance.

“Tell me about your mother,” she says.

“My mother?” the Angel repeats, mystified. His eyes harden. “Why would you want to hear about my mother?”

“I don’t know,” Beth says, feeling a shiver run through her. “But why not talk about her?” She is treading on dangerous ground, forcing her voice to remain steady, trying to sound casual, yet interested. “Of course if you’d rather not discuss her, I suppose we can always talk about something else. You could tell me about one of your girlfriends, for example.”

“No!” the Angel says, shakily. “No, we’ll talk about Momma.” A faraway look comes into his eyes. “She was the most beautiful woman in town. In the city, men would have whistled and called after her, but where we lived, they just looked at her with respectful admiration.”

“I expect your father was very proud of her,” Beth says.

Another mistake!

She can see by the Angel’s expression she’s made another mistake.

Better not to ask any more questions, she tells herself – better, far better, to let him lead.

“I had no father,” the Angel says. “He died when I was still a very young child. But we didn’t really miss him, Momma and me. We got all we needed from each other, you see.”

So that was why he selected me for his special interest, Beth thinks – because his mother was a widow!

The Angel has paused, as if he wants to tell her more, but is somehow afraid to – and Beth realizes that if she’s to learn anything else, she’ll have to take the risk of speaking again – of asking another question.

“What was it like, growing up in a small town?” she says.

The Angel smiles. “It was a very different life to the one that city-people live,” he says. “All the streets had trees along them. There was virtually no crime. We knew almost everybody in town. We grew all our own vegetables. And there was always something to look forward to – the Thanksgiving dinner in the community center, the summer Church Picnic down by Wilmot’s Creek, the—” He stops for a second. “I would have liked to have shown it to you.”

“I’d have liked to have seen it with you,” Beth says.

And she’s thinking, “If you can just learn to like me a little again, then maybe you won’t be able to bring yourself to murder me.”

“It was a good town,” the Angel says.

“Good? It sounds perfect.”

“Yes, at the time I thought it was Paradise,” the Angel says. “But just as in the Biblical Paradise, we nurtured a serpent in our bosom.”

She’s getting somewhere, Beth thinks excitedly. She’s seeing a tiny chink in his armor, a chink which just might be her deliverance.

“A serpent?” she says. “What do you mean by that?”

“I was in the 9th Grade,” the Angel tells her. “The day the school boiler broke down, it was early spring, and still quite cold …”

As he speaks, he can see it in his mind’s eye …

*

The principal, Mr Hawthorne, called all the students into the assembly hall/gymnasium, which was the biggest room in the entire school.

“I know you hate to miss even a minute of your education,” he told them with a kindly smile on his face, “but it really isn’t warm enough to continue with classes today.”

They wanted to cheer, but they knew that this was not one of the occasions when cheering would be allowed, and so they contented themselves with smiling up at him as he was smiling down at them.

“Those of you who can walk home may do so as soon as you are dismissed,” the principal said. “Those of you who live on farms will come to the office with me, and telephone your parents. Anyone without a phone will be driven home by his or her teacher.”

It seems incredible to the Angel when he thinks about it now.

A town where it was safe enough for all the children – no matter how small – to walk the streets on their own.

A school where the Principal would personally make sure that all the children who lived outside town called their parents.

A teaching staff who gave up their own time to take the kids home.

It was incredible – the Middle America of a Norman Rockwell painting.

The Angel – though he had not yet become the Angel because he still hadn’t had the call – was one of those children who lived quite close to the school, so he filed out with the other local children as soon as the Principal gave the word. Once they were in the school yard, the other kids in his grade went wild, laughing and punching each other, shouting and gesturing. It was a wonderful thing to have an unexpected day off, and despite what the principal had told them, they certainly weren’t going to waste it by going home – not when there were trees to climb and creeks to fish.

They did not invite the Angel to join their fun. They knew better than that. He was a loner, an odd-man-out in their happy little group.

The Angel wouldn’t have joined them even if they had asked him. He had other projects in mind. There were plants for him and Momma to bed out in the front yard, and there was a lot of work to do on the vegetable patch. How pleased she would be to see him home from school so early, he thought, as he walked down the street lined with neat, single-storey houses. What fun they would have that afternoon – just the two of them – working together.

He looked up at the trees, at the buds that were just about to come out.

New life springing forth, he thought fancifully – a new year being born.

He usually called out to his mother from the front yard – so she could come out onto the porch to greet him – but that day he thought he would surprise her. He pictured himself creeping into the house and tiptoeing into the kitchen, where she would be baking a cake, or cutting up the meat for their evening stew. He’d keep on going until he was right behind her – until he could hear her breathing – and then he’d tap her lightly on shoulder.

How they’d laugh about it later.

“You gave me such a fright coming in like that,” his mother would say. “For a minute, I thought it was an axe murderer or something.”

“An axe murderer!” he’d repeat. “In a town like this?”

He opened the front door ever so slowly, so she wouldn’t hear him enter the house, and padded quietly to the kitchen.

His mother wasn’t there.

But where else would she be at that time of day? he wondered.

She shopped in the morning – always had for as long as he could remember. And then she did her chores around the house before making a light lunch for herself and her son. Then, when he’d gone back to school for the afternoon, she spent her time in the kitchen. That was the way it worked. That was the way it had to work.

He almost called out: “Where are you, Momma?” but that would have ruined the surprise. So, instead, he went back into the hall.

It was then he heard the noise! It was like two animals struggling, one of them with a deep growl, the other with a high-pitched cry. He didn’t know what it was – couldn’t even think what it was. And yet the noise was coming from Momma’s bedroom.

He walked slowly up the hall. He knew, deep inside himself, that what he should really do was go out the front door again, and not come back until his normal time. He knew, and yet a force he couldn’t even understand seemed to be propelling him forward, towards his mother’s bedroom door.

He hesitated on the threshold. The animal noises were louder now, and he realized that not all of them were meaningless grunts – that some of them were actually words.

“Harder, Frank, harder!” said the higher-pitched of the two voices. “I want to feel you … want to feel you right inside of me.”

“I’m coming, Martha!” the other voice grunted. “I’m coming!”

“Hold back!” the first voice implored. “For God’s sake, hold back until I’m ready!”

The higher-pitched voice sounded to the Angel like his mother’s, especially when it said the word ‘God’ – but he had never heard his mother use a tone like that.

He had to find out what was going on in there.

He simply had to.

He lifted his hand to the doorknob, turned it, and pushed gently.

He did not understand what he was seeing on the bed at first. It seemed to him to be just a jumble of limbs and torsos. Then he did understand – began to distinguish the thrusting buttocks of Mr Ingham, their neighbor, and his mother’s legs which were clasped tightly around Mr Ingham’s back.

“Jesus Christ!” screamed his mother, this woman who had taught the Angel from the time he was a baby, never – that he should never, ever – take the name of the Lord, his God, in vain.

The Angel backed out, closing the door softly behind him. He had almost reached the front door when he heard his mother scream: “Yes! Yes! Yes!” at the top of her voice.

He left the house, and started walking back towards his school. The street didn’t seem as safe and comforting as it had a few minutes earlier. The new buds on the trees did not give him hope any more – because what he had seen happening in his mother’s bedroom had killed all hope at the very same moment as it had also killed all trust.

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife,” he said aloud.

But his mother had coveted her neighbor’s husband. Had done more than that – had entered into unlawful sexual congress with him, which is an abomination in the eyes of God.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He had to get off the street before anybody saw him and stopped to ask why he was so upset, because he couldn’t – just couldn’t – share this shame that he was feeling with anyone else.

He cut across a vacant lot until he came to a clump of trees. Once there, he crouched down at the base of a tall, strong oak, and made himself into the tiniest ball he could.

He didn’t know what to do next. He wanted to kill himself – but he knew that was a sin.

How could she, the woman he had almost worshipped, do this to him, he asked himself over and over again?

His sobs wracked his body, and though he clawed his skull frenziedly with his hands, he could feel no other pain but the terrible burning inside him.

And then, unexpectedly, a great calm descended over him. It was as if someone else – someone who knew what to do – had entered his body and taken over. He unwrapped his arms from around his head and looked up, through the new leaves, at the sky.

And for the first time, his God spoke to him.

*

“It must have been terrible for you,” Beth says, and her sympathy is only half-feigned.

“You don’t understand,” the Angel tells her, “just as I didn’t at first. I thought it was an ending, you see. But it wasn’t. It was a beginning.”

6

The 30 or so demonstrators are standing at the corner of 11th Street and Buchanan. They’re not the same people who were out on the streets last night, George Knight thinks, as he watches them from the passenger seat of the bronze Eldorado. Then, it was the young – the angry, disillusioned hot-heads who maybe don’t belong to a gang but are at least on the fringes of the culture. Now, it’s the respectable elements of the barrio who are making their protest. They are mainly middle aged and mainly well-dressed. There are slightly more women than men. And most of them are carrying hastily painted signs which they wave at the passing traffic.

As Brody pulls the Eldorado up at the stop light, Knight runs his eyes over a few of the placards.

‘We want justice for our children!’ one of them says.

‘What are the police doing?’ demands another.

But it is a third, carried by a stout woman who is wearing her Sunday hat, which really catches Knight’s attention.

‘One crazy white guy? Who do you think you’re fooling?’ it says.

Knight can’t really blame the woman for not believing that the attack on the Blades’ clubhouse was the work of a single man. Shit, he’s seen the evidence with his own eyes – talked to Spiker who was an eye-witness as well as a victim – and even he’s having difficulty swallowing it.

He thinks about the rumors which have started spreading on the streets: that the police found a flaming cross in the clubhouse, which proves it was the work of the Klan; that the guys behind the Oklahoma bombing were responsible for the massacre, but the FBI, for some reason of their own, are keeping it quiet; that – and this the one which really scares him – the killers were cops, practicing a little rough justice.

He thinks, too, about his children, who carry the double burden of being both black and the kids of a policeman.

“What a fuck-up,” he says, almost under his breath.

The worst thing about the situation is that the rumors aren’t about to go away – they’re going to get wilder and wilder until the police come up with the masked vigilante. And so far, the investigation hasn’t even gotten past first base.

One of the demonstrators – a woman who, from her severe dress looks like she might be a librarian or a grade school teacher – spots the Eldorado and recognizes the two men inside.

“Cops!” she screams.

And immediately the Eldorado is surrounded by people. Some simply wave their banners, some shout angry questions through the open window. And others use their fists to bang down hard on the automobile’s roof.

“When are you going to do something?” asks a skinny woman with white hair.

“Ain’t we got the right to know the truth?” demands a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit.

“I’ve always brought my kids up to respect the police. What can I tell them now?” yells a young mother who’s come out in such a hurry that she’s not even had time to put her lipstick on straight.

The demonstrators start to push at the Eldorado, and it begins to rock from side to side. And all the time, there is the relentless pounding of fists on the roof.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Brody looks straight ahead and wonders what the hell to do next. A crowd of punks, he could handle. But these aren’t punks – they’re law-abiding people who’ve reached the end of their rope.

“Listen, folks, we’re doin’ all we can!” he hears George Knight shout over the noise.

Then the stop light finally changes to green, and he slowly eases the Eldorado forward, leaving the demonstrators standing at the intersection, waving their fists at him.

“Jesus!” Brody says.

“Ain’t that the truth!” Knight agrees.

The black detective looks at the sky ahead of them. It’s mostly blue but there are some clouds building up. Knight hopes that the clouds will continue to build, and that then they’ll open and pour down a torrent of water – because there is nothing like rain for keeping rioters off the streets.

But all the rain in the world isn’t going to keep the lid on this thing for long. If they don’t find the masked man soon, the city’s simply going to tear itself apart.

*

As he pulls into the sidewalk in front of the Lennox Building, Brody checks the street for Alex Schultz’s black Lincoln, but there’s no Lincoln of any color parked there. So Schultz isn’t in his office.

Which raises the question, where is he instead?

Out on a case?

Or visiting his prisoner in the secret jail he’s constructed for her?

The two detectives get out of the car and enter the building. The lobby, like the outside, looks as if it’s seen better days. Near the door is a reception desk which is clean enough but gives off an air of not having been used for quite a while. Four potted plants stand on duty – two each side of the desk. Their leaves are drooping, and what few flowers they have are pale and anemic. Beyond the desk is a row of chairs covered in an unconvincing leather-like black plastic. At the far end of the room is the elevator. It isn’t exactly a place to inspire confidence, Brody thinks.

The lobby is empty apart from Tom Harrison, who is sweeping up – probably with the same broom he used in his unsuccessful defense of Beth. The janitor looks up and smiles at Brody and Knight.

“Morning, Detectives,” he says.

“How are you feeling, Mr Harrison?” Brody asks.

The janitor’s smile stays in place, though it acquires a slightly puzzled edge.

“Feeling?” he repeats. “Oh, you mean after that punch in the stomach I took the other day?”

“Yeah,” Brody agrees.

“I’m healing,” Harrison says. “A few years ago, I’d have been back in top form already, but after you get past the big 4–0, it seems like the body starts taking longer to fix itself.” His smile disappears and is replaced by a much more serious expression. “Hell of a thing that happened to those gang boys yesterday, wasn’t it?” he continues. “I mean, I know they done wrong – but it was still a hell of a thing to happen to them.”

Images flash through Brody’s mind – the devastated clubhouse, the demonstrators on the street – and Beth.

“Yeah, it was a hell of a thing,” he agrees. “Okay by you if we went upstairs, Mr Harrison?”

The janitor turns his broom, and maneuvers a small heap of dust onto his pan.

“Fine by me,” he says. “Only if you want to see Mrs Baker, you’re out of luck, ’cause she ain’t in yet.”

“It was Mr Hayden we wanted to talk to.”

“He ain’t in, either. Same for Mr Schultz. Things are real quiet on the second floor this morning.”

Brody checks his watch, then shoots his partner a questioning look.

It’s twelve twenty-one, the look says. How come the law office is still empty?

“They normally this late?” he asks the janitor.

“Well, you never can tell with Mr Schultz,” Harrison admits. “Some days he hardly seems to be here at all. But Mrs Baker and Mr Hayden are usually at their desks by nine, nine-fifteen.”

And today – the morning after Beth goes missing – Larry Hayden is three hours late.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait around until Mr Hayden does turn up,” Brody tells the janitor.

Tom Harrison glances around the seedy, empty lobby.

“This ain’t exactly the most comfortable place to park your tails,” he says. “I could let you into Mr Schultz’s office if you’d prefer it – not that that’s much better.”

“We’d appreciate it,” Brody says.

Harrison pulls some keys out of his pocket and heads for the stairs. George Knight falls in beside him.

“What d’you think about Larry Hayden?’ Knight asks.

Tom Harrison’s normally open expression closes down instantly and is replaced by a look which falls somewhere between cautious apprehension and downright suspicion.

“You want to take the elevator?” he asks, evasively.

“No, we’ll take the stairs,” Knight tells him. “My partner could use the exercise. So what do you think of Hayden?”

Harrison starts to climb the stairs.

“Don’t think anything about Mr Hayden,” he says, definitely on his guard now. “The way I see it, it’s my job to make sure that this building’s heated and that what gets broken gets fixed. Nobody pays me to go thinking about people.”

“Hey, this isn’t an interrogation,” George Knight says, in an easy, buddy-to-buddy tone he has worked hard to cultivate. “I was just making conversation. Could have talked about the weather. Could have said somethin’ ’bout how the Colts are doin’. The only reason I mentioned Larry Hayden at all is ’cause he’s the guy we’ve come to see.”

“That right?” Harrison asks, and though he seems a little more relaxed, the suspicion is still there in his voice.

“Yeah, that’s exactly right,” Knight lies. “I’ve gotta say, he seems like a stand-up young guy to me.”

“Never heard any complaints about him,” Harrison says, still choosing his words carefully, “and when Mrs Baker had that trouble with the Blades, it was mostly Mr Hayden who got her out of it.” He stops for a second, and coughs. “I certainly wasn’t much help.”

They reach the top of the stairs and the entrance to the lawyers’ office. The janitor inserts one of the keys in the lock and pushes the door open.

“Not much security,” Brody says.

“Not much to steal,” Harrison replies dryly.

“Thanks for your time, Mr Harrison,” George Knight says.

The janitor shrugs. “No trouble. You guys want some coffee? I always keep a pot on the boil in the basement.”

Brody, who knows that however good the coffee is, it will still taste like shit to him, shakes his head. “We’ll pass – but thanks anyway.”

“Then I’ll get back to my custodial duties,” Harrison says. He grins. “Ain’t it a bitch the way some people gotta give a perfectly decent job a fancy title before they think it’s worth doing?”

Despite the way he’s feeling, Brody grins back.

“Yeah, it sure is,” he agrees. “I myself am a law enforcement procedures facilitator.”

Harrison’s smile widens. “Right!” he says. “A law enforcement procedures facilitator.”

He steps out into the corridor, hesitates for a second, then turns around again.

The two detectives notice the look of concern on his face, the look which says he thinks he might just have said the wrong thing.

“Was there something else, Mr Harrison?” Brody asks.

“About Mr Hayden …”

“Yeah?”

“I like him. He’s a nice guy.”

“You like most people, Mr Harrison?” Brody asks.

The grin is back in place. “Yeah,” Harrison admits. “I guess I do.”

The janitor turns again, closes the door and walks down the hall.

Brody waits until Harrison’s footsteps have faded away, then says: “What do you make of the way he answered your question about Hayden, George?”

Knight closes his eyes and puts his right hand to his massive forehead. “I think … I think that maybe Harrison does like Larry Hayden – likes him, but doesn’t completely trust him.”

“Agreed,” Brody says. “So what is it about Hayden he doesn’t trust?”

“Don’t know,” Knight admits. “But whatever it is, he don’t think it gives him enough of a reason to say something which might just drop Larry Hayden into deep shit.”

Brody nods his agreement again and looks around the office. Harrison was right about there not being much to steal: the chairs provided for visitors are made of tubular steel and covered with a cheap fabric; Hayden’s desk has a second-hand look about it; the filing cabinets are all dented; and the muted green carpet is showing signs of wear.

Nobody would ever guess that this was the office of a guy who owned a fancy brownstone in an expensive area north of the park.

Brody wonders why, if Schultz is really interested in seeing his law firm be successful, he doesn’t invest a little of his money in new furnishings.

Because maybe Lawyer Schultz doesn’t want other people to know he’s wealthy!

That would certainly explain Schultz’s reluctance to let them over the threshold and into his house.

But it still isn’t a crime to be rich – so why go to the trouble of hiding it?

Is he really the Max who visits Gino’s Bar regularly? And if he is, why had Gino himself been so quick to claim that he wasn’t?

There’s the sound of a new set of footsteps on the stairs, then the door opens and Larry Hayden walks in. He’s wearing a light sports jacket, white shirt, blue knitted necktie and tan slacks. Apart from the long dark hair, he is the very image of what a male legal secretary should be. Yet despite his conventional appearance, he brings an air of menace into the room – a feeling of coiled-up violence which Brody didn’t sense the last time they met.

Hayden gives the two detectives a cold, assessing look which says as clearly as words that there are thousands – perhaps millions – of other people he’d rather see in his office.

“Tom Harrison told me you were here,” he says. “I assume that it’s Alex you want to talk to?”

This could be the guy who’s not only holding Beth, but also took on an armed gang – single-handed – and won, Brody reminds himself. And if he is that guy, then he’s very dangerous.

“Why do you assume that it’s Alex that we’ve come to see?” Brody asks the paralegal. “Why not Beth?”

A thin humorless smile comes to Hayden’s face. “Because Beth is missing,” he says.

Brody’s heart skips a beat. Can it really be as easy as this?

He feels his hand inching towards his shoulder holster, because if Hayden is the kidnapper, he’s not going to go down without a fight.

“And how do you know about Beth’s disappearance?” he asks.

Hayden walks round his desk and sits down.

“Maybe because I’m the one who snatched her?” he suggests, his smile now almost a sneer. “Or maybe it could be because Alex called me after you visited him last night, and told me all about it.”

What Hayden’s just said doesn’t prove a thing, Brody tells himself. Even if Schultz did phone him, that in no way rules the legal secretary out.

Hand still hovering close to his gun, Brody pulls up a chair and sits down opposite.

“You don’t like the police much, do you?” he asks.

“No, not much,” Hayden admits.

“Pretty strange attitude for a legal secretary to have,” says George Knight, who is still standing – and has his hand hovering close to his shoulder holster, too. “Would you mind telling us why you feel that way about us?”

Hayden picks up a thick stack of papers from his desk, glances quickly at the top one, and puts them down again in exactly the same place.

It’s as if this is all an act – as if being a legal secretary isn’t part of his real life at all.

“I don’t see how my attitude to the police – or anything else about me for that matter – is any of your damn business,” Hayden tells Knight.

The words are mild enough, but Brody can almost feel the violent core inside Hayden starting to uncoil. He’s normally confident in any situation, but now he finds himself wondering, if it comes to it, what chance he and Knight are going to have against this man.

“Is your dislike of the cops based on personal experience?” he asks. “You got a sheet or something, Mr Hayden?”

Hayden moves more papers around some more – still playing with them, still acting out a role.

“I don’t see that’s any of your damn business either,” he says.

“What’s the matter?” Brody says, in a calculated taunt. “Afraid we’ll tell your employer all about it?”

The thin smile is back on Hayden’s lips. “Alex already knows,” he says. “I was completely upfront with him right from the start.”

“So why not be upfront with us, and save a little computer time?” Brody suggests.

“And why don’t you do the job you’re paid to do, and leave me to do mine?” Hayden counters harshly.

This line of questioning is leading nowhere.

Brody checks his watch. It is ten of one.

“You normally come into work at this time of day, Mr Hayden?”

“No,” Hayden says. “But I had some time due, and I figured I’d take the morning off.”

“And what did you do with the time?”

“Isn’t this about the point at which I should be asking for my lawyer?” Hayden says.

Brody shrugs. “Sure – if you think you need one.”

Hayden returns the shrug, as if to indicate that he was only asking to show that he knows his rights, but that he’s got no real worries about handling two dipshit detectives himself.

“What did I do?” he repeats. “Got up late. Spent a long time in the shower. Lounged around the house some. Turned on the TV and half-watched a couple of morning soaps.”

“Soaps?” Brody says incredulously.

“Sure. You want me to tell you what I can remember of the plots? Seems like there’s real problems in ‘The Young and the Restless’ because one of the main characters – I don’t recall his name now – is going into hospital for a really major operation and—”

“What’s your relationship to Beth Baker?” Brody interrupts, just about sick of being given the run-around.

His tone seems to amuse Hayden, and the thin smile is back again.

“She helps pay my wages,” the legal secretary says.

“Nothing more?”

Hayden waves his hands in front of him, as if to ask why there should be something more.

“She’s a good boss,” he says finally. “I like her.”

“Do you feel protective towards her?”

Hayden leans back in his chair, to show who’s in control here.

“If you mean by that, did I feel I had to do something to help her when I saw those Blades were attacking her out on the street, then the answer’s yes.”

“Ever want to help her get over any other problems?”

Hayden’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Where’s all this going?” he asks.

“We think the guy who kidnapped Beth has been looking out for her for quite some time,” Brody says. “We think he’s done all sorts of things to help her.” He pauses and looks straight into Hayden’s eyes. “And we also think that he’s the one who attacked the Blades’ clubhouse.”

Hayden blinks, just once, and then he stares coldly back at Brody.

“Is that why you asked me if I felt protective towards her?” he asks. “Because you really do think I kidnapped her? Because you think I’m her guardian angel.”

The last two words hit Brody hard in the stomach.

‘Guardian Angel.’

Yeah, that’s exactly how the guy behind all this would see himself.

“Is it you?” he asks, and all the time he is waiting for Hayden to make a move – any move – which will give him the excuse to draw his pistol.

But Hayden seems to have his violent instincts well under control now, and instead of lashing out with his lethal hands, he merely picks up a pencil and runs his gaze along its edge. “Why me?” he asks.

“Because you work with her, and know about her problems. And from the way you handled yourself the other day, it looks like maybe you could have handled the attack on the Blades’ clubhouse as well.”

Hayden laughs, but there is no humor in it. “I like Beth,” he says, “but I don’t like her enough to pull a crazy stunt like that.”

His denial still proves nothing, Brody thinks – just because the Angel is mad, it doesn’t necessarily follow that he’s also stupid.

There are fresh footsteps in the hallway. The door opens and Alex Schultz walks in. He’s wearing a blue three-piece suit, just the kind of outfit the barman in Gino’s said Max always wore.

“Detectives,” he says, nodding first at Brody and then at Knight.

“Mr Schultz,” Brody replies.

Something has happened to Larry Hayden. He seemed pretty much in control of the situation before his boss arrived, but now that Schultz is here, he looks far less confident.

“These … uh … guys think I’m the one who snatched Beth,” he says.

Schultz gives Brody a hard stare, which somehow works despite his freckles. “Is that true?” he demands.

“We can’t rule anybody out,” Brody says evenly.

Schultz walks around the desk, so he is standing next to Hayden, like they are in some kind of alliance – the two of them against the world.

“Look, I know you’re only doing your job, but you’re on the wrong track this time,” he says reasonably. “I’d stake my life on the fact Larry has nothing to do with Beth’s disappearance.”

“Would you stake Beth’s on it?” Brody asks.

Schultz is silent a few seconds, as if he’s really giving the matter his serious consideration.

“Yes. Yes, I would,” he says finally.

There’s too much acting going on here, Brody thinks – and Schultz’s role as the honest employer who’s standing by a younger man with a questionable past just doesn’t sit well on the lawyer’s shoulders.

“As far as we can figure out, it’s either him or you,” he tells Schultz. “And if it isn’t him—”

The attorney laughs. “Do either of us look like psychopaths?” he asks.

“You think it goes by looks?” Brody demands. He is angry: angry at Schultz’s bland assumption, angry at himself for not having rescued Beth yet – angry at the whole damn world. “You think all crazy men go around with ‘I am nuttier than a fruitcake’ tattooed in blue on their foreheads? You think they foam at the mouth and roll their eyes like they’re in some fucking horror movie?”

“Easy, Sam,” George Knight says.

But Brody doesn’t want to take it easy. “I’ve met psychopaths who could easily have gotten elected to the Senate on their appearance alone,” he tells Alex Schultz. “I once arrested a serial killer who was one of the best youth organizers this city’s ever known. So don’t you go telling me that neither of you could have done it because you look so normal.”

Larry Hayden claps his hands slowly together – one, two, three times. “Wow, what a speech,” he says. “What an impassioned plea from the heart.”

“Shut up, Larry!” Schultz says. He turns his attention back to Brody. “It doesn’t bother me that I’m under suspicion – because I’ve got nothing to hide,” he says. “But what has gotten me seriously worried is that by concentrating your attention on us, you’re not getting any closer to finding the real kidnapper.”

It has to be one of these two, Brody thinks. It just has to be.

But which one?

The abrasive legal secretary?

Or the freckled lawyer who now seems much more reasonable than he did last night?

Whichever it is, this interview has gone about as far as far as it can.

“Thanks for your advice,” he says. He checks his watch, then stands up. “It’s time we were leaving. See you around Hayden. See you … Max.”

He watches for the expected flicker in Alex Schultz’s eyes – and is not disappointed. Then, because he knows that – despite the shocked reaction – he’s not going to learn any more here, he heads for the door.

*

The Angel stands at the window, watching the two detectives walk back towards the bronze Eldorado. They know too much, he thinks – and they are guessing a lot of the rest! As always, he’s been as careful as he possibly could be but there are still loose ends, and Brody only has to find just one of them for the trail to lead straight back to him.

And even without the complication of Brody and Knight, there is another problem. The wreckers are moving relentlessly though the abandoned industrial park, destroying buildings at the whim of the city contracts’ department. When they reach the old warehouse, they could easily kill Beth without even knowing she was in there. Worse yet, they could find her alive. And if they did that, she could destroy his mission – defeat God’s purpose.

So, there can be no leisurely redemption this time – no proper space allowed for the weeping and the begging for forgiveness. He has two days at most to save Beth’s soul – two days before he wraps up things here and begins a fresh search for the woman who will finally be truly worthy of his devotion.

7

By placing her hand flat against the surface, Beth can feel the walls of the freezer room gently vibrating again, which means that somewhere out there – somewhere near – there are bulldozers and cranes, trucks and automobiles.

And people!

People who could come to her rescue!

People who could get between her and the madman who is continually telling her that he only has her best interests at heart!

If only she could find a way to communicate with them. If only there was a way to let them know she’s here.

“You’re on your own,” she reminds herself. “There’s nobody you can rely on but yourself.”

Just like running. Except that when she was taking part in a race, all the other runners had the same start as her – and this time it’s like trying to beat the Angel on foot while he’s riding a powerful motorcycle.

She giggles at the analogy. It gives her a warm glow to realize that she can still find something funny – can laugh even if it’s only at the desperation of her own situation.

The warm glow does not last long. In its place comes a cold shiver which is sudden, unexpected and all-embracing.

He’s here, she thinks – in the building!

She does not understand how she always knows when the Angel is about to visit her, but it is undoubtedly true that she does.

She runs the fingers of her manacled hands nervously through her blonde hair, and listens. Apart from the dim, distant hum of the wreckers’ machinery, there is no noise except for the regular whirring of the generator. Yet she is certain that the Angel is now climbing the concrete stairs from the floor below.

Beth takes a deep breath and tries to prepare herself for her next encounter with the man who has her life in the palm of his hand.

She hears the handle being lifted, the door swings open – and the Angel is standing there. For a few seconds, they just look at one another, then the Angel says: “The hook, Beth. Get on the hook.”

Always the hook.

Always the feeling of powerlessness that it brings.

But isn’t that the point of it?

Isn’t that what the sick bastard wants?

Beth walks over to the hook. Every time she does this, she is finding it easier and easier to stretch to the right position, but when it comes to getting down again, the Angel still has to help her, with those cold, asexual hands of his.

Once she is hanging there, the Angel comes into the room and stands in front of her.

He looks different today, she thinks. He seems … he seems even more agitated than when he told her about the wreckers. She wishes she knew whether that is a good thing which she can exploit – or a bad thing which will seal her fate.

The Angel runs his eyes up and down her sackcloth-clad body. But there is nothing sensual in it. Rather, he is sizing her up, as he might size up a slab of meat.

“The police have talked to me,” he says.

The police? she repeats silently. Sam Brody?

“Yes, it was Brody the Fornicator,” the Angel says, reading her mind. “He’s desperate to find you so that he may slake his lust once more. But he will not find you. Ever.”

Yet if he’s as confident as he sounds, why does he look so worried, Beth wonders?

“Have you considered your sins?” the Angel asks.

“Yes.”

“And have you truly repented?” the Angel says, glancing involuntarily, as he speaks, at the big old-fashioned bath.

Beth is so scared that’s it’s hard to think. But she must think – must use her brain because hanging helpless on this hook as she is, it is the only weapon available to her.

She looks into the Angel’s cold eyes. There are two sides to this man, she tells herself. There’s the side which believes deeply in God and the need for redemption. And there’s the side which loves to kill. And through her, the two sides can be joined together for a few glorious seconds.

But not yet! she prays. Please, not yet!

“I asked you if you’ve truly repented,” the Angel says.

She’s walking a line and she knows it. Fall one side or the other, and she’s finished.

“Sometimes I think I did wrong,” she says, slowly and carefully, “but there are other times when I’m not so sure.”

And even as she speaks, she is bracing herself for the beating which she knows she’s got coming.

*

The clouds have opened, just as they’ve been threatening to since the middle of the morning. Rain pours down on the streets of San Patricio and Chesterfield, and for the moment, the protesters have disappeared.

The police, dressed in yellow oilskin raincoats and standing at key points in both sections of the city, pray the bad weather is going to continue because being pelted with water is one hell of a lot better than being bombarded with Molotov cocktails – which is all they’ve got to look forward to if it’s a dry night.

Sam Brody stands alone at the window of the Nine’s squad room, watching the raindrops spatter against the glass, following their progress as they slowly weave their way right down to the bottom of the frame.

Life’s a bitch, he thinks – and then you die.

Another raindrop hits the window. Brody wonders where Beth Baker is, and what the man who’s snatched her is doing to her. When he finally catches up with the bastard …

No, he tells himself. Let’s be accurate. It’s not when I finally catch up with the bastard – it’s if I finally catch up with him!

“There’s a call for you on line five, Sam,” George Knight says from behind him – and the black detective is speaking in a weird tone of voice which tells Brody that something is definitely wrong.

Brody turns and picks up the phone. “Am I speaking to Detective Brody?” asks a rasping voice which is obviously heavily disguised, probably by some kind of electronic gadget.

Brody’s heart starts to pump faster. The Angel! Though it could be any one of a dozen maniacs who habitually call the precinct, somehow he just knows it has to be the Angel!

“Yeah, I’m Detective Brody,” he says.

“Detective Sam Brody?”

Brody glances across at his partner, and sees that George Knight has already set things up to trace and record the call.

“You got the right guy,” he tells the man with the rasping voice on the other end of the line.

“How are things going with you, Detective?” the anonymous caller says “How’s the view from the bottom of the mountain?”

“You want to stop playing games?” Brody asks.

“Games?” the caller repeats. “Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Yeah,” Brody says. “You’re the guy who threatened the supermarket owner, beat up on a car, and killed all those Blades. And you’re the guy who’s holding Beth Baker.”

“Yes, I am all those things,” the caller admits.

“So after protecting her for so long, why aren’t you looking out for her now?” Brody asks. “Instead of keeping her locked away somewhere, why don’t you just let her go back to her kids?”

“Because while I am all those things you said I was,” the caller answers, “I am also the Angel of the Lord, the strong right arm of wrathful God.”

A religious psychopath! Brody thinks. Oh Jesus, things couldn’t get much worse.

“Let her go,” he pleads. “Let her get back to her family.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why, in God’s name?”

“Because in God’s name – in God’s eyes – she’s not in a state of grace. And she needs to be in that state before I...”

Brody waits for the Angel to finish – but there is only silence on the other end of the line.

He forces himself to count off the seconds.

One … two … three … four … five …

And finally, he can stand no more.

“Before you what?” he asks. “Before you set her free?”

“Before I send her to meet her Maker.”

Ever since he’s known that the Angel exists, Brody has accepted the possibility that he might kill Beth. So the words shouldn’t come as a shock. But they do. He feels like he’s been kicked in the gut – feels like somebody’s tearing out his insides through his throat.

Be professional, he tells himself. Act like a real cop. Do it for Beth,

“When are you going to carry out your plan?” he makes himself ask. “When are you going to send her to her Maker?”

“You’re just like her!” the Angel says in an angry hiss. “So very concerned about the purely physical, with never a thought for the spiritual. Don’t you see that the timing of her death is of no importance – that the only thing which matters is the state of her soul?”

Brody is gripping the receiver so hard that his knuckles are turning white.

“Then let’s talk about her soul,” he says. “When will it be pure? When will she be in a state of grace?”

“She’s been fighting me,” the Angel says, “resisting me with all the strength that Satan has given her. But she can’t hold out for much longer – because the Lord is mighty, and I am his instrument.”

“How long?” Brody demands. “A day? Two days?”

“Perhaps not even as much as that. For the Lord is all-powerful, and will not be resisted.” The Angel pauses for a second. “Be warned, Brody,” he continues. “Once I have saved Beth’s soul, I’ll be coming after you. And I won’t try to save you. You can burn in hell for all eternity.”

“Listen,” Brody says, “you want to kill me, then go ahead and try. Only, let Beth go first.”

But he’s talking into a dead line.

“I got a fix on it,” George Knight says.

“Where was the son-of-a-bitch calling from?” Brody asks dully – expecting no surprises.

“Public call box real close to the Lennox Building,” Knight answers – delivering none.

8

The office in which Brody and the police psychiatrist are sitting has a maple wood desk and the usual leather couch. The walls are lined with bookcases, except for one, on which hang several framed certificates and a large oil painting of a balding, bearded guy, who – if he bothered to think about it all – Brody would probably assume was Sigmund Freud.

The shrink is sitting at his desk, listening to the tape which Brody is playing him. His name is Dr Philip Latimer. He is maybe 40 years old, but has a look in his eyes that is much older – a look which says he has heard some pretty rotten things in his time.

The short tape has almost come to its end.

‘Be warned, Brody,’ the voice of the Angel says. ‘Once I have saved Beth, I’ll be coming after you. And I won’t try to save you. You can burn in hell for all eternity.’

Brody switches off the machine.

“What do you make of it, Doc?” he asks the shrink.

Latimer puts his hands together, each fingertip on his right hand pressing against its opposite number on his left.

“I really would like some time to consider it, before I give my opinion,” he says.

Yeah, but time is just what Brody doesn’t have.

“Just make a guess,” he tells the doctor. “Nobody’s going to blame you if you’re wrong.”

But he’s lying. He will blame the doctor. He will blame the police department in general. But most of all, he will blame himself.

The doctor is still playing the fingertip pressing game.

“I believe the man does mean to kill her,” he says. “I also believe that if he does, it won’t be the first time he’s taken a life.”

“We think he’s the one who attacked the Blades’ headquarters the other day,” Brody says.

The doctor nods. “Interesting,” he says. “Very interesting. But that wasn’t quite what I was talking about. When I said he’d taken life, I meant he’d take it in a quite specific way – killing a single, helpless woman; seeing himself in the role of an instrument of divine justice.”

Brody stomach turns, and he wonders whether he’s going to vomit.

“What kind of guy are we talking about here?” he says.

“Deeply disturbed.”

No shit? Brody thinks. Deeply disturbed! Now who would ever have thought that?

“Can you give me some idea of his age?” he asks. “Is the guy in his 20s? His 30s?”

The doctor presses his fingers even tighter together. Maybe that’s his therapy.

“It’s difficult to say how old he is, because he’s gone to some pains to disguise his voice, may even have used a distorter, but if you’re asking for wild guesses—”

“I am,” Brody says, because even wild guesses – even almost insane guesses – are better than nothing.

“Then I’d have to say that however old he is, in his own mind he’s much younger – probably a teenager.”

“What makes you reach that conclusion?” Brody asks.

“The way he uses his words,” the doctor replies. “Most of time it’s almost as if he’s quoting someone else – someone older. And that’s what children do before they find their own voice. They imitate someone they admire. Then there’s his personal challenge to you at the end. Don’t you find that a tad juvenile – in many ways reminiscent of a school yard threat?”

“Yeah,” Brody says.

But that doesn’t make the Angel any less dangerous – it would be no consolation to the Blades to know that half of their strength was wiped out by a guy who sometimes thinks like a kid.

“What we have to ask ourselves is why he suffers from this arrested mental development,” the doctor continues. “And the most obvious explanation is that his present condition was caused by a trauma he experienced when he was in his teens – or perhaps even younger.”

“What kind of trauma?” Brody asks.

“My best shot would be that he lost someone close to him – probably a female relative – and that he’s never gotten over it. You see, the strongest feeling I get from this tape is one of isolation. The man is a loner – but not through choice. I think that in becoming attached to Mrs Baker he is attempting to re-create some kind of family bond.”

“And that’s why you think he’ll kill her?”

“Exactly. We’re always at our most unforgiving when someone we love lets us down.”

*

George Knight lifts his eyes from his computer screen and looks around the squad room. In his 12 years working on the Force, he has never seen it look like this, not even when he’s worked night shift.

It’s a ghost town.

It’s a beached Marie Celeste.

And it’s all down to one insane guy who took it into his head to wipe out an entire street gang.

Because of the Angel, the city has gone crazy and the police have been forced to forget about ordinary, everyday crime. Nearly half the officers from the Nine are out chasing up leads which just might help them catch the masked killer. And most of the other half are posted at strategic points in the barrios, because when it finally stops raining, the rioters and protesters will be out on the streets again – and they’ll stay on the streets until someone, somehow, can convince them that justice is being done.

Knight thinks of his kids again, and decides that he hates the Angel more than he’s ever hated anybody in his life.

Brody walks into the room and perches on the edge of his partner’s desk.

“What have you got for me?” he asks in the voice of a man whose nerves have been running an emotional marathon.

Knight rolls back his chair and looks up at his partner.

“I checked out both Alex Shultz and Larry Hayden, and got some interesting results,” he says.

“Like what?” Brody asks.

“Let’s start with Schultz,” Knight suggests. “In between college and law school, he served for two years in the Marines, and looking like he does – with all those goddam freckles – he’s got to have been tough to come through it. And it don’t end there. He’s still a reservist, and he saw service under fire in the Gulf War.”

His partner’s right, Brody thinks – Schultz has to be tough. So tough that he could probably have dealt with the three Blades who attacked Beth on his own. And so well-trained that he would know exactly how to go about attacking the Blades’ headquarters.

“What about Schultz’s mother?” he asks.

“His mother?” Knight repeats. “What the fuck has his mother got to do with it?”

“Just a theory of the shrink’s. Can you check it out?”

Knight sifts through the pile of print-out paper on his desk.

“Mother’s dead,” he says. “Passed on while he was still in high school. You want to hear about Hayden now?”

“Sure,” Brody says, but with Schultz’s dead mother and his military training, it’s all he can do to stop himself from putting out an APB for the lawyer right now.

“Hayden’s from some little town outside Chicago,” Knight says. “Good middle-class background, an Honor Student, captain of the junior football team – all that kind of shit. Then his Momma ups and dies on him.”

“Wait a minute!” Brody interrupts. “You’re saying that Hayden’s mother died, too.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Knight replies. “Anyway, him and his Poppa move to the big city, and that’s when he starts to go off the rails. Joins a real heavy gang – the kind that go in for rigid discipline and lots of weapons. He’s been with them for about a year an’ half when they get into a turf war. Each gang loses a few of its members – the police think Hayden was responsible for a couple of the killings, but they can’t prove it. Then a pair of civilians get caught in the cross-fire, and the cops make their move. The clubhouses are raided and Hayden’s arrested on firearms and drugs charges. He’s still young, plus his Poppa hires a real smart lawyer, and he ends up doing two years in juvenile hall. End of story.”

Brody feels sick. Every time it seems like he’s getting close to the Angel, fate seems to drop some obstacle in his way.

Sure, Schultz could be the man he’s looking for. But from what he’s just learned, so could Hayden.

“You know the real interesting thing about Hayden’s sheet?” Knight asks. “We’re not the only people in this department to access it. There’ve been two other inquiries recorded.”

Brody looks at the window. It is still raining, though maybe now it has let up enough to tempt the rioters back out onto the street.

Two inquiries into Larry Hayden’s sheet, he thinks. Why should anybody here want to access information on a minor crime which was committed in another city nearly ten years ago?

“Who made the inquiries?” he asks.

“Remember a patrolman called Dan Murphy?” Knight says. He points a thick finger across the squad room. “Used to work from that desk over there, if I’m recalling it right.”

Brody closes his eyes and can picture a uniformed cop who he never had much to do with, but could never bring himself to like.

“Big man, say, 6ft 1ins – with black hair, crooked nose?” he says.

“That’s the guy,” Knight agrees.

“He was kicked out of the department for being on the take?” Brody says, and though it sounds like a question, it isn’t really.

“Yeah, kicked out,” Knight confirms. “An’ he came this close to going to jail,” he continues, holding up his hand with his forefinger and thumb almost touching. “Would have been doing time right now, if he hadn’t cut a deal with the DA which sold out the rest of his ring.”

“Which DA are we talking about here?” Brody asks.

“Greaves.”

Greaves! The man who kicked off the whole investigation into Beth!

“Anyway, Murphy accessed the file just about the time Hayden started working for Alex Schultz and Beth Baker,” George Knight continues. “But he ain’t half as interesting as the guy who made the other access request this very morning.”

“And who was that?”

“Captain McMahon.”

“McMahon!” Brody repeats. “He’s involved in all of this?”

“That’s what the machine tells us,” Knight says. “And whatever else it does, the machine don’t lie.”

Brody still can’t accept it.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” Knight tells him. “Didn’t even get one of his staff to do it for him – used his own personal password.”

As if he’s trying to weigh things up, Brody holds both his hands out, palms upwards. On the one hand, he’s got Captain McMahon – a tough, honest cop with a reputation which is gold-plated. On the other hand he’s got ex-patrolman Dan Murphy – a sleaze-ball. And between those two hands, there’s a bridge called Larry Hayden. Brody doesn’t understand it, but he’s sure it’s got something to do with his case – it just has to have!

9

George Knight follows the young Asian nurse down the long, antiseptic hallway which is one of the main arteries of City General Hospital. The nurse is a pretty kid, with an oval face, small but firm breasts and absolutely knockout legs. It’s the legs more than anything else that cause her progress down the hall to be followed by a couple of dozen pairs of hungry eyes which belong, variously, to doctors, male orderlies and guys on trolleys who are suddenly starting to feel a whole lot better.

The one pair of eyes which aren’t taking in what the nurse has got on display are Knight’s. He isn’t thinking of her as a woman at all, and sex – even with Marcia – is about as far at the back of his mind as it could be. What’s at the front of his mind is the fate of the city in which he and his family live – the city which is rapidly going to hell in a handbasket.

The nurse comes to a stop in front of a door which has a sign on it which identifies it as E301.

“He’s in there,” she says. “I can give you five minutes.” She smiles a sad, compassionate smile which would normally all-but melt George Knight’s heart, and which now he doesn’t even notice. “Go easy on him, will you?” she asks the detective. “He might act like he’s feeling strong – that’s the way these kids are – but he’s really still very weak.”

“I’ll go easy on him,” Knight promises.

He knocks on the door, then turns the handle and steps inside. It’s a pleasant room painted in soothing pastel shades, with a couple of good Impressionist reproductions hanging on the wall, and a large window which gives a good view of the hospital grounds. It is, in other words, a room which says ‘private’ – a room which says ‘expensive’.

The Hispanic boy who is lying in the bed has never known luxury like this before, and, but for the outpourings of white middle-class guilt, he wouldn’t be knowing it now.

“How’s it going Spiker?” Knight asks the boy.

The Blade uses his elbows to lever himself into a sitting position. “What you doin’ here, man?” he demands. “That white guy you’re workin’ for tell you to come an’ see me?”

Knight pulls up a chair next to the bed. “I don’t work for him,” he says. “Brody’s my partner.”

“Your partner? Sure he is,” Spiker agrees. “We’re all brothers under the skin, ain’t we? So what I want to know from you, hermano, is why you ain’t out on the streets right now – lookin’ for the son-of-a-bitch who killed our other hermanos and put me in this high-rent hospital bed.”

Knight moves his chair a little closer to the bed. “I want a favor,” he says quietly.

“You mean Brody—”

“No,” Knight interrupts. “It isn’t my partner who wants the favor. And it isn’t the police department either. It’s me – Joe Public.”

“What kind of favor?” Spiker asks suspiciously.

“Things are getting real bad out there,” Knight tells him. “Looting, burning, all kinds of crazy shit. Ain’t nobody been actually killed yet, but it’s only a matter of time before somebody is.”

“That right?” Spiker asks apathetically, as if what Knight is saying isn’t exactly headline news to him.

“Yeah, it’s right,” Knight replies. “Thing is, most of the people on the street just don’t believe us when we say the attack on your clubhouse was all the work of one man. They’re coming up with all kinds of weird conspiracy theories out there. Hell, I’ve even heard the Klan mentioned.”

“There’s an easy way to prove them wrong, ain’t there?” Spiker says. “All you got to do is to catch the guy who did it.”

“We’re working on it,” Knight promises, “but in the meantime, we need something to reduce the heat.”

“Like what?”

“If I could fix it, would you go on television and tell the truth?” Knight asks. “Say it wasn’t an army of white supremacists who shot up the clubhouse, but just one insane individual?”

Spiker smiles, but there’s no humor in it.

“Now why would I want to go and do a thing like that?” he asks.

“Because you want to save lives?” Knight suggests. “Because you don’t want to turn this city into a war zone? Because you’d like to see the kids still have a decent place to grow up in?”

“I want you to do somethin’ for me first, man,” Spiker says. “I want you to pull back the bedding.”

“Maybe the nurse should—” Knight begins.

“I said I wanted you to do it,” Spiker repeats angrily.

Knight stands up, and does as he’s been asked. He uncovers Spiker’s torso first, and then his legs. The left leg reaches almost to the end of the bed, and by stretching a little, could touch the edge of the mattress. The right leg, which is swathed in bandages, ends just short of where the knee should have been.

“I’m sorry,” Knight tells him – and means it.

“They cut my leg off, man,” Spiker says. “I’m gonna go through the rest of my life as a mutilado. An’ you want me to feel sorry for other people?” A tear trickles from his left eye. He wipes it angrily away. “I don’t care if the city rips itself apart,” he continues, his voice raised almost to a scream. “Did I say, ‘Don’t care?’ Fuck it, man, that’s exactly what I want to happen!”

*

Captain McMahon’s desk is stacked high with reports, and the two phones on his desk – one black and one red – haven’t stopped ringing since Brody entered his office five minutes ago.

“Yeah, Mr Mayor,” the captain is saying into the black phone on his left, “I know it’s been over 48 hours since the attack … yes, I have seen what the papers are saying …”

Brody examines the captain and is shocked by the change in his appearance. A couple of days back, McMahon looked distinguished – a patrician of the Force. Now he only looks old.

“I know how many of the Blades died …” the captain continues. “Rioting in San Patricio, yes … Sure, Chesterfield’s also a problem … I’ve got men trying to contain it right now …”

Why would McMahon have accessed Larry Hayden’s record, Brody wonders for what is maybe the hundredth time?

Sure, it could be argued that a good captain is always interested in everything that is going on in the department. But there has been a mass killing, followed by full-scale riots, and McMahon is central to dealing with both of these things – so it simply doesn’t make any sense that he should concern himself with a ten-year-old minor prosecution in another state.

“You have to see it from our side, sir,” McMahon tells the politician on the other end of the phone line. “The guy was masked and he disappeared without a trace … Yes, I understand that … I’ve put nearly all my people on it … Yes, I’ll keep you in touch … good-bye, sir.”

The captain slams the receiver back on its cradle and looks up. He almost seems surprised to see Brody sitting there.

“You wanted to see me, sir,” Brody says, in case he’s forgotten.

“Ah, yes,” McMahon replies. “I called you in, Sam, to tell you that I’m suspending the Elizabeth Baker investigation, and sending you back to your own precinct.”

“You can’t do that, sir,” Brody says, before he can stop himself.

“Can’t?” McMahon asks, raising a tired – but nonetheless authoritarian – eyebrow.

“Mrs Baker has been kidnapped, sir,” Brody says.

“Are you sure of that?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe she just walked out. Maybe she found out that you were investigating her, and went on the lam.”

“I’ve spoken to her kidnapper. He means to kill her.”

“Or perhaps you’ve spoken to a man claiming to be her kidnapper, because she wants to muddy the waters a little while she makes her escape,” McMahon sighed. “But even if she has been kidnapped, Sam, and even if her kidnapper does intend to kill her, it doesn’t make any difference. We talking about priorities here – as she isn’t one of them.”

“A potential murder victim isn’t a priority!”

“No, and I’ll tell you why. We’re sitting on a powder keg that could blow up any minute, and if it does blow up, then scores – maybe hundreds – of people will be killed. And that’s not the end of it. No one will want to invest in the city any more, and so people will get poorer and poorer, and there’ll be more riots because of that. And in the end, Sam, the city itself could die.” McMahon paused. “We need good men – like you and George Knight – to stop that happening, Sam, and if that means we abandon Mrs Baker to her fate, then I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”

“You don’t understand, sir – I think we can get to the vigilante through the Beth Baker case.”

A spark of interest flashes in McMahon’s tired, bloodshot eyes. “Go on,” he says.

“One of the things I’ve discovered during the investigation is that Beth Baker’s got a secret protector—”

‘Protector?”

“He does all kinds of stuff for her. He’s threatened a car shop mechanic who stiffed her over her repair bill. He’s beaten up on people who’ve got in her way, and he’s also—”

“Exactly where are you going with this?” the captain interrupts, glancing down at his watch.

“The guy wears a ski mask,” Brody says.

The captain rummages through the disorder on his desk, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and lights one. As he inhales greedily, Brody remembers that for last three years McMahon has been running a department-wide anti-smoking campaign, and that the main thrust of it has been that if he can give up, anybody can.

The captain looks down at the cigarette in disgust, then takes another drag.

“I’m still listening – but only just,” he says.

“Two days before the clubhouse was hit, Mrs Baker had trouble with three of the Blades out on the street. One day before the hit, they were standing outside her office block, saying that whatever it took, they were going to get her. I know that for a fact, because I talked to them. Then they all-but get wiped out by a man in a ski mask. It can’t be coincidence. You’ve just got to figure it’s the same guy who’s been looking out for Beth.”

McMahon nods his head, slowly and thoughtfully. “It’s an interesting theory,” he says. “But even if you’re right, and Mrs Baker’s protector is the man we’re looking for, all that tells us why he hit the clubhouse. It doesn’t even come close to telling us who he is.”

“I think it does, sir. The way I see it, there were only two people close enough to Beth to know what was going on in both her personal and her professional life. One was her partner, Alex Schultz, and the other was the legal secretary that she and Schultz share, a guy called Larry Hayden.”

The captain stiffens, and his eyes, which have so far only shown exhaustion and then interest, are now suddenly guarded.

What the fuck is going on here, Brody wonders? What is it about Hayden which has put McMahon so much on the defensive?

McMahon lights a second cigarette from the butt of his first. “Maybe it was a mistake to give you such a free hand with this case,” he says.

“Excuse me?” Brody says, incredulously.

“The idea that anyone would risk his life just because a few kids caused Mrs Baker a little trouble—”

“It was more than a little trouble,” Brody interrupts. “They were going to rape her.”

“Even so, it’s preposterous that anyone would go to such an extreme.”

“I don’t think so,” Brody says firmly.

“It’s my fault,” the captain tells him. “I should have seen to it that you had a supervisor to keep you on the rails. Well, we all make mistakes, and I’ll know better next time.” He checks his watch again. “And now, Detective, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things to do, and I expect your own captain could make good use of you.”

McMahon has given Brody his cue to leave, and turns to one of the stacks of paper on his desk.

But Brody doesn’t go. Instead, he anchors his feet firmly on the carpet and says, “Why have you been checking up on Larry Hayden yourself, sir?”

“Have I?” McMahon asks, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the paperwork in front of him.

“Yes, sir, you have,” Brody confirms.

The captain is running his eyes down the document, but Brody can tell he’s not really taking in a word of what’s written there.

“Oh sure,” McMahon says, after maybe 20 long seconds have passed. “I do recall it now. Larry Hayden’s mother is an old friend of mine from way back. She asked me to keep an eye on the boy, especially since he’d been in some kind of trouble.”

“Hayden’s mother’s dead,” Brody says flatly.

“She is now,” McMahon agrees, turning the page of the report and carrying on the pretense of reading.

“She’s been dead since before he ever got into trouble. Fact is, he was a straight as an arrow till then, and her death could be why he got into trouble.”

McMahon shrugs irritably. “So I got my time-scale wrong. That’s what happens when you grow older – and start doing two men’s work. What probably happened is someone else in the family told me he was coming to the city, and I kept an eye on him for his dead mother’s sake.”

Bullshit! Brody thinks. Because not only is McMahon so obviously lying, he isn’t even making sense. If any of Larry’s family had asked the captain to check up on him, wouldn’t they have done it when he first came to the city? And wouldn’t that have been when McMahon decided to access the file – rather than leaving it for nearly two years?

“I think that Larry Hayden could be the masked man we’re looking for,” Brody says.

The Captain slowly shakes his head from side to side. “You’re on the wrong trail, Brody. I know the boy well, and he’s certainly not capable of being behind the attack.”

Yeah, right, Brody thinks. A couple of minutes ago you couldn’t even remember who the kid was, and suddenly you know him well enough to rule him out of the investigation.

“There’s a lot of circumstantial evidence pointing to Hayden,” he says. “Like I told you before, he has access to information about Beth … about Mrs Baker … he’s an expert in martial arts, he’s street-smart—”

The captain raises his head and looks Brody in the eyes. “Hayden simply isn’t the man we’re looking for,” he says, “and you’re just going to have to trust me on that, Brody.”

“But sir—”

“In my opinion, you’ve been wasting your time with the lawyer – Schultz – as well,” the captain cuts in. “In fact, the more I think about your theory, the crazier the idea that any man would risk his life to avenge a slight on the street becomes.”

“It’s not the idea that’s crazy – it’s the Angel himself,” Brody says.

McMahon shakes his head again. “The Angel!” he repeats. “You really are getting fanciful, Brody.”

“It’s not my name for him. It’s what he calls himself ,” Brody says. “And I tell you, Captain—”

“Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear so far,” McMahon tells him. “I want you off the Beth Baker case, and I want you to keep away from both Hayden and Schultz. If you disobey my instructions in any way, I’ll treat it as a serious disciplinary matter. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Brody says, in much the same tone as he might have said, Fuck you!

10

It has finally stopped raining, though looking at the cloudy sky from the entrance to the Avondale Premier Shopping Mall, the security guard figures that it might start again real soon.

The guard with a view on the weather is 33 years old, and has black slicked-back hair which he thinks is kinda cool. He’s dressed in a dark blue uniform and a leather holster hangs from his belt. The logo on his sleeve says that he’s a trusted employee of Delta Security Systems.

Around malls in other parts of the city, the normal security has been reinforced by regular cops, but the word from police headquarters is that, since Avondale is practically in the suburbs, it isn’t in any danger from the rioters – at least until the situation deteriorates some more. The guard thinks that probably police headquarters is right, but has already decided that if he does see an angry mob of what he thinks of as ‘spics’ or ‘niggers’ heading his way, he’s out of there like a speeding bullet – and to hell with the businesses he’s been hired to protect.

A car pulls up in the parking lot – a bronze Eldorado – and two men get out. One of the men is white, the other black and very big. The guard recognizes them, and hopes that their visit has nothing to with him. He watches them as they make their way across the lot, threading their way between neat station wagons, sporty coupés and aggressive 4x4s. They seem to be heading for the entrance to the mall, and the guard starts to relax a little. But then they swing to the right and he knows it’s him they’re coming after.

“They haven’t got anything on you,” he tells himself. “They haven’t got anything because you haven’t done anything – leastways, not since you were kicked off the Force.”

The two detectives draw level with him. “Well, if it isn’t Daniel Patrick Murphy,” Brody says, like he’s surprised to see the security man standing there.

“Murphy?” Knight repeats in a growl. “Don’t you mean Daniel Patrick Shithead? Or maybe even Daniel Patrick Asshole. Jesus, if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a cop gone bad.”

If Knight is trying to intimidate Murphy, he’s doing a pretty good job.

“I been out of the police for over a year now,” the ex-patrolman whines. “Ain’t you guys ever gonna leave me alone?”

“Nope,” Knight says – and then smiles like a lion which wants to make its dinner feel welcome.

“You make one mistake—” Murphy protests.

“One mistake!” Knight says with comic exaggeration. “Man, you made so many mistakes you must have been going for the record. Lemme see, you were a member of a stolen car-parts ring, an extortion racket—”

“So I made a lot of mistakes,” says Murphy, whose anger is starting to block out his fear. “But I’m trying to go straight now. So why won’t you sons-of-bitches give me a break?”

Knight’s hands shoot up and grab Murphy by the lapels of his jacket.

“You could maybe get away with calling police officers sons-of-bitches when you were a cop yourself,” he says, “but you ain’t anymore. And what I’m looking for from you is a little respect. Understand?”

Murphy glanced nervously around him. A station wagon loaded down with kids is just pulling in to the far end of the lot.

“Let go!” he pleads. “People will see. I could lose my job.”

“I want to hear you say you’re real sorry for the way you spoke to us just now,” Knight tells him.

“Sorry!” Murphy gasps.

“Sorry what?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“You know something?” Knight says. “I don’t think I am gonna let go of this motherfucker. What I think I’m gonna do instead is find some reason to bust him. Either that, or take him for a walk behind the trash cans and then beat the living crap outta him.”

“Let him go,” Brody says quietly.

“Just what is this?” Murphy asks, rallying a little. “The old good cop-bad cop routine?”

“Sure it is,” Knight replies. “And it’s working, ain’t it? Just like it’s supposed to do.”

“Listen—” Murphy croaks.

“No, you listen,” Knight says. “I worked hard to win respect in my community, then a son-of-a-bitch like you comes along—”

“Let him go,” Brody repeats. “I really mean it, George.”

Knight releases his grip and steps back a couple of feet. Ex-patrolman Murphy smooths out his uniform jacket, and tries to look as if the whole incident has never happened.

For a while, nobody speaks, then Murphy says: “I … I really am trying to go straight. I—”

“Sure, you’re trying to go straight,” Brody interrupts. “And we’re here to help you. But you’ve got to give us something in return.”

“Like what?”

“We need some information, and we’re going to get it out of you one way or another. So it’s really up to you. You can tell us what we want to know right now, or I can walk away and leave you to George.”

Murphy looks down at his feet. “I’ll … I’ll do what I can for you,” he mumbles.

“That’s good,” Brody tells him. “That’s very good. All we want is the answers to a few little questions. You think you can handle that?”

“Yeah,” Murphy tells the ground.

“Question Number One: We know that about 18 months ago, you accessed the police computer for information on a guy called Larry Hayden. Why did you do that?”

Murphy is keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

“I don’t remember,” he says.

George Knight sighs heavily.

“You’re not doing well here, Murphy,” he says. “First little question out the bag, and you say you don’t remember. I don’t know the way your dumb Mick’s mind is working, but it seems to me you really don’t care whether you’re busted or not.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” Murphy protests. “All I said was, I don’t remember. And I don’t.”

“Kinda convenient for you, ain’t it?” Knight says.

It is quite cool in the parking lot, but the sweat is starting to run off Murphy’s brow.

“It’s the truth,” he says. “You tell me I accessed information on this guy, and I believe you. Only I don’t remember!”

“Let’s look at the problem from the other side,” Brody suggests. “Why would you have accessed the computer?”

“Could have been part of my job,” Murphy says hopefully.

“It wasn’t,” Brody tells him. “There is not now, nor has there ever been, any investigation of Larry Hayden in this city – so if it wasn’t work, why else might you have done it?”

Murphy shrugs, guiltily. “I used to do favors for a few people sometimes,” he admits.

“What kinds of favors?”

Another shrug. “You know.”

“That’s the point – we don’t know!” Knight says. “Because, you see, we’re not pond-scum. Because, you must understand, we don’t use the computer for our own benefit. So tell us what the fuck it was you did.”

“Sometimes I’d run credit-rating checks for some people in the business community,” Murphy says.

“Some people in the business community,” Knight snorts. “Crooks, is what you mean!”

“Let him finish, George,” Brody says.

“An’ sometimes … uh … sometimes a bookie might want to know the whereabouts of some guy who owed him money.”

“Anything else?” Knight asks.

“No,” Murphy says – far too quickly.

“This guy Hayden works as a legal secretary for a firm of lawyers,” Brody tells him. “They’ve got their offices downtown, in the Lennox Building. Do the names Schultz and Baker mean anything to you?”

“No,” Murphy says, but he’s lying – and now he’s really scared, not scared like he was with Knight, not scared of a beating or of being framed for something he hasn’t done – but deep-down, bones-turn-to-shit scared.

“How about Max?” Brody asks. “Know anybody called Max?”

“No.”

“Hell, everybody knows somebody called Max,” Knight says.

“Not me,” Murphy insists.

“I’m tired of being given the runaround by this miserable son-of-a-bitch,” Knight tells his partner. “What say we take him down to the precinct house and give him the full treatment?”

“Hey, listen, man, I said I’d help if I could,” Murphy cries.

“And so far you’ve given us jack shit,” Knight says. “Tell us about Schultz. Tell us about Max. Maybe then we’ll be able to work out for ourselves why you accessed Hayden’s sheet.”

“You’re gettin’ in deep,” Murphy moans. “Too deep.”

“Too deep in what?” Knight demands.

Murphy lifts his head and squares his jaw.

“I ain’t gonna say no more. Beat the crap outta me all you like, lock me up an’ throw away the key, but I still ain’t gonna say no more.”

“What are you frightened of?” Brody asks.

“I’m frightened of getting killed,” Murphy says. “Okay? I’m frightened of ending up fucking-well dead.”

11

The vibrations from the demolition work travel across the street, up the walls of the warehouse, along the ceiling – and down onto the hook from which Beth is hanging.

Sometimes she thinks it is only these slight tremors – this faint pulse of an outside, normal world – which are keeping her sane.

But she shouldn’t think like that, she tells herself. She can’t allow herself to think like that.

Because the next step will be to start hoping that help will come from beyond these four walls. And maybe it will. But she can’t rely on it.

She has to assume she’s going to win this one on her own.

She has to depend on herself, like she always done.

She lifts her head and looks at the Angel, who has been standing by the door since he arrived. And he seems to have been waiting for her to do just that, because now he says: “Have you repented of your sins yet, Beth?”

“The feeling that I’ve done wrong still comes and goes,” Beth says cautiously. “But I think I feel guilty for more of the time now than I used to do,” she adds, throwing him a crumb.

A strange, terrifying, inhuman glint comes to the Angel’s eyes – a glint which turns Beth’s spine to Jell-O.

“And how would you say that you’re feeling at this minute?” he asks.

He’s meaning to kill her soon, Beth thinks. He’s only looking for an excuse – for the right moment.

“I … I don’t see that I’ve done anything which a lot of other people – decent, God-fearing people – haven’t done,” she says.

She braces herself for a beating, but instead of rushing at her in a fury of righteousness, as he usually does, the Angel crosses the room, lowers himself heavily onto the bed and places his head in his hands.

Beth twists round on the hook, so that she can still see him – can gauge his mood and perhaps find a way to stay alive for a little while longer.

“There are times when even I experience doubt,” the Angel says. “You remember I told you about finding Momma in her bedroom with that … with that fornicator on top of her?”

“Yes,” Beth replies.

“Do you want to know what happened after Almighty God spoke to me under the oak tree?”

Does she want to know? And does he want her to know? She has no idea how to answer him – no idea what will be safe course and what will result in a beating and, perhaps, death.

“If … if you want to tell me about it, then I want to listen,” she says. “But if you don’t …”

“I stayed under the oak tree until the time school normally came out …” the Angel begins.

*

Yes, armed with God’s holy cunning, he had gone home at the normal time, and by then all signs of the tears which had coursed down his young face had completely vanished.

He stopped in the yard, just as he always did, and hollered out: “Hi, Momma. I’m home.”

His mother appeared on the front porch. She was wearing a simple floral dress, and baking powder clung to her bare lower arms. She looked as far from the image of a wanton whore as it was possible to look.

“How was school, Baby?” she asked. “Did you have a good day?”

“School was fine,” the Angel told her, but he was thinking to himself what hypocrites women were.

“And I suppose that now you’re home, you’d like us to get to work on the garden, you slave-driver,” his mother said cheerfully.

“Let’s forget about that for today,” the Angel said.

“Forget it?”

“Yes. I don’t feel like gardening. What I’d really like to do, Momma, is go for a walk down by the creek.”

His mother had looked a little puzzled because this was not like him at all, then she smiled and said: “Yes, why shouldn’t we go for a walk? It’s not a sin to be lazy for once.”

The Angel was outraged. How could she speak of sin – she, who was so steeped in it? Yet he held his peace because he knew that, as wicked as she had been, there was still a glimmer of hope for her.

By the time they reached the creek it was getting dark and the last of the kids who usually played there – and who, though they were in his class, were almost strangers to the Angel – had already gone home.

The Angel looked down into the dark water, and thought of the Reverend Walker standing in it up to his waist, his powerful torso glinting in the sunlight, his big hands ready to receive the chosen ones.

“Isn’t it peaceful down here,” the Angel’s mother said.

“Yes, it’s very peaceful,” the Angel agreed. And then, almost as if it had come as an impulse, he added: “Why don’t we take off our shoes and socks and paddle in the water.”

His mother laughed. “At this time of year? Don’t be silly, Baby. It’ll be freezing.”

“Please, Momma,” the Angel said, earnestly. “I want us to do it. It’s important to me.”

“You do have some strange ideas, sometimes,” his mother said. But ever since he had turned 15 – and grown into such a fine, strong son – she’d found it difficult to turn down any of his requests, so now she sat down on the bank and undid her shoes. “But if it’s as cold as I think it’s going to be, I’m coming straight out again,” she warned him.

The Angel took off his own shoes, and rolled up the legs of his pants. “Take my hand, Momma, and we’ll walk in together,” he said.

His mother would have drawn back the moment her toes touched the chilled water, but he was already taller than her – and heavier – and he dragged her reluctantly into the water.

“That’s far enough, Baby,” she said when the water had reached their ankles.

And he thought he could detect a note of panic in her voice!

“Have you gone crazy or something?” she demanded, almost hysterically, as the water reached her knees. “Let me go!”

He did not release his grip, but now he turned to face her. “Better to marry than to burn,” he told her. “That’s what Saint Paul says.”

“I know my Bible,” she replied, in a voice which was a mixture of sullen and confused.

The Angel shook his head, sadly. “You may know your Bible in your head, Momma, but you don’t know it where it matter – in your heart, in your soul. You could have married again—”

“No, I couldn’t. I—” his mother protested.

“You could have married again,” he said firmly. “But instead, you preferred to wallow in the cesspool-pool of sin.”

Now, finally, she was beginning to understand what this was all about – and her fear increased. “You know about Frank,” she said.

“I know.”

“He’s … he’s very unhappily married. He and Virginia haven’t … haven’t done it for years.”

“For better or worse,” the Angel intoned. “In sickness and in health. For as long as ye both shall live.”

His mother tried to break away, but soon realized that she had no chance against his strong grip.

“I’ve … I’ve let you down,” she said. “I’ve fallen below the high moral standards I’ve always set you.”

“Baptism washes away all our sins,” the Angel said, his voice almost reaching the depths – the liquid gold – of the Reverend Walker’s. “Baptism is a fresh start – a new beginning.”

The Angel’s mother looked down at the cold, dark water.

“No! Not that!” she croaked.

“It’s the only way,” the Angel said.

She was struggling now, but he took her firmly by the shoulders and pushed down with the strength of righteousness. He held her under for ten seconds before he let her up again, spluttering and coughing.

“Do you repent?” he asked.

“You little savage,” she screamed. “You ungrateful little—”

He immersed her in the holy water again, this time for half a minute, and when she emerged, most of the fight had left her.

“Do you repent?” he asked.

“Yes, I … I repent.”

But he could tell that she was lying, and this time he held her under until she stopped struggling.

*

“Didn’t the police arrest you?” asks Beth, still hanging from her hook and doing her best to disguise the full extent of her horror. “Didn’t they even question you about what happened?”

“Oh yes, they questioned me,” the Angel replies.

*

He remembers sitting in the police station, a woolen blanket draped over his shoulders, a tin mug full of hot coffee cupped in his cold, avenging hands. He remembers, too, the chief of police, an old man with a big belly and kind, sympathetic eyes.

“Tell me all about it, son,” the chief had said softly. “And don’t rush it. Just go at your own speed.”

“We were walking down by the creek …”

“Did you often do that?”

“No.”

“So whose idea was it?”

“Momma’s. She’s been feeling kinda depressed lately. She said the walk might do her good.”

“I see. Go on.”

“For the longest time she didn’t say anything at all,” the Angel continued. “She was just looking straight ahead of her. Then she turned to me, and told me it was time for me to go home.”

“Did she say why she wanted you to do that?”

“She said she needed to be alone.”

“Anything else?”

The Angel hesitated. “She … she told me that she loved me, and I mustn’t blame myself,” he said, using – once again – the divine cunning he had been given that very afternoon.

“And just what did you think she meant when she said that?” the old sheriff asked.

“I didn’t know, but it was worrying me, so half-way home I decided to turn back and see if she was all right.”

“But she wasn’t, was she?”

“She … she was in the water. I jumped in to try and pull her out. But it seemed like she didn’t want to be pulled out. She kept screaming something about me leaving her to her own fate. I … I tried to pull her to the side. Honest I did. But she kept fighting me off.”

The police chief nodded gravely. “That’ll be where you got the scratches from, won’t it?”

“I don’t know. I … I wasn’t thinking. I was just trying to save her,” the Angel said.

And he had saved her, he thought, because he was sure that at some point while he held her under the water, she had seen the error of her ways and gone to her Savior with a clean soul.

“You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for,” the police chief told him. “You did all you could.”

“Thank you, sir,” the Angel said gratefully.

*

“You told me you had doubts,” Beth says, still looking for the chink in his armor, for the breech in his defenses which might offer her a little hope.

“Yes, I had doubts,” the Angel confesses. “I had my moment of weakness. But the Lord gave me the strength to fight it off – both then and at the other times.”

“The other times!” Beth gasps. “You mean she wasn’t the only one?”

The Angel smiles benignly. “Not by any means,” he says. “I rejoice nightly at the thought of how many souls I have saved for Jesus.”

12

The setting sun casts a blood-red glow over the depressed urban skyline which lies beyond the Lennox Building, but there’s still no sign of rain, which means that once darkness has finally fallen it’s going to be another hot, angry night on the streets. Sitting behind the wheel of Knight’s Ford Taurus, Brody watches the commuters driving home, and wishes that one of the two men he’s targeted would make his move soon.

“We shoulda pulled that asshole Murphy in,” says George Knight from the passenger seat. “Once we’d gotten him down to the Nine, he’d have been singing like a canary.”

Brody shakes his head. “I was tempted to do it – God knows I was – but he’d never have talked, George. The guy who put the frighteners on Murphy did a real good job, and there’s no way he’s about to say anything to anybody.”

But who was the guy who scared Murphy? he wonders.

Has the ex-patrolman had a visit from the Angel? Has he looked into those cold eyes staring at him through the narrow slits of a ski mask, and felt the same kind of fear as Pastor Thornton did?

“Connections,” Brody says, as much to himself as to his partner. “What we need is connections.”

Why did whoever asked Murphy to check on Hayden’s sheet even want the information that would give him?

What was the thread connecting a patrolman gone bad, a juvenile offender-turned-legal secretary – and a decorated police captain who is just about everything that a cop should be?

And just how does any of it link into Beth Baker’s disappearance?

Knight looks down at the dashboard. “Radio’s awful quiet this evening,” he says.

“Yeah,” Brody agrees. “Maybe that’s got something to do with the fact that I disconnected it while you were in the john.”

Knight sucks in wind through his teeth. “You did what when I was in the john?” he asks.

“Disconnected the radio,” Brody repeats.

“And what the fuck made you do that?”

“Captain McMahon gave me a direct order to stay the hell away from Alex Schultz and Larry Hayden. But I can’t do that, George,” Brody says with just an edge of desperation his voice, “not when they might lead me to Beth. So what I’m just going to have to do is to cut myself loose from the police department for a little while.”

Knight examines his fingernails for a few seconds, then says, “You’re telling me we’re out on a limb, ain’t you? You’re telling me we’re going rogue?”

Brody shakes his head, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a ten dollar bill.

“I’m out on a limb,” he says. “I’m going rogue. I’m grateful to you for having stayed with me so far, but now the time’s come to make the break.” He holds the money out for his partner to take. “I still need your car – they’d recognize mine – but here’s your cab fare home.”

“Stick it,” Knight tells him.

Brody sighs. “If I do this alone and end up in the toilet, then that’s the way it is, and I’m the only who gets hurt. It’s different for you. You’ve got Marcia and the kids to consider.”

Knight goes back to examining his fingernails.

“It’s my kids I’m thinking of,” he says. “Listen, Sam, up until a few days ago this was a pretty good town to live in. And it can be again. But not until we’ve caught the Angel – not until we can convince people that what happened at the Blades’ clubhouse had nothing to do with race, but was the work of one crazy man who could have been any fucking color.”

“You still don’t have to do it yourself,” Brody argues. “You could leave it up to me.”

“We’re partners, and that means whatever we do, we do it together,” Knight says firmly. “And even if I did want to take a cab home,” he adds with a grin, “what do you think my chances would be of finding one cruising around a shitty neighborhood like this?”

Brody returns his grin. It seems a while since either of them has been able to smile – especially at each other.

“Your chances of finding a cab?” he repeats. “Pretty slim.”

“So if I wanna get home tonight, I’m gonna have to wait till you can take me there.”

“Appreciate it,” Brody says.

“Appreciate what?” Knight asks. “Shit, I’ve been looking for an opportunity to put my career on the line for quite some time now.”

The front door of the Lennox Building swings open, and two men step out onto the sidewalk. One of them is dressed in a sports’ jacket and slacks, the other is wearing a blue three-piece suit. As Brody feels a knot tightening in his stomach, they both turn right and start walking away from the Taurus.

“It’s your last chance, man,” Brody says. “Get your tail out of this car right now.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Knight answers, settling back in his seat.

The lawyer and his legal secretary stop in front of Schultz’s black Lincoln. Hayden waves his hands like he’s trying to make a point, and Schultz shakes his head as if he disagrees.

“Which one of them we gonna be following?” Knight asks. “Alex Schultz?”

“No, we’ll go for Hayden,” Brody replies.

Knight makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “A few hours ago, you were convinced the Angel was Schultz – or Max as some people maybe call him. What made you change your mind?”

“I don’t know,” Brody confesses. “Maybe it’s because I’ve finally understood the significance of Schultz’s house.”

“Say what?”

“The guy really cares about his home. He’s not just put money into his house, he’s put thought and care.”

“So?”

“The Angel doesn’t have the time for anything like that. There’s only one thing he’s interested in.”

“Good theory – but what are you gonna think when you find out that Larry Hayden lives in a replica of the Taj Mahal?” Knight asks sourly.

The argument between Schultz and Hayden – and it definitely is an argument – is still going on, with more hand-waving and more head-shaking. Brody wonders what the hell they’re arguing about, and wishes he had a shotgun microphone with him so he could listen in.

“They gonna stand there chewing the fat till morning?” George Knight asks impatiently.

But no sooner has he spoken than the lawyer and the legal secretary start to move, Schultz heading for the driver’s side of the Lincoln and Hayden opening the front passenger door.

“They’re going to stick together for a while,” Brody says, wondering if that’s what the argument had been about.

“Sure looks that way,” Knight agrees.

The Lincoln pulls away from the sidewalk. Brody counts slowly up to 15, and then follows.

*

Margaret Wingate looks across the dining table at her nephew, Mike. She’s prepared his favorite meal for him – burgers and fries – but since it’s been in front of him he’s doing nothing more than push the food around his plate.

“Try to eat just a little, Mike,” she pleads.

Mike looks up. His eyes are hollow and she can tell he’s been crying.

“I’m not hungry,” he says.

“Neither am I,” says his sister, who has the same hollow look, the same red eyes.

Margaret sighs. She’s had the kids stay with her before, but this time it’s different, and she’s just about at the end of her rope.

She can’t blame them. They’re worried, even though she’s told them not to be. And how in hell could they not be worried? Sure, Beth’s worked out of town other times, but she’s always rung twice a day – before they left for school and right after they’d gotten home again.

And this time? Nothing!

So you don’t really have to be as smart as these two kids are to work out that something has gone seriously wrong.

“I enjoyed going to the PTA meeting last night,” Margaret says, forcing a note of false cheerfulness into her voice. “Your school’s real nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s okay, I guess,” says Lizzie who will normally talk about school for hours without drying up.

“Seemed more than okay to me,” Margaret says, the note of false cheerfulness still there. “And all the teachers who I talked to seemed to think you were a great pair of kids.”

“Mom’s never missed a PTA meeting,” Mike says. “Even when she’s been real busy, she’s never missed.”

“Well, this time she must have been extra busy,” Margaret tells him, trying to sound convincing – and knowing she isn’t making it.

“When’s she coming home?” Lizzie asks, lifting her hand to her nose and sniffling slightly.

“I’m sure that she’ll get back to you as soon as she possibly can,” Margaret says.

But she’s thinking, “What if Beth never comes back? What happens then?”

She has a clear vision of a new, totally unplanned life in front of her – a life dedicated to bringing up her sister’s kids. And she knows it isn’t going to be a happy time for anyone because however hard she tries, she’ll never be able to replace their mother.

She fights back the tears which she can feel prickling in her eyes. Someone has to be strong, she tells herself. Someone has to hold the family together. She can only pray with all her heart that wherever her sister is, Beth is somehow finding the strength to be strong, too.

*

Following the Lincoln without being noticed was easy in the downtown commuter traffic, but the closer they get to the edge of the city, the more difficult it is becoming. And by the time they’ve crossed the Interstate and are traveling due south, Brody is holding so far back that he’s worried that they’re going to lose the other car completely.

Where the hell are they going, he asks himself, as he drives through the darkness guided only by dipped headlights?

What possible reason can the lawyer and paralegal have for taking this route?

They can’t be going to see a client, not out here in the middle of nowhere.

They can’t be planning to visit a bar – because there isn’t one for miles.

“My guess is that they’re heading for the old Hardwick Industrial Park!” he says aloud.

“I just figured that out myself,” Knight replies from the darkness. “Only thing I can’t figure out is why they’d want to do that.”

But Brody thinks he can figure it out – gazing into the black night he is suddenly getting a different perspective on how things might be.

“If you were holding somebody captive, and you couldn’t be with them all the time, wouldn’t a deserted industrial park be absolutely the best place to keep them?” he asks.

“Maybe it would,” Knight admits. “But you’re forgetting there’s two of them mothers in the Lincoln. They can’t both be the Angel, can they?”

“No, they can’t,” Brody agrees, still piecing together his new theory as he speaks. “Hayden’s the Angel – the dominant partner. He’s the one with the real obsession. But that doesn’t have to mean that Schultz can’t be involved too. Maybe he’s a sort of assistant angel. Maybe he’s nothing more than a voyeur of the whole thing. But whatever he is, they’re in it together.”

“So how does it happen?” Knight asks skeptically. “How do they come up with the scheme in the first place? Are you trying to tell me they’re sitting around the office one day, chewing the fat, and Hayden just happens to say, real casual, ‘How d’you feel about helping me to become a guardian angel?’ So Schultz says: ‘What’s a guardian angel?’ and Hayden says: ‘We find this woman, and for a while we protect her. Then we decide she’s a bad woman, and we kill her.’ So Schultz takes another sip of his coffee, thinks about it for a minute, then says: ‘Sure! Why not?’”

“You’re looking at it from the wrong angle,” Brody says. “They didn’t discover a mutual obsession at work – they were working together because of their mutual obsession.”

“Run that by me again.”

“Maybe they meet at some convention of religious crazies. Maybe Hayden puts an advertisement in one of those weird magazines and Schultz answers it. Doesn’t matter how they met, but when they do meet, they recognize each other as kindred spirits. Beth applies for a job with Schultz – pretty widow woman with no one to protect her – and Hayden tells him to hire her because she’s just the kind of victim they’ve been looking for. Isn’t it logical that Hayden should then take a job with Schultz and Baker, so that he can be closer to her?”

“Weird,” Knight says.

But he doesn’t tell Brody that he’s got it all wrong – and Brody takes that as a good sign.

They have reached the edge of Hardwick Industrial Park. There is still some traffic – the occasional vehicle using the park as a short-cut to Brownsville – but it is now so thin it is almost anorexic, and Brody forces himself to slow down even more.

The shells of what were once thriving businesses, and the silhouettes of the skeletal cranes which will soon bring about their final annihilation, both loom black against the skyline.

On the site where the old cardboard box factory once stood, there is now a new compound, surrounded by a chain-link fence.

A dog barks from behind the fence.

And then another.

They are Dobermans, probably – guarding the now-sleeping engines of destruction which are slowly but surely reducing the park to a flat nothingness.

Brody peers into the darkness in front of him. He hasn’t seen the Lincoln’s tail-lights for perhaps two minutes.

And he can’t see them now!

Ahead of him is a road junction.

Three possible routes to take!

And he has no idea which one to choose.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” he says, as he follows his gut instinct and keeps on going straight ahead.

13

The single-storey, flat-roofed building is dwarfed by the units on either side of it. In the days when the industrial park was a going concern, it had been called Hardwick Diner and Grill, though everyone who used it knew it as Smokey Joe’s. It had served hamburgers and pizza, and the owner, Joe himself, had supplemented his income through a little low-level loan-sharking and dealing pot. At the back there had been a storeroom containing a bed in which an ever-changing stream of undocumented female aliens provided relief for long-distance truckers who missed their wives. Now, the diner was as empty and dead as every other building in the park, so there was no obvious reason why the black Lincoln should have parked in front of it.

When Brody first spots the Lincoln, he feels a great wave of relief sweep over him – then he sees the battered Dodge parked just ahead of it.

This is wrong, he thinks. Hayden and Schultz are about killing, but what they tell themselves they are about is saving souls – and saving souls does not require an audience.

So maybe the religious line is bullshit that even they don’t believe. Maybe they’re just sickos who like torturing and humiliating women, and have asked their friends along to join in the fun.

If that is what it is, Brody thinks as he feels his heart trying to batter its way out of his chest, he will kill every man there.

He drives a quarter of a mile past the diner, and then stops.

“You want to reconnect the radio and call for back-up?” George Knight asks.

“We’re probably out of range by now,” Brody said.

“You want to try it anyway?”

“No.”

Knight sighs. “That’s what I figured,” he says. “So are we going in?”

“I am,” Brody tells him.

“We are,” Knight replies firmly.

*

They approach the diner – on foot – along the service road that runs behind it.

Looking at it, Brody gets a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. The diner was never a substantial building but in the year since it has been abandoned it has gone to hell. The windows have been smashed, the doors hang off their hinges. Only an idiot would think of holding Beth there – and the Angel is no idiot.

Most of the rooms are in darkness, but in one, a flickering light can be seen. Brody signals to Knight to stay where he is, and – like a suicidal moth – makes his way towards the light.

Crouched below the level of the window, Brody can hear men talking inside.

“I can’t afford to pay that much,” says a voice that he recognizes as belonging to Schultz.

“You got the wrong idea about our relationship, maricón,” says a second voice, with a South American accent. “You got a problem with the competition, who deals with it?”

“You do,’ Schultz admits.

“You gettin’ hassled by the policía, who makes things right?”

“You do.’

“Get the picture? This ain’t no partnership – you working for us. We own your cojones, amigo, and you do what we say.”

“Okay, okay, just relax,” Schultz says – and there is real fear in his tone.

Brody raises his head cautiously until his eyes are level with the bottom of the window. What he sees is a long narrow room which – in the old days – was probably a store. At the end of the room furthest away from the door is a table on which rest an electric lamp and a pair of scales. Four men are sitting at the table – Schultz, Hayden and two darker-skinned men in their 30s. There is a bag at Hayden’s feet, and another at the feet of one of the South Americans.

Brody retreats back to where Knight is waiting.

“It’s a drug buy,” Brody whispers. “I think it’s a big one.”

“Are we going in there?” Knight asks.

No, Brody wants to say, we’re not, because the only thing I care about is Beth, and whatever I might have thought earlier, this has nothing to do with her.

But he is still a cop, and what he has just seen is a serious crime being commissioned.

“Yes, we’re going in,’ he says.

Knight nods. “How many perps?”

“Four in that room. Maybe – just maybe – a couple more watching the front.”

Knight draws his weapon. “Any preference about where you’d like to be shot?” he asks.

Used to Knight’s gallows humor, Brody grins. “I’ll take the back, you take the front,” he says.

“Give me two minutes,’ Knight says. “If you haven’t heard gunfire by then, move in. And if you have heard gunfire, you will run like hell, won’t you?”

“Like a jack rabbit,” Brody confirms.

He doesn’t mean it – and Knight knows he doesn’t mean it. If one of them goes down, they both go down, because they’re partners and that’s what being partners means.

Knight disappears down the narrow alley between the diner and the next building, and Brody begins to count slowly … 100 … 200 … 300 …

The counting is so mechanical that it frees part of his brain to keep on thinking – and what he is thinking about is Beth.

If he dies, then she dies too.

He wishes that he wasn’t such a damn straight cop, but it’s too late to change now.

… 178 … 179 … 180 …

When he moves, he moves quickly, sprinting to the rotting back door and kicking it open. And then he is in the room, pointing his weapon at the four startled men who are still sitting at the table.

“Hands in the air!” he shouts. “Do it now!”

The four men raise their arms – jerkily, puppet-like – but the table is also rising in a crazy lop-sided way, as if it had a lead part in a séance.

One of the men – he doesn’t know which – has slammed his knee into the underside of the table-top, Brody thinks.

The table crashes down again. The lamp first wobbles precariously, and then falls over the edge. When it smashes into the floor, it goes out, and the room is suddenly plunged into darkness.

Brody lets off a couple of shots – not at where the four men were a second ago, but where he guesses they are now – and then throws himself to the floor. Even as he is falling, bullets are whizzing over his head.

He rolls over until he reaches the wall – and waits.

When they fire again – revealing their location in a spurt of flame – he fires back, and then goes into another roll.

This game of hide and seek cannot last forever – he knows that. They have four weapons, he has one. Eventually they will get lucky, but if he is going to die he will take as many of them with him as he possibly can.

The room is suddenly filled with a brilliant white light. Brody is first dazzled and then temporarily blinded.

He hears a voice scream: “Stay where you are. Drop your weapons or we will shoot you!”

Brody releases his grip on his gun. He hears footsteps and then the sound of a sliding pistol as it is kicked out of reach.

“You!” a voice says close to his ear. “Stand up – but do it slowly.”

He climbs to his feet. His vision is slowly returning, and he sees that the room is now full of men wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying semi-automatic weapons. Looking beyond them, he notes that Hayden, Schultz and one of the South Americans are being handcuffed. The second South American, who is soaked in blood and whose eyes gaze lifelessly at the world, will clearly need no such restraint.

“We’re going outside,” says the man who has kicked his gun away and now establishes a tight grip on his arm. “Do it slowly and smoothly or you’re a fucking dead man.”

Mildly surprised that he’s not already a fucking dead man, Brody does as he’s been instructed.

It’s like a circus outside. There are half a dozen black 4x4s just arriving, and overhead a helicopter hovers, its searchlight illuminating the whole area.

Brody just has time to catch a glimpse of Knight – who is being similarly restrained by another guy in bullet-proof vest – then his escort steers him over to a man in a smart blue suit, who is looking far from pleased.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man demands.

“Detective Sam Brody,” Brody tells him. “And who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Bill Conner,” the other man says. “I’m a special agent in the fucking FBI, and you, Detective Brody, have just single-handedly destroyed an operation that has taken over a year to set up, and cost several million dollars.”

*

Back in the 9th Precinct, Captain McMahon looks across the table at Brody more in sorrow than in anger.

“The Columbians were on what you might call a regional selling trip, and Schultz was only one of the dealers they were selling to,” he said. “The FBI has had them under surveillance since they landed. The plan was to leave them alone until they’d sold the last of the cocaine, then sweep up the whole network. That won’t be possible now.”

“How long have you known that Hayden and Schultz were a part of it?” Brody demands. “Was it before you set me on Beth Baker?”

“No, no, of course not,” McMahon says. ‘If I had known, I’d never have started that investigation.”

“But when you did find out, you didn’t bother to let me know – as a result of which, I almost got killed tonight.”

“I told you to stay away from Larry Hayden,” McMahon says. “I was quite explicit on that point.”

“But you didn’t tell me why.”

“I couldn’t tell you why. Look, Sam, this isn’t some sort of debating society – it’s the police department. I gave you a direct order, and that should have been enough for you.” McMahon sighs. “The FBI is furious, and has lodged a complaint with the department. When the chief looks into it and sees that you were told to keep away, you could be out on your ear.”

“Like I give a shit,” Brody says – and wonders what is happening to Beth at this very moment.

14

It’s a misty morning, but by the time the sun has climbed a few degrees, the haze has vanished, and absolutely anyone could predict it’s going to be a good day.

Brody takes the tunnel under the Interstate, then follows the old wagon train road due west. As he drives, his tired mind reviews the case.

If he eliminates Schultz and Hayden as suspects, he thinks – and there’s no choice but to do that – then he’s forced to the conclusion that his initial theory was totally wrong.

It must still be true that the Angel had close enough contact with Beth to learn all the tiny details of her domestic life – the argument with the convenience store manager, the mechanic who tried to stiff her over a repair bill, to name but two – but it is now clear that contact didn’t take place at work.

So who did she talk to?

Could it have been a lover, Brody asks himself?

No, he can’t bring himself to believe it – and not just because he doesn’t want to. He knows Beth – and he’s convinced that if she’d been sleeping with someone else, she’d never have gone to bed with him.

So who does that leave?

Neighbors?

Old friends?

Both of these are possible.

The only problem is, he can’t see Beth spending enough time with either group to have given them as much information about her personal life as the Angel seems to have had.

He has driven just over three miles beyond the tunnel when he sees the Riverdale Correctional Center looming up ahead of him. It is a grim, square building which stands all alone, glaring down on the surrounding landscape. It’s a place without hope, the final landing spot for men who have no further to fall. Within its high walls and barbed wire fences, it holds arsonists, murderers, rapists, child molesters and armed robbers. And, since his application for bail has been turned down, it now holds a lawyer-turned-drug dealer called Alex Schultz.

Driving through a series of tall imposing gates, filling in the necessary bureaucratic forms, and then following one of the prison officers up to stark conference room on the second floor, takes Brody ten minutes. It is another five minutes before Alex Schultz arrives, flanked by two guards.

The lawyer doesn’t look in good shape. His prison denims hang uncomfortably on him, his eyes are as bloodshot as if he’s been on an all-night bender, and he hasn’t shaved.

When their eyes meet, a scowl cuts across his five o’clock shadow like an unexpected wound.

“Take a seat,” Brody says.

“I don’t want—” Schultz begins.

“You heard the police officer! Take a seat!” the guard on his right barks.

Schultz hesitates.

“Now!” the guard on his left tells him.

Schultz slides into the free chair. Though he probably doesn’t realize it, he’s already started to learn one of the important rules of life inside – the rule which says that your right to take your own decisions has been stripped from you as neatly and quickly as an expert skinner can strip a bear, and the sooner you come to terms with your own nakedness and vulnerability, the easier it’s going to be.

“You want us to stay, Officer?” the second guard asks.

Brody shakes his head, and the guards leave the room.

Cop and felon stare at each other for a few seconds, then Schultz says: “I told Larry that as long as we had your nose up our assholes, we shouldn’t make a move, but he said you didn’t say ‘no’ to his Columbians.”

That was what they’d been arguing about out in the street, Brody thinks. But was it Hayden who wanted to go to meeting and Schultz who didn’t – or was it the other way around? Certainly Schultz is suggesting Hayden was the driving force, but that’s because – lawyer that he is – he’s already starting to build up a defense.

“So they’re his Columbians, are they?” Brody asks.

“That’s right. The whole thing was his idea.’

“Bullshit!” Brody says. “You recruited Hayden – and the way you recruited him was to get a bent cop called Murphy to check through police records for a suitable candidate.”

“I never—”

“And after you’d done that, you got your Columbian friends, or some of their associates, to put the frighteners on Murphy so that now he won’t talk, even if it means going to jail.”

Schultz smiles in the way a man will smile when he’s determined to drag a small triumph out of a major disaster.

“Well, if that’s true, you’re never going to be able to prove that I was the one in charge, are you?”

“So the way you figure it, you go down for 20 years, but Hayden – as the leader, the man with the record – goes down for 30. You’re eligible for parole after 12, maybe 13 years, but Hayden serves his full time and is an old man when they finally let him out. That about right?” Brody asks.

“Maybe,” Schultz says.

“It might just work – but not if I do a little investigating of my own and prove you’re the main man.”

“And how are you going to do that, when there’s nothing written down?”

“I might talk to some of your criminal associates—”

“So I know some criminals. I’m a criminal lawyer – that’s why it was such a good cover.”

“Or I might put pressure on some of the bar owners in Carlton, and get them to tell me how long ‘Max’ has been providing the local dealers with coke. My guess is that they’ll tell me it’s for much longer than the two years Hayden has been working for you.”

Schultz looks as if he’s just been slapped in the face. For perhaps half a minute he is silent, then he says: “What do you want, Brody?”

“I want you to give me something that will help me to find Beth.”

Schultz shrugs, helplessly.

“I like Beth,’ he says. “I always have – that’s why I kept her away from the drugs side of the business – and if I’d thought I had anything you could use, I’d already have told you.”

“Think again,” Brody says, “and remember that what you tell me won’t just affect her future, if will affect yours as well.”

“Jesus, don’t you think I understand that?” Schultz asks. “But I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“Who are her friends?” Brody prods.

“Her friends?” Schultz repeats. “Get real! She’s a single-mother, trying to make her way in a very competitive field. That means 24 hours in a day are about eight hours short of what she needs. In addition, she’s had this psychological block against relationships ever since her husband went and killed himself.”

“So no friends?”

“As far as I know, the nearest she’s come to having a friend in the last two years is me.”

Brody sighs. On the drive over, he’s been hoping against hope that Schultz would come up with some new lead, but instead the lawyer has pretty much confirmed the picture he already had.

“What about her neighbors?” he asks “She ever mention any of them?”

Schultz thinks about it.

“We were both in this bar, a few days ago,” he says finally. “It’s called O’Grady’s.”

“I know it.”

“We’re sitting at a table. Beth is facing the door, and I’m facing the bar. And that’s when I see the guy.”

“What guy?”

“He’s on a stool, and he’s looking at Beth like he’s just about ready to eat her up. So I ask her if she knows him, and she says yeah, his name’s Joe Tyler, he’s a lawyer, and he lives opposite her in Dashwood.”

Brody feels his head start to pound.

“What does this Tyler guy look like?” he asks.

Schultz shrugs. “I only saw him the once, but if you pushed me, I’d have to say he was kind of average. Brown hair, brown eyes—”

“How tall was he?”

“It’s difficult to say, because, like I just told you, he was sitting down.”

“Take a guess.”

“Maybe 5ft 11ins, 6ft?”

“Age?”

“Around 32 or 33.”

“And was he well built?” Brody asks.

“He wasn’t any Arnold Schwarzenegger, if that’s what you mean, but I’d say he was in pretty good shape.”

“Is he married?”

“I think she said he was a bachelor.”

He fits the profile! Brody thinks triumphantly. Right size! Right shape! Right age! He lives alone – like the shrink said the Angel would – and his house is close enough to Beth’s for him to see her every day and for them to exchange snippets of domestic information. Plus, he’s a lawyer, so it’d be it easy to find out about Beth’s cases. And if all that’s not enough, there was the way he was looking at her in O’Grady’s.

Tyler has to be the Angel – he just has to be.

For the first time since Alex Schultz’s arrest, Brody feels a slight surge of hope.

*

Beth is hanging on the hook and watching the Angel. He has his back to her, and has been standing perfectly still, staring at the metal-lined wall, for over half an hour. It’s almost as if he’s reading a long, elaborate message which only he can see, she thinks. And that’s not good – not good at all – because he’s at his most dangerous when he’s in his dream world – the only place where his own insane logic makes perfect sense.

Got to pull him out of it, she tells herself – got to do it now.

“When did it all begin?” she asks.

No reaction.

“When did it all begin?” she repeats, louder this time.

The Angel turns slowly to face her. “When did all what begin?”

“This finding someone to look out for?”

“It started with Momma,” the Angel says, as if he’s surprised she’s bothered to ask such an obvious question.

“I know that,” Beth says. “But after her?”

“I was in ’Nam,” the Angel tells her.

“’Nam? You were a soldier?”

“Yes. I joined the army as soon as I left the orphanage.” He smiles at the memory. “I did very well. They liked me a lot.”

Of course they did, Beth thinks. You were always a good little boy – always wanting to please.

“So they sent you to Vietnam,” she says.

“That’s right,” the Angel agrees. “I was a master sergeant by then.”

“And you met someone?”

“There was a woman – no more than a girl, really. She used to do some of the menial work around the base. She was a Christian – educated by the missionaries. I remember how quiet she was, how she seemed to feel intimidated even if I just said ‘Hi’.”

“So you decided to take her under your wing.”

“I did things for her,” the Angel says. “Anonymously, of course.”

Of course it was anonymous. How could he have a normal relationship with her when he’d drowned the only woman he’d ever really loved when he was 15?

“What kinds of things did you do for her?” Beth asks.

“Small things at first. She had her own locker and I used to leave little presents – cookies and chewing gum – in it. And then there were her English lessons. She thought they were free. But they weren’t. I was paying for them.”

That’s probably how he started out with me – just doing little things – Beth thinks. But things had grown and grown, until they had culminated in the attack on the Blades’ clubhouse – with the murder of a dozen young men. She wonders what the big things the Angel did for the Vietnamese girl were.

“Some of the men started to make suggestions to her,” the Angel says, his face now black with anger. “Filthy, lewd suggestions. I told them to stop, and they did – but only when I was there. Then, one dreadful night I caught one of them with his hand up her skirt.”

He stops talking and looks at Beth as if he expects her to say something.

And since there’s only one thing she can say, she forces the words out of her mouth. “What did you do about it?” she asks.

“I took him behind the latrines,” the Angel says. “And there, with the strength of the Lord coursing through my body, I broke his jaw and three of his ribs. Nobody bothered the girl after that.”

But that isn’t the full story. It can’t be, or the Angel wouldn’t be here at all – he’d have found some way to stay in Vietnam and look after her.

“She let you down, didn’t she?” Beth says flatly.

The Angel sighs. “I was posted up-country for a few months. By the time I got back to the base, this girl – this Christian girl – was selling herself to anyone who had a carton of cigarettes.”

“It can’t have been easy for her – a young, inexperienced girl on the middle of a war,” Beth says.

And she is thinking, it hasn’t been easy for me, either, living without a man since Jack gassed himself.

“The Devil had entered the girl,” the Angel says. “And through her, he was spreading his wickedness to others.”

“You killed her,” Beth says – and it is not a question.

“The Lord is a fierce god, but he is also a merciful one,” the Angel intones. “Yes, I slew her – but as I held her underwater for the last time, I knew that I had saved her immortal soul.”

Though she fights it, Beth finds her eyes being drawn towards the old-fashioned bath tub. There is bile rising in her throat. She wants to vomit, but she daren’t – because to a crazy man like the Angel, that might be a sign that her demons are leaving her.

And once she’s purged, there’s no point in keeping her alive any more.

Talking about Vietnam has been a big mistake, she thinks. It hasn’t brought the Angel back to the real world at all – it’s merely reinforced his belief in his own righteousness.

“Shall I … shall I tell you about my kids?” she asks desperately.

The Angel shakes his head, sadly.

“It won’t do any good, Beth,” he says. “Don’t you understand that? Nothing you can do or say is going to make any difference to how all this ends.”

15

It is afternoon. The bronze Eldorado is parked just up the street from Beth’s house – and from Joe Tyler’s house!

Brody is sitting in the driver’s seat, beating out a rapid tattoo on the steering wheel with his fingers.

“You think that helps?” George Knight asks – irritatingly.

“Nothing helps!” Brody says.

How can it? He finally has a lead on the man who he thinks has snatched the woman he loves, and the son-of-a-bitch isn’t home.

Worse – the reason he isn’t home, Brody is forced to accept, is because he’s with Beth.

And what is he doing with her – to her?

Brody doesn’t even want to imagine that.

“Listen, man, I know you’ve got this thing with Mrs Baker, but you’re not helping the situation by losing control,” Knight says.

What is this? Another suggestion that he is not the cop he used to be?

Brody recognizes that the rebuke, however much it may sting, is well-intended. But he turns towards his partner. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” he asks.

Fact is, he’s just about ready to clean his partner’s clock, and he’s almost on the point of suggesting that they step outside and find out which of them really is the hard man, when the white Ford Probe turns onto the street, immediately signals a left, and pulls into Tyler’s carport.

“Is it him?” Knight asks.

“It has to be,” Brody replies.

From where they’re sitting, they can’t see Tyler get out of his car and enter the house through the side door, but unless he’s planning to stay in the Probe, that’s exactly what he must be doing.

“I take the front and you take the back?” George Knight suggests.

What’s Knight saying, Brody wonders? That because he’s involved with Beth, he’s forgotten everything he ever knew?

“I’ll take the front.”

“How come you get to play the hero?” Knight asks.

Good question.

Because George is the one with kids?

Because this really isn’t his fight?

“Because this ain’t no job for no Sunday School teacher,” Brody says.

“Yeah, right,” says Knight, who – as a matter of fact – does occasionally teach Sunday School.

Brody reaches for the car door handle. “We might as well do it now,” he says.

“Be careful with this motherfucker!” Knight warns. “Don’t let thoughts of Beth Baker get in between you and a clear shot.”

“No way,” Brody says – and wonders if he’s lying again.

The two detectives move quickly, slamming the doors of the Eldorado behind them and sprinting quickly up the street. When they reach Tyler’s house, they fan out, Brody running up the path to the lawyer’s front door and Knight disappearing round the side of the house.

The Angel is about as dangerous as they get, Brody reminds himself as he pulls out his pistol and rings the bell. He’s killed at least a dozen men so far, and adding one 33-year-old detective to the list isn’t going to make much difference to him, one way or the other.

Brody hears a door click open, then there’s the sound of footsteps in the hall – slow, awkward footsteps.

“Who’s there?” asks a voice which about as frightened as any Brody’s ever heard.

“Police, Mr Tyler,” the detective says.

A couple of bolts are drawn back and the door swings open just as wide as the safety chain will allow. Brody feels a wave of disappointment – so deep it might even be called despair – sweep over him. Because, even through the narrow gap, he can see that this man is no Guardian Angel.

For openers, Tyler’s too small. Schultz said that the guy was 5ft 11ins or 6ft, yet the man facing him is no more than 5ft 9ins. But that isn’t the main reason he can be dismissed out of hand. The real clincher is that this man is a mess. His eyes are puffed up, his cheeks are swollen, and from the way he’s standing, it’s obvious that’s not the only punishment he’s taken recently. Out of the lawyer’s vision, Brody slips his pistol into his pocket.

“Have you got a badge?” Tyler asks, still sounding scared. “I need to see your badge.”

Brody produces his shield and holds it close to the gap for Tyler to see.

“If you’re still not sure about me, I’ll wait out here on the step while you ring the Department,” he says.

“No, I guess you’re kosher,” Tyler says wearily. He unclips the chain. “What do you want? Are you here to ask me more damn fool questions about the son-of-a-bitch – I mean, the sons-of-bitches – who did this to me?”

“No, that’s not the case we’re working on, sir,” Brody tells him – and is about to say more when George Knight appears.

“Who’s he?” the lawyer asks – sounding even more panicked than he was earlier.

“This is my partner, Detective Knight,” Brody says. “You want to see his shield?”

Tyler shakes his head. “No, I guess if he’s with you, he’s okay. You said you weren’t working on my case, so what case are you working on?”

“Our investigation is concerned with your neighbor, Mrs Elizabeth Baker,” Brody says.

He’s not expecting to see the look of blind terror which flashes across Tyler’s eyes.

“Has she complained?” the lawyer gasps. “Doesn’t she think I’ve—”

He cuts himself off, and though Brody waits to give him time to continue, it’s obvious he isn’t going to.

“What would she complain about?” Brody asks. “And doesn’t she think you’ve what?”

“She got pissed about some of my friends parking in front of her driveway,” Tyler answers. “Said she was going to lodge a complaint. Would have thought that was kinda like hitting a man when he was down.”

A pretty good recovery, Brody thinks, but the guy’s a lawyer, trained to make good recoveries – and I still don’t believe Word One of what he’s just said.

“It’s nothing to do with any kind of complaint, Mr Tyler,” he says. “Mrs Baker’s gone missing. We think she might have been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped!” Tyler repeats. “But why on earth would anyone want to kidnap Beth?”

Why does he sound so relieved? Brody wonders.

And suddenly, he knows the answer. It’s because the kidnapping has nothing to do with him.

But there’s something else connected with Beth that the lawyer is feeling guilty about – and from the moment Brody mentioned Beth’s name, he’s been imagining it’s that something which has brought the detective to his door.

“Mind if we come inside?” Brody asks.

“Why can’t we talk right here?” Tyler says.

He’s just like Shultz was, Brody tells himself. He doesn’t want us inside his house. But why? What has he got to hide?

“We’ve got a lot of questions to ask you,” he tells the lawyer. “And given the state that you’re in, you might be more comfortable if we asked them when you were sitting down.”

“I guess you’re right about that,” the lawyer admits. “Okay, you better follow me.”

*

The Angel is staring at the wall again.

Beth thinks of his last words to her: ‘Nothing you can say or do is going to make any difference to how all this ends.’

But she can’t believe that, because if she does, there is no hope – absolutely no hope at all.

“Why didn’t you let me know you were helping me?” she asks.

The Angel turns, and smiles a world-weary smile.

“Because I wanted you to be good for your own sake – and not to please me,” he says. “And the only way I could be sure that would be the case was to be your secret protector.”

Bullshit! Beth thinks. You didn’t want me to be good, you wanted me to be bad – because you needed an excuse to punish me.

But that isn’t right either. It’s not her he’s punishing. It’s his mother. It’s always been his mother.

“That’s how you think of yourself, is it?” she asks. “As my protector?”

“Of course.”

“You could still protect me now.”

“But that’s exactly what I’m doing,” the Angel says. ”Protecting you from the Devil and all his works.”

“It’s not the Devil I’m talking about,” Beth tells him.

“Then who?”

“The good part of you – the part which is filled with love and caring – could protect me from the other part of you – the part which wants to kill me.”

The Angel shakes his head, sadly. “You don’t understand. You’ve never have.” He walks over to the door, opens it, and steps out into the corridor. “I’ll be back soon,” he says.

“Where are you going?” Beth asks.

“I need to get something.”

Though she is dreading the answer, she knows she needs to ask the question.

“What are you going to get?” she asks.

“Water,” the Angel tells her. “Lots of water.”

Oh God! Beth thinks. “You don’t have to do this,” she says – but she can tell from the Angel’s face that she has lost him again.

He stands in the doorway, a lost child in a man’s body.

“I only wanted to look out for you, Momma,” he says in a squeaky, immature voice. “I only wanted to look out for you until Daddy came back.”

*

Joe Tyler makes his way slowly and painfully down the hallway, with the two detectives following a few feet behind him.

“Where were you attacked, Mr Tyler?” Brody asks. “Was it out on the street someplace?”

“No, right here at home. Couple of young black kids.” Tyler stops, jerkily and painfully, and turns towards Knight. “I’m sorry, Detective, I should have said Afro-Americans.”

“Hell, why not call a spade a spade?” Knight asks blandly. “So what did these black kids want?”

“Money,” Tyler says. “They think because you live in a nice house, you’ve got to have thousands of dollars lying around someplace. When they found out I hadn’t got more than a few bucks walking-around money in my wallet, they beat the crap out of me.”

Another lie! Brody thinks – and wonders exactly what this guy is trying to hide under this heap of bullshit.

They enter Joe Tyler’s living room, and the first thing Brody notices about it is that the most expensive-looking chair, and all three of the small occasional tables, are close to the window. And from that window, it’s possible to look straight up at Beth’s bedroom.

Tyler carefully lowers himself into one of the other chairs – as if he doesn’t want to draw attention to the one next to the window by actually using it.

“How’d the two black kids who beat up on you get into the house, Mr Tyler,” Brody asks.

“Through the back door,” Tyler says.

“And you didn’t hear them forcing it?”

“They didn’t force it,” Tyler replies, shifting position to get more comfortable. “They picked the lock.”

“What kind of lock is it?”

“Why are you so interested?” Tyler demands.

Brody grins good-naturedly. “I’m a detective, Mr Tyler. It’s just professional curiosity.”

“The lock’s a Kwikset,” Tyler says. “I had it installed when I first moved into the house.”

A Kwikset. Not the hardest lock in the world to pick, but a step up from the ones which are fitted in most buildings. It would easily have defeated a couple of street kids, Brody thinks. And anyway, picking locks just isn’t their style.

“How were these kids dressed?” Brody asks.

A look of irritation – or maybe pain – flashes across Tyler’s face. “It’s all in the report I filled out at the station,” he tells the detective.

“And the report says ...?”

“They were both wearing Levis. Levis and black sweatshirts.”

Brody nods, as if that’s what he was expecting, then he says: “And, of course, they were wearing ski masks, weren’t they?”

Tyler jumps, like he’s been given an unexpected electric shock. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protests.

But the protest is far from convincing.

“The Angel really is very frightening, isn’t he?” Brody says.

Another burst of current jolts through the seated Tyler.

“Angel?” he gasps. “What are you …? Who are you—?”

“Now what did you do to offend him?” Brody asks, almost lazily. “If I had to guess, I’d put my money on voyeurism.”

Tyler is almost choking. “Look, I do own a set of binoculars,” he confesses, “and sometimes, when I’ve been sitting here at the window, I might have idly picked them up and—”

“We’re not interested in nailing you,” Brody interrupts. “It’s him we’re after. He did visit you, didn’t he?”

Tyler nods. “Yes, he did.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“That I’d committed a great sin in watching Beth, and I’d have to be punished for it.”

“Did he say it was Beth herself who’d told him about you?” Brody asks.

Tyler shakes his head weakly. “He said she had no idea that she was being watched.”

For the second time in less than ten hours, Brody feels a surge of hope.

He was wrong about Tyler being the Angel, but this time he’s got to be right. If Beth didn’t know that the lawyer was watching her house, then she couldn’t have told the Angel about it. So how had he found out? There could only be one way! He knew because he’d seen Tyler doing it!

Brody walks over to the window, and sits down in Tyler’s watching chair. “You still got those binoculars of yours?” he says.

The question surprises the other man. “Well … yeah … I’ve still got them,” he says. “What makes you ask that?”

“I asked because there’s something I need for you to do for me,” Brody tells him.

16

The Angel has been questioned by the police before – once in Springfield, and again in Des Moines – but he’s never been so close to getting caught, and now he’s scared.

It isn’t the punishment which bothers him. For all he cares, they can lock him away forever, or even fry him in the electric chair if they want to, because that’s only Man’s justice which – in the cosmic scale of things – hardly matters. No, what worries the Angel is not that Brody could be smart enough to catch him, but that God might allow Brody to do it – because if the Lord is going to throw him to the jackals, he must have done something wrong.

He tries to examine his conduct as objectively as he can – to see if he has behaved any differently with Beth to the way he has behaved with the others. But he can’t see there’s a case to answer.

Hasn’t he protected her just as well as he’s protected the rest of them, he asks himself?

Better, he thinks, answering his own question – because the attack on the Blades’ headquarters was the biggest risk he’s ever taken. And it was a risk he’d taken for her.

Then, when she let him down – and let the Lord down! – hadn’t he reacted swiftly, snatching her from her house almost immediately, so her period of repentance could begin as soon as possible?

So, he’s blameless, a good and faithful servant of his God. Then why should he—?

He stops, suddenly aware of what – without him willing it – is happening in his pants.

He gazes down, with horror, at the bulge. An erection! A ‘hard-on’, as the kids used to call them at school.

‘You should have seen the hard-on I had when I woke up,’ they would snicker as they walked to school.

‘I had such a hard-on I thought the damn thing would break,’ they would boast in the yard during recreation.

But he had never snickered, he had never boasted, because he recognized it for what it was – the work of the Devil, the stiff rod through which a man might lose his soul.

Why now? he asks himself. Why should he have been afflicted with this erection – this hard-on – when there are so many other things that he needs to think about?

How can he talk to the Lord, his God, with this dreadful thing throbbing away in his underwear? How, while a part of his own body is betraying him, can he plan Beth’s final redemption?

Beth! He only has to think of her and he can feel himself stiffening more, until, like the kids in school yard, he feels the damn thing is going to break. And the name – the image of her – won’t go away, however much he wants it to, but continues to bounce around inside his brain.

Beth … Beth … Beth …

Is she the reason he finds himself in this shameful state? Is it the thought of her that …?

But it can’t be! It just can’t.

Unbidden, a memory of his childhood comes into his mind.

He was 12 years old. It was Sunday and he was just returning from Bible Study class. As he crossed the front yard, he saw that his mother had pulled the shade down in her bedroom – but not quite to the bottom!

Something – he didn’t know what it was – made him walk across the yard and crouch down in front of the window. Through the narrow slit, he could see his mother. She was wearing one of her house dresses, a floral one, with buttons down the front. But in her hands she was holding a much smarter dark blue suit she only wore for church – which meant she was going to change.

She laid the blue suit carefully on her bed, and reached up to the top button of her house dress. Almost in slow motion – so it seemed to him – she unfastened the first button, then the one below it, and the one below that. He wanted to tap on the window, to let her know he was there and she shouldn’t be doing what she was doing, but his body appeared to be frozen, and only his eyes were at work, greedily devouring the scene being played out in front of him.

His mother stepped out of the dress, and threw it carelessly onto the bed. Now all she was wearing was a white slip and a white brassiere, at the top of which he could see the swell of her breasts.

“Don’t take any more off!” his anguished brain screamed, but his heart was begging – begging – that she would.

His mother lifted her arms behind her back and unclipped the brassiere. For a moment, it seemed as if it would stay where it was – clinging to her, protecting her modesty. Then she gave it a slight tug, and it came away.

Her breasts were large, but firm. The nipples were deep brown and prominent. As he continued to stare at the breasts, the Angel felt his heart begin to beat so furiously that he was sure it would burst out of his chest. He wanted to reach out with both hands and try to hold that throbbing heart in – but his right hand was already busy at work deep inside his pants.

His mother removed her slip. The Angel’s hand continued to claw inexpertly at his 12-year-old’s rock-hard wang.

The panties came down, revealing the bushy black triangle which he knew – he knew – was Satan’s gateway. His mother walked across to the dresser, and the sight of her body actually moving was just too much. There was an explosion in the Angel’s groin and cold, sticky liquid began to trickle down his leg.

He went to the bathroom, and threw up into the john. He stripped off his pants and turned on the faucet. He let the water run until it is as hot as it was ever going to get – which in his house was very hot – then soaked a face cloth in it and began to rub his leg. He rubbed for half an hour – furiously, ruthlessly.

By the time he finally gave up on it, his skin was raw, but still he did not feel clean.

He was wracked with guilt, but also with a sense of being unfairly treated. Was it his fault the shade was not pulled down properly? No, it was her fault – his mother’s fault! If she’d only been a little more careful, or had changed her clothes before he got back from Bible Study, nothing would have happened, he thought – and the injustice of it all stung him to his very core.

The vision fades. Reality replaces memory. And the Angel realizes his right hand is touching his groin. He knows now why God seems to be abandoning him – it is because of the weakness of his flesh.

He tries to think of Beth Baker as he would think of a nun – sanctified and sexless. But it won’t work. He can smell her hair. He can taste her breath. He can imagine what she looks like naked!

The Angel buries his head in his hands. The Devil has sent Beth to tempt him and he has succumbed. There is only one course of action open to him. Whatever the state of her soul, he will have to get rid of that temptation as soon as possible.

17

It is late afternoon. Brody and Knight walk across the street to the house which has been empty since Beth Baker disappeared. The detectives mount the two steps up to the front porch, then turn around and look back at Joe Tyler’s house, first taking in a view of the whole building, then focusing in on the living room window.

They can see the heavy velvet drapes which are pulled back, and the net ones which stretch across the glass. It looks about as innocent as any living room window could be.

“Probably the wrong angle,” Brody says.

He walks to the left end of the porch and fixes his gaze on the window again.

Still nothing.

He walks to the right edge and gets the same result.

Knowing he’s getting desperate now, he moves from one side of the porch to the other, taking small steps and stopping to examine the window after each one.

Finally, with a defeated sigh, he sinks into one of the old cane chairs.

“I fucked up again,” he tells his partner.

“Hey, it was a good theory,” George Knight says sympathetically.

Yeah, but the problem is, there have been too many good theories, Brody thinks. First he suspected Schultz and Hayden – because they worked with Beth and would know about her little difficulties. Then he had been sure it had to be her neighbor, Joe Tyler, who had had access to her private life. And finally, there was this third theory, which is turning to shit even as he sits here.

“Tyler’s at a cocktail party,” Brody says tiredly, sketching out a new scenario. “He’s talking to one of his asshole-buddies, and he’s a little drunk. So what do you think they’re talking about?”

“Sex?” Knight suggests.

“Sure,” Brody agrees. “Tyler starts to mouth off about this great-looking broad who lives opposite him, and because he is drunk, he goes even further, and says that sometimes he picks up his binoculars and trains them on Beth’s bedroom. His buddy snickers and says he wouldn’t mind a little bit of that himself. But there’s someone standing close enough to hear – and he doesn’t find it funny at all.”

“The Angel?”

“Yeah, the Angel. If he couldn’t have seen what was going on – and it’s pretty obvious now that he couldn’t – then he must have heard about it.”

“Makes sense,” Knight agrees.

Brody rocks gently in the cane chair. It creaks a protest.

So what’s next? he asks himself.

Get a list of all the cocktail parties that Tyler’s attended in the last few months, and check on every guest who was there, and might know something about Beth?

But say it wasn’t at a cocktail party that he opened his mouth.

Say it was a dinner.

Or a working breakfast.

Instead of narrowing down the investigation, Tyler’s voyeurism has opened it about as wide as it could be. And since he knows the Angel’s plans – since he’s well aware of the madman’s timetable – Brody also knows that there simply isn’t the time left for such a sweeping investigation.

He looks up at the sky. It’s cloudless, and though the brilliant blueness of the early afternoon has faded away, it is still blue enough. The weather shouldn’t be so perfect, he thinks. Not when a tragedy is being enacted. Not when Beth’s life hangs by a thread. He hates the perfect sky – hates the sun which has already started its slow descent into the west.

And suddenly it hits him!

The sun!

The fucking sun.

He looks across at Tyler’s window again, and does some rapid calculations.

“Something the matter, Sam?” George Knight asks.

“A ladder,” Brody says. “Get me a ladder!”

*

Margaret Wingate opens the door before Brody even has time to ring the bell. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are red, and there are lines on her face which were not there the last time Brody saw her. She looks a complete wreck – and the way she’s holding herself shows that she knows it.

“It’s the kids,” she explains. “They’ve been very difficult to handle. Not that you can blame them.” She runs a hand through her tangled hair. “They’re worried sick about their mom, you know.”

“We all are,” Brody says. “You haven’t told them what’s happened to her, have you?”

Margaret shakes her head, agitatedly.

“No, of course not. I told them she’s away on a business trip. But they know it’s just not like their mom to go off without saying even good-bye to them.” There are tears forming in the corner of her bloodshot eyes. “You are going to find Beth for us, aren’t you, Mr Brody? You will bring her back to us?”

“We’ll find her,” Brody promises.

Sure we will, he thinks. But the real question is, will she still be alive by the time we finally get to her?

“I’ve put the kids in my husband’s den,” Margaret says. “They know you’re coming.”

“Did you say why I’m here?”

Margaret pushes a couple of strands of her neglected hair out of her eyes. “I told them you were a friend of their mother’s, and that you wanted to ask them something about her work. It wasn’t a very good story, I know, but it was the best I could come up with.” She grabs Brody’s arm just below the elbow. “Go easy with them, won’t you, Detective?”

“Yeah,” Brody promises. “I’ll go easy with them.”

The den is paneled with pine wood. There are framed photographs on the wall of a grinning guy wearing a check shirt who is holding a hunting rifle in his hands. A couple of stuffed deer heads stare glassily at each other from opposite sides of the room. The air smells of linseed oil and leather.

The two kids look out of place, sitting at the large hardwood table in the center of the room. They have several school books spread in front of them and seem to be doing their homework. But it’s only a pretense. What they’ve really been doing is waiting for Brody – and the second he and their Aunt Margaret enter the room, they look up expectantly.

“Have you spoken to Mom?” Lizzie asks, almost breathlessly.

Brody shakes his head. “No, I tried to phone her a couple of times, but she’s very busy in court,” he lies.

“There was a PTA meeting last night, and she missed it.” Mike complains. “She never misses PTA meetings.”

“Shut up about the PTA meeting! I’m sick of hearing you talk about it,” Lizzie says – but it’s plain to Brody that she’s just as hurt as her brother is that Beth would miss such a big event.

They’re great kids, Brody thinks. Kids he can imagine calling him ‘Dad’. He forces a smile to his lips.

“Well, hey, if she missed something as important as the PTA, she must be working on a real big case,” he says. “Maybe so big it’ll even get into the papers.”

“What about TV?” Mike asks, with the first spark of interest he’s shown for a couple of days. “Do you think she’ll be on TV?”

“It’s possible,” Brody tells him. “Lawyers handling major cases are on television all the time.”

“Wow!” Mike says enthusiastically. “None of my friends have ever had their moms on TV.”

Brody turns to Margaret Wingate and gives her a reassuring smile. “I can handle it from here,” he says.

The children’s aunt looks back questioningly. “You’re sure that I can’t … that it wouldn’t be better if—?”

“We’ll be fine,” Brody says.

Margaret edges to the door. “As soon as Mr Brody’s finished talking to you, one of you kids come and tell me,” she says. “And after he’s gone, we’ll all have milk and cookies.”

Brody waits until the aunt has left, then straddles a chair opposite the kids. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?” he says.

“No,” Mike says.

“But we don’t think we’ll be able to help,” Lizzie adds.

“You don’t? Why’s that?”

“Because Aunt Margaret said you wanted to ask about Mom’s work, but we don’t know anything about it. Mom always says you should never bring your work home with you.” She bites her lip. “I heard her tell Aunt Margaret once that she thought that was what Daddy’s problem was.”

“But she did bring people home, didn’t she?” Brody asks.

“Not often,” Mike says.

“She said she’s going to have her partner, Mr Schultz, round for dinner next week,” Lizzie contributes, as if she thinks that will be helpful.

“When was the last time somebody – anybody at all – came round to your house?” Brody asks.

“A few days ago,” Mike says vaguely.

“And before that?”

“Except for Aunt Margaret, nobody’s visited with us for weeks and weeks,” Lizzie says.

So he’s pinning all his hopes on one visitor, Brody thinks.

“This somebody who came to see you recently – was it a man?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “He was a real nice guy. We thought he was gonna be Mom’s boyfriend,” his voice drops a little, showing his remembered disappointment, “but he’d only come to help out.”

I have to have got it right, Brody tells himself. This time, I have to have got it right. Yet he’s afraid to ask the question – terrified in case he’s got it wrong.

“What kind of help are we talking about here?” he asks, forcing the words out of his mouth. “Was it something to do with the roof?”

“Sure,” Mike confirms. “It’d been leaking, you see – and he went up there to fix it.”

One more step. One more tiny step – and he’s there.

Brody takes a deep breath.

“Do you remember this man’s name?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Lizzie says confidently. “His name’s Mr Harrison. He works as the janitor at Mom’s building.”

18

The Eldorado is heading for the heart of San Patricio, its siren blaring – and Brody taking most of the corners on two wheels.

Sitting in the front passenger seat, George Knight tries to picture what’s going to happen if his partner misjudges one of his maneuvers by a couple of inches – and forces himself to think about the Beth Baker case instead.

Harrison! Tom Harrison is their man! Of course he is. After Schultz and Hayden, no one has had more access to Beth because, as the janitor of a crumbling building, he must always have been dropping into her office to make repairs.

Brody slews the Eldorado around the final corner onto Twelfth Street, then slams on his brakes and comes to a halt in front of the Lennox Building. Through the plate-glass door, he can see a man in blue overalls with a brush in his hands.

Harrison – playing the perfect janitor to the end!

With one hand he reaches for the door, with the other he reaches for his gun.

“I want the son-of-a-bitch alive!” Brody tells his partner. “I want him to be able to tell me what he’s done with Beth.”

The two detectives sprint across the sidewalk towards the main entrance of the Lennox Building. At the door, Knight goes into a crouch, while Brody grabs the handle. The janitor, still sweeping, has his back to them. Perhaps he hasn’t heard their approach, or perhaps sirens are such a part of everyday life that he’s just paid no attention to theirs.

But there’s a third possibility – and given the way he handled himself in the attack on the Blades’ clubhouse, it’s not one they can ignore. And this third possibility is that Harrison knows they’re there – and is ready for them.

Knight and Brody nod to one another, then Brody pushes the door open and steps quickly to the side to give his partner a clear shot.

“Police!” Knight shouts. “Get your hands up in the air, and turn around real slow!”

The janitor freezes, the broom still in his hands, as if he thinks all this still might have nothing to do with him.

“Yeah, it’s you in the blue overalls I’m talking to,” Knight bawls. “Do like I say, or I’ll shoot.”

The janitor drops the broom and as it clatters loudly on the floor he raises his arms. Brody feels his heart pounding against his ribs. It looks like it’s all over, but he knows it isn’t. Harrison has fooled them before. Pretending the Blade out on the street had overpowered him – when he could have taken the kid easily. Acting like he was sorry about what happened at the clubhouse – when he was the one behind it.

Yeah, Harrison is about as tricky as they come – and he isn’t about to give up this easily.

The janitor is turning around slowly, just as Knight has told him to. He is about half way through the turn when Brody is hit by the sickening realization that though he is roughly the same height and weight as Tom Harrison, he isn’t Harrison at all, but a complete stranger.

The janitor has completed his turn and – a look of terror on his face – is gazing with morbid fascination at George Knight’s pistol.

“Where’s Tom Harrison?” Brody demands.

“I … I …” the janitor stutters.

“Tom Harrison!” Brody repeats. “Tell us where he is!”

The janitor looks like he’s about to lower his arms, then decides that it’s safer not to.

“Don’t know nothin’ about nobody called Tom Harrison,” he says in a shaky voice. “I’m new here. I … I work for a contract agency. I’m only filling in while the regular janitor takes a week’s vacation.”

*

The pick-up truck, which is already loaded with enough plastic containers of water to fill a tub, is parked outside on the street. Now the Angel looks around his lonely, spartan apartment for the last time.

Where will he go next? he wonders.

California?

Nebraska?

Florida?

It doesn’t matter, because there are sinners everywhere, and wherever he chooses, his God will be with him.

“Like Jesus hanging on the cross, I thought you’d forsaken me, Lord,” he says softly, to the empty room. “But you hadn’t, had you? You were only impatient for me to do your will.”

He has already packed a few possessions into an old canvas bag – a change of clothes, some toiletries, his well-thumbed Bible. Now he takes the Bible out, and opens it at random. And, as always seems to happen, his eyes immediately fall on an appropriate passage.

‘For the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb,’ he reads, ‘and her mouth is smoother than oil: But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.’

He hopes Beth Baker will not go to hell. He hopes – he is sure – that each and every one of the women he’s killed so far has died with a pure soul. He has to believe that, because, if it’s not true, then he is no Angel of the Lord at all, but simply a common murderer.

In the near distance he can hear the church clock chiming the hour, just as the clock chimed in his own home town, in those far-off days before the Lord had called him.

Perhaps he’ll go back there, he thinks – back to the place where he spent his childhood. Why not? It has been over 30 years since he left. No one will recognize him.

And what if they do? Who is he, after all, but the grown-up version of the poor boy whose mother committed suicide – the poor boy who went to live a lonely life in an all-male orphanage?

Yes, he’ll go back. He’ll wander the tree-lined streets he knew as a boy – when he was in a state of innocence and without the Lord’s heavy mantle on his shoulders.

He’ll visit his mother’s grave, and remind himself that she’s only sleeping peacefully because of him and what he did for her.

The whole idea gives him a warm glow all over. After so many years of wandering in the wilderness, he will finally be returning to the Promised Land.

But before he can do that, he must – like the good janitor he is – tidy up a few things.

*

“You found out if Harrison’s got wheels yet?” Brody shouts over the scream of the Eldorado’s siren.

Knight is studying the computer screen. “Says here he owns a cherry red Dodge pick-up,” he tells his partner.

They are on Sixteenth Street, just five blocks away from where the computer says Harrison has his apartment.

“Let him be home,” Brody prays. “Let the bastard be at home – and not at wherever he’s keeping Beth!”

Only four more blocks and they could have their killer, he thinks as he guns the Eldorado across the intersection with Redwood. Only three more, he tells himself as he narrowly avoids a cross-town bus coming down Elm. There’ve been so many false starts and wrong trails, but finally they may have gotten it right.

They are two blocks away when they see the cherry red Dodge pick-up pull out into the traffic.

“That’s him!” Knight shouts. “That has to be him!”

Brody has started to slow, but now he slams his foot hard down on the gas pedal. The engine screeches its protest, but the Eldorado picks up speed again. The red pick-up turns onto Maple, which is the widest cross-town street the city has, with four lanes going in either direction. Brody pulls hard on the wheel of his vehicle and follows it.

With its lights flashing, and the driver’s hand on the horn, the red pick-up truck zigzags its way recklessly through the early evening traffic, until it’s reached the outside lane.

“Guy sure knows how to drive,” Knight says with reluctant admiration. “And I’m telling you, that ain’t no ordinary truck.”

No, Brody agrees, it isn’t. That engine’s about as souped-up as it could possibly be.

The Eldorado follows the pick-up’s crazed, irregular path into the outside lane. The pick-up is only about six car-lengths in front, but between it and the Eldorado is a fancy green Lincoln. Brody flashes the Lincoln – but it doesn’t do any good. Even if the driver wants to help, there’s nothing he can do, because the inside lane is solid with traffic.

Brody pulls out, crosses the central line – and finds himself looking into the face of a guy in a Toyota who is coming in the opposite direction, and quite clearly crapping himself.

There’s a loud screech as both the Toyota and Lincoln slam on their brakes.

The Toyota slews to the side, the Lincoln is slowing.

Brody wrenches on the wheel and cuts in just ahead of the big green car.

“Jesus, that was close!” George Knight gasps.

The pick-up takes a right, just in front of a monster rig which is making its way along Seventeenth Street.

“Shit!” Brody says, and telling himself he’ll be no use to Beth if they have to scrape him off the side of a truck, he slows down.

By the time they have maneuvered around the rig, the pick-up has gained ground, but is still in sight.

“If you ask me, he’s heading out towards Hardwick Industrial Park!” Knight says.

So he’d been right when he’d said one of the buildings in the industrial park would make an ideal prison, Brody thinks. Beth has been there all along. And last night, when they arrested Schultz, they couldn’t have been more than a quarter of a mile away from her.

A quarter of a mile at the most!

If only he’d known! If only he’d fucking known!

*

For the next 15 minutes the chase continues, sometimes with the pick-up gaining a hundred yards, sometimes with the Eldorado clawing it back.

Knight has radioed in for back-up, but Brody knows that in the wasteland which surrounds the industrial park, the chances of there being any patrol cars on hand to answer the call are virtually zero.

They reach the edge of the park. The pick-up passes the chain-link fence behind which the wreckers have locked their machinery. The Eldorado flashes past it a few seconds later. Maybe the dogs are howling again, but with the noise of the siren the two cops don’t hear it.

The red pick-up screams to a halt in front of the old warehouse. Harrison jumps out of it and runs towards the gap in the fence with the energy of a man half his age. But then they’ve always known he was fit, Knight thinks, following the fleeing man with his eyes – and now the Angel is desperate as well.

Brody slams on his brakes and comes to a stop inches behind the pick-up. He’s out of the Eldorado almost before it has finished moving, but by then the Angel has ripped the board away from the window and hauled himself up through the gap.

Brody sprints after him, pulling out his gun as he runs, but he knows there’ll be no gun battle yet – not until the Angel has had a chance to see his latest victim.

By the time Brody has squeezed through the window, the Angel is already taking the stairs – two at a time.

Brody follows. He has just reached the top of the stairs when he hears the heavy metal clank as the Angel slams the meat locker door behind him.

19

Just an hour ago, the area around the old food warehouse was about as dead as it could be. Now, there is organized pandemonium.

Hastily erected searchlights bathe the building in a harsh glare, highlighting every crumbling brick, every rotting window frame. Beyond the perimeter of the warehouse, police black and whites are parked across the arterial road, and cops standing beside them argue with civilians who’ve heard on the radio that there may be a hostage here, and want to see something they can tell their grandchildren about. Deployed at strategic points around the yard, and in the building itself, are SWAT marksmen, their facial muscles tense, their rifles ready to take out the crazy man if he decides to make a break for it.

The area is full of uniformed cops and cops in plain clothes, technicians, liaison officers and negotiators. Vehicles of all kinds – patrol cars, unmarked cars, an incident van and a couple of ambulances – are parked on the road or in the warehouse yard. As with the scene the previous night – when the drug dealers were taken down – it looks as if the circus has come to town.

Brody and Knight are standing in the warehouse doorway, talking to Lieutenant Donald Calloway. Calloway looks to be around 45 years old and has short iron-gray hair and sharp green eyes. A fat cigar sticks out from the corner of his mouth. It has been there since he arrived on the scene an hour ago, but so far he’s made no attempt to light it.

“Our main problem is trying to we establish contact with the guy,” the lieutenant says. “The walls of the freezer room are plated with metal. The door’s solid steel. Hell, I could shout through a megaphone and he wouldn’t hear me.”

“Yeah, it’s not an easy situation,” Brody says.

He’s trying to sound like a professional, hard-boiled cop, because if Calloway notices he’s personally involved – and the lieutenant is trained to notice things like that – it’ll be a case of ‘Get the fuck out of here, Brody’.

And Brody doesn’t want to get the fuck out. Not while his Beth’s still in there. Not while there’s a chance he can do something to help get her out alive.

“I thought about making a hole in the wall – just a little one, so we could talk to him through it,” the lieutenant continues. “But the second he hears the sound of the drill, the guy’s gonna think we’re coming for him, and then the first thing he’ll do is waste his hostage.”

Oh Beth, Brody thinks! My beautiful, wonderful Beth! What am I going to do if you die?

“You got any bright ideas?” Calloway asks.

“What about the vents?” Brody says, still keeping his voice super-cool, super-professional. “There has to be some kind of ventilation system. You could pump it full of knock-out gas.”

Calloway shifts the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Gassing him was the first thing we thought of,” he says. “There’s a vent, right enough, but the son-of-a-bitch has blocked it off. Now he’s gonna run out of air eventually, but the amount he’s got trapped in there could last for hours – and God alone knows what he could do in that time.”

A small, balding man with a screwdriver in his hand walks up to the two detectives and the negotiator.

Lieutenant Calloway looks at him expectantly.

“You got anything for me, Rollie?” he asks.

“You might just have lucked out on this one, Lieutenant,” the technician says. “Most of the phone lines were ripped out when they closed the place down, but …” he raises the screwdriver in the air like it was some kind of magic wand, “ … I traced one of the few that are left to the meat locker. So, if there’s still a wall phone in there, I should be able to connect you.”

“How long will it take you to find out if it’s gonna work?” Lieutenant Calloway asks.

“We should know real soon now,” the technician tells him.

But will it be soon enough, Brody wonders desperately? Or is it already too late?

*

Beth, hanging from the hook as she always is when the Angel’s there, watches her kidnapper pace the room.

“Why don’t you just open the door and let them in?” she asks. “Don’t you know – haven’t you realized – that it’s over?”

The Angel looks up at the ceiling.

“Why isn’t He talking to me?” he moans. “Now that I need Him most, why won’t He tell me what to do?”

“You’re very sick, Tom,” Beth says. “You need some kind of professional help.”

“I need no help but the Lord’s,” the Angel answers. “And there is only one thing that He must tell me. All I need to know is when it is the right time to wield the Sword of Righteousness.”

The right time to wield the Sword of Righteousness!

The right time to kill me, you mean, Beth’s mind screams!

She has to get him talking – has to find some way of taking his mind off his mission! And she must pick her subject very carefully, because some of their earlier conversations – like the one about Vietnam – have only made him worse.

What can they discuss? What’s safe? What area of his experience will keep him away from the bloodlust which sometimes fills his thoughts?

His childhood, she decides. His innocent childhood, before he discovered the meaning of sin, is the one safe area.

“What did you like best about being a kid?” she asks.

The Angel shoots her a suspicious look, then all suspicion melts away, and he smiles the smile of a very young boy.

“What did I like best?” he repeats. “I think it was my birthday parties.”

“What were they like?” Beth says, gently edging his thoughts away from the track which leads to murder. “Tell me about them. Did you have a lot of kids round to your house? Did you play games? Sing around the piano?”

“It was nothing like that,” the Angel says. “I … I didn’t like the other kids. And they didn’t like me.”

“So who came to these parties?”

“There was just Momma and me. But that was all there needed to be. And she always used to bake me a special cake on my birthday.”

Beth forces a smile onto her face, to match the one on his.

“I expect your mother was great in the kitchen,” she says.

“She spent hours in it every single day, cooking just for me,” the Angel says proudly.

“Hours?” Beth repeats, sensing this is important, but not knowing why. “How could she spend so much time there? Didn’t she work?”

The Angel’s eyes narrow ominously.

“She worked very hard,” he says. “There was never anything from packets or cans at our table. It was all fresh.”

“I’m sure it was,” Beth says hurriedly. “I’m not saying your mother was lazy. I … I was just wondering if she had a job she got paid for.”

“No, of course she hadn’t,” the Angel says, as if he considers it strange that she should even have imagined that. “Momma’s job was looking after me.”

It’s dangerous to push this any further, but Beth knows that she has to.

“If your mother didn’t earn a wage, then how did you manage to pay for your groceries?” she asks.

The Angel purses his brow, like he really has to think about it.

“The checks,” he says finally.

“What checks?”

“Every month we got a check through the mail, and Momma would go down to the bank and cash it.”

“Didn’t you ever wonder—?”

The sound of the previously-dead phone ringing cuts into Beth’s question, and makes both her and Harrison jump like startled rabbits. The Angel glances up at the ceiling.

“What should I do?” he asks.

“Answer it,” Beth says – even though she knows that when he asked for instructions, he wasn’t talking to her.

The Angel hesitates for a second, walks over to the phone and picks it up.

“Yes?” he says. There is a pause, during which he looks across the room at Beth. “Yes, she’s with me … No, I haven’t hurt her … I don’t want to talk to you. I only want to talk to Him—”

“Listen to the man, Tom!” Beth urges. “At least hear what it is that he has to say.”

“Is Brody there?” the Angel asks. “Send me Brody. I’ll talk to him … No, not over the phone … Face to face … Angel to Devil.”

*

Calloway puts down the phone.

“He says the woman’s still alive,” he tells Brody. “You believe that?”

Brody nods. “It’s not something he would lie about.”

“He also says he wants to talk to you,” the lieutenant continues. “Face to face – and only to you.”

‘And Brody, be warned,’ the Angel had said when he’d phoned the precinct, ‘Once I’ve saved Beth, I’ll be coming after you.’

“You hear what I said just now?” Calloway asks, rolling the cigar thoughtfully around in his mouth.

“Yeah, I heard you,” Brody replies. “He wants to talk to me. I thought he would.”

“Face to face. Angel to Devil,” the lieutenant says ominously. “That’s the way he expressed it. Is this a personal thing between you and him?”

Brody glances at George Knight, begging his partner to keep quiet.

Knight returns the look with one of his own which says he’s making no promises until he’s thought things through.

‘Well, is it personal?’ the lieutenant demands.

“Personal? Shit, no!” Brody lies. “That Devil stuff? It don’t mean a thing. That’s the way Harrison sees all cops.” He shoots George Knight another warning glance, then says casually, “So when do I get to go in there?”

“You don’t,” Calloway says.

“I don’t!”

Calloway shakes his head. “The man’s obviously very unstable. It’s too much of a risk.”

Sweet Jesus, I don’t need this, Brody thinks. Not now! Not while Beth’s life is held in the balance!

“Look, Lieutenant, from what you were saying earlier, I’m the only plan you’ve got,” he points out.

Calloway finally lights his fat cigar. Maybe it’s some kind of stress-reduction thing with him. He puffs hard a couple of time, then watches the smoke rise.

“You’re not a trained negotiator, Detective Brody,” he says in a tone which states as clearly as any tone could that the decision’s been taken, and that he’s not about to change his mind.

“I’ve been a cop for 12 years,” Brody argues, still trying to hide his desperation. “I’ve talked crazy guys down off roofs. I’ve convinced people who were half out of their minds on all kinds of drugs to surrender their weapons. I know negotiation.” He turns to Knight again for confirmation. “Isn’t it right what I’m saying, George?”

The two detectives’ eyes are locked for maybe two seconds, but they’ve worked together for over ten years, and two seconds are enough to exchange a mountain of meaning.

What Knight’s eyes say is: “Don’t make me do this. Don’t make me send you to your death.”

And what Brody’s eyes say in return is: “It’s my decision. You can’t deny me this one chance.”

Knight sighs. “Sam’s good, Lieutenant,” he says. “He just may be the best in the city. If anybody can talk Harrison out, it’s Brody.”

The lieutenant takes another puff of his cigar. The smoke it releases snakes its way towards the ceiling.

“A hostage situation isn’t like anything else you’ll have encountered before,” he says. “There are special skills that—”

“Face the facts,” Brody interrupts. “Harrison won’t see anybody but me. So if I don’t go in, what else are you gonna try? You said yourself, there’s no way you can storm the place.”

Calloway looks upwards, at the cloud of smoke of gray smoke which is circling above his head.

“We could just do nothing,” he says. “We could just wait for him to come out. And he will – when he starts running out of air.”

“According to the police shrink, he’s already killed several women,” Brody argues. “It’s what he exists for. It’s what gives purpose to his life. So yeah, he’ll come out – but he’ll come out alone.”

“Shrinks make mistakes,” Calloway says. “Maybe this guy is basically harmless.”

If what he’s got to do to get to Beth is to cold cock the lieutenant and fight his way through an entire SWAT team, then Brody’s ready for it. But first he’s going to have one last shot at talking his way in.

“Believe me – I know the man!” he says. “If you don’t send me in, you’re as good as signing the hostage’s death warrant. I just hope you’ll not find it too hard to live with that.”

“In my job, there are lots of things I have to live with,” Calloway says, but Brody senses that he’s wavering. The lieutenant inhales more smoke. The end of his cigar is glowing bright red. “Say I do send you in?” he asks. “What’s to stop him killing the woman anyway – and then turning his gun on you?”

“He won’t,” Brody says, praying he sounds convincing. “Like I said, I know the man almost as well as I know myself. I know which buttons to push, and what order to push them in. Send me in, and I guarantee I can talk him into coming out without a shot being fired.”

Calloway shakes his head in amazement. “Call me as crazy as the guy inside, but I think I’m gonna let you do it.”

Brody, still playing the hard-boiled professional, suppresses a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Lieutenant,” he says.

20

Brody and Lieutenant Calloway make their way up the concrete stairs, towards the hall which leads to the meat locker. A SWAT unit made up of four big guys dressed in bullet-proof jackets and holding semi-automatic weapons is standing at the top of the steps. The members of the team back against the wall, so that the hostage negotiator – and the deranged cop who’s actually agreed to go into the freezer room – can pass through.

Another SWAT team is in position at the other end of the hall. Calloway waits until he is half way between the two, then stops so he can address both of them.

“You’ve already had your orders over the radio, but now you’re getting them from me, personally,” he says. “I want you to hold well back. Unless there’s any shooting, nobody moves. Hear what I’m saying? Nobody! And I mean nobody!”

He starts walking again, only coming to a halt when he reaches the freezer door. He examines the door from top to bottom, and when he’s finished that he glances at the two SWAT teams which are holding well back, just like he’s told them to.

He nods, like he thinks he’s making a mistake but is going ahead anyway, then says: “Are you absolutely certain that you want to do this, Brody?”

“I’m certain.”

Calloway shrugs. “Okay, so we go ahead as planned. But remember, once you’re the other side of that door, there’s nothing that I – or anybody else out here – can do for you”

“Understood.”

Calloway pats Brody on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he says. “I think you’re gonna need it.”

Brody watches Calloway walk back to the SWAT team posted near the top of the stairs. Good-bye, Lieutenant, he thinks. And thank you for giving me my chance – even if it’s only a slim one.

He lifts his fist and hammers loudly on the door. Then, as he’s been instructed by the Angel over the phone, he starts to count slowly up to ten.

One … two … three …

The problem with the slow counting, he soon realizes, is that he leaves him mental space he doesn’t want, and though he tries to fight it off, thoughts keep slipping into his brain.

He remembers the one time he spoke to the Angel as the Angel. ‘I won’t try to save you,’ the madman had said over the phone. ‘You can burn in hell for all eternity.’

Four … five … six …

He reminds himself that the Angel is armed, and that he isn’t. If the crazy man does decide to kill him, there’ll be nothing he can do to protect himself. He’s taken calculated risks before, but there’s nothing calculated about what’s happening now – this is plain suicide.

Seven … eight … nine …

Like Lieutenant Calloway said, if the Angel is planning to murder Beth, he’ll probably do it whatever happens. So what’s the point of going in there now and wasting another life?

“Ten!” Brody says aloud. Then he lifts the lever and swings the heavy metal door open.

It’s a shock for him to see Beth hanging from the hook.

More than a shock!

Maybe if he wasn’t in love with her, he could have absorbed it more easily, but he does love her, and now he feels as if all the air has been sucked from his body and his heart has gone into overdrive. He clutches the door for support, and wonders if he’s going to black out.

“Don’t worry – I’m fine,” Beth says.

Her words help him – slow down his heart, restore his breath, clear his mind. He lets go off the door and examines her carefully.

‘Don’t worry – I’m fine,’ she’s just said. But she doesn’t look fine. Both eyes are puffed up, and her cheeks are badly bruised. Yet somehow she manages a brave encouraging smile – and at this moment Brody knows that if he really does have a soul, he would willingly sell it in return for even the slightest chance of killing the man who has tormented her.

The Angel – the tormentor – is standing about 3ft to the left of Beth, watching the whole exchange between them. It is difficult to tell from the expression on his face what he is thinking – impossible to say whether the slight twist of his lips signifies amusement or merely contempt. What is certain is that he has a machine pistol in his hand, and though it is hanging loosely at the moment, it will only take him a second to lift it into the firing position.

The Angel moves two steps to the side, taking him further away from Beth. “Close the door behind you, Brody,” he says.

“Close the door? Sure,” Brody replies, pushing it till the handle on the other side has clicked loudly into place.

“Take off your jacket,” the Angel says. “I want to make sure that you’re not armed.”

“You told me on the phone not to bring a weapon with me, and I didn’t,” Brody answers.

The Angel swings the machine pistol so its barrel is pointing at the detective, “Take of your jacket,” he repeats.

Brody strips off his coat and holds it to the side – like a matador – to show there’s nothing concealed in it.

“Drop it on the floor, then turn around slowly,” the Angel says.

Brody lets go of the jacket and does a slow pirouette.

“I want you to roll up the legs of your pants as far as the knee,” the Angel tells him.

Brody obeys. No ankle holsters. Nowhere on his person that he could be hiding a gun – at least, nowhere he could get at it quickly.

The Angel’s body relaxes a little, though he still has his gun pointed at Brody’s chest. “Why have you come here?” he says.

“You asked me to,” Brody replies.

It doesn’t seem to be the answer the Angel has been expecting.

“And why do you think I did that?” he asks.

There seems nothing to be gained by lying – not at this stage of the game.

“You asked me to come because you want to kill me,” Brody says.

The Angel frowns, as if he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on here – as if someone’s changed the rules of life and not bothered to inform him.

“So you knew you were facing certain death, but you still came?” he says.

“Yeah,” Brody agrees.

“Why?” the Angel asks, his confusion deepening.

“Because I couldn’t let Beth go through this thing alone,” Brody says, being honest again.

The Angel finally understands. Or thinks he has.

“Oh, she really has you fooled, hasn’t she?” he scoffs. “You are as the serpent in the Garden of Eden, and must be smitten – even unto death. But she …” he risks a quick glance at Beth, “ … she is the real Evil One here.”

Maybe 15ft separate them, Brody calculates. If he tries to rush the Angel, he’ll be cut in half before he’s covered even five of them.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he says. “I’m the Evil One in this story. I seduced Beth. It’s all my fault. And I’m the only one who needs to die to make things right again.”

The Angel laughs hollowly.

“Oh, you’d really like me to believe that she’s innocent, wouldn’t you, Brody?” he asks. “But you see, I’ve heard the tape for myself. I’ve heard the filthy, disgusting things that she screamed to you while you were defiling her.”

He clicks back the safety on his machine pistol. Brody figures he has two – maybe three – seconds to live, and wonders if there’s anything useful he can do with them.

“Put the gun down, Baby,” Beth says, in a strange, older-sounding, voice which Brody doesn’t even recognize.

The Angel frowns again. “But he’s a bad man, Momma,” he protests, like a whining 15-year-old.

“Deep inside yourself, you always knew I wasn’t really a widow, didn’t you?” Beth demands harshly. “You always knew I only said my husband was dead because a divorced woman would never have been allowed inside the church.”

“The checks …” the Angel mumbles, more to himself than to anybody else, “… the checks which came through the post every single month.”

“You even said it yourself sometimes,” Beth continues relentlessly. “You remember, don’t you? ‘I’m looking out for you, Momma, until Daddy comes back.’ That’s what you said!”

The Angel’s guard has dropped a little, but not enough for Brody to risk rushing him.

“It’s not true,” the Angel says petulantly. “None of what you’re telling me is true.”

“Then who’s that?” Beth demands. “Just who do you think that is standing over there by the door?”

The Angel’s lip quivers, as if he’s about to cry.

“I … I … don’t know,” he stammers.

“Yes, you do! It’s your father. He’s come back, just like you always thought he would. And after the way you’ve treated me, you’re too ashamed to look at him, aren’t you? Aren’t you!”

The Angel’s head is bowed, and the machine pistol is pointing at the floor.

There’ll never be a better chance than this. Brody sprints across the room towards the madman. The sudden movement snaps the Angel out of his trance. He raises his weapon again.

But not quickly enough – because Brody has reached him, and grabs the barrel of the pistol.

Brody pulls one way, the Angel pulls another. The gun goes off, discharging perhaps a dozen ear-shattering rounds which ping angrily against the far wall, then ricochet across the room. And in the middle of this madness, Brody feels the pistol slipping from his hands.

The Angel has lost his grip on the weapon, too, and watches helplessly as it hits the floor and slides away. He wonders, for the briefest splinter of time, whether he should try to retrieve it, then dismisses the idea. Bend down, even for a moment, and he will be at Brody’s mercy. So if he is to defeat the Devil, it will have to be in hand-to-hand combat.

The Angel takes up a classic martial arts fighting stance – feet apart, hands ready to strike.

“I’ve killed better men than you with one arm tied behind my back,” he says, boasting like the 15-year-old boy he’d been only moments ago.

He lunges forward, chopping through the air with the heel of his hand. Brody side-steps and lashes out with his foot. It connects with the Angel’s knee. The Angel grunts, then moves – slightly stiffly – to one side.

The kick hasn’t disabled the Angel, Brody thinks, but at least it might slow him down a little – and in this kind of fight, even the slightest edge can determine victory or defeat.

Beth stands on tiptoe, gritting her teeth and stretching harder than she’s ever stretched before. Each tiny upward gain that the chain between the handcuffs makes on the inside of the hook takes a tremendous effort, setting her wrists on fire and putting so much pressure on her spine that she’s sure it’s on the point of snapping in two. She’s never gotten off the hook without the Angel’s help before – and though she’s doing the best she can, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to get off of it alone now.

From the corner of his eye, Brody can see Beth’s struggle. If she can just get free of the hook and make it to the door – to safety – he thinks, then all this will have been worth it.

The Angel attacks again, with a blow which is aimed at Brody’s neck, but glances onto his left shoulder. Glancing or not, it hurts like hell, first sending shooting pains to the tips of his fingers, then temporarily numbing the left arm.

This isn’t like the kung fu movies, Brody reminds himself – the Angel only has to get in one strategic blow and he’s a dead man.

The Angel lashes out with his right leg and Brody, dodging, feels a sudden breeze rush past his chin.

The Angel smiles demonically. Brody is out-classed – and they both know it. There can be but one resolution to this fight, and the only question is how long it will take.

Beth feels the chain slip over the lip of the hook, and suddenly she is free. The pressure is off her spine, but it still hurts like hell. Her legs feel like cotton wool and her head is pounding. Her body screams at her to lie down, but she ignores it and looks first at the two men who are locked in a fight to the death, then at the machine pistol which is lying 10ft away from them.

If she can only reach the gun, she tells herself.

If she can reach the gun, then she and Brody might still have a chance. Though every step she takes is like walking through acid, she sets off in a wide arc around the fighters.

Brody sees where she’s heading, and guesses what she’s planning to do. “Forget the gun!” he begs her. “Get out the door.”

Beth ignores his plea. He’s not deserted her, and she is not about to desert him. Another couple of feet, she thinks, and she’ll have reached the machine pistol. Another few seconds and the man who has turned her life into a nightmare will be dead.

The Angel sees the danger – and also the solution to it. If he can neutralize Brody before Beth has time to pick up the gun, then there’s still a chance he can carry out God’s will and redeem himself. Yes, there’s still a chance, but he’s going to have to move quickly. He tenses himself – and leaps.

Brody sees the Angel coming at him – his whole body in the air, his left leg extended to deliver the killer blow – and knows that in the next split second it’s going to be decided, one way or the other. He feints to one side, and then ducks down. When he feels the Angel flying over him, he straightens up, arms above his head, and pushes with all the strength he’s got left.

To both Beth and Brody, the next two seconds seem to take an eternity. The Angel flies through the air high above the floor, does a double somersault, and then is plunging downwards once more. He sees what is directly below him – waiting to welcome him – and lets out a high-pitched scream of terror. He tries to twist away from his fate, but he’s left it too late – far too late.

The point of the meat hook catches him squarely in the heart, then plows its way through muscle and bone until it is sticking out of his back. The Angel twitches – once – then just hangs there as his blood gushes out onto the freezer room floor.

21

It is late morning, on what looks like it’s going to be the nicest day of the year so far. Out on the streets, there’s a new air of optimism, and a general feeling that whatever damage the craziness of the last few days has caused can be put right. Feuds are being forgotten, transgressions forgiven. The man who started the mayhem is dead, and the troubles which resulted from it will be buried with him.

Brody stands at the foot of Beth’s hospital bed, gazing down at the beautiful, blonde-haired woman with the bruised face.

“I must look a mess,” Beth says.

“No, you … well, yeah, you do,” Brody admits. “But in a couple of weeks you’ll have healed up good as new.”

“You saved my life,” Beth says.

“And you saved mine,” Brody tells her. ‘If you hadn’t told Harrison to put the gun down when you did—”

Beth gives a slight shake of her head, which hardly dents the spotlessly white pillow. “That wasn’t me,” she says.

Brody laughs, though he’s not sure whether she’s joking or not – and if she is joking, just what the joke could possibly be.

“Not you?” he asks. “Well, from where I was standing, it sure looked like you.”

“But did it sound like me?” Beth asks.

“No, it didn’t,” Brody confesses. “Your voice was kinda strange.”

“I remember telling the Angel to put his gun down. I remember telling him you were his father, who had come home at last. But even as I was saying the words, they didn’t seem like they were coming from me. It was as if I’d been taken over – as if I had somebody else inside of me, doing the talking for me.”

“You were in a weird state at the time,” Brody says. “Who wouldn’t have been, after all you’d been through?”

But Beth isn’t about to be put off, or have it explained away.

“While it was happening, I didn’t know who that somebody was. But I think I do now. I think that I was being used by the restless spirit of Martha Harrison. I hope that, after yesterday, she’s finally found peace.”

Maybe she’s right, Brody thinks. Or maybe it’s simply that the Angel had told her so much about his mother that Beth knows her like a sister. They can never be certain one way or the other. But that’s not why he’s here. The Angel is in the past, and he wants to look to the future.

“I was wondering,” he says, “if when you’re feeling better—” And then he dries up – which is ridiculous, because he’s a grown man, not a kid asking the best-looking girl in his class to the high school prom. “I was wondering …”

“Yes?” Beth says, not very encouragingly.

“… if we could kinda get back on track. You know, start seeing each other again, going out on dates. Things like that.”

And maybe, he thinks, maybe if it works out like he wants it to, they could start making plans to get married.

Beth’s beautiful blue eyes moisten. “I don’t think dating is such a good idea, Sam,” she says.

After the way she’s been acting for the last few seconds, he should have been expecting it – but he still feels as if he’s been hit by a truck.

“You mind telling me why you don’t think that it’s such a good idea?” he asks her.

Beth dabs the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. “It’s not that I don’t like you,” she says. “I do. I like you a lot. Maybe I even love you.”

She maybe loves him, but she doesn’t want to see him again? It doesn’t make any sense to Brody.

“So what’s the problem?” he asks.

Beth shrugs helplessly. “It’s so difficult to explain without sounding foolish. I guess the problem from my point of view is that I just don’t seem to bring the men in my life any luck.”

“Which men in your life?”

“You, for a start. I almost got you killed—”

“You had nothing to do with it,” Brody protests. “It was all down to the Angel, and he was a crazy man.”

“… and if I’d been a better, more supportive wife to Jack, maybe he’d still be alive today.”

“You can’t go on blaming yourself for your husband’s death, Beth,” Brody tells her.

“Who else do I have to blame?” she asks. “Don’t you see, Sam, I wouldn’t be good for you. I’m meant to be a single-parent. I think I’m pretty good at it – and it doesn’t cause problems for anyone else.”

Brody discovers that he’s made fists of both of his hands and is digging into his palms with his fingernails.

“This is all my fault,” he says. “I shouldn’t have asked you to make any decisions while you’re still in shock.”

“Maybe I am still in shock,” Beth says seriously. “But even when I’m back to normal, I’m not going to change my mind.”

Brody looks into the determined blue eyes. No, he tells himself, I don’t think she will change her mind.

“I’ll go now,” he says.

“Yes,” Beth agrees. “I think that would be best.”

He walks over to the door.

“So I guess I’ll see you around,” he says.

“Yes, see you around,” Beth replies.

But they know that neither of them means it, that the city is a big enough place to avoid people if you really want to – and that since their meetings would be so painful, avoiding them is exactly what they’re going to do.

Brody opens the door and steps out into the hallway. He doesn’t look back.

22

The bar is called ‘Jake’s Hideaway’. It is located just south of the park, and Brody is the only customer. At first the barman tries to engage him in conversation – maybe because he thinks that’s what a professional barman should do, maybe just because he’s feeling lonely himself – but when Brody shows little enthusiasm for dialog, he contents himself with filling the empty air by turning up the volume on the television screens which line the walls.

Brody gazes indifferently at the screen while half a dozen local entrepreneurs – most of who seem to have ‘Crazy’ as a first name – offer him automobiles and couches and refrigerators at hitherto unimaginably low prices. Then the advertisements come to an end, the local news begins, and the hero of the hour is suddenly filling the screen.

The Brody on television is talking to a bunch of reporters – and looks like shit.

‘I was just doing my job,’ he says.

“Jesus!” the Brody in the bar thinks, “did I really say that? ‘I was just doing my job.’ It sounds so fucking dumb!”

The bartender sidles up and looks at him through narrowed eyes.

“Hey, that’s you!” he says, pointing up at the screen. “You’re Sam Brody! The big hero!”

Brody shakes his head. “It’s not me – I only look like him,” he explains. “Name’s George Knight, and I’m in real estate.”

The bartender goes away, a disappointed man. Brody continues to watch the television.

The scene has shifted to City Hall.

‘In a number of what have been described as highly productive meetings which have taken place this morning, the Mayor has been hammering out a reconstruction policy with minority community leaders,’ the on-screen reporter says.

Brody turns away. He is sick of the city and its problems. He is sick of everything. He holds out his shot glass.

“Hit me again,” he tells the bartender.

The drink is poured.

“Pity you ain’t Sam Brody,” the bartender tells him. “You hadda been, all your drinks woulda been on the house.”

“That’s the way it goes,” Brody says. “Some guys are meant to be heroes, others just sell apartments.”

He takes a sip of his whiskey, and finds himself thinking about his wife. It took Linda so long to die that he’d been sure that when her death did finally come, he would be prepared and able to handle it. He’d been wrong. The devastation he’d felt as he stood by her graveside was beyond his wildest imaginings. She left a hole in his existence which, however many hours he put in on his cases, he couldn’t even begin to plug.

Then he’d met Beth Baker – and knowing her had made him realize that maybe there could be a life after Linda.

And now he’s lost Beth, too, and he’s starting to think that there is only one way to kill the pain, and that is to follow the lead set by Beth’s husband.

He feels a tap on his shoulder, and turns to see George Knight standing there.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” his partner says.

Brody finds himself wishing that, when he left the hospital, he hadn’t called Knight and told him why Beth had said they could never be together – but George is both his partner and his best friend, so who else was he going to call when he had lost all hope?

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, George,” he says. “I don’t want to talk about anything. I just want to be left alone.”

“This ain’t social, it’s work,” Knight tells him. “I’ve spent the morning chasing down cases all over the country, and it seems like the shrink was right.”

“The shrink was right about what?” Brody asks, though he’s not real interested.

“He was right about Tom Harrison having killed before. So far, I’ve found five almost perfect matches, and it looks like there may be others.”

“We already knew he was a serial killer,” Brody says wearily. “He confessed as much to Beth.”

“The thing is, Mrs Baker needs to be told about the latest developments,” Knight says. “And I kinda figured, given your relationship with her, that you should be the guy to do it.”

The thought of seeing Beth again makes Brody’s stomach heave.

“Needs to be told?” he repeats, masking his pain with a rising anger. “Why should she need to be told? You think it’s going to make any difference to her whether Harrison killed three women or a hundred? And even if she does need to be told – even if some shrink has worked out that it will be better for her to have the full picture – she doesn’t need to be told right now, and she doesn’t need to be told by me!”

“What she needs to know – what she has a right to know – is that not all the victims were female,” George Knight says firmly. “And you’re the one who has to tell her – because when she learns the truth, you’re the one she’s going to want beside her.”

*

Beth has been hoping for a clean break, and now, only a couple of hours after he left her, Brody is here again, standing over her bed.

“What … what is it, Sam?” she asks.

“Police business,” Brody tells her. “I need to talk to you about your husband’s suicide.”

“But what’s that got to do with—?” Beth begins.

“He didn’t leave a note, did he?” Brody interrupts.

“No. No he didn’t. ”

Brody sighs. “There’s something you need to know, Beth, and there’s no easy way to say it, so I’m going to tell it to you like George Knight told it to me. That is, if you feel strong enough for another shock. If you’re not, I’ll come back another time.”

Come back another time, she thinks?

Give her another opportunity to tell herself what a fool she is to give up Sam Brody – even though she knows that’s what she must do?

“I’m strong enough to hear it now,” she says.

And Brody thinks, yes you are. You are one remarkable woman.

“George has been checking through the reports on the Angel’s other victims,” he says. “The first one we’re sure of is Elaine Dobbs who lived in Springfield, Illinois. In 1984, she was found floating in the river, but two years before that, her husband was murdered at home by an intruder. The husband’s case is still open. Then there was Franny Wilkes from Fort Worth, Texas. She drowned too, in 1988, 18 months after her husband fell to his death from roof of an office block he had no reason at all to be visiting. The third victim is a woman called Hilary Jane Sanders, from Des Moines, Iowa—”

“What exactly are you saying?” Beth demands.

“There are too many similar cases for it to be a coincidence. We had things completely the wrong way round. The Angel didn’t pick out widows to protect. He first selected the women he wanted, then made them widows.”

“You’re … you’re saying that you think he killed Jack?”

“That’s the way it looks.”

“Oh my God,” Beth says, putting her hand over her heart. “I never suspected. I always thought that I—”

“I know finding this out isn’t going to make bearing your loss any easier,” Brody says.

“No, it … it won’t.”

“But don’t you think it just might help to take away some of the guilt you’ve been feeling?”

“I ...I don’t know,” Beth stutters. “I’m so confused.”

“You had as much do with your husband’s death as you had with the Angel trying to kill me,” Brody tells her. “All you were was the unwitting subject of Harrison’s sick fantasies. And you can’t blame yourself for that, can you?”

“I need time to think …” Beth says, “… time to take it all in.”

“Sure,” Brody says. He walks over to the door, then stops, turns around and smiles. “When the medics say it’s okay for you to go home, would you like me to drive you?” he asks.

Beth smiles back. “I’d like that very much,” she tells him.