Then, my heart was pounding and my eyes were open. I was wide awake, felt alarm, and didn't know why. The transition was so abrupt I had to orient myself.

The room was pitch black. The clock read one twenty-seven. Birdie was gone. I lay in the dark holding my breath, listening, straining for a clue. Why had my body gone to red alert? Had I heard something? What blip had my personal radar detected? Some sensory receptor had sent a signal. Had Birdie heard something? Where was he? It was unlike him to prowl at night.

I relaxed my body and listened harder. The only sound was my heart hammering against my chest. The house was eerily silent.

Then I heard it. A soft clunk followed by a faint metallic rattle. I waited, rigid, not breathing. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty seconds. A glowing digit changed shape on the clock. Then, when I thought I might have imagined it, I heard it again. Clunk. Rattle. My molars compressed like a Black & Decker vise, and my fingers curled into fists.

Was someone in the apartment? I'd grown accustomed to the ordinary sounds of the place. This sound was different, an acoustic intruder. It didn't belong.

Silently, I eased back the quilt and swung my legs out of bed. Blessing last night's sloppiness, I reached for my T-shirt and jeans and slipped them on. I stole across the carpet.

I stopped at the bedroom door to look back in search of a possible weapon. Nothing. There was no moon, but light from a streetlamp oozed through the window in the other bedroom and partly lit the hall with a faint glow. I stole forward, past the bathroom, toward the hall with the courtyard doors. Every few steps I stopped to listen, breath frozen, eyes wide. At the entrance to the kitchen, I heard it again. Clunk. Rattle. It was coming from somewhere near the French doors.

I turned right into the kitchen and peered toward the French doors on the patio side of the apartment. Nothing moved. Silently cursing my aversion to guns, I scanned the kitchen for a weapon. It wasn't exactly an a.r.s.enal. Noiselessly, I slid my trembling hand along the wall, feeling for the knife holder. Choosing a bread knife, I wrapped my fingers around the handle, pointed the blade backward, and dropped my arm into full extension.

Slowly, testing with one bare foot at a time, I tiptoed forward far enough to see into the living room. It was as dark as the bedroom and kitchen.

I made out Birdie in the gloom. He was sitting a few feet from the doors, his eyes fixed on something beyond the gla.s.s. The tip of his tail twitched back and forth in jittery little arcs. He looked tense as an unshot arrow.

Another clunk-rattle stopped my heart and froze my breath. It came from outside. Birdie's ears went horizontal.

Five tremorous steps brought me alongside Birdie. Unconsciously, I reached out to pat his head. He recoiled at the unexpected touch and went tearing across the room with such force that his claws left divots in the carpet. They looked like small, black commas in the murky darkness. If a cat could be said to scream, Birdie did it.

His flight totally unnerved me. For a moment I was paralyzed, frozen in place like an Easter Island statue.

Do like the cat and get yourself out of here! the voice of panic told me.

I took a step backward. Clunk. Rattle. I stopped, clutching the knife as if it were a lifeline. Silence. Blackness. Da-dum. Da-dum. I listened to my heartbeat, searching my mind for a sector still able to think critically.

If someone is in the apartment, it told me, he is behind you. Your escape route is forward, not backward. But if someone is just outside, don't provide him with a way in.

Da-dum. Da-dum.

The noise is outside, I argued. What Birdie heard is outside.

Da-dum. Da-dum.

Take a look. Flatten yourself against the wall next to the courtyard doors and move the curtains just enough to peer outside. Maybe you can see a shape in the darkness.

Reasonable logic.

Armed with my Chicago Cutlery, I unglued one foot from the carpet, inched forward, and reached the wall. Breathing deeply, I moved the curtain a few inches. The shapes and shadows in the yard were poorly defined but recognizable. The tree, the bench, some bushes. Nothing identifiable as movement, except for branches pushed by wind. I held my position for a long moment. Nothing changed. I moved toward the center of the curtains and tested the door handle. Still locked.

Knife at the ready, I sidled along the wall toward the main entrance door. Toward the security system. The warning light glowed evenly, indicating no breach. On impulse I pressed the test b.u.t.ton.

A noise split the silence, and despite my antic.i.p.ating it, I jumped. My hand jerked upward, bringing the knife into readiness.

Stupid! the functioning brain fragment told me. The security system is operating and it hasn't been breached! Nothing has been opened! No one has entered.

Then he's out there! I responded, still quite shaken.

Maybe, said my brain, but that's not so bad. Turn on some lights, show some activity, and any prowler with sense will beat it out of here.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. In a gesture of bravado, I switched on the hall light rapidly followed by every light between there and my bedroom. No intruders anywhere. As I sat on the edge of my bed holding the knife I heard it again. A m.u.f.fled clunk, rattle. I jumped and almost cut myself.

Emboldened by my conviction that no intruder was inside, I thought, All right you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, let me catch just one glimpse, and I'm gonna call the cops.

I moved back to the French doors adjacent to the side yard, quickly this time. That room was still unlit, and I moved the curtain edge once more and peered out, bolder than before.

The scene was the same. Vaguely familiar shapes, some moved by the wind. Clunk, rattle! I started involuntarily, then thought, That noise is back from the doors, not at the doors.

I remembered the side yard floodlight, and moved to find the switch. This was no time to worry about annoying the neighbors. With the light on I returned to my curtain edge. The floodlight was not powerful, but it displayed the yard's features well enough.

The rain had stopped but a breeze had picked up. A fine mist danced in the beam of the light. I listened for a while. Nothing. I scanned my available field of vision several times. Nothing. Recklessly, I deactivated the security system, opened the French door, and stuck my head outside.

To the left, against the wall, the black spruce lived up to its name, but no foreign shape mingled with its branches. The wind gusted slightly, and the branches moved. Clunk. Rattle. A new surge of fright.

The gate. The noise was coming from the gate. My gaze whipped to it in time to catch a slight movement as it settled into place. As I watched, the wind surged again and the gate moved slightly within the boundaries of its latch. Clunk. Rattle.

Chagrined, I marched into the yard and up to the gate. Why had I never noticed that sound? Then I flinched once more. The lock was gone. The padlock that prevented any movement of the latch was missing. Had Winston neglected to replace it after cutting the gra.s.s? He must have.

I gave the gate a sharp shove to secure the latch as tightly as I could and turned back toward the door. Then I heard the other sound, more delicate and m.u.f.fled.

Looking toward it, I saw a foreign object in my herb garden. Like a pumpkin impaled on a stick coming out of the ground. The wispy rustle was that of a plastic covering, moved by the wind.

A horrifying realization overtook me. Without knowing why I knew, I sensed what was beneath that plastic cover. My legs trembled as I crossed the gra.s.s and yanked the plastic upward.

At the sight, nausea overcame me and I turned to retch. Wiping my hand across my mouth, I charged back inside, slammed and locked the door, and reset my security alarm.

I fumbled for a number, lurched to the phone, and willed myself to punch the correct b.u.t.tons. The call was answered on the fourth ring.

"Get over here, please. Right now!"

"Brennan?" Groggy. "What the f-"

"This G.o.dd.a.m.n minute, Ryan! Now! Now!"

24.

AGALLON OF TEA LATER I I WAS CURLED IN WAS CURLED IN B BIRDIE'S ROCKER, DULLY observing Ryan. He was on his third call, this one personal, a.s.suring someone he'd be a while. Judging by his end, the call's recipient wasn't happy. Tough. observing Ryan. He was on his third call, this one personal, a.s.suring someone he'd be a while. Judging by his end, the call's recipient wasn't happy. Tough.

Hysteria has its rewards. Ryan had arrived within twenty minutes. He searched the apartment and yard, then contacted the c.u.m to arrange for a patrol unit to stake out the building. Ryan had placed the bag and its grisly contents into another, larger bag, sealed it, and put it in a corner of the dining room floor. He would take it to the morgue tonight. The recovery team would come in the morning. We were in the living room, me sitting and sipping tea, Ryan pacing and talking.

I wasn't sure which had the more calming effect, the tea or Ryan. Probably not the tea. What I really wanted was a serious drink. Want didn't really describe it. Crave came closer. Actually, I wanted many drinks. A bottle I could pour from until there was no more. Forget it, Brennan. The cap's on and it's going to stay on.

I sipped my tea and watched Ryan. He wore jeans and a faded denim shirt. Good choice. The blues lit his eyes like colorizing on old film. He finished his calls and sat down.

"That should do it," he said, tossing the phone onto the couch and running a hand over his face. His hair was disheveled and he looked tired. But, then, I probably didn't look like Claudia Schiffer.

Do what? I wondered.

"I appreciate your coming," I said. "I'm sorry I overreacted." I'd already said this, but repeated myself.

"No. You didn't."

"I don't usually-"

"It's okay. We're going to get this psycho."

"I could've just-"

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. The blue lasers grabbed my eyes and held them. A fleck of lint rode one of his lashes, like a pollen grain clinging to a pistil.

"Brennan, this is serious. There's a guy out there that's some sort of mental mutant. He's psychologically malformed. He's like the rats that tunnel under garbage heaps and slink through sewer pipes in this city. He's a predator. His wiring's twisted, and now he's fed you into whatever degenerate nightmare he's spinning for himself. But he's made a mistake, and we're going to flush him out and squash him. That's what you do with vermin."

The intensity of his response startled me. I could think of nothing to say. Pointing out his mixed metaphors seemed unwise.

He took my silence for skepticism.

"I mean it, Brennan. This a.s.shole has dog food for brains. Which means you can't pull any more of your stunts."

His comment turned me churlish, a swing that didn't need much of a push. I was feeling vulnerable and dependent and hating myself for it, so I turned my frustration on him.

"Stunts?" I spat at him.

"s.h.i.t, Brennan, I don't mean tonight."

We both knew what he did mean. He was right, which increased my annoyance and made me even more contentious. I swirled my tea, now cold, and held my silence.

"This animal's obviously been stalking you," he drummed on, persistent as a jackhammer. "He knows where you live. He knows how to get in."

"He didn't really get in."

"He planted a G.o.dd.a.m.n human head in your backyard!"

"I know!" I screamed, my composure developing a major fault line.

My eyes slid to the dining room corner. The thing from the garden lay there, silent and inert, an artifact waiting to be processed. It could have been anything. A volleyball. A globe. A melon. The round object in its shiny black bag looked harmless inside the clear plastic into which Ryan had sealed it.

I stared at it, and images of the grisly contents washed over my mind. I saw the skull rising on its scrawny, picket neck. I saw empty orbits staring straight ahead and pink neon glinting off the white enamel in the gaping mouth. I imagined the intruder cutting the lock and boldly crossing the yard to plant his gruesome memento.

"I know," I repeated, "you're right. I'll have to be more careful."

I swirled my cup again, looking for answers in the leaves.

"Want some tea?"

"No. I'm fine." He got up. "I'll check to see if the unit's here."

He disappeared into the back of the apartment, and I made myself another cup. I was still in the kitchen when he returned.

"There's one unit parked in the alley across the street. There'll be another one around back. I'll check with them when I leave. No one should be able to get near this building without being seen."

"Thanks." I took a sip and leaned against the counter.

He took out a pack of du Maurier's and raised his eyebrows at me.

"Sure."

I hated smoke in the apartment. But, then, he probably hated being there. Life is compromise. I thought about searching out my one ashtray, but didn't bother. He smoked and I sipped without speaking, leaning against the counter, each lost in thought. The refrigerator hummed.

"You know, it wasn't really the skull that freaked me. I'm used to skulls. It was just so . . . so out of context."

"Yeah."

"It's a cliche, I know, but I feel so violated. Like some alien creature breached my personal s.p.a.ce, rooted about, and left when he lost interest in anything more."

I gripped the mug tightly, feeling vulnerable and hating it. Also feeling stupid. He'd no doubt heard some version of that speech many times. If so, he didn't mention it.

"Do you think it's St. Jacques?"

He looked at me, then flicked his ash into the sink. Leaning back against the counter, he took a deep pull. His legs stretched almost to the refrigerator.

"I don't know. h.e.l.l, we can't even pin down who it is we rousted. St. Jacques is probably an alias. Whoever was using that s.h.i.thole probably didn't really live there. Turns out the landlady only saw him twice. We've staked the place for a week, and no one's gone in or out."

Hummm. Pull, exhale. Swirl.

"He had my picture in his collection. He'd cut it out and marked it."

"Yep."

"Be straight with me."

He paused a minute, then, "He'd be my pick. Coincidence is just too improbable."

I knew it, but didn't want to hear it. Even more, I didn't want to think about what it meant. I gestured toward the skull.

"From the body we found in St. Lambert?"

"Whoa, that's your country."

He took a last drag, ran tap water over the b.u.t.t, and looked around for someplace to put it. I pushed off the counter and opened a cabinet containing a trash bag. As he raised up, I laid a hand on his forearm.