"Whatever you want to call it," Redmond growled as he dragged a notebook out of his back pocket. "I call it withholding evidence." His movements were jerky, his expression furious. "What's the address?"

Brynna's eyes widened. "I don't have any idea." She stood. "But I can take you right to his door."

Fifteen.

He felt calmer now.

Klesowitch had been driving all day. Not going anywhere in particular, just kind of wandering around. He'd been scheduled to start work at three o'clock, but he'd called and said he was going to be late. He'd made up an excuse-he couldn't remember what-and the day manager had accepted it. It was the second time this week he'd called in late, but at least he hadn't told his manager that he wasn't coming in at all. He'd taken sick days once early last week and once the week before that, both times that he'd had to do the Holy Man's a.s.signments. Did he even have any medical time left? He'd been saying he had a medical issue, knowing that the manager wouldn't feel comfortable questioning on it-privacy laws and all that. Besides, the woman really didn't want to know; she didn't care care about Michael Klesowitch other than trying to make the personnel schedule work. about Michael Klesowitch other than trying to make the personnel schedule work.

Klesowitch gritted his teeth. He needed to be tougher, d.a.m.n it, and not think about these problems. He needed to do his duty and walk away proud. A righteous rock in the hand of the Lord.

But he wasn't, oh no. He was weak, and he was uncertain. Instead of getting stronger as time went by, he was getting more and more hesitant, cowardly. He had to stop his wavering right now, pull himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, and get the d.a.m.ned job done. Not many people were chosen for this kind of thing, so he couldn't take the chance of failing. It just wasn't an option.

And see-here was the proof. All this time that he'd thought he was just driving aimlessly while thinking, and yet his car, an aging Toyota Corolla, had ended up right in front of that high school girl's building again. Yeah, there was still that ... feeling feeling about it, but it wasn't so bad now. He had beat it. Maybe it had never been there in the first place, a case of the "vapors," as his mother would have called it. Nervousness for no reason, or she'd sometimes claimed it was "sad memories." She used to have those sad memories every now and then and dose herself up good with Librium. He'd always wondered if it had something to do with the father he'd never known, a man his mother had confessed had come into her life and seduced her, then disappeared without so much as leaving behind a photograph, much less a last name. Had he inherited his mother's anxiety problems? It wasn't impossible. about it, but it wasn't so bad now. He had beat it. Maybe it had never been there in the first place, a case of the "vapors," as his mother would have called it. Nervousness for no reason, or she'd sometimes claimed it was "sad memories." She used to have those sad memories every now and then and dose herself up good with Librium. He'd always wondered if it had something to do with the father he'd never known, a man his mother had confessed had come into her life and seduced her, then disappeared without so much as leaving behind a photograph, much less a last name. Had he inherited his mother's anxiety problems? It wasn't impossible.

Nothing was impossible.

Klesowitch pushed the thoughts of his mother from his mind and worked his car into a parking spot at the end of the main walkway to the door of the girl's building. It was tight, and he would have preferred something bigger, like a bus stop, but it was the only thing with a solid line of sight, an absolute necessity. He'd have to stay in the car and wait it out-he couldn't very well just stand in front of the building on the empty sidewalk with his pistol hidden under his coat. He'd look like some kind of pedophile.

What time was it? G.o.d, it was like a blast furnace in the car, with the sun searing through the windshield. Klesowitch had no choice but to roll down the windows-it was that or suffocate. He pulled a hand across his forehead and eyes and his fingers came away dripping with sweat. It crawled into the corners of his eyes and stung, making him squint. Did people really leave animals and kids locked inside their cars in the summer? It was unthinkable. He struggled out of his soaked denim jacket and threw it on the pa.s.senger floor. For a few minutes he felt a bit cooler, then the sauna effect began to build again. He couldn't do this, the heat was killing him. He'd have to come back in the morning, try again in the tolerable morning hours before the temperatures rose- There.

Klesowitch jerked upright, the summer heat forgotten as he watched a city bus swerve to the curb. The vehicle's air brakes hissed as it stopped, and when it pulled away, the girl was standing on the sidewalk. Despite the oversized backpack she was hauling around, the teen stood tall and beautiful. What a difference from what Klesowitch had been expecting-the c.r.a.ppy printed image the Holy Man had given him might as well have been a line drawing on newsprint. Everything was incongruous. The Holy Man had insisted that no matter how young she was, she was evil and despicable, just like the others, and that horrible things would happen if Klesowitch didn't eliminate her. But in the here and now ... it was so off. off. It was seeming more and more wrong every time he had to do one of these tasks. The sun was shining, it was a hot summer day-even the birds were singing. How was he supposed to believe that this sparkling young woman, this It was seeming more and more wrong every time he had to do one of these tasks. The sun was shining, it was a hot summer day-even the birds were singing. How was he supposed to believe that this sparkling young woman, this kid, kid, was malevolent? was malevolent?

"Faith," Michael mumbled. "That's how."

He set his jaw and tried to bring the pistol up, but the barrel caught beneath the steering wheel in the cramped area of the driver's seat. He yanked it free so brutally that he smacked the muzzle against the rearview mirror hard enough to actually crack it. It made a loud enough sound so that the girl glanced in his direction as she walked past his car and turned down the sidewalk toward her building. His grip was slick with sweat and the gun slid out of his flailing fingers and thunked to the dirty floormat. Klesowitch grabbed for it and accidentally kicked it halfway under the driver's seat.

"Wait-hey, girl!" Michael called out. He was panicking now, overreacting in his effort to keep her in his sights until he could get the gun up and get off a good shot. d.a.m.n it all, he couldn't quite get hold of the weapon. "I want to talk to you!"

The teenager was halfway to the door now, moving with quick, long-legged strides. She paused and looked back, then frowned. For an instant, Klesowitch imagined what she saw-a crazed-looking older guy with a sweating red face making frantic, jerky movements out of sight in his car. He felt suddenly deeply ashamed at what she must think, and that in itself made him think he was going utterly insane. How could he be afraid she might think he was some kind of pedophile but still believe it was all right to murder her in cold blood?

For a second his gaze locked with hers, then his hand brushed against the barrel of his pistol.

She ran.

"d.a.m.n it!" Klesowitch screamed. His fingers spasmed, and instead of closing around the pistol's handle he accidentally pushed it away. He twisted and forced his body sideways under the steering wheel, slapping his hand wildly beneath the seat. There-finally, he had it. Klesowitch screamed. His fingers spasmed, and instead of closing around the pistol's handle he accidentally pushed it away. He twisted and forced his body sideways under the steering wheel, slapping his hand wildly beneath the seat. There-finally, he had it.

When he clawed his way upright, the girl was already shoving her key into the lock; like his, her movements were frantic and clumsy. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him as he lunged across the driver's seat; she tried again, bending over as she struggled to get the key to go in.

Klesowitch grinned. It was a statistical fact that people under high stress lost motor control-they fell when they ran, they couldn't remember PIN numbers when a kidnapper wanted money, they dropped keys or, like the panicking girl in his sights, just couldn't get the key in the lock. Hadn't he just done the same thing with his pistol?

He took a deep, calming breath, then raised the Type 64 and fired.

REDMOND STILL WASN'T SPEAKING to her as they pushed through the hallway door and stepped into the foyer where the mailboxes were. His anger was almost palpable in the hot air, unseen but unpleasant; there was little she could do about it, but at least she could atone, to a point, by taking him to the nephilim killer's apartment. In her ongoing quest to find acceptance as a twenty-first-century woman, perhaps she should stop thinking of the man like that and put it more in human terms: humans did not believe in nephilim, hence the shooter was a to her as they pushed through the hallway door and stepped into the foyer where the mailboxes were. His anger was almost palpable in the hot air, unseen but unpleasant; there was little she could do about it, but at least she could atone, to a point, by taking him to the nephilim killer's apartment. In her ongoing quest to find acceptance as a twenty-first-century woman, perhaps she should stop thinking of the man like that and put it more in human terms: humans did not believe in nephilim, hence the shooter was a serial serial killer. If she referred to him as Redmond did, it might make conversations between them go a little smoother. It was worth a try, anyway. killer. If she referred to him as Redmond did, it might make conversations between them go a little smoother. It was worth a try, anyway.

There was a shadow on the other side of the full-length frosted panel on the outside door, and Brynna instantly recognized it as Mireva's. The girl was hunched over and doing something to the lock, or the door handle ... something. something. It sounded like she was It sounded like she was clawing clawing at it. at it.

Something was wrong. In the short time it took Brynna to cross the foyer, the teenager's shadow half turned away from the door, then came back to it. Brynna's hand was on the handle when for no apparent reason, Mireva suddenly slammed into the gla.s.s face-first.

"What the h.e.l.l? h.e.l.l?" she heard Redmond shout, but she was already pulling on the handle. It was stuck-Mireva had managed to get her key in the old-fashioned lock but she hadn't had time to turn it; now the tumblers were locked in place around her key.

Mireva cried out and started to slide down the gla.s.s, and Brynna could see her trying to pull herself upright. She had no idea what was happening, but the teenager was trapped. "Screw this," Brynna snarled. At the far right corner of the thick window, an inch-long crack had appeared; the gla.s.s had cracked when Mireva smacked into it. At least it's away from her face, Brynna thought, and rammed her fist against it.

Redmond shouted something but Brynna couldn't hear him over the sound of shattering gla.s.s. Mireva tilted inward, flailing her arms as her shins caught on the bottom sill; Brynna reached out with both hands and grabbed the backpack straps running over Mireva's shoulders, then hauled her bodily through the window. Mireva gasped as the jagged edges of gla.s.s bit into her skin but she didn't fight. A sound cut through the air, strangely soft but compelling, and Mireva was thrust forward into Brynna's arms. Brynna held her balance-just barely-as the wheels of her memory spun and gave her information. Yes, she had heard that noise before, a split second before Tobias Gallagher had been shot in the head right in front of her.

The nephilim killer!

Redmond was already shoving his way past Brynna and Mireva. The killer wasn't finished-he had to be right outside, taking aim, and as long as he could see Mireva and there was a chance he could shoot her, he would keep trying. The three of them were crammed into this tiny foyer and the detective was headed right into the line of fire.

Brynna shoved Mireva against the back wall and lunged in front of Redmond.

"Brynna, get out of my way!" He tried to untangle himself from her, but she had him by the upper arms and wouldn't let go. "What are you doing?"

That sound again, twice, and each time like a knife splitting the air with cosmic speed. The second one Brynna felt at the same time she heard it, and she understood why Mireva had been tossed against the door like a child's ball. The impact spun her at the same time it knocked her backward. She fell against Mireva and the two of them went down at the same time Brynna heard Redmond shout, "Shooter! Shooter!" This time she couldn't stop him as he charged outside, scrambling through the remains of the window with his own gun drawn. Brynna registered a new sound- crack -as Redmond fired, then she heard a revving engine and a series of fast noises, metal crashing against metal. Redmond bellowed from outside and the metallic sound came again, followed by tires squealing and a straining engine. Another three seconds and even that was gone, and the only thing left was the ringing in her ears, echoes of the shot Redmond had fired.

"Brynna!" Redmond was back, climbing through the window opening. She heard shouts from the hallway, tenants yelling about gunshots and demanding to know what was going on. Mireva was trapped beneath Brynna's weight, shaking and crying silently. "Are you all right? c.r.a.p, you're hit!"

Again? This was really getting old. Brynna shook her head to clear it, then pushed herself up. Pain, like someone had pressed a hot branding iron against her skin, went through her left arm, just above the elbow. When she looked at it, blood welled from a single hole with a dark, scarlet center.

"Just grazed," she said, ignoring Redmond's knowing gaze. "Come on, Mireva. He's gone now. Let's get you inside."

Before Brynna had finished her sentence, the inside foyer door burst open, revealing a crowd of tenants beyond. Mireva's mother pushed to the front, her face rigid with shock and fear. Brynna wanted to go after the nephilim killer, but she had to make herself wait and let things play out. Everyone was talking at once, with Redmond on his cell phone and Abrienda gathering up her daughter while half a dozen others swarmed around the four of them like ants taking care of their hill. Someone pressed a towel against Brynna's arm and she accepted it, then shook her head when Redmond mouthed, "Ambulance?" It hurt-this third time wasn't any easier than the first two-but at least this time she could take care of it in the privacy of her apartment. After that, she was going to the nephilim killer's building.

And with or without Redmond's approval, she was going to kill him.

Sixteen.

"You shouldn't be out," Redmond said for the second time as he braked for a stoplight. "You need time to heal." He sent Brynna a sideways glance when she didn't answer, but he couldn't tell if she was focused on the street signs or ignoring him. He wanted to repeat himself, but he knew it would do no good; she'd just say she'd spent the morning doing just that and now she was ready to go. She was such a strange and independent woman. If she was a woman at all.

I'm not human ...

He wanted to say that her words came back to him at odd times, but that wasn't true. They came back at just the right right times, like late yesterday afternoon, after all the chaos had died down and the beat cops and the neighbors and the relatives had finally gone away and he and Brynna could retreat to her apartment. times, like late yesterday afternoon, after all the chaos had died down and the beat cops and the neighbors and the relatives had finally gone away and he and Brynna could retreat to her apartment.

They'd come back when, for the third time, he'd watched Brynna gouge a bullet out of her own flesh. At least this time she'd used a clean knife, even if she had taken it from a kitchen drawer and pushed it into her arm before he could do something as silly and human human as sterilize the d.a.m.ned thing. She'd waved away his protests, and what could he say when, twelve hours later, her wound was clean and closed, if a little on the side of raw? as sterilize the d.a.m.ned thing. She'd waved away his protests, and what could he say when, twelve hours later, her wound was clean and closed, if a little on the side of raw?

"Earth to Brynna. Anyone home?" She hadn't said anything for almost the entire trip. They were on Halsted and getting close to Wrightwood; a left turn, then a quick right onto Mildred, and she'd finally have have to start talking because she didn't know the street number of the serial killer's apartment building. "Come on," he said. He knew he sounded exasperated, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't over his fury about her not telling him about Klesowitch, and this was just making him more frustrated. "What's going on in your head?" to start talking because she didn't know the street number of the serial killer's apartment building. "Come on," he said. He knew he sounded exasperated, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't over his fury about her not telling him about Klesowitch, and this was just making him more frustrated. "What's going on in your head?"

Five seconds pa.s.sed, then ten. Redmond was about to simply pull over and wait it out when Brynna spoke. "I feel ... odd," she said.

Redmond sat up straighter. "Odd? Are you sick? You might have an infection from the bullet-"

She held up a hand. "No, not odd like that." She paused, and Redmond could see her trying to work it out mentally. "Regretful, I guess. Guilty." She looked at her hands. "You told me that people have died because I didn't reveal the whereabouts of the nephilim killer."

"Brynna, I didn't mean-"

"But you did," she interrupted. "And you were right. I remember you telling me that there were two women, and their ages." She still wasn't looking him in the eye. "They were both young. One wasn't much older than Mireva." Brynna turned her head and stared out the window. "They were hardly here at all, and the killer snuffed them out like their lives were no more important than candle flames."

Redmond tried to think of something to say but couldn't. Everything she'd said was true.

"It's sad to think about," Brynna continued. "Sad, and ... heavy heavy somehow. I've never felt guilt before. I've never somehow. I've never felt guilt before. I've never had had to." She scowled. "It's very difficult, and yet there are so many people in the world who don't seem to be affected by it." to." She scowled. "It's very difficult, and yet there are so many people in the world who don't seem to be affected by it."

"Sociopaths."

"What?"

"Sociopaths," Redmond said again. "People who feel no guilt exhibit what psychiatrists call sociopathic behavior. No matter what they do or who they hurt, they feel no guilt or regret about it. They don't care. Often they actually enjoy hurting others, and most don't see any problem with sacrificing other people to get what they want." He paused. "Maybe that's what we're dealing with here."

"I don't think so," Brynna said in a low voice. "This man is a nephilim, and nephilim are irrevocably tied to humankind. He's been misled and my guess is that this is a great struggle for him. His ties to his destiny are strong, and unless he's lost himself completely, instinct tells him it's wrong and he'll question what he's doing more and more as time pa.s.ses."

"Then why do this to begin with?" Redmond asked.

"He's weak and he's making the wrong choices. It's the human part of him." Brynna's eyes were troubled when she looked at him. "You see, it's all about choices. It always has been. And it's making the wrong choices that gets us all all in trouble." in trouble."

Redmond thought about this as he neared the corner of Wrightwood and Mildred. Brynna had talked about choices before, and making the right ones was really what it all came down to. Still, he didn't think it was as black-and-white as it seemed on the surface. There were way too many things that affected decisions, especially the big ones, and if he understood what she claimed was happening here, deception was a key factor. So was circ.u.mstance. And what about those who were forced to choose something they might not have otherwise? Yeah, it was a lot more complicated. But then, wasn't everything? Choices were a part of life, and very few people had truly simple lives.

"This is Mildred," he said. "How far down?"

"Not far," she said. "Might as well park."

Redmond nodded and slid the car into a spot on the west side of the street. They got out and Redmond followed Brynna as she crossed to the east sidewalk. She was walking fast, with more determination than he thought he'd ever seen her show. Somehow he wasn't comforted by the change. "Wait up," he called when she turned into the walkway of an older apartment building. "I should go in first."

She tilted her head. "Why?"

"Because I'm the police," he explained patiently. "And you're not."

"Fine," Brynna said and moved aside to follow him. "The door in the back. But it's probably locked, and I don't know which apartment he lives in."

Redmond stopped at the entrance, considering. "But you know for sure he lives here?"

Brynna nodded. "I'm certain of it. I followed his scent." When he started to protest, she cut him off. "Before you say that's crazy, remember that's how I found Cho Kim."

What could he say to that? He tried the k.n.o.b out of habit, and of course it wouldn't turn. He pointed to the right side of the door, where there was a line of doorbells with a worn label over each. "But you can't tell from here?"

"Do you push your own doorbell?"

Good point. He stared at the names again, but that certainly wasn't going to help. With nothing beyond Brynna's ... guidance, guidance, he certainly hadn't been able to ask a judge for a search warrant-until now, he hadn't even had an address. No, he'd have to come up with some other way to figure out which of these people was his man. Then he had an idea. "Let's a.s.sume the killer is a nephilim like you say. Wouldn't his name be on that list, even if he isn't one of the victims?" he certainly hadn't been able to ask a judge for a search warrant-until now, he hadn't even had an address. No, he'd have to come up with some other way to figure out which of these people was his man. Then he had an idea. "Let's a.s.sume the killer is a nephilim like you say. Wouldn't his name be on that list, even if he isn't one of the victims?"

Brynna lifted one eyebrow. "Maybe. Actually, more than maybe. Probably."

Redmond pulled out his phone and had Onani on the line in less than a minute. "I've got some names here," he told the tech. "Run them against that hit list pulled off the jewelry store computer." When Onani was ready, Redmond read him the mailbox labels, spelling the less common ones. "Sallee, Osier-what? O-S-I-E-R. No, I have no idea how to p.r.o.nounce it. Nothing yet? Then try these: Van Patten, Ma.s.sie, Skinner, Klesowitch, Gallardo, Fa.s.sl-F-A-S-S-L." A grim smile swept across his mouth. "Got it. Here's the last three, just in case: deMonterice, Hodge, Sweedlow." He listened, then nodded. "Thanks." To Brynna he said, "We have a match. Klesowitch."

"Great." She put her hand on the doork.n.o.b. "Let's go get him. I can open this-"

"I see you!"

The shrill voice cut through the air and both Redmond and Brynna looked up. "Fabulous," she muttered. "Here we go again."

Above their heads, an old woman was leaning out of her apartment window. "And I remember you, young lady. I warned you before, this is a Neighborhood Watch area. I should've called the police on you the first time, but you can bet your bottom I'm going to right now!"

Brynna looked perplexed at the woman's words, but Redmond yanked out his badge and held it up before the woman could back away from the sill. "I am am the police, ma'am. May I ask you a few questions?" the police, ma'am. May I ask you a few questions?"

The old woman's face twisted in indecision. "What're you doing with her?"

"She's helping me locate someone," Redmond answered.

"She didn't even know his last name when she was here before!"

"Nothing wrong with her memory," Brynna said in a voice low enough so that only Redmond could hear.

Redmond suppressed a smile. "But we do now, and maybe you can help us."

The elderly woman peered down at him. "What is it?"

Redmond made a show of glancing around. "I'd rather not shout it out, if you get my meaning."

"All right," the woman said after a moment. Her gaze cut to the left and right, and Redmond could imagine her cooking up some great conspiracy. If only she had any real idea. "I'll ring you in. Third floor front."

There were no apartment numbers on the bells, but once the buzzer rang and they were inside, he could see who lived in which apartment. Klesowitch was on the second floor, in the rear; they would pa.s.s it on their way up, and if he heard movement inside ... well, there would be a little delay in talking to the building busybody.

But everything was silent on the second-floor landing, and Brynna confirmed it. "There's no one in his apartment," she whispered. "If there were, I'd be able to hear." Redmond set his jaw and reluctantly kept going, but what he really wanted to do was kick down the d.a.m.ned door.

"In here," the old woman said impatiently from the landing above them. "Don't take all day. Having the door open is letting out my air-conditioning."

"Yes, ma'am," Redmond said agreeably. He bit back a retort about how hanging out the open window would have the same effect. Next to him Brynna actually laughed under her breath as they were going through the doorway, although he had no idea why. The apartment was fairly s.p.a.cious, with flowered oval throw rugs on clean wood floors, and overstuffed antique furniture. A small air conditioner hummed in the window to the far left, and semi-sheer curtains muted the light. Dozens of framed photographs, most in black and white, were hung on walls that could have used repainting five years ago. Fresh flowers-daisies, lilies, and the like-rested in a vintage crystal vase on one of the end tables.

"Let me see your badge again," the woman demanded before he could introduce himself. "It might be fake. And don't think I'll be fooled if it is."

Redmond held it out but kept his grip on it when she tried to pull it from his fingers. With his other hand he offered his business card. "I'm Detective Redmond and this is Ms. Malak. Sorry, but I can't let you take the badge. You're welcome to call in the badge number if you like. We'll wait. And your name is ... ?"

She scowled at him, looking from his badge to the business card, then back to his face. Finally she gestured for them to sit. As they settled onto the couch, she announced in a voice that was too loud, "My name is Clara Sweedlow. I've been in this apartment for thirty-five years and I know everyone in this building."

I'll bet you do, Redmond thought, but outwardly he gave her as pleasant a smile as he could manage. Inside, his mind was spinning with impatience, but he knew from experience that you just couldn't push people like this old woman. They'd tell you just about everything you wanted to know, but it would be at their own pace. "Do you know Michael Klesowitch?"

"Of course I do." Clara Sweedlow lowered her ample frame onto a rocker upholstered in worn floral fabric, then folded her hands in her lap like a prim schoolteacher. "He's a very nice young man, lives on the second floor in the rear. Very polite. Very religious," she added with a small, satisfied nod. Her watery gaze focused on Brynna and her eyes narrowed. "A bit young for you, I'd think. Although he's very good-looking, so I can see why you'd be interested."

"I'm not-" Brynna began, but she stopped when Redmond cleared his throat pointedly.