"Lear wants me to testify in open court, to reveal my Goober ident.i.ty to the world. That's why I'm not worried about him actually arresting me. If he arrests me, I'm just another pedophile cutting a deal. No, Lear wants to pressure me, but .. ." He grinned. "The hard drive in the Mac? I filled it with celebrity photos, starting with Edwin Booth and working forward. It'll take a week to go through them."

They again lapsed into silence, looking out through the windshield at a narrow, wind-whipped cedar bent back on itself as if trying to attach crown to roots. Down the road, a loose garbage can rolled across the street and into a neighbor's driveway. Smoke rising from a half-dozen chimneys streamed downwind.

"Bucolic, right?" Julia waved her hand at the scene before them. "All the fine folks tucked inside their homes. Fires in the fireplace, dinner on the stove, mommy and the kids waiting for dad to come home? You gotta like it."

"Personally, I prefer Chinatown."

Julia tugged the steering wheel, all the way to the right, then to the left, finally coming back to center. The engine was running, the heater blowing a stream of hot air across her feet. "You see out there, behind the houses, there's nothing but woods. Somebody hops through a back window, runs into the trees, they might come out in Pennsylvania. So what I want you to do is drive up in front, pop the siren a couple of times, then call Norton. Tell him I sent you to pick him up. If he bites, key the radio a few times and I'll come running."

"Running from where?"

"From the woods, Pete. In my Davy Crockett hat and my buckskins."

Foley opened the glove compartment, hauled out a pair of binoculars. "You wanna peek in the windows," he said, "you're gonna need these."

On impulse, Julia leaned over to kiss Foley's mouth, just a touch, really, then pulled away to open the door. "When I get in place, I'll key the radio, Meantime, watch your a.s.s." She paused to adjust the bulletproof vest beneath her coat before adding the obvious: "Sitting in front like that, you'll be an easy target."

THIRTY-FIVE.

IT TOOK Julia almost ten minutes to get back into the tree line fifty yards behind Elizabeth Nicolson's home, then another two minutes to settle into a small open s.p.a.ce between three fir trees. She chose these particular trees because their branches swept almost to the ground and offered protection from the worst of the gusting wind. Julia's cheeks were on fire, her fingertips and toes already growing numb. Nevertheless, resisting an impulse to jam her gloved hands into her pockets, she brought the binoculars to her eyes and aimed them across the snow-covered back yard.

There were eight windows, all lighted, in the back of the house, four on each of the two stories, and a door leading into the kitchen. Julia began on the second floor, sweeping from right to left. The curtains drawn across the windows were translucent and there were no shadows behind them. From the second floor, she moved down the side of the house and reversed course, discovering a long white couch beneath the raised blinds of the window closest to the garage. The middle-aged man sitting at the end of the couch was extremely thin.

The inflamed wattle running from his jaw to the base of his throat would have been appropriate to an aroused torn turkey.

Julia recognized Joe Norton, whose photo she'd viewed in his Bay-side home. The photo, in a silver frame, had been one of a half-dozen neatly arranged on a baby grand piano in the living room. The piano, she remembered, was highly polished, and the upholstered furniture was spotless as well. It was a sure bet the foster kids never entered the room.

Continuing on, Julia found two women seated at a kitchen table on the other side of the house. The younger of the women appeared to be in her mid-forties. A blonde, she'd woven her hair into thick braids, then arranged the braids along the side of her head. The other woman, Carla Norton, was a good deal older. Her thinning gray hair was brushed away from her scalp to create what amounted to a nimbus, a floating aura that jiggled slightly as she bent to her work.

The women were cutting string beans into thirds, dropping them into a colander, and they wore identical grim expressions. As well they should, especially Carla Norton, who at the very least had tolerated her beloved's eccentricities. Julia smiled to herself, wondering if Carla was preparing a n.a.z.i Germany defense. Don't blame me. I didn't know. I'm a victim, too.

Julia dug into her pocket and keyed the radio, signaling Foley to move into place. Then she swung the binoculars back to the living room windows and instantly realized her mistake. This time, Joe Norton was not alone. There were two men with him. Standing with their backs to the window, they were large men, and much younger than Joe Norton.

Julia felt the beginnings of a panic with which she was very familiar. Her heart rate accelerated and her breathing became instantly shallow and more rapid. She seemed to be looking through a tunnel, as if the small area revealed by the binoculars contained everything of significance in the known universe. Nevertheless, a stray thought managed to reach her consciousness. Anja and the others, when they were taken from their parents, were little girls, and presumably without s.e.xual experience. Somebody had to break them in. Somebody had to teach them to please. Somebody had to make them ready for the day when their virginity was auctioned off.

Early on, Julia had begun thinking of Joe Norton as the victim of a blackmail plot; though a pedophile and deserving of no sympathy, he had, or so the theory went, been pressured into his role in the adoption scam. She now realized that she'd been completely wrong. Joe Norton had been a willing partic.i.p.ant from the beginning. He proved it by rising from the couch and shouting into the faces of the two younger men, who recoiled as though struck.

Julia let the binoculars fall as she again reached for the radio. Foley had to be warned away. Norton was already in a rage and there was no telling what he'd do if confronted. Better to wait for the locals, for a show of force powerful enough to drive Joe Norton's hopeless situation home. Her hand was inside the pocket of her coat, fumbling for the radio's send b.u.t.ton, when she heard, from the far side of the house, the whoop of a police siren. Once, then again. Then again.

IOLEY WATCHED Julia pick her way along the icy sidewalk. Her gait, so in contrast to her usual confident stride, was tentative as she tipped to the right, then to the left, arms extended for balance. The spectacle brought a smile to Foley's lips. He was, he knew, half in love with Julia Brennan, amazing because he hadn't once been tempted to seek a relationship in the years following Kirstin's suicide. New York being a city of single women and he being an attractive man, there'd been opportunity galore, and he was not so utterly preoccupied that he failed to recognize the essential female invitation when it was offered. But he hadn't taken the next step, not even in the early days when loneliness gnawed at his heart, implacable and persistent as a beetle attacking the trunk of a tree.

A moment later, Julia stepped into the woods and Foley returned his attention to the Nicolson home. Without thinking all that much about it, he'd more or less accepted her a.s.sessment of Joe and Carla Norton. They were in their early sixties and not likely to resist, especially as he didn't plan to leave the car unless invited inside.

Nevertheless, reflexively, Foley decided to cruise past the Nicolson home, then turn around so the driver's side of the car faced away from the house. He would also block the driveway in order to prevent a panic flight. New York traffic being what it was, Foley had never partic.i.p.ated in a high-speed chase and didn't intend to start now.

Still, Foley reflected, for him it was a time of new beginnings. A month before, he'd sublet a furnished studio apartment on West 106th Street, cutting an all-cash, sub-rosa deal that generated no paper trail. The agreement was for six months while the current renter, Malcolm Freemantle, toured Europe.

And after that? Foley asked himself. After that, exactly what? Well, he wouldn't be a cop any more. Lear's raid was sure to generate an investigation by Internal Affairs and he, Foley, would turn in his badge before submitting to an interrogation. But that was as far ahead as he could see. Despite the prevailing belief that he was as premeditated as a politician at a televised debate, most of the time Foley felt himself drawn forward by an irresistible force into a future even darker than his present. If such could be imagined.

The words fate and karma presented themselves for Foley's consideration. To a Roman Catholic, of course, those words were near heretical, obscenities to be avoided at all cost. The doctrine of free will was a central tenet of Catholic thought and always had been. You were in charge. You were the boss. And the blame, therefore, was yours.

Foley opened his coat, loosened his gun in its holster, let his eyes sweep the street ahead of him. It was his secret pride that he'd never sought a chemical solution to his problems. Not in drugs or alcohol, or in the antidepressants currently in vogue. Maybe that was the freewill part. Peter Foley had welcomed his obsession, pretending it had been there all along, a demon waiting for the planets to align before claiming his soul.

As if emerging from a dream, Foley began to laugh. In addition to everything else, somewhere along the line he'd begun taking himself much too seriously, a fundamental error for a leaf in a hurricane.

He let his thoughts return to Julia Brennan, imagined her fighting her way through snowdrifts in her city boots and her city coat. Perhaps if all went well, he'd give her the ultimate gift, the serial killer whose apprehension would greatly advance her career. First things first, of course, though he felt in no way bound by his earlier refusal to help. Besides, the solution to the problem was simple enough, the facts already out there. Once Julia was finished with this phase of her investigation, once the Nortons were arrested and their co-conspirators unmasked, she'd most likely figure it out for herself.

In the meantime, he'd have to content himself with Julia's apparent rejection of Raymond Lear's parting accusation. Lear, of course, could have no idea what viewing the photos and videos had cost Peter Foley, no idea how easy it was to imagine Patti .. .

Peter Foley doesn't go there, Peter Foley reminded himself. Never, never, never.

The radio chirped, at that moment, three times in quick succession. Foley settled himself, drew a breath, then put the Ford in gear. A few minutes later, he was parked across Elizabeth Nicolson's driveway, reaching for the cell phone, when the first gunshots rang out.

THIRTY-SIX.

THE first shots echoed through the trees, Julia, much to her surprise, immediately calmed down. Her pulse slowed until she was no longer aware of her beating heart; her mind slowed as well, even as her focus narrowed still further. She did not have to force herself to recall her Academy training, or the resolve she'd formed back in Peter Foley's apartment to learn from her mistakes. These items flitted through her mind like a feather duster across a table top, but they were in no way responsible for the cold determination that took charge as if her common self was no more than an annoying child that needed to be protected from its own stupidity. They were shooting at her partner. They were shooting at Peter Foley. Those bad, bad boys.

She let the binoculars drop into the snow, drew her weapon from her purse, lined up the automatic's front and rear sights with the back of the man closest to the window. Then she corrected for a brisk wind blowing from right to left, and for the effect of gravity, before gently drawing down on the trigger.

The 9-mm hollow-point round expanded properly, mushrooming as it impacted the upper left quadrant of the man's back without fragmenting. It entered just beneath his scapula, dug a two-inch channel through his heart, then somehow managed to worm its way between his ribs before exiting his body. The man did not fly forward, or spin aroun, nor was he thrust into the air. Instead, as if the puppeteer holding his strings had quit without giving notice, he crumpled and died.

Though the sharp crack of the bullet as it accelerated past the sound barrier seemed, to Julia, instantly swallowed by the relentless moan of the wind, it was powerful enough to stir the snow-covered branches of the evergreens above her head. The mini-avalanche that followed began in the upper branches, tumbled down like water along the channels of a mountain stream, came to rest finally on Julia Bren-nan's head and shoulders. She jerked once, in surprise, then calmly wiped the surface of her weapon with her free hand. When she looked up, Norton and his companion had vanished.

An instant later, while Julia was still trying to get her bearings, the rear door of the house flew open and the second of Norton's companions crossed a tiny porch, descended two steps and marched into the back yard. The man's long blond hair appeared silver in the moonlight and his face was drained of all color. In his left hand, he carried a large-bore revolver, his finger through the trigger guard, barrel pointing straight up.

Julia watched his halting progress through snow that rose to mid-calf until he was too far from the house to return. Then without moving anything but her lips, she shouted. "Police, drop your weapon."

But the man did not drop his weapon, at least not immediately. He spun in Julia's general direction, slipped in the snow, his right leg flying high enough to shame a Radio City Rockette, and fell over backwards. Somehow, he managed to hang onto the revolver until his head crashed through the snow and into the frozen dirt beneath. Then he let go as his left arm, following his body, swept up and back, the gun tracing a short arc before disappearing beneath the snow.

Julia crossed the yard as quickly as the snow allowed. In her peripheral vision, she registered shadows behind an upstairs window. There was nothing, she knew, to be done about them, not at this point, but they couldn't be discounted, either. The moon was too bright, her vulnerable flesh only too exposed.

The man sat up as Julia approached. He seemed to be in control, a professional who understood that power and strength are relative and she was the one holding the gun. Nevertheless, Julia took no chances. She stopped six feet away, then said, her voice steady, "You don't roll over on your stomach right now, I'm gonna shoot you through the head."

"No kill." The man obeyed, extending his arms to either side before adding, "I have rights."

Julia dropped her knee to the center of his back and cuffed him. Then she got up and yanked him to his feet, carefully positioned him between the Nicolson home and her fragile flesh. Bulletproof vest or not, she was perfectly willing to let her prisoner take the first round.

I O L E Y WAS leaning across the front seat when the first shots broke out the Ford's rear window. Instinctively, he flattened himself on the seat as a second volley tore through the window above his head and a round, or a fragment, smashed into his vest above his right kidney. The pain was so intense that for a moment he thought he might lose consciousness. A curtain of pure black, darker than the sub-bas.e.m.e.nt of a tenement he'd once searched with a dying flashlight, slid from the periphery toward the center of his vision. It was only the pain, finally, that kept him awake, pain that aroused a fear so great that he reached for his back, forcing his hand beneath his vest, expecting to encounter a cascade of blood.

But the vest had done its work, which meant that he'd live to see another sunrise if he managed to get out of the car without being shot again. This time, say, between the eyes. The problem was that he was stretched across the seat with his arms and his head closest to the house from which the bad guys were shooting. The other door, the one that offered safety and protection, could not be reached, at least not by his hand, unless he sat up and reversed position. Not a good idea, not if he didn't want a bullet doing to his brain what other bullets had done to the shattered gla.s.s heaped on his coat.

A single shot rang out as he considered the problem, this one from the back of the house. His first thought was, Julia to the rescue. Instantly followed by, Maybe not. Maybe Julia under fire. Propelled by a surge of adrenaline, Foley kicked at the rear door. He was hoping to trigger the latch with his toe or his heel, but succeeded only in jamming his ankle beneath the armrest. He cursed softly, then louder, finally settled down long enough to work up a plan of action that would at least get him out of the car. He pulled his knees into his chest, forced his right leg over the edge of the seat, seeking purchase against the fire wall, then raised his torso slightly as he fumbled for the latch with his right hand.

Okay, he said to himself, the word seeming hollow, a prayer more than a judgment. Nevertheless, he repeated himself, this time with even greater emphasis: Okay. Then he shoved the door open and dove, headfirst, from the car.

I ALK TO me," Julia said. She was standing behind the man she'd captured, holding his jacket with her left hand, pulling backwards. The automatic in her right hand was pressed against the back of his skull. "Talk to me," she repeated.

"I demand lawyer. You understand this?" His accent was thick, this emerging as ziss.

Julia twisted the barrel of her weapon into his scalp. Her tone of voice seemed to her as cold as the wind swirling around them. "Talk to me. Tell me your name." Above them, a silhouette half-hidden by curtains suddenly became darker. Somebody was standing by the window.

"I give up. I am under arrest. I am not making any troubles. You cannot allow for me to freeze." A little spume of saliva jumped from his mouth as he completed his thoughts, landing on the lapel of his jacket. He'd run into the cold without putting on a coat and he was now paying for it.

"What's that I hear in your voice? Confusion? Terror?" She hesitated for the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat. "Tell me your name. Start with that. Your name."

"You are crazy b.i.t.c.h." He made it into one word, crazy b.i.t.c.h as if that was the way Julia had introduced herself.

"You don't tell your name, Ivan, I'll keep you out here until your b.a.l.l.s turn to ice."

"Nevin Gorovic. You are now satisfied?" His eyes jerked up as the curtains in the window were pulled aside and the window raised.

"Julia, don't shoot me."

Though the self-identified Nevin Gorovic shivered from head to toe at the sound of Peter's Foley's voice, Julia herself did no more than glance in his direction. He was standing next to the house and there was blood on his forehead, running down between his eyes.

"You shot?" she asked.

Foley touched the wound, then smiled. "Gravity and concrete. When I exited my vehicle, I landed on my head." His expression turned grave. "Look, I think it might be for the best if you come over to the house. You're a bit exposed where you are."

"That right?"

"You know it is."

Julia held her ground. "This man calls himself Nevin Gorovic. He says he wants a lawyer. Somehow, that doesn't work for me."

"It's not supposed to work. That's why they make you do it. Now, please ..."

"Hey, Pete, weren't you the guy who told me you were glad about the killings?"

Foley took a moment to compose his reply. When he finally spoke, his voice was just loud enough to be heard above the wind. "The fact that I don't care about some lunatic out there capping chicken hawks doesn't mean that I would kill a chicken hawk, or play any part in getting one killed."

It was the first time Peter Foley had formally denied all involvement in the killings and for a moment Julia fell silent. Finely honed in the course of a thousand interrogations, her instincts told her he was being truthful.

"Let's go," she told Nevin Gorovic without taking her weapon from the back of his head. "Nice and easy."

As they began to move, Joe Norton, wattle and all, leaned out of the second-floor window. The stainless-steel revolver in his hand caught the moonlight and held it long enough for Julia to push Gorovic to one side and fire a round in Norton's general direction. She did not aim her weapon, or hold it two-handed; there was only enough time for a snap shot as likely to hit the moon as Joe Norton. Nevertheless, Norton ducked back through the window and vanished.

"Where," she asked as she walked toward the house, "is Annie Oakley when you need her?"

"I hate to be the one to tell you this," Foley returned easily, "but Annie Oakley is up in heaven. With Buffalo Bill."

THIRTY-SEVEN.

JULIA WALKED past Foley, who was holding onto their prisoner, to the closest window. She took a quick peek inside, then jerked her head away as a voice, a female voice from behind her screamed, "What are you doing to poor Elizabeth? I'm going to call the police."

Though Julia couldn't imagine why the the police hadn't already been called, she shouted, "We are the police. Please go to the far side of your home. You're not safe where you're standing."

"How do I know you're the police?" the voice persisted "Well," Foley responded, holding up his shield, "there's this. And you also might wanna consider that if we were the bad guys, we'd most likely have reacted more aggressively to your intrusion."

Smiling, Julia moved to the other side of the window and took another peek. She was looking over the body of the man she'd shot, over the gun still in his hand, through the living and dining rooms doors into the kitchen where Elizabeth Nicolson sat, crying into a dish towel.

"Pete," Julia said as Nicolson's neighbor, having apparently gotten Foley's message, slammed her window closed, "Take Mr. Gorovic up to the corner, wait for the locals, give them a heads-up on the situation in the house. They just drive up and park, somebody's liable to get shot."

Foley shook his head in wonder. "And what are you gonna do, Lieutenant, play hero? You gonna do a Pickett's charge on the bad guys?"

Julia was tempted to baldly state the fact that it was none of his business. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders. "I'll watch the house, make sure n.o.body escapes. And look, while you're waiting, you might want to examine the prisoner's identification and talk to him a little bit. See if he'll listen to reason."

Though Foley wanted to further complain that Julia was establishing a pattern by ordering him about whenever they faced a crisis, he simply led his prisoner away. This was not the time and place to remind her that he didn't give a d.a.m.n for her rank, or for his own badge, either. The locals had to be warned and if he didn't do it, it wouldn't get done. Julia Brennan wasn't going anywhere.

"You try to run away from me," he told Gorovic as they crossed the neighboring yard. "I'll kill you, handcuffs or not."

"First crazy woman, now crazy man. Everybody wants to kill Nevin Gorovic."

Foley left it at that until they reached the corner. Then he searched Gorovic for weapons, eventually settling for the man's wallet. Though he was hoping the locals were close at hand, when he listened for sirens he heard only the whistle of the wind across the utility lines above his head.

"Are you the one who shot me?" he asked. The pain in his left kidney had settled into a bearable, though relentless, throb.

"I am freezing," Gorovic responded. "You are making police brutality on me."

Calmly, deliberately, Foley slammed his fist into his prisoner's unprotected stomach. "I asked you," he said as Gorovic dropped to his knees, "if you were the one who shot me?"

"I am not shoot anyone."

"See?" Foley hauled Gorovic to his feet. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He went back to Gorovic's wallet, using the light from a street lamp to examine the various credit cards, debit cards, and business cards inside.

"Hey, whatta we have here?" Foley dangled a business card before his prisoner's eyes. "Pancevski and Markovic. International Adoptions. You work for them, Nevin? You on the books?"

"I want lawyer."

Foley shook his head. "Ordinarily," he explained, his voice weary, "I'd be the first to applaud that move. That's because, ordinarily, it'd be the right way to go. First get the lawyer, then cut the deal. The problem, Nevin, is that all those bad boys at Pancevski and Markovic, they're gonna rabbit back to their ancestral homelands as soon as they find out what happened here. And old Joe Norton, well you can see he's gone looney."