"What I hear, that really hurts."

Foley looked over at Julia for a moment, noted the shocked expression, was glad to see it. He knew Clark was leading him through a series of facts Clark wanted to find in Peter Foley's written statement. He knew, also, that Clark didn't really care if they were true or not.

"Correct again," Foley said. "Without doubt, I'll be p.i.s.sing blood by morning."

Apparently satisfied with Foley's response, Clark shifted again to Julia. "And you, lieutenant, you shot both of these men in order to preserve innocent life." He gestured to the dining room and Joe Norton's body which had yet to be moved, and to the living room beyond. "You know, it's obvious to me, Julia, that you're shaken up by the experience. As anybody would expect."

"I am, sir."

"In fact, you've already requested leave."

"I have."

"Then it's settled. I'm sending both of you back to New York for medical treatment. You can work out your statements on route. Just give me fifteen minutes to nose around."

Foley watched Clark walk back to Colonel Harman, who was standing just outside the kitchen, then turned to Julia. His back, except when he pressed directly on his right kidney, had stopped hurting. "Our savior," he announced. "Commander Harry Clark."

"One of the good guys," Julia replied. "Give me a minute. I'm going to call my daughter." She reached into her pocket, removed the police radio, looked down at it as if for the first time. Then she laid the unit on the table and returned to her pocket in search of her cellular. "I know I'm part of the internet generation," she told Foley, "but I'm starting to get very sick of electronic devices."

Julia punched the on b.u.t.ton, prepared to dial her home number, when the phone began to ring. Startled, she flinched, her eyes momentarily closing as she drew back.

"You okay?"

She looked at Foley and smiled. Though her fingers and knees were again at her command, she was as weary as ever.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Mom, Uncle Bob had a heart attack. Where have you been?"

As scornful of mere flesh as any bullet, Corry's words cut through Julia's chest to settle at the center of her heart, a solid painful weight that anch.o.r.ed her to the chair. Before she could summon even the flimsiest defense, tears welled up in her eyes.

"He's not.. ."

"No, but he hit his head on the stairs when he fell. He's unconscious. I wish you'd come home." Corry's voice edged into a wail. She wanted to be a little girl again, which couldn't happen until she had a mother, on scene, to protect her. "I found him when I got home from school, Mom. It was so horrible."

"Is that where you are? Home? Are calling me from home?"

"Mom, please. I'm at Woodhaven Medical Center. Uncle Bob's in the cardiac care unit."

Julia took a breath, took another, ran her fingers through her hair. She knew she had to pull herself together, despite her exhaustion, but it wasn't coming easy. "Is there a doctor close to where you're standing?"

Corry didn't reply directly, though Julia heard her shout: "You have to talk to my mother. She's a cop. In the police department. A lieutenant."

A moment later, a male voice, clearly amused, said, "h.e.l.lo, I'm Doctor Ryan. What can I do for you?"

Julia got into it without wasting time. She introduced herself, then said, "I'm Robert Reid's closet relative and I'm stuck in New Jersey, on police business. If you can tell me what happened to him and what I can expect in the immediate future, I'd be very grateful."

"We don't have the blood work back yet, but we believe your uncle had a mild-to-moderate heart attack. He also, apparently, fell down the stairs and struck his head. We've done X-rays, and there are no fractures and no signs of intracranial bleeding. Right now, he's breathing on his own; his neurological signs are good, too. Of course, he's at risk of a second heart attack, given his history, but at present he's stable."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"Not that I can think of."

"Well, thanks for your time. Can you put my daughter back on?"

"Mom?"

"It's all right, honey. Tell me, did you hear what the doctor said? Just now?"

"He was, like, standing right next to me."

"Okay, so you know that Uncle Bob's doing well, right?"

"But he could have another heart attack."

Julia was tempted to say, So could I and so could you; it's only odds were talking about here. Instead, she modulated her tone. "Uncle Bob had no fractures and the heart attack was mild. Didn't you hear the doctor say that?"

"He said mild-to-moderate."

Julia nodded to herself. If Corry wanted to be a.s.sertive .. . well, studied annoyance was far better, and far easier to handle, then juvenile terror. Especially when Julia herself was scared enough for the both of them.

"I'll concede that point," she said. "Now, look, I'm in New Jersey, about two hours away. I want you to remain at the hospital until I get there. Is that alright?"

"Mom?" Corry stretched the word out, adding a syllable. "Do you think I'd leave Uncle Bob alone?"

Julia took the guilt like the good mother she was, thinking guilt came with the territory, that if there was a guilt-free way to raise a child, she hadn't heard of it. "Did the cops show up?" she asked. "At the house?"

"They got there before the ambulance."

"Did they do CPR?"

"No, Uncle Bob was breathing."

"Good. That's a very good sign. You didn't, by any chance, get the officer's name?"

An exasperated, and very theatrical sigh poured into Julia's ear. "Oh, puh-leeze"

"Does that mean you did?"

"Officer Hijuelos, at the 104th Precinct. He said you could reach him through a sergeant named Evans."

Julia nodded to herself as she wrote the names down. Corry had been responsible, despite everything. Just like her mother would have when she was Corry's age. "I'll be leaving here in a few minutes, honey, and I'll be coming directly to the hospital. Call me if you need me."

"Does that mean, like, you won't turn off the phone? This time?"

FORTY-TWO.

FOLEY LISTENED to Julia's conversation with her daughter, then with the doctor, catching the drift from her end of the dialogue. He watched her face initially collapse, fear rush into her eyes with the unreasoning force of an avalanche. He remembered his own fear then, the terrible fear that invaded his heart after Patti's disappearance. He'd carried the terror for days, then weeks, then months, until it slowly, slowly receded, along with its complement, hope. Along with, truth be told, every other emotion.

Unspeaking, he watched Julia summon Harry Clark, demand to be taken back to New York without further delay. "I gotta go now," was the way she put it, "my uncle's in the hospital and my little girl is all alone."

Who could say no to that? Certainly not Harry Clark who, ever resourceful, a.s.signed Sergeant Moe Jacoby from Legal Affairs to drive them. "Maybe," he said as he bid Julia good-bye, "if you're up to it, you and Foley can work on your statements. That way, you won't have to be bothered later on."

It wasn't until Foley was inside the Ford used by Turro and Griffith to summon the locals that he finally stumbled upon the truth. The fear he now felt had nothing to do with the past.

He watched Julia call the 104th Precinct, ask for a sergeant named Evans, get put through, finally, to patrol officer Hector Hijuelos. Then, making no effort to conceal his intentions, he leaned against her as he listened, only to feel her weight drop onto his chest as if her muscles lacked the strength to support her bones.

"Lieutenant, this is Officer Hijuelos. I responded to the 911 at your house. Me and my partner. How is your uncle doing?"

"He's holding his own," she responded, the curt statement belied by a weary tone. "Tell me, did you take a look around?"

"With your daughter's permission, yeah, I checked the house. Mr. Reid had a pretty severe scalp wound and he wasn't conscious when we pulled up. He could have been hit and there could have been an intruder in the home. I mean, I didn't wanna .. ."

The prolonged silence that followed led Foley to guess that Hijuelos wouldn't proceed without Julia's benediction. Julia must have sensed it as well, because she broke the silence by saying, "Well, I'm glad you did. Tell me what you found."

"Mr. Reid was on the staircase, up against the banister about three-quarters of the way down. He had a profusely bleeding scalp wound and his pulse was weak, but steady. Like I already said, he wasn't conscious. He didn't appear to be in pain, either, so I decided not to move him."

Another pause, another pat. "Good, good," Julia said. "Let the paramedics handle it."

"Yeah, anyway, first thing, I asked your daughter if the front door was locked when she came in and she told me it was. Then I checked the back door and the dead bolt was thrown, which you can't do from outside without a key. The window next to the door, though, it wasn't locked. Closed, but unlocked."

"Was the lock jimmied?"

"No sign."

"Alright, go on."

"Upstairs, all the windows were locked and I didn't see any sign that the rooms had been tossed, but there was an indentation on the blanket in your daughter's room. That blanket, it's down-filled and it's real thick, so it takes a good impression. Mr. Reid must have gone in there for some reason, then decided to come back downstairs."

Julia sighed, the gesture so extended it might have been the theatrical exhalation of an antebellum debutante. "We open that kitchen window almost every night when we're cooking. I usually remember to lock it, but Corry sometimes forgets."

"Okay, so it's probably nothing. But the thing is, lieutenant, and I don't mean to be mindin' your business, you need better locks on those windows. They got slim-jims now that can open the locks you got without leaving a mark. And that tree in the back yard, the limbs come right up to your daughter's bedroom window. You might wanna trim that tree."

"Good night, Officer Hijuelos," Julia replied without a trace of irony, "and thank you for being thorough."

As Julia closed her eyes and settled against his chest, Foley let his arm slide around her shoulder, not really caring what Sergeant Jacoby made of their embrace. One thing sure, he and Julia, listening to the same conversation, had come to radically different conclusions. Easily jimmied locks? An impression on the bedspread in the room of someone who wasn't home? Tree limbs offering access to that same room? The window in the kitchen led to the back yard, and offered an efficient avenue of escape, say in case you'd just knocked some poor old man down the stairs.

Foley wondered, idly, how many times Corry Brennan had been observed in her bedroom. She's a little old, of course, for her stalker, but not impossibly ancient, and her value as a prize would override his reluctance in any event. Julia Brennan is his main pursuer, a name he's read in the papers, a face he's watched on television, a New York hero. No surprise that he'd decide to show her the error of her ways, the false premise underlying her position. Even if she finds him, even if she takes his life, he will make sure that she never forgets him. He will take something from her which cannot be replaced.

Foley stared over Julia's head, through the window on the opposite side of the car, at a snowy meadow. In the distance, a tilting barn loomed on the horizon. They were up on the interstate now, Jacoby driving with the usual cop contempt for the speed limit.

"Say," Jacoby called without turning around, "you think we could talk about your statement, lieutenant? You up to it?" His tone was familiar, as if it was understood between him and Julia Brennan that his law degree cancelled any distinction based on rank.

"Sure, why not?"

Again Foley listened, Julia's matter-of-fact tone as she described the events at the Nicolson house as good an indicator of her exhaustion as falling asleep on the spot. Her voice was unvarying, even when Jacoby interrupted.

"Now, when you fired from the yard at the deceased's back, you knew him to be carrying a weapon because you could see it? That's what happened?"

"Yeah, I knew him to be carrying a weapon because I could see it. That's what happened."

Then she simply went on, not missing a beat, every detail neatly wrapped. She'd come to New Jersey in the hope of persuading Joe and Carla Norton to return to New York. No force had been applied and none had been contemplated. When her efforts failed, she'd dispatched two of the detectives under her command to call in the local police. It was only after they'd gone that she decided to make a last effort which resulted in the attack on Peter Foley.

At that point Foley tuned out, though he knew Julia's statement was meant as much for him as for her. Jacoby's task was to confirm every point, to be sure there weren't any nasty discrepancies to catch the attention of the press, or of the lawyers in case one of the suspects or Elizabeth Nicolson decided to sue. Thus, Foley didn't have to pay close attention. If he made a mistake somewhere along the line, Moe Jacoby would be sure to set him straight.

That was the good news. The bad news was that he, Peter Foley, had f.u.c.ked up, simple as that. He'd made a judgment and his judgment was wrong and the price .. .

Sometimes, he told himself, the price of being wrong is so high that you can't take the risk of being wrong, no matter how remote the possibility. Too bad he didn't think of that first.

Then another possibility, this one rather more insidious, entered his thoughts. Maybe, he speculated, it was all as it seemed. Maybe Robert Reid had a heart attack and fell down the stairs. Maybe the impression on the comforter had been there for days. Hijuelos hadn't made a second impression, then measured the time it took for the down to return to its normal loft, if it returned at all. Maybe when you sat on a down comforter it stayed flat until you shook it out. And maybe Corry left the window in the kitchen unlocked. Maybe it was a lot of nothing, the memories he'd kept under lock and key for the past few years finally having their way.

When it came Foley's turn to report, he didn't falter. He confirmed Julia's version, as much as he'd witnessed, along with what he'd done on his own which mostly amounted to getting shot. He hadn't discharged his weapon, much less killed anyone, and therefore wasn't all that important. At least not to Sergeant Jacoby, who listened to Foley's recital, then said, "What I'll do, if you don't mind, is I'll write up statements based on what you've told me, then send them over so you can review the details. Tell me, lieutenant, the one you captured, Nevin Gorovic, where does he stand in all this?"

"I don't know," Julia said. "I didn't speak to him."

Jacoby seemed nonplussed for the first time. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Gorovic turned," Foley said. "He'll say whatever you want him to say. Bottom line, though, I drove up and they started shooting."

An easy bottom line to draw, like the one he now drew: Within a day, he would confront the egomaniac who signed himself Destroyer and Destroyed, maybe demand an explanation. Either that, or.... Another bottom line, the remote possibility of failure and the consequences naturally flowing from that failure. Take it back twelve hours, before they'd left for New Jersey, before the shooting began, he'd warn Julia Brennan, demand she take precautions, admit that he was an a.s.shole whose own swollen ego amounted to a textbook example of narcissistic personality disorder.

But Julia was overwhelmed, with what she'd done as well as what she had yet to do. If he told her what he suspected, motivated by pride if nothing else, she would demand to come along. And she wasn't up to it. Nor could he afford to call in C Squad, the methods he would use to complete his task being well outside the parameters of standard police procedure. Still, he would have to leave a message for Julia in case he failed. He would have to leave her a route to follow as well as a warning, and he knew just how to do it. Nevertheless, he waited until they'd come through the Holland Tunnel, crossed the city from west to east and were on the Manhattan Bridge before leaning over to whisper in Julia Brennan's ear.

"Take me out of it," he told her. "When you ask yourself how he found the Mandrakes and Teddy Goodman. Take me out and it'll become obvious."

FORTY-THREE.

BY THE time Julia found Corry asleep in the small waiting room outside Woodhaven Hospital's Cardiac Care Unit, she'd more or less put Foley's little taunt behind her. At first she'd been angry, or as close to angry as her exhaustion permitted, p.r.o.nouncing Foley's statement a challenge, which she didn't need, and his insensitivity almost a betrayal. At no time had she connected his demand to be taken out of the equation with the report given by Hector Hijuelos, not with so much intervening time between the two events. Nor, even while speaking to Hijuelos, had she connected the faint possibility of an intruder in her home with the serial killer who called himself Destroyer and Destroyed. Instead, she'd decided, after Hijuelos finished, that the question of what Robert Reid had been doing in Corry's bedroom, if he'd been there at all, was best put to Robert Reid.

"Corry?" Julia shook her daughter, very gently. "Wake up, honey." "Mom, you're here." An instant later, Corry was in her mother's arms. "I was never so scared in my life," she said. "Uncle Bob was .. ."

"It's okay, baby, you did fine. I'm so proud of you."

Corry broke off the embrace, sat back on the couch and began to rub her eyes with the back of her hand. "How long have I been sleeping?" she asked.

"Don't know, but, c'mon, let's go see Uncle Bob, maybe have a heart-to-heart with his doctor. I want to get him out of here as soon as possible and we may have to arrange for a private nurse or a home health aide."