"We're bringing Uncle Bob to our house," Corry said.

Never having considered the possibility of her uncle returning alone to his apartment, Julia couldn't resist the urge to tease her daughter. "And how exactly," she asked, "do you know that, miss?"

For a moment, Corry looked bewildered, her eyes drooping slightly as she thought it over. Then the corners of her mouth widened into a sly smile, as if she'd successfully drawn to an inside straight. "Because," she declared, "we live right around the corner and Uncle Bob lives in Manhattan? Like on the west side of Manhattan? That's practically in New Jersey?"

HEN THEY entered the CCU, arms around each other's shoulders, Julia couldn't repress a quick shiver that ran from the base of her neck into her scalp. It wasn't the first time she'd been exposed to the beeps, hisses, and whistles of the machinery, or the odor, a soupy blend of medication, disinfectant, and human waste; cops on patrol pa.s.s many hours in emergency rooms, detectives as well. No, her shiver was closer to a reflex. This was a place where people came to die.

But she needn't have worried. When she and Corry walked into Robert Reid's tiny cubicle they found him sitting up, his head swathed in bandages, his eyes open. As they approached, he turned slowly, peering through half-closed lids, his face expressing a zen-like serenity that Julia immediately a.s.sociated with morphine.

Julia blew her uncle a kiss, received a smile in return, but didn't interfere with Corry's more effusive greeting. Somehow, Corry had wormed her way between the trailing wires of a heart monitor and a working IV pump to sit at the edge of the bed where she could hug her uncomplaining uncle.

Watching, smiling, Julia thought of Foley. Not of what he'd told her, but of what it must be like for him at this very moment, holed up in some little room, pecking away at his computer, the light from the monitor rendering his pale complexion ghostly. But that wasn't right. Foley was still in the Ford with Lawyer Jacoby. And what he'd do, when he got out of that car, is go on with his life. The man was always one step ahead of the pack.

Still, she couldn't convince herself. The thought of losing her uncle, even knowing that he was sick and had been for a long time, was beyond contemplation. How much worse for Foley, who'd lost everything? What must the pain be like? And what was the cost of keeping it below the radar screen? Of never showing it to anyone, even himself?

Julia sat by Robert Reid's bed for the better part of an hour, until Doctor Ryan, who introduced himself as the chief cardiology resident, strolled over to shoo them off. It was now after midnight. Uncle and daughter were both asleep.

"It'd be best," he said, "if you and Corry got some rest."

"Doctor's orders?" In truth, Julia was trying to gather enough energy to call a taxi.

"I'll write a prescription if you like."

In his mid-twenties, Ryan was a powerfully built man with a long narrow face and very small features. Julia found his smile engaging.

"The last thing my uncle remembers," she said, "is sitting in his car. He doesn't recall anything that happened inside the house."

"A common effect of concussions."

Julia nodded. As a cop, she'd dealt with skulls cracked by every manner of hard unyielding object, so her uncle's amnesia came as no surprise. Over time his memory would improve, but he would probably never revisit the moment when he'd tumbled down the stairs. "I know that," she said. "I've seen that before. But what about his last memory? Would his last memory likely be distorted? And also, is he on a high dose of morphine? Could that be affecting his judgment?"

Before he'd fallen asleep, Reid had told a story in bits and pieces, a story he'd needed to get out. Earlier in the day, he'd e-mailed Destroyer and Destroyed, asking if there were other victims and where they might be found. The reply, Dig deeper, had initially been deemed a taunt, but then, after he'd parked at the end of the block, he'd realized something of great significance. The problem was that he couldn't remember what it was, and he couldn't concentrate, either.

"Mr. Reid's doing very well," Ryan replied, "but you can't expect too much." He smiled again, that same homely smile, before adding, "But to answer your question, your uncle might be a bit confused about events immediately preceding his fall for any number of reasons. You give him a little time, wait a day or two until we withdraw his pain medication, I think his responses will become more consistent."

It wasn't until the good Doctor Ryan gently touched the back of her hand that Julia realized she was being hit upon. Annoyed with the inappropriate timing, as she'd been with Foley, she turned to shake Corry's shoulder. They would phone for a cab from the lobby, maybe even find a gypsy standing outside. Then she remembered that Dr. Ryan was six or seven years younger than she, and was properly flattered.

"Thanks for the time, doctor. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

Ryan pursed his lips. "Sad to say," he admitted, "I'll still be here. And the morning after that, too."

FORTY-FOUR.

JULIA BREN NAN had a very good morning and a very bad afternoon. First, she awakened with the realization that she didn't have to go to work, and that she didn't want to go; the job's siren song was no longer alluring. All those little securities, the luxury of throwing herself into her work, of complete submersion, seemed unimportant as she stretched, then headed off to the bathroom. At least for now.

Before dressing, she called Woodhaven Medical Center and had Dr. Ryan paged. For someone who'd been working for at least fourteen hours, he was surprisingly chipper. "Mr. Reid is doing fine," he told her. "He's recovering well and we may transfer him out of the CCU as early as tomorrow."

"That's great. Then he'll have a telephone. In the meantime, if your paths cross, will you tell him I'll be there in a couple of hours?"

"Will do."

Julia dressed quickly, choosing a blue, man-tailored blouse, a red sweater, and a pair of faded jeans. She glanced into the mirror, fluffed her hair, p.r.o.nounced herself appropriately casual before walking the length of the hallway to Corry's room. When her subsequent knock went unacknowledged, she entered to find her daughter still asleep.

"Corry?" Julia glanced across the bed to the window on the opposite wall. Immediately after arriving home on the prior night, before she'd even dealt with the blood on the stairs, she'd checked the house for any sign of an intruder, examining the windows in Corry's bedroom and the window in the kitchen. True, the tree in the back yard did come up close enough for someone to enter the house if the window was unlocked. But there were no jimmy marks on the lock, none she could find at least. The kitchen window was clean as well and the impression in the down comforter, still distinct, might have been made by an object as mundane as Corry's loaded backpack. More to the point, the household items that would have attracted the attention of a burglar, the computer, the stereo, the television, were undisturbed. No one had rifled through her jewelry box, and a purse containing eighty-seven dollars hanging from the k.n.o.b on her bedroom closet still held its treasure.

"Mom?"

"I'm going downstairs to start breakfast. If you want to come to the hospital, you better get dressed."

"What about school?"

"I'm giving you the morning off. I need you with me."

When she came down to breakfast, Corry turned on the small TV in the kitchen, tuning it to NY1. The cable news station was running more or less continuous coverage of the unfolding events, employing four reporters, two working the NYPD end, the others the FBI. Though she didn't protest, Julia kept her back to the screen as she chopped onions for an omelette. If left to herself, she wouldn't, she believed, so much as glance at a newspaper headline. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but overhear.

Mycky Pancevski and Milan Markovic had been arrested in their respective homes at five in the morning. Because the media had been tipped, the coverage was intense, and each man had emerged from his home in handcuffs, bent forward like a scuttling monkey, coat draped over his head and shoulders. Meanwhile, the feds were parading their own suspects before an arraignment judge, in the process revealing the ident.i.ties of these miscreants for the first time. As their number included a former deputy commissioner of the Human Resources Administration, two junior high school teachers, and a deputy mayor, the networks and the papers were paying close attention.

Julia pushed the onions from the cutting board block into a heated pan, then cracked four eggs into a bowl. When the toaster popped, Corry went to the refrigerator for a stick of b.u.t.ter without being asked.

The curious thing, Julia mused as she watched her daughter, was that a serial killer who'd already claimed six victims was being ignored. Nor had anyone realized that exposing the ident.i.ties of the arrested pedophiles radically expanded the killer's choice of targets.

Well, it wasn't her problem. Nor was it her mission in life to right every wrong, collar every criminal. Foley was right. As long as there were human beings, there would be crime. It was the nature of the beast.

AVING SUFFERED through the humiliation of a bed bath immediately before Corry's and Julia's arrival, Robert Reid was alert, though not altogether happy. "I feel fine," he insisted. "I can shower on my own."

Julia noted the oxygen canula in her uncle's nose, the IV line in his arm, the bandages capping his head, his greenish-gray complexion. "It's not up to me," she declared.

That point established, Julia asked her uncle if his memory had improved in the intervening hours. His reply, that the harder he tried to remember, the more mocking the injunction to dig deeper seemed.

"If he wrote that to drive me crazy," Reid explained, "he's succeeding. I feel like I'm trying to crack a nut with a toothpick."

Dr. Ryan strolled into the cubicle a few moments later, his engaging smile appearing a bit shopworn, to announce that Robert Reid would enjoy a lunch of Jell-O, beef broth, and tea. "You'll probably transfer out of the CCU tomorrow, or the day after. In the meantime, try to get some rest."

The good doctor reinforced his advice by ordering up a dose of Demerol. Pain medication is what he called it. Dope is what Julia heard. Robert Reid didn't, in any event, protest when a nurse injected the opiate into a port in his intravenous line. His eyes fluttered once as the drug took effect, and he smiled a smile that by comparison made the Bhudda's seem dour.

"Why," he said after a moment, "I wasted my life on alcohol is beyond me."

Corry slapped him on the hand. "Don't talk like that. You're supposed to set an example."

He did, by promptly falling asleep.

HORTLY AFTER lunch, Julia donned a well-worn set of sweats, found her running shoes at the back of the hall closet, and went for a jog in Forest Park. Although it was cold outside, not only was there was no wind, the sky above was a radiant blue and the January sun, despite a p.r.o.nounced northern tilt, was bright enough to present the illusion of warmth.

Fifteen minutes later she was stretching out, one foot on the Jeep's front b.u.mper, when her cell phone rang. Before she could frame a thought, she was seized by a fear that extended to within a millimeter of panic. She'd given this number to Woodhaven Hospital. Just in case.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Lieutenant." Harry Clark's voice boomed in Julia's ear. "How's your uncle doing?"

Julia felt instantly guilty; if she was up to a six-mile run, she was up to working. She pushed the guilt away, smiling to herself, thinking that the guilt was the problem. "He's doing okay, commander."

"Glad to hear it. I don't know what the job would do if it didn't have Robert Reid to kick around. He's been on our case for thirty years." Clark paused, then cleared his throat before resuming. "Confidentially, lieutenant, Pancevski spilled his guts. Six children have been recovered and we hope to have more by the end of the day. So we did a good thing here."

"We did," Julia agreed, affirming Clark's nonexistent contribution.

"The bad news is that the kids were being held in Chicago and Las Vegas, so we couldn't shut the feebs out."

"That's pretty much what we expected."

"True, but from what I hear, Morgenthau will turn the adoption case over to a federal prosecutor. He's settling for the Mandrake Johns."

"It's the smart way to go," Julia said. The Johns had been caught on videotape and would in all likelihood plead out their high-profile cases. An uncontested slam-dunk that wouldn't break the budget.

"Yes, but that's not why I called." Again, he cleared his throat. "Lieutenant, whatever difficulties we may have had, you've done outstanding work here. Outstanding. I'm going to recommend you for a medal of valor."

Julia smiled. First, Clark had claimed personal credit for an investigation he'd frustrated at every turn. Now he was claiming that the job's collective decision to reward her was his idea. Nice.

"That's very flattering," she said. "Thank you."

"Yes, well, in addition, you're going to be promoted to captain. It'll go down as a provisional appointment until you clear the list. Also, if you want, I'll transfer you to the DA's office on temporary a.s.signment. Lily Han needs someone to command her investigators. Someone strong."

Julia straightened up, looked around. Traffic was heavy along the footpath, mostly women come to jog or roller skate or race-walk. The New York winters were long, and it only made sense, on a nice day, to allow the soul a bit of opportunistic feeding.

"I'm not ready to think about any of this," she said. "I need some time away from the job."

Apparently expecting Julia to kneel at his feet, Clark's voice expressed annoyance for the first time.

"I said, if you want, captain."

Julia held her ground. "Right now, I don't know what I want."

"Fine, you take all the time you need." He clucked once, a little popping sound that raised Julia's hackles. "But over the next few days, you need to consider talking to the press. Face it, captain, you're a hero, and the way the reporters are talking, if you don't go to them, they're definitely gonna come to you."

That being that, Julia dropped the cellular into her pack and began to run. Somehow, the exchange with Clark had returned her to the state of exhaustion she'd fallen into the night before and her feet scuffed the path as she trudged along. The job simply would not let her go, a situation so ironic she was sure it went to the heart of her weariness. She'd broken every rule, deliberately choosing to distance herself from her own ambition; now she was reaping the fruits of that ambition. A captaincy? Commander of the s.e.x Crimes Unit? Could Chief of Detectives be far behind?

Am I a schmuck, she asked herself, that I can't enjoy this moment? Am I such a fool? As the words entered her consciousness she smiled, a rueful smile to be sure, but still a smile. The recovery of the children made the question even more compelling. After all, rescuing the kids was why she'd gone to New Jersey in the first place. So then why, at this moment, could she not celebrate her victory? One thing certain, her conscience was clear. The last thing she'd expected when Foley crashed that rock through the Nortons' back window was a promotion.

She thought of Foley then. Although he'd taken as many risks as she, the silks downtown would be relieved if he left the job. And that was only if they happened to notice. For Julia Brennan, on the other hand, it was as if she'd pa.s.sed some kind of test. Given the attendant publicity, her promotion and transfer could not have been accomplished without the express approval of the commissioner.

Julia forced herself to complete her run, only walking the last hundred yards to her car. Duty first, then rest; that had been her way for longer than she could remember. Leisure had to be earned. Dessert always came last. If there was money for dessert.

She leaned against the Jeep for a moment, then began to stretch the tendons in her legs. It had been a long time between runs and she didn't want to stiffen up before she got into a hot bath. She worked slowly, but methodically, from her heel up into her b.u.t.tocks, gradually increasing the pressure until she reached her limits. Satisfied then, she pulled herself into the Jeep and settled onto the seat. A bath, she thought as she slid a key into the ignition lock. A bath and a nap, just what the doctor .. .

Still in her pack, Julia's cellular began to trill, a six-note run that vaguely resembled the song of a bird. Even as she unzipped the pack, her eyes closed in protest. Whoever invented the cell phone, she thought, should be executed in a low-output electric chair. Once people know you have one, they expect you to be perpetually available.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Julia," a familiar voice declared, "it's Bea Shepherd. How are you feeling?"

FORTY-FIVE.

"I DON'T know," Julia said for the second time that afternoon. "I don't know how I feel."

"That bad?"

As Julia reached over to adjust the Jeep's heater, she flashed back to the prior evening, when she'd turned to face Joe Norton. Neither his stunned look, nor the terror that rose into his eyes had deterred her in the slightest. And the funny part was that she couldn't recall being angry, or feeling much of anything. The same held true for the man she'd shot from the backyard and whose name she could not remember. She'd taken his life in the coldest of cold blood, heart and soul as frigid as the crusted snow in which she'd crouched.

"Well, you know, there's something about killing people that ..."

That what? That left you convinced that you could return to that moment, with the power of life and death coiled on the index finger of your right hand, whenever you wanted? That you'd had it in you all along, a bloodthirsty little demon tucked behind your maternal instincts? She'd played Joe Norton like a violin, antic.i.p.ating his moves and her responses, placing him quite deliberately in a setting where he could be killed with impunity.

"I never had the experience myself," Bea said. "I've never discharged my weapon."

"What it does is make you think, and that's basically what I'm doing. I've been promoted, by the way."

"I know all about it. That's why I called, to congratulate you." Bea's tone sharpened, the rebuke apparent. She'd been forced to reach out, a reversal of their proper roles.

"They want to transfer me to Lily Han's outfit, the s.e.x Crimes Unit. I'd run her investigators."

Bea sighed. "Yes, yes, yes. You'll take it, of course."

"I'm thinking it over." Julia's tone was adamant. She would not allow herself to bullied, or even manipulated. Not by Harry Clark or Bea Shepherd.

"Well, while you're at it, think about this, dear. The s.e.x Crimes Unit in the DA's office handles cases from every precinct in Manhattan, which means the networking possibilities are endless. Plus, as ranking officer, you get credit for whatever the unit accomplishes. You won't have to share the glory because in that setting you're on top of the food chain."

"What about Lily Han?" Julia covered her mouth to keep from laughing. The top of the food chain. It was idiotic, a babbling of infants to which she could not even pay lip service.

"At the press conferences, after the big arrest, you'll be standing right beside her. You know the reporter, Mike Murphy, on CBS? Well, he was a cop and he got his big break working the preppie murder case for the s.e.x Crimes Unit."

"That's good to know, but when I'm ready to come back to the job, I'll make a decision. Until then, I just want to be left to myself."

Bea Shepherd paused briefly, then said, "Credit where credit is due, Julia. You've become a formidable woman."

"Dangerous," Julia corrected. "A dangerous woman."

UULIA WENT home, had her bath, had her nap, and finally awakened to find herself still tired, but in a relatively good mood. Maybe there would come a day, she speculated as she ran an electric toothbrush over her teeth, when all the things bothering her right now would become a source of pride. What was it David Lane had wanted to call her? Tiger Brennan? Killer Brennan would be more apt. Maybe some day she'd be Killer Brennan, a legend in her own time.