JULIA BREN NAN was through the door, out of the drive, and on her way to downtown Manhattan within sixty seconds of shutting Corry's dresser drawer. A pair of red lights behind the Jeep's grill flashed alternately and the scream of the siren beneath the Jeep's hood rose and fell as she wove through and around the traffic on Woodhaven Boulevard. All the while, she frantically punched at her cellular's key pad with her thumb, missing the 411 sequence several times before she finally got to a human voice. Still, despite the physical inept.i.tude, her mind was clear and her thinking sharp, the veil having been lifted the instant she followed Peter Foley's advice. The instant she took him out of the equation.

"Ms. Sims speaking. How can I help you?"

After identifying herself as a New York City police officer, Julia demanded that she be put through to the princ.i.p.al's office at Stuyvesant High School. She expected a certain degree of resistance, but Ms. Sims merely grunted once before saying, "Give me a second to find the number and I'll connect you."

Three minutes later, as Julia tore up the ramp leading to the city-bound Long Island Expressway, Stuyvesant High School's princ.i.p.al, Yolandi Powers, came on the phone.

"I have reason to believe," Julia told Powers after identifying herself for the second time, "that my daughter's life is in danger. I want her brought to your office and kept there until I arrive."

"I'm afraid that's impossible."

"Why? It's only 2:30. She's still in cla.s.s."

A pause, then, "How do I know you're who you say you are? You could be anyone, anyone at all. I can't disrupt..."

"But I can," Julia responded. "I can put fifty cops in that school. I can close it off and let n.o.body in or out. In fact, if it wasn't a half-hour from the end of the school day, I'd be making arrangements to do that right now."

The truth, Julia knew, was a bit less dramatic. Even if she was right about everything, every factor in the equation, that didn't mean there was someone at Stuyvesant High School waiting for Corry. Not when Corry had gone to school on the prior day, then returned unmolested. Briefly, Julia imagined herself calling Harry Clark, demanding that a public high school be closed down because she'd found a stack of her daughter's panties slightly askew. Yeah, that'd work.

"Princ.i.p.al Powers," Julia continued when Powers failed to reply, "listen to this."

She rolled down the window, thrust the cell phone toward the Jeep's hood and the wailing siren, then held it steady for a moment before pulling it back. "As you can hear, I'm on my way. All I'm asking is that you keep my daughter safe until I arrive."

"This .. . threat to your daughter's safety, does it involve another student? Or one of our staff?"

Julia choked back a laugh. Princ.i.p.al Powers was concerned with her own a.s.s, not with Corry Brennan's. Specifically, Powers wanted to be a.s.sured that Corry's peril hadn't arisen from Stuyvesant High School's neglect.

"The school's not involved in any way," Julia soothed. "And it won't be as long as my daughter is protected."

That did the trick. Powers took down Julia's number and promised to have Corry phone as soon as she came into the office. Julia muttered a thank-you, then turned her attention to the road. Traffic wasn't particularly heavy, but the cars and trucks stubbornly refused to give way to a Jeep, siren and flashing lights be d.a.m.ned. Julia was forced to dodge and weave if she wanted to make any time at all, to run with the Jeep's left wheels on the median as she took the exit for the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and then again on the far side of the Koscius...o...b..idge. She was heading for the Brooklyn Bridge and Chambers Street which led directly to Stuyvesant High School.

As Julia pressed on, ignoring a perfectly manicured middle finger extended through the window of a Mercedes sedan, she became aware of an idea that had been lingering at the back of her consciousness for some time. Just because Corry had made her way safely to school, then back to the hospital on the prior day, didn't mean that she wasn't being stalked. The wild card here was Foley who'd decided, for reasons of his own, to go after Destroyer and Destroyed by himself. His parting injunction, to factor him out of the equation, had been issued in case he failed. But had he failed? There was no way to know, not unless he, in all his majestic glory, chose to get in touch with her.

"You arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Julia muttered to herself. "If you've taken him out and haven't called me, I'll never forgive you. And if you're lying somewhere dead, I'll never forgive you either. In fact, no matter what happens, you're on my s.h.i.t list for the f.u.c.king duration."

The outburst did nothing to mitigate her anger. Nor could it alter the simple truth that Foley had given her the key, that the key had been there all along, and if she wasn't a fixated jerk she'd have seen it long before. The only way, if Foley played no part, the Mandrakes and Teddy Goodman could have been targeted was if their killer already knew them, if their killer was himself a pedophile. And that held for all of his victims. He was able to control them, to lure them to their deaths because they trusted him, because he and they had pledged the same secret fraternity.

That's what the name was all about. Destroyer and Destroyed. He was the destroyer, not of pedophiles, but of human innocence, and he was destroyed by what he did. His motive was atonement, not revenge. Or at least, it used to be atonement. Now things had taken a different turn and he'd shifted to a more satisfying brand of destruction. That was surely the way Foley had read it when she told him about the open window discovered by Patrolman Hijuelos in her kitchen, about Robert Reid found unconscious on the stairs.

Still, what hadn't made sense was a pedophile killing other pedophiles. Not even Sergeant Ross, the profiler, had suggested that the man who slaughtered Teddy Goodman, the Mandrakes, and at least three others was himself a pedophile. Foley had known, though. He'd known all along and kept it to himself.

Julia eased into the right lane, avoiding the left-hand exit to the Williamsburg Bridge, thinking that at least she knew where to find her killer. C Squad had been all over the doorman at the Clapham, an Italian whose name she couldn't remember, and they'd run the tape from the video cameras trained on the lobby and on the service entrance over and over. Every individual, entering or leaving, had been identified and interviewed, and the Mandrakes' killer was not among them. Which meant that Destroyer and Destroyed probably lived in the Clapham.

Julia imagined the man learning of Anja Dascalescu's fate, then coming down the stairs to knock at the Mandrakes' door. How many had he already killed? At least the two unidentified victims found in Queens, and if Sergeant Ross' profile was accurate, many more. He would not have hesitated to rid himself of the Mandrakes and any incriminating evidence, like a client list, in their apartment.

Julia exited the Expressway at Tillary Street, caught a piece of luck when a traffic agent working the intersection of Tillary and Flatbush Avenue waved her past the vehicles gathered at the light. She was just about to acknowledge his professional att.i.tude with a thumbs-up when the cell phone on the pa.s.senger's seat began to trill.

"Corry?"

"It's Princ.i.p.al Powers. I'm afraid we're having a bit of trouble locating your daughter. She was released from gym to prepare for the school play, but she's not in the auditorium. But don't worry. We have security posted at every door throughout the school day. She couldn't have left the school."

"That doesn't mean somebody didn't get in."

"Outsiders cannot enter the school unless they have business in the school." When Julia failed to reply, she added, "The students are due to be released in ten minutes. I have no authority to detain them."

And there's no time, Julia thought, for me to find the cops to do it for you. Neat.

"Will you at least keep looking for Corry? Will you ask security to keep an eye out for strangers in the building?"

"Yes, I can do that."

Julia made a right on Adams Street and punched the Jeep's gas pedal, ripping through the long block, slowing just a bit for the sweeping left turn that led to the Brooklyn Bridge. Anybody, she reasoned as she ran up on the b.u.mper of a green Toyota, could have made an appointment with any one of the counselors or administrative personnel in the school. And surely there'd been deliveries during the day, the arrival and departure of maintenance and kitchen staff, doors opening and shutting, security guards with their backs momentarily turned, grabbing a quick smoke, phoning a spouse or a lover. If you were patient and determined, and you had the experience, the low-level security presented by a New York City high school would not deter you.

The great ma.s.s of Lower Manhattan rose up as Julia crested the bridge, made all the more solid by the narrow twisting streets of the financial district. The day was overcast and the sun had long since dropped beneath the shoulders of the highest towers. In the twilight, the buildings, whether of gla.s.s or stone, presented uniform gray facades while the river beneath was a ribbon of black lit only by the running lights of a tugboat pushing a loaded petroleum barge north toward the Bronx.

Gotta think, Julia told herself. Can't panic. G.o.dd.a.m.n that Foley. G.o.dd.a.m.n him. If, if, if, if, if ... f.u.c.k!

FORTY-EIGHT.

A HUNDRED yards from the foot of the bridge, Julia pulled the Jeep to a halt behind a ma.s.s of vehicles extending to the traffic light controlling access to Centre Street. Much as she would have liked to, she could not force her way between them; the Jeep was too big for that. And neither could she hold the other drivers responsible. There was nowhere for them to go. The traffic light was at the corner of Centre and Chambers Streets, at the far end of a sharp curve, and the drivers stopped there could not see her. Nor could they use the Jeep's siren as a guide. The echoes generated by the stone canyons of lower Manhattan were too confusing, a reality driven home by a near-collision with an ambulance during Julia's first year on the job.

Julia took a breath, again ordered herself to calm down, to think. She was looking west, over City Hall toward the Hudson River less than a mile away, a mile that would take her twenty frustrating minutes to span, when the phone began to ring. Instinctively, as if at the hiss of snake, she cringed, for the briefest of moments glimpsing the person she would become if she'd failed to protect Corry Brennan. If while she'd been off protecting other people's children, her own daughter .. .

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Mom, like what's going on?"

Julia began to cry at the sound of Corry's voice, silently, the tears running along her nose to spill over her lips. Reflexively, she tightened her mouth and wiped her eyes. First panic, she thought, then meltdown, a pretty sequence for a woman who's imagined herself running the Police Department of the City of New York.

"Corry, where are you?"

"I'm in Princ.i.p.al Powers' office?"

"I mean, where were you?"

"Like, I didn't do anything wrong?"

"You don't want to tell me?"

"Mom, could you puh-leeze give me a break? I was in the maintenance shop. We're making frames for the backdrops."

"The what?"

"For the play, if you happen to remember."

"Why didn't you tell somebody where you were going?"

"Because it's a school? Because it's not a prison? Because we're not criminals?"

"Alright, alright. I seem to be a bit overwrought. But I want you to stay in the office until I arrive. I think there was someone in the house when Uncle Bob fell down the stairs."

"And he's after me?"

Julia paused long enough to manage a narrow smile. Corry's voice expressed equal measures of disbelief and fear, with maybe a pinch of grand adventure tossed in for seasoning. "I don't know that for sure, but I'm not taking any chances. Don't be alone until I get there. No matter what."

"And, like, when will that be?"

"I'm not certain. A half-hour, an hour. I want to take a look around. Meanwhile, don't move."

Instead OF taking the left onto Chambers when she finally cleared the light, Julia shut down the siren and headed north on Centre Street. She drove through Foley Square to Worth Street, where she turned west, finally making her way to Greenwich Street. Though she took her time, content to follow the herd, her mind was speeding along, various thoughts meshing like the gears of a fine watch. She did not make this transition from terrified mother to New York City detective through an act of will. Instead, with Corry safe, Captain Julia Brennan had simply glided onto the stage, already in costume, makeup perfect, not a hair out of place.

She thought of Foley again this particular Julia remembering that she'd already decided that she could trust him, and that the conclusions she'd drawn in the last hour had been known to him for at least two days. Without doubt, he'd already visited the Clapham, either unsuccessfully or with disastrous results. But he hadn't made an arrest, because there was no way to keep that sort of collar secret even if the job had a reason, which it didn't.

Might Foley have handled the problem extra judiciously? Yeah, he might have. But then why hadn't he called to tell her? If they'd reached the point where they trusted each other? What I can't do, she finally decided as she parked the Jeep a block from the intersection of Greenwich and Chambers Streets, as she dropped her parking permit on the dash, is let anything happen to dear Destroyer until I answer that question.

Then it was time to get to work, to answer a more immediate question. If I were stalking a thirteen-year-old student named Corry Brennan, she asked herself, and I knew (or at least hoped) that she'd be leaving school at a given time, where would I wait to intercept, then follow her until I got her alone?

Julia took a moment to visualize the buildings and roads surrounding the school, drawing on memory though she'd only visited Stuyvesant High two or three times. Set at the very northern end of Battery Park City, the school was designed to blend with neighboring apartment buildings. Thus its multihued brick, varying from cream to pale brown to b.u.t.tery yellow, and its ten-story height which, she admitted, would make a thorough search extremely difficult. Whether that search was being conducted by a cop in pursuit of a suspect, or a killer stalking his prey.

But that wasn't necessarily bad news. Stuyvesant High was a magnet school, attracting applicants from all over New York City. Virtually none of its students lived within walking distance. Virtually all took one or another of the subway lines to the east. To do so they had to cross West Street which ran like a moat between the school and the nearest public transportation. The only place within blocks to make that crossing was at Chambers Street which fronted the school.

Julia could imagine the city's lawyers contemplating the prospect of defending the city if some drunk plowed into several hundred kids at sixty miles an hour. West Street was all that remained of the old West Side Highway. With traffic lights a half-mile apart, it was commonly driven as if it was the Indianapolis Speedway especially by cabbies who combined excessive speed with quick unpredictable shifts from one lane to another on tires slick enough to polish the family silver.

The possibilities must have been too horrifying to contemplate because a trussed bridge, one end of which fed directly onto an entrance to the school, had been erected over West Street. The overwhelming majority of Stuyvesant High's students would cross the bridge when school let out.

Julia had observed the process about a month before, standing on the eastern side of Chambers Street at the bottom of a sweeping flight of concrete steps. A solid line of kids, walking four and five abreast, had poured across the bridge like migrating wildebeest fording a river, dispersing only slightly as they continued east on Chambers.

Opening the door, stepping out, checking the weapon tucked into her purse, Julia realized that she would have to search the entire route, every pizza parlor and coffee shop and fast-food joint on Chambers Street, and hope she got lucky. If she didn't, she would take Corry, bring her to Robert Reid's apartment with its twenty-four-hour doorman and state-of-the-art surveillance system. Then she'd call C Squad, put a bug in Carlos Serrano's ear that would send him back to the Clapham. He'd know where to go from there, Carlos Serrano whose only ambition was to make detective first grade.

Julia walked south on Greenwich, toward Chambers Street, until she reached an entrance to Washington Market Park. Half the size of a city block, the park fronted Chambers Street on its southern side, and had a convenient exit at Chambers and Greenwich, a block from the school, and a third exit, up a flight of steps to the Borough of Manhattan Community College and a small plaza. From the plaza, a broad concrete ramp led back down to Chambers Street. Julia would cross the rear of the park, climb the steps, then use that ramp to come upon the intersection of Chambers and West Streets un.o.bserved. Along the way, she would check out the park.

Casually, her stride even, her expression neutral, Julia walked along a narrow path flanked to her right by trees and to her left by a children's playground. The playground was deserted, the mommies or nannies apparently intimidated by the cold. The swings were moving, though. Set into motion by a stiff breeze, they emitted a chorus of squeaks as they rocked to and fro that reminded Julia of newborn ducklings peeping at the approach of mother.

When the path emerged into the main body of the park, Julia pulled her collar up and her hat down as she quickly surveyed her surroundings. Except for three determined joggers, running in a bunch along a path that circled a lawn perhaps thirty yards in diameter, the park appeared to be empty. Julia was looking south toward Chambers Street, past a whimsical gazebo, Washington Market Park's sole distinctive feature. Six-sided, the white gazebo wore an elaborate wrought-iron skirt, also white, that complemented a second skirt above the eaves that, in turn, complemented a stepped aquamarine roof.

Past the gazebo and the high fence separating the park from Chambers Street, the first of a long line of Stuyvesant High students filled the sidewalk. In fifteen minutes the migration would be over. Julia hurried along to the steps leading to Manhattan Community College, then started to climb. She would begin at Chambers and West Streets, check the intersection, then the bridge, then walk back along Chambers toward the various subway lines. If she hurried, she'd complete a minimal survey before the last of the students pa.s.sed by.

At the very top of the stairs, Julia paused long enough to look back over her shoulder, to make another careful pa.s.s. As she was about to turn away she glimpsed a movement behind the shrubbery lining the inside of the fence. The gazebo was between her and the shadow she thought she saw, the trunk of an oak as well.

Without slowing, Julia strode onto the plaza, continuing forward until she was out of sight. Then she doubled back to crouch behind a low concrete wall. The sun to the west had dropped almost to the horizon and it was nearly dark along the fence line. Nevertheless, after a moment, she was able to discern the shadow of a man among those cast by the trees and the gazebo. Perhaps driven by the cold, the man was moving slightly, rocking to and fro like the swings in the kids' playground. He wore an overcoat with the collar pulled up high, but no hat, and he was facing the sidewalk, apparently watching the kids walk past.

Julia retrieved the billfold that held her ID and her badge, slipping it into the breast pocket of her coat with the badge facing out. She reached into her purse, found her weapon, gripped it in her right hand. Though the exhaustion of a few hours before had vanished, she muttered two quick prayers before descending the steps. Please Lord, she begged, don't let me kill again. Please, Lord, let it be him.

FORTY-NINE.

JULIA KEPT her body turned slightly to the left as she retraced her steps across the northern edge of the park. She was hoping to conceal the badge she felt herself forced to display. The man she sought had killed five people with a pistol and there was every reason to believe he was armed at this moment. If she had to shoot him, if things got out of control, she could not risk the charge that she'd failed to identify herself as a police officer. Every cop had the absolute right to stop and detain a citizen, as long as those cops had the good sense to make their cop ident.i.ties crystal clear.

Still, that didn't mean she had to show her badge if he happened to glance over his shoulder, not until the last minute when she had him trapped. With her badge invisible, from this distance she'd be just another pedestrian, maybe a teacher at the community college, or even a student, walking with her collar up and her head down, huddled against the cold and the wind.

Julia picked up the pace just a bit as the path curved south toward the exit at Chambers and Greenwich, evaluating the situation as she came. The wrought-iron picket fence where her suspect crouched rose to a height of seven feet, and the slender bars, only a few inches apart, were pointed at their tops. The fence wasn't insurmountable, but unless you were an athlete or you'd given it a lot of thought, you'd be as likely to find yourself hung up as you would on the other side, looking back.

Silently wishing for a radio, Julia removed her cell phone, thumbed 911 into the key pad, and hit the forward b.u.t.ton. An operator answered on the third ring, demanding to know the nature of the emergency.

"This is Lieutenant Julia Brennan, shield number two-nine-seven-three. I'm in Washington Market Park, on the south side, approaching a homicide suspect. I need immediate back-up."

"And the color of the day is ... ?"

Julia groaned. The color of the day was either green, yellow, pink, red, or purple. Chosen at random and revealed to cops before they went on patrol, the colors were used to weed out prank callers, or criminals in need of a diversion.

"I'm off-duty. I don't know."

"Well .. ."

"For Christ's sake," Julia hissed, struggling to keep her voice down, "I'm not asking for an army. I'm asking for the G.o.dd.a.m.ned sector car."

"You're breaking up. I can't hear you."

"What?"

"You're breaking up."

"Just dispatch a unit, please."

In lieu of a reply, Julia listened to a soft humming as the phone went dead. It was the rush of blood, she realized, through her own ear, as if she was holding a seash.e.l.l. She stared at the phone for a moment, then at the man by the fence. He'd moved back to the gazebo, perhaps to create a bit more distance between himself and curious Stuyvesant High students, and was casually leaning against one of the posts.

There was more light around the gazebo and Julia could see well enough to add a few details to the shadow he'd been a moment before. Hatless, he wore a full-length overcoat and a scarf, both of dark wool.

His hair was light and thinning, his scalp visible at the crown even in the dim yellow light cast by the art deco lamps scattered through the park. In his mid-thirties, he stood a couple of inches over six feet and weighed, Julia estimated, about a hundred and ninety pounds.

Too big to fight, though not too big to shoot. But Julia wasn't all that worried about hand-to-hand combat. The profiler, Ross, had told her that Destroyer was a coward, that he killed his victims before hanging or cutting them because he believed they were supremely powerful and he had to make them safe. Well, there was no way to make a cop with a gun safe. If faced with the ultimate choice, the man would flee, surrender, or start shooting.

As if to prove her point, he described a slow casual turn, scanning the park until his eyes came to rest on Julia. She was about halfway down the path now, and closer to the Greenwich Street exit. Marching steadily forward, willing herself not to hurry, she watched him out of the corner of her eye, hand again clutching the Glock within her purse.

His eyes grew wider as she came, the look on his face describing a gradual transformation from composed to astonished. He spun on his heel when Julia turned to walk directly at him, then took off across the lawn toward the steps leading to the college.