been able to stick it into a vein and put him soundly to sleep. Had they

been going to carry him out the window? Would Brian McAvoy have gotten

a call a few hours later demanding money for the boy's safe return?

There would be no call now, no ransom.

Rubbing his gritty eyes, Lou started up the steps. Amateurs, he

thought. Bunglers. Murderers. Where the h.e.l.l were they? Who the h.e.l.l

were they?

What difference does it make?

It made a difference, he told himself as his hands clenched into fists.

Justice always made a difference.

The door to Michael's room was open. The soft sound of his son's

breathing drew him. He could see in the faint moonlight the wreckage

of toys and clothes strewn over the floor, heaped on the bed, mounded on

the dresser. Usually it would have made him sigh. Michael's cheertil

sloppiness was a mystery to Lou. Both he and his wife were tidy and

organized by nature. Michael was a tornado, a rushing wind that hopped

from spot to spot and left destruction and chaos behind.

Yes, usually he would have sighed and planned his lecture for the

morning. But tonight, the wild disarray brought tears of grat.i.tude to

his eyes. His boy was safe.

Picking his way through the rubble, he crept toward the bed. He had to

push the traffic jam of Matchbox cars aside to find a place to sit.

Michael slept on his stomach, the right side of his face squashed into

the pillow, his arms flung out and the sheets in a messy tangle at his

feet.

For a moment, then five, then ten, Lou simply sat, studying the child he

and Marge had made. The thick dark hair he'd inherited from his mother

was tousled around his face. His skin was tanned, but still had the

dewy softness of first youth. His nose was crooked, giving character to

what might have been a face too pretty for a boy. He had a firm,

compact little body that was already beginning to sprout. Bruises and

sc.r.a.pes colored it.

Six years and two miscarriages, Lou thought now. Then finally he and

Marge had been able to unite sperm and egg into strong, vital life. And

he was the best and brightest of both of them.

Lou remembered Brian McAvoy's face. The stunned grief, the fury, the

helplessness. Yes, he understood.

Michael stirred when Lou stroked a hand over his cheek. "Dad?"

"Yes. I just wanted to say good night. Go back to sleep."

Yawning, Michael shifted and sent cars clattering to the floor. "I

didn't mean to break it," he murmured.

With a half-laugh, Lou pressed his hands to his eyes. He didn't know

what it was, and didn't care. "Okay. I love you, Michael."

But his son was fully back to sleep.

IT WAS BRIGHT, almost balmy. The breeze from the Atlantic ruffled the

tall green gra.s.s. Emma listened to the secret songs it whispered. Over

its music was the low, solemn voice of the priest.

He was tall and ruddy-faced with his white, white hair a shocking

contrast to his black robes. Though his voice carried a lilt very

similar to her father's, Emma didn't understand much of what he was