Shortly after moving into the house, he'd begun converting the bas.e.m.e.nt into a recreation room. It had a pair of soft, deep sofas that faced a monster flat-screen plasma TV. In the corner was a freestanding bar he'd built himself. And just about every nook and cranny was filled with Philadelphia Eagles memorabilia-he'd started the collection in his youth and later had help from Wendy, who'd grown into a genuine fan, too.

And, in the corner of the rec room, his desk held a desktop computer.

Every morning, by the time he'd finished checking his e-mail, the pot of coffee would have finished brewing. He'd then go up and pour a big cup to bring back down and drink while catching up on e-mails and then reading phillybulletin.com, the online edition of the Philadelphia Bulletin Philadelphia Bulletin. Up until a couple years ago, he would go out to the front stoop and pick up the paper version that he'd subscribed to forever. But, as it had never arrived until at least six in the morning-and, on rainy days, arrived wet-he'd let the subscription lapse after getting in the habit of reading the news online.

And not just news.

Lately, he'd started following a new website, the name of which he really liked: CrimeFreePhilly.com. It had news articles, but also a lot of information about crime and criminals. And so, in the last month, it had become an indispensable tool for Curtis.

Now, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in his left hand, he used his right hand to click onto CrimeFreePhilly.

The morning's lead headline was: THREE DEAD IN OLD CITY.

POLICE HUNT GUNMAN IN "POP-AND-DROP" MURDERS Three dead? had been Curtis's first thought as he sipped from his coffee cup. had been Curtis's first thought as he sipped from his coffee cup.

Then: Pop-and-drop? That's an interesting way to put it. Pop-and-drop? That's an interesting way to put it.

He noticed that Michael J. O'Hara had written the news article. Curtis had seen the byline in the Bulletin Bulletin for a long time, and he liked the articles the O'Hara guy wrote. But he hadn't seen O'Hara's name in some time, and he'd wondered if something had happened to the reporter. But now, here was his name appearing on this new website. for a long time, and he liked the articles the O'Hara guy wrote. But he hadn't seen O'Hara's name in some time, and he'd wondered if something had happened to the reporter. But now, here was his name appearing on this new website.

Curtis read O'Hara's news story. It was short, only six brief paragraphs stating the basic information that three men had been left dead in Old City at Lex Talionis. It didn't list the victims' names or how they'd been killed.

And it mentioned absolutely nothing about the pop-and-drops at the police stations.

Curtis saw that the article referenced both the reward offered by Lex Talionis and the speech made by Francis Fuller. Both references were underlined, meaning they were links to other pages with more information. When Curtis clicked on Francis Fuller Francis Fuller, the page with the pop-and-drop article was replaced with a much longer piece on Fuller's speech on the "evildoers," written by someone named d.i.c.k Collier. He skimmed it, then went back and read it in its entirety.

Then he went back and clicked on the underlined Lex Talionis Lex Talionis, and the link took him to the page at LexTalionis.com announcing the ten-thousand-dollar-reward program for information leading to the arrest and conviction of an evildoer. He knew about the program, but he read the page anyway to see if there was anything new. announcing the ten-thousand-dollar-reward program for information leading to the arrest and conviction of an evildoer. He knew about the program, but he read the page anyway to see if there was anything new.

There wasn't, and Curtis again clicked back to O'Hara's article on "Three Dead in Old City."

Where the h.e.l.l did the third body come from?

A coincidence? Oh, sure. Someone just happened to have one lying around, and dropped it off on Halloween!

Is some a.s.shole copying me?

Except they're not dumping bad guys at the police stations. Not that I know of, anyway. There haven't been any stories about those, mine or anyone else's.

In deep thought, he drained his coffee cup. Then he slammed the cup on the desk.

Some a.s.shole has to be copying me!

What does that mean?

Well, for starters, it means more dead perverts.

Not that I have a problem with that.

But there's gonna be cops on every corner looking for me and whoever else is dumping bodies.

And that means, if I'm going to enforce the law of talion in whatever time I have left, I'm going to need to do something different.

[TWO].

Will Curtis had his balled fist inside the iron burglar bars and was again banging on the filthy metal door.

"FedEx delivery!"

Now he could hear footsteps inside. They were moving toward the door.

Then came the sound of a chain rattling against the back side of the door, then a deadbolt unlocking, then the doork.n.o.b turning.

The door cracked open, just barely.

Judging by the sliver of a gaunt face that Curtis saw through the crack, it was a woman old enough to be Kendrik Mays's mother. She stared at him with only her left eye, and she looked absolutely awful.

Well, what the h.e.l.l did you expect to find here? Miss America?

Curtis held up the envelope so she could see the bill of lading.

"Got an express delivery for a Kendrik Mays."

The lone visible eyeball darted between Curtis and the envelope.

"Ain't today Sunday?" she asked.

"Look, I don't like working weekends any more than the next guy."

She nodded as she considered his answer.

After a moment, the woman said with a shaky voice, "He down at his cousin's. Don't know when he come back. You leave it with me."

She pulled the door open wider to where the chain became taut and stuck out a badly bruised hand, fingers clawing for the envelope.

Now Curtis could see more of the woman. The entire right side of her face, including all around the right eye, was deeply bruised. She stood, her feet bare, at maybe five-two. She was clearly malnourished, and couldn't weigh a hundred pounds. Torn and dirty black jeans and a ratty T-shirt hung on her.

Curtis, trying to get over his initial shock, pulled back the envelope.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but it's gotta be signed for by the person it's addressed to."

She squinted her sunken eyes and looked harder at the envelope. "Who it from?"

Will Curtis turned over the envelope, pretending to read from the bill of lading. "Says the U.S. Treasury in Washington."

"Treasury? You sure you got the right address?" You sure you got the right address?"

He read it off the envelope, then said, "Kendrik Mays, right?"

She said, "Think that may be a check?"

In a tone he hoped showed he was uninterested, he replied: "Yeah, that'd be my guess. Pension check, IRS refund, maybe some of that stimulus money the government's been giving away. That'd be a good reason they want it delivered to the right person."

Will Curtis looked her in the eyes and could see she was considering her options.

She said, "I sign for it. Kendrik my boy. I see he gets it."

Curtis shook his head. "Sorry, ma'am. I'm just a delivery guy. And I got to follow rules. I guess I'll come back-"

She slammed the door shut in his face.

What the h.e.l.l? he thought. he thought.

Then he could hear the chain clanking against the inside. The door swung all the way open.

"Hurry up," she said shakily. "Maybe he got money, he don't beat me no more. Maybe he move out for good."

Curtis looked around the inside of the house. It was a shambles. The only furniture was a threadbare sofa with torn cushions and two white plastic patio chairs.

"You know that's not right. No one should beat you."

She said, "I knows. I do. But he don't mean to. It's drugs. They make him mean. Different, you know?"

"No, ma'am, I don't know. I can't begin to understand it. Where is he?"

She pointed to the floor, indicating the bas.e.m.e.nt, and started to cry. "He was such a sweet little boy. The street turned him bad . . ."

"That, I know."

"What?"

He held up the envelope, then grabbed the tab at the top, peeling it open. He reached in and pulled out a sheet. It was a Wanted poster from the listing of Megan's Law fugitives at CrimeFreePhilly.com, one he'd downloaded and printed in his bas.e.m.e.nt.

Next to a color mug shot of an angry-looking young black man with a full beard and dreadlocks was:

Name (First, Middle, LAST): Kendrik LeShawn MAYS Description: Black Male, 5'9", 200 lbs. Black Male, 5'9", 200 lbs.

Date of Birth: 10/19/1988.

Last Known Address: 2620 Wilder Street 2620 Wilder Street City, State, ZIP: Philadelphia, PA 19147 Convicted of: 3123 Involuntary deviant s.e.xual intercourse & rape of an unconscious or unaware person Phila Police Dept Case No.: 2008-18-063914 2008-18-063914.

Kendrik LeShawn Mays's mother raised her eyebrows. But she did not appear at all surprised. Nor at all concerned that Will Curtis had her son's Wanted sheet.

She sighed.

"Yeah," she said, "that him. Guess he lied. Said he took care of that."

She looked at Curtis. "No check, huh?"

More like a reality check, Curtis thought. Curtis thought.

He shook his head.

"No check."

Will Curtis went down the unstable wooden steps into the bas.e.m.e.nt. His left hand slid along the wooden handrail, and his right hand, holding the .45-caliber pistol, followed the wall of mostly busted Sheetrock.

There was some light from the small window at the far end of the room-the one the rats had gone through-but not enough for him to make out anything but vague shapes in the pitch dark.

There was a stench, although not like the putrid smell that had a.s.saulted his olfactory senses at the front door. The odor here was a sickly sweet stench that became stronger the farther down the stairs he went. So far, though, it hadn't triggered his gag reflex, and he was grateful for such small favors.

At the foot of the stairs, Curtis stopped and listened. He could hear snoring about midway in the room.

That's two people snoring!

One deep as h.e.l.l.

He felt around on the wall for a light switch. As best he could tell there wasn't one, just busted-up drywall.

He took another step, reaching farther down the wall, then felt his foot catch on a rope or cord or something.

Some kind of trip wire?

He carefully reached down with his left hand till he felt it.

It was a vinyl-covered electrical extension cord that had been run from upstairs. When he tugged on it, something attached to its far end started sliding across the bas.e.m.e.nt floor toward him.

He pulled and pulled, and finally found at the end what had once been the guts of a lamp. All that was left from the lamp was a threaded metal rod attached to the receptacle that held a lone bare lightbulb. His thumb found the stick push-switch on the receptacle, and after positioning himself in a crouch and aiming his pistol in the direction of the snoring, Curtis pushed the switch on.

The bare bulb burned brightly, d.a.m.n near blinding him until his eyes adjusted.

The only response from the middle of the room was another loud, deep snore.

After his eyes adjusted, Will Curtis could not believe what he was seeing.

The bas.e.m.e.nt was the worst thing he'd ever seen in his life. It was completely trashed. The Sheetrock walls were all busted, as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to them in search of whatever treasure might be hidden behind them. And then he saw why: The wiring had been ripped from the wall power outlets and light switches.

It probably was cheap aluminum, not copper, wiring, making the effort mostly worthless. Idiots.

Desperate idiots . . .