Death Watch By Elizabeth Forrest


                                McKENZIE'S VISION....

    She blinked, not understanding. Was it real, or
    imagined? She put out her hand. She touched the
    wetness. The curtains that separated the hospital
    beds had been drawn. In her half of the room,
    something awful had struck. She stumbled forward.

    Scarlet streaked Mac's bedsheets. It dripped
    down the walls. Then she saw the white teddy bear
    on the pillows, gutted, its stuffing strewn
    everywhere, laced with crimson. An ice pick pinned
    it to her sheets. What might have been a heart or
    liver quivered about its shaft.

    4'Oh, my God...." Her voice leaked thinly from
    her throat.

    The bloody streaks led to the mirror above the
    small console at the room's end where someone
    had written, in tall gory letters.



    Chapter 1

    . . ~
      . ~..

    The lighting in the prison's interrogation room was harsh
    It was aimed to leave no shadows in any corner, and the
    passageway beyond it seemed dim in contrast. Angry graf-
    fiti scarred the wooden tabletop. Chairs were scattered
    about, only three for the six or seven who stood there.
    Seven, Carter thought. I always forget to count myself. But
    neither Carter nor any of the others sat down.
    ~_ His fingers moved against the tops of his thighs, not
    twitching, but typing. Typing out his thoughts and the

    _ory he was putting together as he stood in the corner,

    ailing. The room smelled of Death Row, although few
    t_enough had gone to their sentencing in the last several

    1

    years. It was the waiting which sweated the odor out of
    the inmates, he decided. It was the waiting, and the an-
    ger, and the hatred, and the fear which sank into the
    stone.

    The guard looked at him, a bluff young man, his glance
    passing over him, catching the finger movement, pausing,
    then looking away.

    He didn't look threatening enough, Carter noted, al-
    most with disappointment.

    Steps came shuffling down the corridor. The two law-
    yers, the warden, two FBI suits, and one guard all turned
    to the locked gateway. Three guards, one of them the
    turnkey, the other two doing escort at the prisoner's el-








    8

                 Elizabeth Forrest

    bows, brought in the man for whom they all stood wait-
    ing.

    Heavily shackled, garbed in prison oranges, the man
    had lost more weight, c;arter noticed, since he d last seen
    him. His dark brown hair had grown past the sharp edges
    of a stylish razor cut. He had the tanless complexion of
    someone who'd spent years incarcerated, but there was
    something about his face which had always fascinated
    Carter. Now he could put a finger on it ... more than
    one, as he mentally typed it into his memory. The face
    was virtually unlined. A wrinkle or two about the eyes,
    from the West Coast sun. But no laugh or smile wrin-
    kles, despite the vaguely pleasant expression the prisoner
    wore, as though life had never permanently touched him.
    Carter, a good five years younger, had a face which could
    double as a road map.

    Within that noncommittal face, however, the light hazel
    eyes were busy, taking in everything as his escorts
    marched him into the room. They put their backs to the
    door as the heavy locks clicked into place.

    Bauer's glance slid over him as if Carter were of abso-
    lutely no consequence. The serial killer examined every
    square inch of the room deliberately, slowly, until his gaze
    came back to Carter. He was looking, Carter Wyndall re-
    alized suddenly, for a way out or anything he could use as
    a weapon. Finding nothing, he turned his attention back
    to those of flesh whom he might manipulate instead. As
    if he'd suddenly gained consequence, the man looked
    fully at Carter. Then he smiled.

    "} lello, Windy. Nice to see you again."

    The warden spoke icily, 'We're waiting, Bauer-Shut~: = .:
    and sit down."

    Bauer shuffled forward, his hands snugged down in
    front of him with so little latitude that if he fell, he would
    fall face first with no way to catch himself. Bauer's falling

     . ;;     ~

        -    ;~-: ~








              ~ --, D~EAsT~ .= .. . ~_

    was the least of their worries. One of the FBI suits, the
    black man with gray heavily salted through his hair, pulled
    a chair out. He was Tyrone Baker, and with the execution
    of the prisoner days hence, he would face his retirement
    with the murderer's death as a sort of final victory. Bauer
    still looking vaguely amused, sat down.

    "Just greeting old friends," he said. "Surely there's noth-
    ing wrong in that. Can't add a consecutive life sentence
    for that, now, can you?" A trace of the South lingered in
    his voice, though Carter knew that Bauer had spent no
    more than five of his early years there. It was a part of the
    charming facade, carefully re-created.

    The second FBI agent, beefy white but neat, navy-
    suited with a blue and silver splashed tie, sat down across
    from Bauer. He had the haircut Bauer had once owned
    sharp, defined, every strand blow-dried into place. He was

    ,_ the agent on record, John Nelson, who'd brought Bauer

Äin. He did not look happy now to see his quarry in shack-
    les.

    Carter imagined that he, like all of them, would be hap-
  ~ier when Bauer was six feet under, and that date was less
    two weeks off, all appeals finally exhausted. It had
    been a long eight years.

    Warden Mulhoney tapped his fingers on the table, try-
    ing to get Bauer's attention, but Bauer was looking at

    _ Carter again. Even white teeth showed slightly as he

    ~asked, offhandedly, "Did you find the body?"

~_ Carter found himself loath to answer. He did not like
    being in the position of making news. He did not under-
    stand why Bauer had asked for him, or passed the infor-

    _mation to him that he had, but he'd gone looking anyway,

|_with the police, and found a grisly treasure. Now he was
    in it, somehow, enmeshed with this monster, and he did
    not like it at all.

    ~;-Nelson answered

     ,  ,     .    = ~

    sharply for him. '~es, we did." The








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                 Elizabeth Forrest

    FBI agent's eyes flashed hard and bright, as if in response
    to a challenge.

    "There's more," the prisoner said with satisfaction,
    "where that came from."
    
    That, typed Carter silently. As if the tortured skeletal
    framework had not once belonged to anything human, let
    alone a nine-year-old girl. More where that came from. He
    controlled a shudder, in case Bauer was still watching him
    somehow although the man's attention was
    
    at the agent and the warden.
    
    "What do you say, gentlemen>" Bauer prodded a little.
    
    Mulhoney's mouth twisted. The words spilled out.
    '~ou've been granted an indefinite stay. As long as you
    talk, and locations and details pan out, we'll let you keep
    talking. But the minute we think you're jerking us
    aroundÄ"
    
    Bauer smiled. The expression folded into his unlined
    face around his mouth, making little impact. Carter saw
    that when he stopped smiling, evidence of the gesture
    would be gone as completely as if it had never happened.
    He dropped one shoulder slightly, and looked over at
    Carter.
    
    "Thank you, Windy," he said.
    
    He wanted to remain silent. He should remain si en~.
    He wasn't a media journalist, by God, he was a newspa-
    perman, and this monster had chosen him, cut him out of
    the herd of reporters following the trials for reasons
    Carter had never understood, but he knew that flashy ver-
    biage wasn't part of it. He'd been given interviews he
    could not turn down, and, eventually, information he
    could not withhold. Nelson hated him for that. Goaded,
    he could not hold his tongue. "Don't thank me. I have my
    press pass for the execution. But if your staying alive a lit-
    tle longer means one more family doesn't have tn w~n~Pr
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    ll
    
    why their loved one never came home, then I guess I have
    to. Iive with it."
    
    Bauer's smile flushed into a grin. "I owe you one," he
    said, as if he hadn't heard a worr} Carter said.
    
    Carter could see it written in the body language all
    around him. No one there but Bauer was grateful to
    Carter for getting the man a stay of execution, not even
    his attorneys. He'd gotten the defense he was entitled to.
    Now the state and his victims deserved justice. For a
    fleeting moment, Carter wished he'd never published the
    interviews, the startling new confession. Ted Bundy had
    tried this in his final hours, too, but he'd jerked too many
    _ chains, been too confident they wouldn't fry him if he
    
9_ started talking. He'd been too coy His ego could not resist
    the opportunity he'd been given. He'd tried to drag out
    the confessions, had been vague, thinking to give himself
    years. The state of Florida had stopped listening almost
    immediately and fried him anyway. Carter wished the
    state of Illinois had done the same here.
    
    Mulhoney said flatly, "Don't get your dancing shoes yet.
    Your movements will be highly restricted. You'll be part of
    an experimental program, as well, if you agree to this."
    
    Good, thought Carter. Stick needles and tubes all over
    him. Make him bleed a little. Get something back.
    
    Bauer's smile vanished. As Carter had imagined, the
    smooth, passionless face looked as if it had never pre-
    tended the warmth. "What kind of program?"
    
    "Testing. Neurological mapping. Crime scene re-
    creation."
    
    The lawyers, who'd been absolutely silent all this time,
    stirred. The younger one, Latino with a thick gold chain
    and a Hebrew chai hanging upon his collar, said, '\ou
    don't have to do this. We can negotiate further."
    
    Bauer dismissed him with a wave of one finger. .Anima-
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    tion returned to Bauer's face. The eyes warmed, this time.
    "Memories," he said as if savoring them. "Of course."
    
    Carter concealed a shudder as he turned away. The two
    attorneys leaned over the warden, brought papers out of
    their pockets, no paper clips, no staples, one ballpoint for
    signing, no cap. Bauer was watched very carefully as he
    used the pen to sign, and returned it.
    
    Amused, Bauer watched his attorneys and the warden
    sign as well. While their heads dipped low, he traded a
    last look with Carter.
    
    He smiled. 11zank you, he mouthed silently.
    
    Carter would have turned his back on him, but even
    with nine other men in the room and shackled, it would
    not have been a prudent thing to do.
    
    What had he done?
    
    Seven months later, when word came that Bauer had :-~4'-
    escaped, Carter tried to commit suicide for the first time.
    
    He tried again when the first body was found, a young
    woman, with a note pinned to her mutllatea cn~.
    
    Thank you, it read. ~ ~ ~ :r'S-
    
    He never had any doubt who the note was for. He lost
    the will, the need, to live. He did not thank the paramed-
    ics who thought they'd restored him. Eventually, he lost
    his job and drifted westward, still writing, his face still
    etched with a roadmap of lines, and the light gone from
    his eyes.
    
    That was what he saw whenever he cared to look into
    a mirror. He rarely cared to. He bought an electric razor
    
                                  just so he wouldn't have to, anymore.   ~ .,
    

    





    ~ap~te~r~ 2~
    
    McKenzie hustled indoors. Instead of a Seattle late morn-
    ing after a brisk rain, the house smelled of coffee growing
    cold in its pot, the fabric softener from laundry in the
    dryer, and the musky aroma of dog. The kitchen door
    creaked behind her as she shut it.
    
    The rental house was modest by any standards, but she
    had done what she could to make it homey. The furnish-
    
~_ings were carefully chosen buys from local garage sales,
    the curtains she'd hand-sewn from decorator sheets
    bought at close-out stores. She was proud of what she'd
    been able to accomplish starting from scratch. Fresh paint
    gleamed on walls displaying pock and speckle marks from
    previous tenants. Only the Northwestern tendency toward
    mildew, a never-ending battle, could wilt her. But it was
    the dog smell, faint but distinguishable, which made
    McKenzie smile. "Cody! I'm home."
    
    She dropped her backpack to the floor as Cody gal-
    loped in from the family room. His golden retriever tail
    sliced the air vigorously, nails scrabbling across the lino-
    leum for traction. His throat swelled with greeting. The
    young dog, no longer a puppy but not yet an adult,
    launched himself at her knees. He butted his head into
    her hands, filling her fingers with dog kisses and whining
    his anxiety to her.
    
    ~he made it through finals!" she said to him. "And
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    you're famous. Look!" He nosed the slick magazine from
    her hand as she pulled it from her backpack. It landed
    cover outward on the linoleum, its woodsy cover photog-
    raphy with tall trees and college logo, proclaiming itself
    the "North Woods Leavings." "Hey! I'm a published poet
    even if you don't care. Sarah nagged me and nagged me,
    so I did it." She grabbed the magazine up-before he could
    trample it. "Just give me a bone, huh?"
    
    She ran her hands through his silky fur as he leaned
    against her denim knees. She loved the feel of him. It was
    both sensual and comforting. What would she do without
    Sarah and Cody in her life? What joy would she have?
    Her marriage was a cage, classwork and her friends a tem-
    porary key. And here at home, Cody was her only warmth.
    ` 1 love you, big pup."
    
    The golden retriever pressed against her, ears down, his
    voice a soft grumble of anxiety. As her fingertips traced
    the muscles along his back, she came to his neck and
    found the hackles raised there, ever so slightly. He wasn't
    just happy to see her, then. Something scared or bothered
    him. The budding warmth of the day escaped her, bled
    away and replaced by a shock of cold. Her head throbbed
    once, slightly. McKenzie put her hand to the bridge of her
    nose, and rubbed lightly between her eyebrows.
    
    Somebody was out there. ~ -
    
    It was a tingle of that old feeling, the one she could
    never quite explain to anyone, the feeling that kept her
    hanging around the house sometimes, just long enough to
    get that phone call. The feeling that sometimes let her
    finish Sarah Whiteside's exuberant statements before even
    fast-talking Sarah could get there.
    
    A feeling that walked up her spine now with icy steps.
    
    Cody whined again, and pushed his cold nose into her
    palms. His worry chased away her excitement.
    
    McKenzie paused. She grew still, trying to listen over
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    the dog's sounds. Nothing reached her, but fear grazed the
    back of her neck anyway. Was someone else in the house?
    
    "Who's there?"
    
    Her voice echoed back thinly from the sparsely fur-
    nished rooms. No answer. She ought to be alone.
    
    No one but her and the dog, alone for days, and she ex-
    pected to be alone for days longer. These were her days of
    peace, the solitary days when her husband was coving a
    truck on the road. She normally did not mind them,
    found nothing to fear in them. But today was different.
    McKenzie swallowed tightly. Something flickered in
    Cody's eyes, something drawing his attention. Something
    behind her. She bent over, reaching for the strap of her
    backpack to heft its reassuring weight. Cody showed his
    teeth.
    
    As she bent over, the intruder spoke. "Now that's a
    pretty sight. I'd like it a lot better if I hadn't been waiting
    all morning to see it."
    
    The flat, emotionless voice filled the kitchen.
    
    Her heart fluttered. "Jack! You're home early."
    McKenzie bolted upright, pack in hand, turning. She
    looked into the flat-cheekboned face of her husband, into
    dirty-brown eyes that held no welcome in them, and
    forced a calming smile.
    
    He pushed at the sleeves of his worn flannel shirt. Blue
    and red plaid had bled into one another, into a faded bur-
    gundy. His hips were hollowed inside his jeans as he
    leaned against the doorjamb. "Days early, and what do I
    get for the effort? I pulled back deadhead, just to be with
    you, and I find the house empty."
    
    "I had finals." She shoved the magazine into her back-
    pack, trying not to let her hands shake. She kept her voice
    evenly modulated, not patronizing, but gentle. Unprovoca-
    tive, nonaggressive. Dear God, please let nothing she did
    be the spark that set him off.
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    His eyes flickered over her. "Thank God for that.
    Maybe I'll have a real wife, then. Or has Sarah talked you
    out of that, too?" He moved his lanky body into the
    kitchen and sat down at the table.
    
    He didn't want an answer, but she felt she had to give
    him one. "Sarah doesn't tell me what to do." McKenzie bit
    off each word, to get them all out. Sarah's plain, yet en-
    gaging face, perpetually framed by sable hair tucked into
    braids, interrupted by wire-rimmed glasses, brightened by
    an everlasting smile gave her momentary strength. "She's
    just a friend."
    
    "Tell that to my phone bill." Jack stretched an arm over
    the back of the dinette chair. "She told you to go back to
    school; you did it. She told you to put your poem in the
    student magazine; you did it. Maybe if she told you to
    clean the oven, you'd do that. Maybe I could work this to
    my advantage."
    
    Cody, pressed against her knees, had begun to tremble.
    Dogs, she thought, with hearing so much better than hers.
    Did he hear the same menace in Jack's voice that she
    heard, only magnified? Her temples pulsed. Streaks of
    crimso~z across the floor.... Mac blinked in confusion, as
    something slashed its way across her vision, interrupting
    it. A feeling of dread balled itself in her stomach, threat-
    
                                       ening to rise, to fill her.   ~-
                                       He put his callused hand out. "So let me see jt."      ~
    
    "What?" ~ ~li_
    
    "Are you stupid? Let me see it." ~ :~_
    
    She gripped her bag. "No. I mean, it's nothing. Just a
    silly poem about the dog."
    
    "No love song to me, eh?"
    
    ~ ~.~ ~ ~
    
    "No. Nothmg about us. I mean, that would be too per-~
    sonal, wouldn't it?" McKenzie dropped the backpack,
    moving automatically, woodenly, to the counter and the
    coffeemaker. "Fresh coffee. That's what you need. It'll just
    

    





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    17
    
    take a minute." Quickly, to hide the shaking of her hands,
    she opened cabinets to get coffee and a filter, got rid of
    the old brew to replace it with the new.
    
    The flash of vision had rattled her, along with Jack's
    mood. He was watching her every second, hawklike. She
    could feel it drilling between her shoulder blades. More
    by feel than sight, she measured the coffee into the filter
    of the coffeemaker and set the timer. She tripped over the
    dog as she moved to fill the pot with water. Cody
    flinched, but stayed at her feet the whole time, weaving in
    and around her ankles, protecting her and seeking her re-
    assurance at the same time.
    
    What was Jack staring at? She pushed a strand of hair
    behind one ear, feeling the heat in her face in response to
    being watched.
    
    Calm. Keep calm. Let sleeping dogs lie. Don't wake sleep-
    ing dogs. Don't wake your father's fury. Don't . . . The mem-
    ory of her mother's voice echoed her own thoughts. Be
    calm. She held her breath a moment to slow her heart-
    beat. She could remember her kitchen, growing up, her
    father, his volatile temper, her mother saying, Calm down,
    just calm down, before sending McKenzie away to safe ex-
    ilc in the back bedroom.
    
    McKenzie bit her lip, watched the coffeemaker intently,
    until the clear water began to steam and drizzle through
    the filter, emerging almost magically into the coffeepot
    the color of mud, aromatic and enticing. Jack loved cof-
    fee. She flashed a smile over her shoulder. "Smells good."
    
    He did not respond immediately, just tilted his head
    and continued to stare hard at her. He sat with his legs
    splayed out in front of him, jeans worn, boots the color of
    
_rich chamois, watermarked and mud-stained, his faded
    plaid shirt open at the throat. The coiled hairs mirrored
    the dark color of his hair, nondescript, with a fleck of pre-
    mature gray here and there. There was nothing at ease or
    

    





    18
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    easy about him. The muscles along his legs and arms re-
    min,ded her of a cat about to spring. His mouth opened.
    '~ou look different, Mac. I don't know what it is yet, but
    I don't like it."
    
    She paused, her hands in mid-flight bringing down the
    mugs from the cabinet. "I don't know what you mean."
    She hated the way he looked at her.
    
    "Sure you do, Mac."
    
    __ ,._ _ _ W-- ~-:
    
    His chair scraped across the floor. Muscles bunching,
    she swung around to meet him. Cody tangled her feet
    and she fell, sprawling across the linoleum. The dog
    scrambled away, frightened. She gasped to catch her
    breath, feeling horribly foolish and awkward, and twisted
    around to put her hands under her to get up. The dread
    knotted in her stomach exploded, possessing her, render-
    ing her helpless.
    
    Jack's shadow crossed her. McKenzie craned her head
    around to look up at him just as he put his foot down on
    her throat, pinning her to the floor.
    
    Fear iced through her. "JackÄ"
    
    -=~:~-
    
    His eyes narrowed, transforming into slits of darkness.
    'What the hell do you think you're doing?"
    
    His boot smelled of sweat. Its tread ground into the
    flesh of her neck. But he wasn't angry yet, just annoyed.
    Stay calm. Let sleeping dogs lie. She swallowed carefully.
    
    "Making you coffee."
    
    "I can see that. That's not what I'm talking about." He
    
    held his penknife, wicked and slender. It caught the light
    from the kitchen window as he cleaned a fingernail with
    it. She could remember the Christmas she'd given it to
    him, and wished she had not thought of it as a gift.
    
    What did he want from her? What had she done wrong
    this time? McKenzie's thoughts whirled around her. She
    lay passively on the floor, feeling her sweat pool beneath
    

    





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    She wanted to wriggle out from under his foot, and
    shoved that feeling down. Be passive. Stay calm. "What is
    it?"
    
    "You know what you did. Did that bitch Sarah recom-
    mend this, too?"
    
    But she didn't know what he meant! McKenzie forced
    down a breath, felt her throat pressing tightly to get it
    through. "Just tell me what I did wrong. Please. I promise
    I won't do it again."
    
    Jack trimmed a cuticle neatly with the tip of the knife.
    She held her breath a second, fearing for him. Afraid he'd
    slice himself open, and his temper would spurt forth like
    hot blood. There was a time when she'd mistaken that for
    vitality, found the current which always ran just under his
    skin exciting, dynamic. In a community college full of
    boys wandering around trying to find themselves, she'd
    met a man who'd seemed hot-wired into his future. Older,
    wiser, he'd had all the confidence she and all her friends
    had lacked. Days of classes had melded into a courtship.
    She'd left her athletic grant and her scholarship behind to
    marry him. He was all she had ever wanted, she'd
    thought.
    
    He was all she had. It was the emptiness which had
    driven her back to school. Not Sarah. I\i'ot guilt at what
    she'd given up, but a desperate search to reclaim herself.
    
    And he knew that, hated it. He must. She clenched her
    jaw. He wanted to take that away from her!
    
    He showered fingernail parings upon her face. Like
    thorns, they prickled her skin.
    
    Coffee aroma steamed throughout the kitchen and Jack
    ignored it. He looked down at her.
    
    "But that's just it, Mac," he said. 'You always make
    these promises, and you keep them. You do. But then you
    always go and do something twice as had"
    
    "I'm sorry. I'll try, Jack, honest to God, I'll tryÄ" An-
    

    





    20
    
                  El~aeet~ ~rrese
    
    other nail paring fell across her eyelid. She tried to blink
    it away. She stopped as she saw Jack leaning low over her.
    
    She could see the crow's-feet at the corners of his eyes,
    wrinkles etched in from a lifetime of looking at the bright
    ribbons of highways over a truck's steering wheel. College
    had only been a brief detour for him. She could faintly
    smell beer on his breath. "You know what they say. Those
    who can, do. Those who can't, try." He mocked her.
    
    He reached out with his left hand and dug his fingers
    deep into her hair. "I've been watching you, and thinking
    and thinking about what it is that's bothering me." One
    eyebrow went up. "You got your hair cut. Now you know
    I told you never to do that."
    
    The pressure of his foot on her windpipe increased as
    he bent over her. McKenzie could feel her forehead go
    slick. Her words tumbled out in a few gasped sentences,
    losing the calm even as she fought for it. "It was just a
    trim! The ends were broken . . . the hair won't grow if the
    ends are split, Jack. It wasn't even an inch, I swear to God
    it wasn't."
    
    "I didn't ask for any excuses." He wound the hair about
    his hand. "Did I?" The knife flashed in his hand.
    
    Unreasoning panic swept her. "What are you doing?"
    She shook, the small of her back bouncing off the floor,
    as she fought the impulse to push him off and run. Let
    sleeping dogs lie. McKenzie closed her eyes.
    
    "Look at me!"
    
    Her eyes flew open. The foot on her throat gave way as
    he came down on her chest with both knees, pinning her.
    '~ou want your hair cut? I'll give you a haircut." The knife
    came sweeping down.
    
    McKenzie screamed. The sound tore out of her throat,
    leaving it raw and empty. Jack's eyes went darker, and his
    face flushed. The sawing of the blade grabbed at her
    scalp. She felt the skin part, giving way, the hair tearing
    
    a
    

    





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    21
    
    clear. He shook his fist in her face. Strands of honey-
    blonde hair waved in the air. He threw the fistful aside
    and clutched at her again. She arched her back and
    tossed her face aside.
    
    "Come on, bitch," he said. "This is what you want, isn't
    it? Isn't it? You want to look so butch no one will touch
    you, right? You want me laughed at, don't you? When I
    tell you not to do something, by God, that's what I damn
    well mean!"
    
    "Jack, please! Please!" The knife nicked her ear and she
    let out a tiny squeak.
    
    He stopped in mid-strike, as though aware he'd drawn
    blood.
    
    That was all the opening Cody needed.
    
    She'd thought it had been Jack growling, under his
    breath, under his cursing. She'd forgotten all about the
    
       ~-dog.
    
    His red-gold body sailed between them. He hit Jack on
    the shoulder and went for his hands, snarling. Ivory teeth
    
j. clashed and snapped. She felt another handful of hair part
    from her scalp before Jack pulled auay.
    
    "SON of a bitch!" He kicked and missed Cody The dog
    lay across her, not moving, his eyes leveled on Jack. He
    began to growl again in warning.
    
    She could feel the dog's heartbeat across her flank. He
    
    ~_embled, just as she did, but he wasn't moving.
    
    "Cody. That's enough. StaY"
    
    She wiggled out from under him, put a hand on the
    back of his neck. She crouched on her knees beside him.
    Her scalp stung enough to bring tears to her eyes. She
    shook them off. The dog's tail moved slightly to acknowl-
    edge her touch, but he never took his eyes off Jack.
    
    "He doesn't mean it."
    
    "Sure he does," Jack answered easily. He skinned his
    

    





    22
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    lips back from his teeth, uncannily like the dog facing
    him. "C'mere, Cody."
    
    The dog flinched under her hand. McKenzie relaxed a
    little as Jack called the dog again to apologize. The golden
    retriever spasmed, torn between obeying and staying at
    her feet. "It's all right, Cody," she comforted him. She had
    to get him under control.
    
    "I said, c'mere, dammit!" Jack grabbed for his collar, an-
    ger spiking his voice.
    
    He caught the dog by his soft ear flap instead. Cody
    did not yelp. He snarled and twisted, snapping at Jack
    again. She charged as well. Jack clubbed at both of them.
    He hit her. The side of her head exploded with pain and
    she fell backward with a sharp sound, crashing into the
    counter. She slumped to the floor, dazed. Her vision went
    blurry, doubled, then came back.
    
    Waterfalls of blood obscured it. It curtained all she saw,
    cascading o1,scenely from the ceiling and onto the floor, in-
    undating it, like a tsunami hitting the shore.
    
    McKenzie put her hands to her face in fear. Her hands
    swam wetly through the air. Like drying puddles after a
    rain, the blood began to fade, except for the streaks across
    Cody as she looked at him.
    
    "Jack! Don't, please, don't!" She reached for the dog, to
    pull him in behind her, despite the terrible pain in her
    skull and the sick fear in the pit of her stomach. She
    grasped his hide. Loose hairs pulled out, but she could
    not keep a grip on Cody as the dog danced forward, snarl-
    ing at the man.
    
    McKenzie saw his anger erupt, from reined-in iciness,
    
                                       to volcanic fury.   j'
    
    "Get out of here! Mind, you goddamn mangy son of a
    bitch! Mind me!" His voice spewed outward. Jack's hand
    clenched on the knife handle, slicing the blade down-
    ward. Her dog swung around to meet it. The edge caught
    

    





    DEATH Vi7ATCH
    
    23
    
    him on the shoulder. A jagged, crimson gash opened.
    Cody cried in pain and defiance. He wheeled, snapping.
    
    He bit at the knife. Steel and fang clashed. She felt
    rooted to the floor, her voice frozen in her throat. She
    could feel the agony of it, welling up, convulsing into a
    lump which cut off all words, all hope of stopping Cody.
    His blood splattered the linoleum in wet, pulsing drops.
    
    Jack sliced again. The soft golden-red ear hung in a hb-
    bon. Cody barked furiously, nails scrabbling on the floor
    as he lunged at his tormentor. Man and dog collided.
    
    Jack tried for his throat. A wound flowered, not deep
    enough. McKenzie found her voice.
    
    "Stop it! Cody! Jack, stop it, please. He won't do it
    again. I'll give him away. Stop it! Oh, God, please stop it
    
    1"
    
    now.
    
    Jack watched her over the dog, eyes like cold coffee.
    
    j3_He reached out, grabbing Cody with his left hand, slash-
    _.g with his right. Blood splashed his fingers as the dog
    _luirmed and yelped in his hold. Cody tore loose. They
    circled one another, dog snapped now in pain and agony,
    trying to protect her, protect himself. He threw blood with
    every movement. His nails scrabbled on the slick flooring.
    His tail was tucked between his haunches, and he made
    a noiseÄoh, GodÄlike the animal he was, suffering and
    hurt, low and guttural.
    
    "I've got to finish him," Jack muttered. "Once they go
    vicious...."
    
    McKenzie put her hands to her ears, unable to bear
    hearing. The dog hunkered down on the floor. He
    snapped at the air. She reached for him, hands trembling.
    
    Jack bared his teeth. "C'mon, you son of a bitch! Come
    and get it!"
    
    He kicked, catching the dog in the side of the head,
    where his torn earn hung limply. Cody burst upward,
    

    





    24
    
                 Elizah~eh Forrcst
    
    He leaped at Jack. She grasped at empty air, sobbing, as
    she saw the blade plunging at Cody's soft throat. A foun-
    tain of blood opened up, pulsing at her face, her hands,
    warm and salt-sweet. It splattered her. She closed her
    eyes, bathing in the warmth, sobbing as though her heart
    would break.
    
    Blood everywhere. The woman lay in the ruins of her own
    body, chest laid open, thighs flayed as though someone had
    skinned and butchered her, hair wild about her head, eyes
    wide and staring with fear . . . and the blood. Oh, God, the
    blood.
    
    Dazedly, McKenzie sat on the kitchen floor, vision im-
    paired by another vision, head throbbing, confused,
    beaten. .
    
    Jack looked down at her. "Get me a beer." .
    
    She could feel the sourness pushing upward in the
    back of her throat, her stomach clenching, ready to
    
    She woke, chest hea~7=f:;~
    her hands up, touched the wetness, then drew her hands
    to her nostrils, her lips. Tears. Not blood. Not the scent, or
    the taste of blood Dreaming. She'd been dreaming again. A
    nightmare, a terror from the dark, nothing.
    
    She moved to get out of bed, kicked a nightstand and
    realized, in the dark, she was not in a familiar bed. Dis-
    oriented, she put a hand out, fumbling. An ugly, thick-
    based lamp met her search and she found a light switch.
    
    A thin, pasty glow flooded the room. It fell on a bat-
    tered television set, a plastic bureau, across blankets,
    pilled and patched, hotel issue, and a cheap hotel, at that.
    
    Lastly, it fell across her shoes, rusty brown stains splat-
    tered across her joggers, laces Iying stiffly across the floor.
    
    Cody's blood.
    
    No dream. Memory.
    
    ....~ W_
    ~ ~.,: ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 25
    
    McKenzie felt her throat close up. The tears began to
    fall again, as quickly and freely as Seattle rain. What had
    happened to her? What had she let awaken?
    What had she done?
    

    





    Night and rain hung over the city. The car's headlights
    picked out her way through slick, unfamiliar streets. She
    spent her time looking in the rearview mirror as the cheap
    hotel faded behind her. No one could be back there. No
    one could possibly be trailing her yet. No one could even
    know she'd left, but she could not look away, could not
    bear to stare forward. The hairs on the back of her neck
    prickled in constant warning.
    
    -,-.. ~..~ .R
    
    McKenzie pulled up as close to the pay phone as s~ ~ ~
    could, but she was still drenched by the time she reached
    the booth. Rain streaked the greasy glass walls. The inte-
    rior light came on fitfully, as though nearly spent. The
    pocket of her jeans bulged with her cash, all she had left,
    $150, but she had to dig deep to find coins. Her hands
    shaking, she finally retrieved them and jammed them into
    
                                      the slots. 18
    
    McKenzie clenched her teeth against the cold and the
    panic. Taking a deep breath, she looked across the Seattle
    cityscape, blurred by darkness and the storm, to steady
    herself. The weather was following her down the coast.
    Dear God, let that be all.
    
    Gray, dreary, leaden. The sky mirrored her heart. Before
    she could lose this spurt of courage, she dropped coins in
    and dialed quickly. Her head ached dully She would be
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
                                   27
    there, Mac intuited. She did not anticipate the answering
    machine, and the voice which answered was welcoming.
    
    "Whiteside residence. Hello?"
    
    "Sarah, it's me."
    
    "Well, hi there. Got your poem framed yet?"
    
    ù "No. 1, ah, ah." Mac jolted to a halt, voice gone.
    
    Sarah knew instantly, from the tone of her voice. "What
    
    is it, Mac?"
    
    "I'm going. He, ah, he killed Cody."
    
    A sharp inhalation of breath. "Are you all right? Get
    
    over here."
    
    "No." McKenzie shook her head. Moisture sprinkled
    
    her face. "I don't want him bothering you."
    
    A pause, then, "Where are you going to go?"
    
    "I don't know. I don't know. Somewhere. I'll call later."
    
    Sarah sighed. McKenzie could picture her breathy ex-
    
    pulsion, puffing the fine sable fringe of her bangs off her
    forehead. "Take care. If you need anythingÄ"
    
    "I know," she answered. "Leave, just for a day or two.
    
    Don't let him talk to you."
    
    "I can't do th.nt_
    
    '~ou have to! He butchered Cody, Sarah. Limb to limb.
    
    Just because ..." Her voice failed her. She caught it
    again. "Cody tried to protect me. You can't be there when
    he comes looking for me." Unable to bear any more, she
    
    hung up.
    
    The light drizzle of rain misted around her, barely more
    
    than fog. She shivered. Where could she go: McKenzie
    hunched her shoulders and looked at the phone. A desti-
    nation surfaced. The number escaped her, gone, numbed
    by fear and hopelessness. She balled her hand into a fist
    and punched herself in the forehead, once, twice. "Think,
    
    think!"
    
    Where else could she go? She knew of nowhere Jack
    
    would not find her. This was the only chance she had.
    

    





    28
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    The only one. She dropped her money into the slots, then
    froze again. What if she were refused?
    
    Afraid of losing the coin she'd deposited, she spread
    her hand over the buttons. The knuckles of her right hand
    shone angrily red in the booth's dim lighting. Prayerfully,
    Dad, oh, Daddy, let me come home.... Her fingertips
    found the numbers as if they were the ones with eyes and
    a memory.
    
    The phone rang. Even accounting for long distance, it
    did not sound right. Had he gone since her mother died?
    Maybe he wasn't even there any more. Her heart failed a
    beat, then doubled up for lost time, chest panging with its
    desperation. The ring couldn't be right, it didn't sound fa-
    miliar. It had been so long, so many years. She'd only
    talked to him once since marrying Jack. She was on the
    brink of hanging up when the ringing stopped.
    
    'Hell-lo. "
    
    She knew the voice, if not the ring. McKenzie sucked
    in her courage. "Daddy?" She heard an echo of her own
    sharply caught breath. Before she could hang up, or say
    something, she blurted out. "I've got to come home."_ ~
    
    'Then come." m-
    
    No hesitation. McKenzie's knees, locked in anger and
    desperate strength all night, suddenly went weak. Her grip
    on the pay phone was the only thing keeping her standing.
    
    "Or do you need me to come get you?"
    
    "No. No. I'm driving down. It'll be a day or two."
    
    "All right." He hung up, the line going dead.
    
    No questions. Nothing.
    
    She wanted to call back, to explain the failure, to sob
    out the story and feel the comfort, but she had no more
    coins. She hung up the receiver in the cradle and tried to
    stiffen her legs. Home. Home.
    
    The dash of icy rain in her face sharpened her wits as
    she walked back to the car. She put a hand on its aging
    

    





    l~kA ~ H VEATCH
    
    29
    
    frame. She didn't know if it would get her all the way
    from Seattle to L. A., but it was all she had. McKenzie
    slid behind the wheel. She laced her fingers around it.
    
    Something tin.kled in one of the cardboard boxes be-
    hind her seat, one of the few pieces of her mother's china
    she had left. She hadn't had time to wrap them well. It
    didn't matter now. Either it would make the trip whole or
    shattered, just like she would.
    
    If it had broken, she'd simply have to put the pieces
    back together. She couldn't stop, couldn't look back. He
    would find the car rental receipt. He would begin looking
    for her through that trail. He did not know she'd bought
    this car secretly months ago. She'd kept it parked on cam-
    pus and used the bus to get back and forth to it.
    
    Her ribs ached. The shoulder which had been dislo-
    cated enough times before that it popped out now at the
    slightest movement made a protesting sound as she
    leaned over the bench seat. There was a towel laid there,
    slightly soiled, its surface gleaming under the dome light
    with fine, red-gold hairs. Dog hairs.
    
    McKenzie closed her eyes. The knot which choked her
    throat threatened to unwind, to explode. Memory of the
    golden retriever's soft, intelligent brown eyes flooded her.
    She folded up the towel and pushed it away so that she
    couldn't see the hairs. Couldn't see the fresh image of
    trusting eyes, the low whine of uncertainty, the sudden
    look of betrayal as the other had reached down and
    grasped him.
    
    She swallowed tightly. No tears. Not yet. She couldn't
    afford them.
    
    McKenzie started the car and drove it back into the
    rain, seeking out the road home.
    
    He stood in the driving rain, watching the frantic achv-
    ity around the Whiteside home. Figures ran back and
    
    1~il: ,:~: - -: ::'--:
    

    





    30
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    forth in front of the brightly lit windows. They were carry-
    ing suitcases and boxes. Leaving. ~ he adults and two chii-
    dren, bumping into each other, going through the rooms
    of their home like ants in an anthill that's been stirred up.
    
    He'd done that. Him. Or the lies she'd told about him.
    He wasn't sure if it was remorse that he felt now, watch-
    ing it, or power. They were fleeing because of him. ~
    
    That would make no never mind. He leaned a shoulder
    against the tree. They'd be gone in minutes. They'd leave
    stuff behind. Food. Information. He'd get what he wanted
    from the Whitesides anyway.
    
    Jack frebolt bared his teeth against the rainy weat~r~
    and shook himself like an old dog before moving in under
    
    the shrubbery, to crouch, waiting.
    
    When the van had been hastily packed, they loaded up
    the livestock and left, pulling out with a squeal on the
    damp driveway He let the street go dim again, free of
    headlights, before moving to the back door and popping it
    open with one twist of a heavy-duty screwdriver. Inside,
    things were more button-down and orderly than he'd ex-
    pected. He searched around the two main telephone
    bases, in the kitchen and in the living room, but there
    were no hastily scrawled notes or hen scratches to tell if
    Mac had called.
    
                  ~ ~ ù ~ ~ .~. .,
    
    I here was an answering machine. t~e stood over It,
    iool;ing at the little lighted dots that told him it was func-
    tioning. He reached out and switched it off. Then, he
    made a pass through the refrigerator to see if there was
    anything left he could eat.
    
    There was the butt-end of a roast, slttmg In lts Julces m
    a plastic bag. He fished it out with a pot holder. Jack tore
    open the baggy and sank his teeth into the cold roast. He
    surveyed the kitchen pensively, could think of nothing
    else to do here.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    31
    
    He went to the counter and dug out his wallet. A worn
    photocopy of an even more worn clipping fell out.
    
    It was an obituary for a Jean Ann Smith, of Los An-
    geles.
    
    He picked at a bit of gristle between his teeth. No mat-
    ter what McKenzie thought, he knew blood was thicker
    than water.
    
    ;.-She had no place else to ~o.
    
    The car ran low on gas long before she ran out of
    adrenaline. Sometime after the third fill-up, when the Or-
    egonian highway patrolman. said, "Flying low?" as he took
    her false ID and began to scratch out a ticket, McKenzie
    uncurled her fingers stiffly from the steering wheel. Her
    knuckles, pale across their expanse except for the three
    with angry, broken skin on her right hand, all hurt. The
    weather had given on the way south. The sky was a pale
    blue, scratched by wispy trailing clouds. The car sat, its
    engine making ticking noises as it cooled, scrunched
    down on the gravel of the road's shoulder.
    
    Thinking she couldn't do much about the license plate,
    she sat in stony silence. The sound of her heartbeat filled
    her ears. She couldn't even hear the static buzz of his ra-
    dio. Could he hear her pulse? Could he see her palms
    sweat as she placed her hands back on the wheel? The ID
    hadn't been that good years ago in college, but at least
    now the age was accurate. If he didn't look too closely....
    It was one of the few ways she could think of to obscure
    her trail from Jack.
    
    He filled out the citation, giving her a lecture on driving
    the rural roads of his state, and passed it to her through
    the open window, adding, "At least you're not from Cali-
    fornia.
    
    She silently took the ticket, thinking, Oh, but I am, and
    I'm going back as fast as I can. Her head throbbed. She
    

    





    32
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    looked briefly into the patrolman's eyes. He had brilliantly
    blue eyes, thickly lashed, making up for the austere stern-
    ness of his face. The pain in her skull made her lose her
    vision momentarily and she gasped.
    
    "Are you all right, miss?" - . ~
    
    Mac looked back at him, afraid of what she might see.
    White misted him for a second, cut across his shoulder
    and arm. She put her hand out, touched his uniform.
    
    "Are you all right?" he said again, his voice sharpening.
    
    A sling or a cast. But it wasn't there, she couldn't feel
    t Mac drew her hand back. "Your arm...."
    
    I ie flexed it slightly. "Broke it a couple of months ago.
    First day out of the cast. It's good to be back to work
    though." He leaned down closer. "You drive carefully,
    now."
    
    She stuffed the citation into the purse on the seat of
    the car beside her and put her hand on the gear shift.
    
    The Oregonian patrolman hesitated. His attention wan-
    dered to the front bumpers of the car. What did he sus-
    pect? Was he looking for her? Had she given herself
    away? Her stomach crawled into a knot.
    
    YOU were goin' a pretty good clip. Maybe you thought
    you nit something ... there's a lot of wildlife on these
    roads."
    
    "I'm fine, thank you."
    
    .
    ~,
    Ä
    
    He flipped his glasses down from his forehead. 'You
    look upset. I hate to send you away like this." She could
    see her face in his reflective sunglasses, the strain appar-
    cnt. "If there's anything wrong, you shouldn't be driving."
    
    Her fingers tightened on the gear shift lever. Of course
    there was something wrong. McKenzie forced a smile to
    her lips. "Thank you, Officer, I'm just fine." - - ~
    
    His hesitation seemed interminable. She did not
    breathe until he touched a finger to the hrim of his hat.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    33
    
    She wanted to peel rubber, get out of there as soon as
    she could, but McKenzie forced herself to start the car
    quietly and pull away smoothly. Not until the motorcycle
    was far, far in the distance did she begin to accelerate
    again.
    
    Home. Home. Home, where, when you went there,
    they had to take you in, as Robert Frost had once so el-
    oquently said. Robert Frost. Sarah would approve of the
    poetic reference. McKenzie let out a sigh, and tried to roll
    her shoulders, relax at the wheel. She was surprised she
    still knew the poet's works, hadn't had that beaten out of
    her. Like the old handyman, she wouldn't be turned away.
    She knew her father well enough to know if he didn't
    want her, he would simply have hung up. And so, flying
    on wings of adrenaline, she was heading home.
    
    The plane dropped lower over the L. A. Basin, like a
    knife hoping to cleave its way through the perpetual haze
    which curtained the city. John Nelson hugged the win-
    dow, watching. His eyes felt dull and gummy from the
    red-eye flight, and he hoped a dose of California sunshine
    would wake him up, but what he saw as he looked out did
    not help.
    
    Congressman Nelson, retired from the FBI, relocated
    and elected from Illinois, was not happy. He shrugged
    within his signature blue suit, ran his hand through his
    equally recognizable silver-blue hair, and sighed. Poor
    dumb bastards actually thought the air quality was getting
    better. Why not? The management boards said it was.
    Trotted out statistics from ten, fifteen years ago. Look at
    the measurements. Dropping, steadily dropping. What the
    poor dumb bastards who lived in, breathed, hell, even ate
    down below didn't know was that the standards had been
    revised, were still being revised, so that the numbers lied.
    Any fool who'd sDent the last twenty-five veArc or co in
    

    





    34
    
                Elizabetl~ Forrest
    
    southern Califomia could tell you the air was worse. All
    you had to do was look. Facts lied, because the yardstick
    had been recalibrated. His own industry-laced district
    wasn't much better.
    
    Nelson sighed again. He ought to spill the beans, make
    it media public. Anyone who wanted to know could, but
    like a herd of cattle contentedly grazing on the good life,
    no one had the initiative. He could make it a major point
    of the next campaign, and would, except that most of the
    industries which contributed to that layer of haze would
    eat him alive. Then what would happen to his law and or-
    der hopes?
    
    Nelson decided he would wait. After all, reelection was
    not for another two years for him. Maybe the air quality
    actually would get better in another year or so. Then he
    wouldn't be faced with the dilemma of the truth and the
    apparent truth. If not..
    
    He thought about his scheduled lunch with Carter. Ten
    years, a lot of water under the bridge, since he'd last seen
    the congenial newspaperman as a Fed. A lot of time since
    Bauer had slipped between their fingers and disappeared.
    He'd kept track of Windy since Chicago. A few years
    here, a few years there, floating on a tide of ... what?
    Not booze, like some reporters. Depression, perhaps. The
    Bauer escape had hit them both hard. They'd kept in
    touch, a ghoulish glue holding them together. Maybe
    even, in his own inimitable fashion, Carter was still track-
    ing the serial killer. Nelson had, for the first few years,
    until it became apparent after the first three killings that
    Bauer had evidently gone underground, or gone six feet
    under. Nothing had come on the systems which even sug-
    gested the type of crime Bauer was infamous for. He'd ei-
    ther switched methods of gratification, highly doubtful, or
    he'd been permanently satiated. Only death could have
    
                              brought that about.     4:~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 35
    
    For whatever reason, both crossed paths occasionally in
    L.A. at this time in their lives, although Nelson spent
    most of his time in Washington. But, yeah, hoisting a beer
    with Carter sounded good. Committee business could be
    grueling. He had a few drabbles of information that he'd
    milked dry, but which the newsman might find interest-
    ing. He was too involved in his new life to keep chasing
    Bauer, but Carter Wyndall was another matter. Better
    than the rest of his agenda. He'd come here to kick butt,
    basically, because the party wanted to use L.A. as a syrn-
    bol of redemption and rebuilding. First, they had to create
    a reasonable facade of same.
    
    Nelson grunted as he fastened his seat belt in response
    to the stewardess' request. His ears popped gently as the
    plane descended. Seeing Carter sounded good. A few
    hours' sleep in the old hotel room, lunch with a friend,
    
    _:hen on to the rigorous schedule a congressman had to
    
. ~keep with lobbyists, constituents, city officials, and what-
    not.
    
    Nelson laughed silently at himself. It was the whatnot
    
    _ that could get you killed.
    
_ His heavy eyes shuttered themselves and he was almost
    asleep again when the wheels bumped the landing strip.
    
    Burdened with carry-on luggage like a pack mule, he
    made his way to the car rental counter, got his keys, and
    then drove out of LAX. He checked in at his favorite ho-
    tel, a quietly middle-class establishment which he'd got-
    ten used to while an agent. It didn't suit his status now
    that he was a congressman, but he didn't care. He liked
    it, was comfortable with the security, knew the various
    wings and floors, the kind of staff they hired and the kind
    of clientele who stayed there.
    
    The pretty counter clerk, with almond-shaped eyes and
    wings of blue-black hair, checked him in with slender, fly-
    

    





    36
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    ing fingers. Miko smiled at him as she slid a key across
    the marble counter. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Nelson."
    
    He allowed himself a grin back. Miko was the best of
    East and West combined, California style with Pacific
    Rim beauty. Although she knew him for what he was, she
    did not fawn on him. She did, however, always order extra
    towels. He scooped up the key card. "Thank you, Miko.
    When's the bar open?"
    
    "Four p.m., as always. Your towels should be up in a
    few minutes." She hid a smile as she returned to her com-
    puter terminal, to finish logging in his presence.
    
    When he threw himself on the bed, it was with a relief
    that postponed everything but sleep ... even the tele-
    phoning of his staff and confirming reservations with
    Carter.
    
    Miko caught a line of error in a pending reservation as
    she closed out Nelson's account. From the corner of her
    eye, she thought she might have seen something in the
    security camera's screen. She halted, looked at the moni-
    tor, saw nothing else, and decided it was security's prob-
    lem. The hotel only had a second monitor at the front
    desk as a backup. Wrinkling her smooth forehead in con-
    centration, she looked back down at her terminal, deter-
    mined to change the honeymoon suite back over to its
    original designees, thus avoiding a host of problems this
    coming weekend.
    
    She did not see the dark, lithe figure in the hooded
    sweatshirt slip down the service hallway and up the back
    fire stairs. Security was not at his desk, watching. The call
    of nature had taken precedence. He was an older man, re-
    tired from the police force, and his bodily funchons were
    as regular as he could maintain them. He could be
    clocked by his early morning breaks.
    
    The tape backup to the camera would onlY record a
    
    ~ ~.: ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    37
    
    lengthening shadow, perhaps a wearing on the film, as
    they were used again and again, if no incidents had been
    taped. A bin of tapes waiting to be degaussed sat unstea-
    dily next to the monitor, awaiting their fate. On one of
    them, a similar shadow might be seen, in rehearsal, mak-
    ing its way around a corridor corner and out of camera
    sight. It had not been spotted then. It did not plan on
    being spotted now.
    
    The hooded figure wore jogging shoes, leaving no im-
    print on the wom carpet runners. The sweatpants, match-
    ing the hooded shirt, were unremarkable. Worn,
    comfortable, somewhat faded from washing. An outfit
    donned every day for a morning run.
    
    Except they had been purchased just two weeks ago,
    when the congressman's schedule had been released,
    washed and dried ten times over, quickly, and worn in ac-
    tuality only twice, the first time for rehearsal. The wearer
    moved quickly and confidently in them, staying close to
    the corridor walls, negotiating the rather complicated tun-
    nels and turns from one wing to the next tower without
    hesitation as though he had a map drawn on the palm of
    his gloved hand. The drawstring hood was pulled over,
    half-obscuring the face, even the eyes.
    
    In the last corridor, his head began to thump as though
    it would explode. Something inside his head began to
    crawl and scratch restlessly. I hear you knockin', but you
    can't come inÄHe put his back to the wall and sucked
    in his breath. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck and
    he suddenly got queasy.
    
    He had to do this. He had to. There was no backing
    out. The sleeping man wouldn't let him, and even more
    frightening was the possibility that the sleeping man
    would rouse and possess him, exploding through his
    skinÄ
    
    He had to get back to her. She was the only one who
    
            ~.
    

    





    38
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    could help him, but he did not dare go back to her a fail-
    ure. He rubbed the back of his hand over his lips and
    took a deep breath. He knew what he was here for. He
    shoved the sleeping man back into the corner of his mind,
    and put a hand on his gun.
    
    Nelson woke enough at the knock on the door to mum-
    ble, "Come in." His towels had arrived. He could get up,
    lock the door, pull a pillow over his head, and go back to
    sleep until noon. Damn budget-economizing red-eye
    flights. He let out a yawn as the door pushed open.
    
    He froze. Strings of old training, precautions, stances,
    strategies ran through his mind, flashes of a past life. He
    could feel his guts grow cold as he faced the gun-wielding
    assailant.
    
    His jaw worked. "Who?Äwhat the hell are you?" Fear
    made his voice go high. ~i
    
    The assassin put the first bullet down his throat and
    the second between his eyes. Nelson saw the flash from
    the gun barrel with the first, never saw the second,
    already dying, catapulted back into the room, wondering.
    
    He flopped back on the pillows and lay, quite dead.
    
    The assassin backed to the wall and waited a few sec-
    onds, counting under his breath, one-Mississippi, two-
    Mississippi, making sure that the life hissed out of his
    target. He did not like this part of his job, but it had to
    be done. He had to report back. The corner of his mouth
    twitched, partially obscured by his equipment and the
    sweatshirt hood. She who must be obeyed in all things, he
    thought. She would want to know the target was really
    dead.
    
    When he heard no more gurgling, mere seconds down
    the Mississippi as he counted, he went back out the hotel
    room door.
    
    Face still partially hooded, the punman returned his
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    39
    
    pistol to his jacket pocket. He made his way down the
    corridors and halls the way he'd come in, changing direc-
    tion only once, breaking into a jog as he exited onto the
    pool deck and trotting on by into the parking lot as if he
    were one of the guests going for a run.
    
    He did not stop until he reached the environs of a card-
    board city, several miles away. He paused by a dumpster,
    stripped off the hooded sweatshirt and pants, revealing an
    unremarkable pair of blue jeans and a denim shirt under-
    neath. He glanced around before removing the headgear
    and gloves, stuffing them into his shirt. The gun went
    down a storm drain, where it clattered to a halt some-
    where out of sight. Then he broke into a loping stride, an
    easy, ground-covering walk which took him away swiftly.
    
    Another mile and he found the parked car where he'd
    left it. He used the plastic key in his pocketÄno rattle,
    no telltale bulge, compliments of the Auto Club for use in
    emergencies. He pulled away from the curb, already plan-
    ning ahead, for he had another job to do that evening.
    
    Fuzzy rolled out from behind the dumpster when he
    was certain the stranger's footsteps had faded away. Beard
    growing in tattered scraps shadowed his face. His hands
    and arms were the color of graphite, grime permanently
    tattooed into the pigment of his skin. He rubbed his
    palms together and nervously licked his lips, uncertain
    what he wanted to do. He'd seen the clothing go in the
    dumpsterÄand worseÄhe'd seen the horrific face of the
    being who'd left it. Nothing human, he'd thought, before
    skittering behind the trash bin for safety, like a bug fright-
    ened of being squashed. Somethin'godau~ul, but nothing
    humAn. It had been long minutes before his pounding
    heart had quieted enough to allow him to stick his head
    out and look again.
    
    By then the being had retreated down the street. Fuzzy
    had squatted and waited until the thud of his footsteps
    

    





    40
    
                 ~ - beth For~rest
    
    were long departed. Now he rocked, back and forth, back
    and forth, hugging himself, in desperate indecision.
    
    Would it be radioactive or somehow contaminated if he
    took it? He needed the clothing, he craved it, but his fear
    of the former owner paralyzed him. Could there be any-
    thing left inside it to transmit to him? He'd seen the
    thing, for godsakes, three eyes, metal helmet, and all.._~
    
    He'd seen it!
    
    Finally, when his stomach clenched and grumbled, re-
    minding him that the day's scavenging had been lean thus
    far, Fuzzy scrambled out from behind the dumpster, hiked
    himself over the rim of the bin, and grabbed out the
    clothing. Clutching the sweat suit to his chest, he ran
    away from the area, crablike, sideways and hitched, as
    crippled by old injuries as by a disintegrating mind.
    

    





                                      Chapter 4
    
    The gas tank was ticking inexorably down to empty again
    when she pulled off the freeway. Late afternoon haze
    edged the valley, smog so thick she could taste it, even in-
    side the car. She'd forgotten about the look of it, like a
    curtain of brushfire smoke that hung in the air. The after-
    noon of uninterrupted music pouring out of the radio
    paused for the news. McKenzie only half-listened as the
    newsman delivered the news in the same loop-and-rock
    voice as the deejay presented the music. They might have
    been clones, except for the different levels of maturity ap-
    parent in their tones.
    
    "The exchange for guns program has wrapped up a suc-
    cessful six-month plan here in L.A., and sponsors say
    they'll be back in the fall with new incentives. The pop-
    ularity of this approach among the teens particularly made
    city council members talk with renewed enthusiasm about
    the future. The Los Angeles Kings and the Mighty Ducks
    of Anaheim have also reported continued success with
    their Tickets for Guns program...." The newsman
    paused and another voice cut in, saying, 'Would you really
    want to sit in a hockey stadium with that kind of crowd?
    Now, c'mon."
    
    The newsman responded smoothly, "I don't see the dif-
    ference from the regular crowA tape of phony-sounding yncks followed this ex-
    41
    

    





    42
    
                 Eliza~eth Forrest
    
    change. It wrapped up with raucous duck calls. McKenzie
    wffnkled her nose.
    
    She watched the green signs hanging over the freeway.
    Two miles to her exit. She moved over a lane. The news
    break continued.
    
    "Law enforcement officials report that the body of
    young businesswoman Denise Faberge was found in her
    condo this morning after being reported missing from
    work for the last two days. Authorities have released little
    information about her death, but one source who helped
    locate the body reports 'the apartment looked as if a
    butcher had been there.' Autopsy findings are not ex-
    pected for several days. Faberge~s estranged boyfriend,
    who was questioned by police as a possible suspect, said
    only that they had been separated for some time and that
    she had just completed a self-help program."
    
    She had forgotten the death count in Los Angeles;
    McKenzie shrugged back her uneasiness. One step for-
    ward, two back. She found her off-ramp and eased onto
    it, suddenly out of the tunnel of multilaned freeway and
    sound walls, and into tract housing. The radio had surged
    into the latest by Aerosmith, when it suddenly halted.
    
    The rich-voiced anchor boomed, "This just in. A man
    identified tentatively as Congressman John Nelson of Illi-
    nois has been found dead in a Marina del Rey hotel. Au-
    thorities have not confirmed the exact cause of death or
    the identity, but reliable sources say the congressman was
    evidently alone in his hotel room when he was shot,
    assassin-style, while resting after flying in from Washing-
    ton, D.C. this morning." The newsman took a breath.
    "Stay tuned and we'll bring you further details
    
    ceive them." ~'
    
    The second deejay said breezily, "Or not. Hey, what's
    another politician or two, right? Anybody going to miss
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    43
    
    this guy? Send us a fax if you do. We're out of toilet paper,
    right, Bobb-o?"
    
    She found herself frowning even more deeply.
    
    The jacaranda had begun blooming, purple smoky haze
    among towering trees, the blossoms erupting on bare, sa-
    ble branches before the fernlike green leaves. She hadn't
    thought about the jacarandas in years. They lined her fa-
    ther's street, an archway of spring green and mauve. They
    would be dropping their nectar-filled blossoms In a deep
    indigo rain, their season brief but intense. Their showy
    heads could be seen among the gray and brown asphalt
    shingled roofs.
    
    She moved slowly into the left lane for a turn. A Cal-
    ifornia car buzzed past her, horn sounding in angry impa-
    tience. McKenzie went on through the intersection,
    feeling as if she were herself caught in a smoky cloud.
    The adrenaline had gone. Sweat dampened her sports bra
    uncomfortably. She could smell herself, the faint tinge of
    perfume, the edgy odor of fear, the sharper scent of onion
    from that last drive through.
    
    The first thing she would do would be to take a hot
    shower. Then sleep for two days. Then figure out how to
    put her life back together.
    
    The old ballpark, when she saw it, surprised her. Mac
    slowed down, eyes caught by the backstop, chain-link
    fencing tarnished black with age. It had been graffitied,
    sprayed white and garish orange on the dark background.
    She could not read either the names or symbols painted
    there. The grass in the infield looked threadbare and yei-
    lowing. A weathered billboard proclaimed: Little Blue
    Field. Then, underneath, in letters disintegrating off the
    wood, it said We Bleed Dodger Blue.
    
    She could almost feel the wood under her fingertips.
    They'd jumped to see if they could touch the bottom edge
    

    





    44
    
    Elizahet7' Forrest
    
    .
    
    of the board, she and her friends. Then, all of a sudden,
    she was grown, and when she stood tall, the top of her
    shoulder hit the rim. How many years had she played
    here? T-ball with the Bobby Soxers, then softball with the
    Pony League, regular hardball baseball with her dad.
    
    McKenzie eased her car into a crawl at the curb. She
    could almost see herself running across the field, spikes
    sending up little clouds of dust if it was late in the season
    and the grass battered from the pounding it had taken.
    
    These were the only good times she remembered as a
    family, the only times when he'd stayed sober on an eve-
    ning or a Saturday. The only memories worth keeping, and
    she'd buried them herself, because it was she who'd
    ruined her softball career in college, who'd failed herself,
    who'd lost it allÄand why? :~:
    
    Because I couldn't stand being a winner, she thought bit-
    terly. Because 1. had to go and find someone else to ruin my
    life.
    
    A car buzzed angrily past. McKenzie blinked several
    times, then pulled her eyes away from the old field and
    edged back onto the road.
    
    The low wall of the housing tract loomed ahead. She
    saw the graffiti tracks, and patches where oddly colored
    paint had wiped out previous intrusions. She turned in,
    houses of stucco, all fenced, all 1950's built, jacarandas in
    the boulevard, front porches shaded by pepper trees, ev-
    er,v yard fenced. She remembered how uneasy she'd first
    been in Washington, where few yards in the suburbs were
    fenced at all. Here redwood fences, blockwall, an occa-
    sional chain-link, surrounded every home, and an orange
    tree stood in every backyard, or had at one time. Theirs
    had been Valencia, juice oranges, turning color in January,
    but not really sweet for juicing until after Easter. Fallen
    purple buds popped under car tires as she drove over
    
    ù, - l~,
    
    ~ -~.
    
    i
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 45
    
    them. Celery-green lawns were blanketed under the
    blooming trees with their fern-feathery branches.
    
    Everything had begun to slow. McKenzie felt as if she
    were driving through heavy water. Finally the mailbox
    marked SMITH appeared, and she turned into the ce-
    ment driveway, with its cracks from various earthquakes
    giving it wrinkles of age.
    
    Both she and the car came to a halt simultaneously and
    she sat, too weary to move. Her vision blurred sharply, the
    images sliding sideways and she froze, waiting for the vi-
    olent wash of red across her sight, but nothing happened
    this time. Mac took a deep breath and forced it down-
    ward. She wasn't crazy yet. Not entirely.
    
    The chain-link gate across the driveway to the garage
    began to move. She straightened, surprised, then saw her
    father. He strode purposely toward the car, not much dif-
    ferent than the last time she'd seen him, except that he'd
    gone silvery-gray, and his hair had receded sharply. He
    beckoned to her to bring the car on in.
    
    The house shared driveways, side by side, with a
    ground strip running between them. Mrs. Ethelridge had
    always kept that strip blossoming with border plants. Run
    over a leaf with bicycle or car wheel, and she would be
    out her kitchen door in a second, sharp tongue ready to
    deliver a lashing. She'd always seemed old to Mac. She
    was both surprised and comforted seeing the flowers still
    there, still omnipresent. Mac sat, looking down the strip.
    Blue lobelia, followed by white alyssum and yellow mari-
    golds. An unending territory line that ran from the side-
    walk to the alley behind their garages.
    
    She started up again. The car protested, then caught,
    and she edged it forward, careful not to cross the flowers.
    The driveway had been extended in the back, and she
    pulled over and under a carport. Her father opened the
    door as she turned the ignition off and took the keys out.
    
    ., -:Ä~
    

    





    46
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    She got out, legs suddenly feeling leaden. Out of habit,
    she looked at Mrs. Ethelridge's kitchen door, and saw
    faded ivory curtains wavering at the window as if someone
    had been observing.
    
    His hazel eyes appraised both her and the automobile.
    Fle followed her line of sight. Then he sighed. "She'll be
    over later, tonight or tomorrow, asking questions. I don't
    know how your mother put up with it."
    
    McKenzie looked at Walton Smith. "She used to hide,"
    Mac answered frankly. Her father put a hand out. She
    took it, feeling the hard warmth of his workmanlike hand.
    It still enveloped hers though he did not seem as tall as
    she remembered. McKenzie felt herself being peeled
    away in layers, by events and memories she could not
    control, as she looked at the house. This was the life she'd
    fled when she was young. She didn't feel young any
    longer. She felt old, and used.
    
    There was no mother to come home to. She'd died al-
    most two years ago, yet McKenzie looked past him, al-
    most thinking that she could see her, too. He flinched, as
    if sharing that same thought, and let go of her hand.
    
    He broke the contact, but not before she felt a pinch
    of pain thrusting through her temples, slashing bloody
    streaks across her father's face.
    
    McKenzie went cold. She blinked twice, rapidly, and
    the double vision faded as the warmth of her father's
    touch left her palm. She fought to keep an even keel, to
    get a grip on reality. It was in her head. All in her head.
    Everything she thought and felt and saw.
    
    Walton Smith stood, head cocked slightly to one side,
    as if waiting for her to say something. His ears had gotten
    longer, and there were sharp creases through the lobes.
    She'd forgotten what that meant. Something to do with
    his health. His jaw moved, pulsing impatiently, a familiar
    tir thar she knew well.
    

    





                   DEATH WATCH
    
    "I'm back," she said. Her voice sounded thin and wa
    tery.
    
    "So I see," Walt responded gruffly. He dipped to fool
    into the backseat. "This all you have?"
    
    "All I could bring with me." McKenzie swallowed. Her
    throat knotted, again. Not much for ten years gone.
    
    'Where's the dog?"
    
    Her jaw dropped. 'What dog?"
    
    "You've always had a dog." Walt cleared his throat. "Fig-
    ured you'd bring one with you."
    
    Her hand shook as she ran it through her hair, trying to
    clear it from her eyes. She hoped her voice was more
    solid. "No. No dog."
    
    'Well, then. Come on." He started down the driveway.
    "Leave the keys, I'll unload."
    
    To look at them now, to hear them, there was no com-
    mon ground between them. How could she stay, and
    where could she go? "I'm here," she said, not knowing
    what else to say or think.
    
    He grumbled, "Some sense in you yet." The color had
    begun coming back into his face, highlighting his cheek-
    bones. "I'll fix some dinner. We need to eat early if I'm go-
    ing to catch the Dodger game. It's a doubleheader."
    
    He hesitated, then put out his arm and took her in. The
    moment was stiff and awkward, and she let go, feeling as-
    tonished that he had even assayed it to begin with. Her
    body flinched under the pressure, joints stiff, old bruises
    still tender, and she could feel the hesitation in him as
    well. She let go.
    
    She leaned back in and took one of the suitcases, then
    entered the house she'd left so long ago.
    
    It did not smell the way she remembered. McKenzie
    could not readily identify what it was that was missing
    other than her mother. She could smell furniture polish
    and fresh coffee. Hardwood floors. clean hllt scl~ff.cA ~nA
    

    





    48
    
                 Elizabetk Forrest
    
    scarred with age, bent under her step and talked back to
    her as she went down the hallway, softly, creaking.
    McKenzie decided to stop thinking until she'd at least had
    a long shower and a hot cup of coffee. The shower would
    come first.
    
    = . . . ~ .
    
    '~ou've learned to cook," she noted, as she sat down to
    dinner. Hot water and fresh clothes had revived her some-
    what. He had spaghetti and a green salad on the dinette
    table. The spaghetti stayed in the pot, a serving spoon
    plunged into its steaming marinara sauce, but the salad
    was in the cut crystal salad bowl she remembered from
    
                                        most of her life. .     j.
    
    "The sauce is out of a jar," he responded. "But a good
    jar." He helped himself, then nudged the pot her way.
    "Eat what you want. I'll freeze the leftovers."
    
    Was that how he got along now? Cooking and then eat-
    ing the frozen leftovers until time to cook again? She
    could not imagine him self-sufficient without her mother,
    yet here he was, alive and well. She felt a faint resent-
    ment that he should be. Maybe they should have woken
    the old sleeping dog. He'd learned new tricks. She made
    a dry, ironic sound deep in her throat, one that almost,
    but not quite, washed away the lump of dread which
    never seemed to dissolve. ~ .
    
    He cocked his head, listened to the radio, and said,
    "Double play. That cools the inning down."
    
    15er throat tightened. This was the only connection
    she d ever had with him. The only time she'd never been
    afraid to go out in public with him, that she knew he'd be
    sober, was at one of her softball games. Now, at Chavez
    Ravine, or Anaheim Stadium, that was another matter.
    He'd always found a way to get around the two beer limit.
    Professional games to her always stank of spilled beer and
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    49
    
    crushed peanut shells. She picked at her salad. The
    greens were fresh, crisp. "How are they doing this year?"
    
    He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe the Dodgers are
    getting tired of the game. But the AngelsÄ" he waved a
    fork. "That's a roller coaster. Up, down. Young talent
    wasted, traded away. The strike hurt them a lot. They say
    the old Cowboy has 'em up for sale. But they're playing
    .500 ball. Maybe they've got a chance. It could come true,
    a Freeway World Series." That was what the sportswriters
    would always speculate about, if both the Dodgers and
    the Angels had winning seasons. A world series connected
    by southland freeways.
    
    Mac wrinkled her nose, considering, then both of them
    
    ~..~.~imultaneously, said, "Nah!"
    
 :' ~ ~5 She laughed, and he gave a low, rusty rumble, as
    though laughing was something he hadn't done in a while.
    A warmth crept inside and stayed there. Not all memories
    were bad. Not all life had been intolerable. She finished
    her salad.
    
    "You couldn't have driven all that way without stop-
    ping," her father noted firmly. There was a lull between
    innings. He looked up from stirring his coffee and added,
    "though you look like it."
    
    "I stopped one night." McKenzie wrapped both hands
    about her mug. She saw a faint disapproval come and go
    across his face as she dragged the coffee near. "Believe
    me, this much caffeine isn't going to faze me."
    
    "But something did. TV said this was the Boomerang
    Generation, that the children came back. Your mother
    and I thought we'd never see it."
    
    She took a deep swallow. The sugar-and-cream-laced
    brew went down hotly, settled into a banked fire in her
    stomach. It felt good. She could not bear to tell him the
    whole story, so she doled out what she could handle. "I'm
    divorcing him."
    

    





    50
    
                 Elizaheth Forrest
    
    She was not sure what she wanted to see in his faceÄ
    but it might have been carved of granite now. "I'm all
    right," she added. She'd carefully brushed her wet hair dry
    so that he could not see the patch where Jack had as-
    saulted her with the knife. She did not want him prying
    further. Not yet. Maybe never.
    
    "No, you're not, or you wouldn't be here. Then what are
    you going to do?"
    
    How should she know? How could she have any idea,
    yet? She put a finger into her cup and swirled the cooling
    coffee around, deciding. "I don't know. I'll get a job. I
    don't know about the rest. I guess I'll have to do it one
    day at a time." She drained her cup. The spaghetti still sat
    on her plate, and she picked up a fork. It was good, better
    than she expected. He'd set out Parmesan cheese; she
    sprinkled it over and kept eating.
    
    She stared, wondering what it was he was thinking. For
    the first time it suddenly struck her that she looked more
    like him than she did her mother. Both had hazel eyes,
    sometimes gray, sometimes greenish-brown. His hair had
    silvered, hers had stayed honey golden. And their faces
    were somewhat squarish, while McKenzie remembered
    her mother as having a distinctive heart-shaped face,
    right down to the hairline dipping in the center of her
    forehead.
    
    Yes, she definitely looked like her father broad fore-
    head, a nose best described as stubborn echoed by a def-
    inite jawline which could easily be seen if it clenched.
    Handsome on a man, not even close to pretty in a
    woman. McKenzie sighed. Their similarity in looks gave
    her no ability to read his mind. She never could under-
    stand him, knew he would never understand her. There
    was no bridging the gap between them, and there was still
    that little girl inside of her who was mortally afraid of
    him, despite the love. Now that she was grown, the love
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    51
    
    had gone, retracted, curled up in itself, along with the
    memories.
    
    "Young for a divorce, but at least you don't have any
    baggage. Your mother wondered if you'd even married
    him."
    
    His bitterness surprised her. Had they thought her
    pregnant and desperate? Her mother had never given her
    the chance to discuss it. She'd told Mac that she'd be-
    trayed them, losing her softball scholarship and dropping
    out of school. It had been years before Mac had even
    tried to talk to her again. That, too, had been Sarah's
    doing. More friend than teacher.
    
    "I told her I did." McKenzie looked down quickly into
    her coffee cup before speaking again, forcing lightness
    into her voice. "You raised me to be traditional, didn't you?
    I never lied to Mom, not even about that." There was no
    pat answer in the coffee mug. She had not put much
    cream in her coffee, just enough to mellow the dark java.
    Now its rich color reminded her of trusting eyes, playful
    eyes, puppy eyes. What would she have done if Cody had
    been human? Could she have struck back, finally? What
    if what she'd seen had been her rage, bubbling over, in-
    stead of blood? What if she were like her father, violence
    bottled up, terrifyingly destructive if it were loosened?
    How could she live with that, either?
    
    "You won't get anywhere in life by quitting," her father
    said.
    
    Her head snapped up. McKenzie said, "How can you
    say that?"
    
    Night had fallen. One of the bulbs in the overhead
    kitchen light had burned out, giving the illumination a
    rich, burnished glow. The radio was on in the background,
    the sound banked to the monotony of the baseball game,
    only an occasional burst of noise telling that something
    had happened. She had always liked eating in the kitchen
    

    





    52
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    nook, but her mother had insisted on using the dining
    room. Her father had often not been home for dinner. It
    had seemed massive with just the two of them. And here
    he sat now, talking to her about quitting. Just which of
    them had quit first?
    
    "I can say it because I know." Walt Smith's hands grew
    white-knuckled around his coffee mug. "You lost your
    chance at college, now this."
    
    'Well, I didn't 'quit,'" she threw back at him. "I es-
    caped. While I was stillÄ" she stopped, biting back the
    word, young. A lot of good it had done her. She didn't feel
    young anymore.
    
    "Still what?"
    
    'You wouldn't understand." She muffled a sigh.
    
    "Damn right I wouldn't. If you're going to come home
    now, we've got to have an understanding."
    
    "Who says I'm going to stay?"
    
    Walt sniffed. 'Where else have you got to go?"
    
    She stayed silent. Nowhere, unless she wanted Jack to
    follow her.
    
    "I don't mind it," he added. "I'm doing it for her. All I
    want to know, McKenzie, is why couldn't you have come
    home while your mother was still alive?"
    
    Why couldn't he have been sober then? But she didn't
    let herself say it. "I wasn't tired of the Seattle rain, then."
    She tried to keep her voice light, but she could hear the
    edge on it. "Do we have to do this now? I'm really tired."
    She felt stretched and brittle, like a rubber band on the
    brink of snapping.
    
    He shoved his plate aside. "Yes. I think we need to get
    some things settled. You. That's the key word. You weren't
    thinking about her. Once you left here, you never looked
    back."
    
    "Should I have?"
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    53
    
    Walt rubbed his hands together as if they hurt him.
    "You left me alone with her."
    
    She pushed her own dinner aside, unable to taste it
    anymore, unable to force it down. Strange, the way it had
    turned out. She had always thought her father would be
    the burden on her mother. It had always been that way,
    and then the sudden turnaround. "She didn't tell me she
    was . . . she was dying. I didn't know until it was too late."
    Her eyes filled. She rubbed them dry with a paper napkin
    smelling of oregano and basil and tomatoes.
    
    "Don't cry in front of me, dammit. You're a tough kid,
    always were." Her father's chest puffed up. "Why couldn't
    you have been here watching her cry her eyes out, night
    after night?"
    
    "Instead of you? She never asked me." She felt her ex-
    pression grow hard. Maybe it was just his turn.
    
    "You should know what you put her through. What kind
    of coward are you?"
    
    Her diaphragm clenched. For a moment, she couldn't
    find enough breath with which to answer, but when she
    did, the words spilled out like water over a dam. "Are we
    talking about me, or you? What kind of a coward am 1?
    Well, maybe it's genetic, Dad, maybe I got it from you, be-
    cause I can sure remember her sobbing over you." Her
    voice rose with every word. "Are we keeping score? Are
    we? Just like a damn baseball game? If we are, make it
    twenty years for you, eight for me!"
    
    "Don't you talk like that to me in my house."
    
    His house. That was the smell she'd smelled. A house
    devoid of her mother's presence. Only two years gone, and
    yet it was almost as if she'd never been.
    
    McKenzie tried to take a deep breath, suddenly afraid.
    She had no place else to go. There was nothing left but
    this tenuous relationship. She had to retreat. Let s11eeping
    dogs lie. "I'm sorry, Dad. Nothing about this is easy."
    

    





    54 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    He examined his gnarled hands. 'You were a mouthy
    enough kid when you left. You thought life was easy." He
    got up, took the coffeepot, and refilled his cup. He waved
    it in the air, offering it to her, but she shook her head.
    "We always did argue."
    
    Argue. Their voices used to blast the air, send her skit-
    tering to her room where a stack of pillows couldn't muf-
    fle the explosions, words she knew she couldn't aim at
    him, for the hurt, the harm it would cause her mother Ar-
    guing. Her mouth twisted. "If that's what you want to call
    it. You and Mom, you and me."
    
    "That's what it was, by God. We never fought. And we
    never hurt each other. Never."
    
    No. McKenzie's gaze slid around the room, across the
    cabinet doors, where speckle lines marked new paint over
    old holes. Kicked in, punched in. The dishwasher in the
    corner was old now, but she could remember the unit it
    replacedÄfront door torn off by her father in a rage. They
    all used to cower when Walt Smith went on a rampage.
    He must have been following her glance. His face red-
    dened slightly. "I'm not drinking now."
    
    Something broke inside of her. That was the last thing
    she wanted to hear, to know. Too little, too late. Her poor
    mother. She couldn't have lived long enough to see that.
    She found her mug shivering in her hands and set it down
    firmly on the kitchen table. "Congratulations."
    
    "Is that all you have to say?" A shadow crossed his eyes,
    a shadow that seemed to settle into the crags of his face.
    He stared.
    
    "I could say I wish to God you'd done it when Mom
    was still here. She used to pray for that." She put her feet
    under her, feeling the kitchen floor, the old hard linoleum
    vvith its speckled colors, ready to move quickly if she had
    to. "Maybe you never hit her, but you beat her down all
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    ,1 L
    
    55
    
    the time. Too much booze, not enough money, no steady
    job, no future. You beat on both of us!"
    
    He got to his feet. She could see the kitchen curtains
    ruffle with the evening breeze. "Don't you blame me for
    your mothefs death! Don't you say a goddamn word about
    that! I was here, you weren't. I held her hands when I
    brought her home after chemo. Tried to coax her to eat.
    I was the one who held her head when she was too weak
    to vomit by herself."
    
    "It couldn't have been that hard for you," McKenzie
    said bitterly. 'You had a bottle to hide in afterward." Her
    throat worked. McKenzie forced herself to take a breath,
    whistling it inward between her lips.
    
    "You don't like it here, get the hell out! I'm doing this
    for your mother." His voice thundered through the tiny
    kitchen. It brought McKenzie to her feet, too.
    
    "Don't do me any favors. I don't want any from you. You
    should have been the one who died!"
    
    "Goddammit, I'm your father. Don't stand in my
    kitchen and tell me I should be dead!"
    
    'Why shouldn't 1? Do you think I never wished it! I
    wanted you to die every night we had to drive to some bar
    and Mom had to drag you out. Had to beg vou to come
    home. Had to leave me sitting in the locked car in some
    scummy side street while she went in looking for you.
    Why the hell do you think I left home as soon as I could?
    Why?"
    
    "That was between me and your mother! You had noth-
    ing to do with it."
    
    "Didn't 1? Didn't 1? Well, I've got news for you, Dad. It
    was my life, too! I couldn't have friends over. Every year
    I went to school, teachers looked at me with pity and
    whispered behind my back. I didn't go to the junior prom,
    because there wasn't enough money for a new dress and
    your liquor. She went to all the assemblies and meetings
    

    





    S6
    
              Elizabeth Fomst
    
    and plays. You never showed for anything but the gamesÄ
    and when you did show up, dammit, for graduation, you
    stank! You were a stinking drunk! So I bailed!"
    
    They faced one another. She could see the purple in his
    face, the hurt and anger in his eyes. She could see her
    own face mirrored slightly in them. He blinked.
    
    A mockingbird ran a trill of song from somewhere in
    the backyard. Though the shes had darkened long ago,
    she had no idea of the time. It was later than she thought.
    The mockingbirds always started up after eleven, closer to
    midnight. The Dodger game droned away on the radio.
    Her throat ached. Through the hitcher window, through
    their own curtains, with faded bantam roosters on barn-
    yard fences, across the driveway, she could see the
    Ethelridge curtains ripple, just a little.
    
    Her father's expression closed. "You were just a kid.
    There were things you didn't know. Anyway, it couldn't
    have been too damn bad. You came back!"
    
    She choked down an angry sob, determined not to cry.
    Not here. Not now. "I'm not a kid anymore! And it's a lit-
    tle late for you to catch up." She brushed her hair back
    from her hot face, unthinkingly.
    
    His face changed immediately. "Good God, what hap-
    pened to you?"
    
    Her jaw trembled. "Nothing." She tossed her hair, flop-
    ping it back into place.
    
    "That's not nothing!" Her father reached out, caught her
    with strong fingers, turned her chin.
    
    She pulled back, breathing hard. "Don't touch me!
    Don't ever touch me! Just leave me alone!" McKenzie
    bolted for her room, unable to keep it together for another
    second. She slammed the door behind her and pitched
    face first onto her bed.
    
    The old chenille spread was worn and dusty, but it muf-
    fled her sobs as well as it always used to. The floor
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    57
    
    creaked outside her door. After long moments, he
    knocked.
    
    "Mac? Mac, honey, open the door."
    
    Her teeth chattered as she clenched them together. He
    should have been the one who died. He should have left
    them alone to live happily ever after.
    
    "Go away!"
    
    A pause, and then her father hit the door with his fist.
    The paneling boomed under the blow, rocking in the
    threshold, but it held. "Goddammit! Who the hell do you
    think you are?"
    
    She froze in fear, waiting, but no other sound came for
    a long moment. She didn't know what she would do if he
    came through the door. Didn't know anything except that
    the lump in her chest felt as though it were swelling until
    it burst, and when it did, she would. She wasn't going to
    take this anymore! Not Jack, not her father! She found
    herself shaking as she tried to hold herself together.
    
    The door boomed again. She jumped and held the pil-
    low to her as if it could muffle the explosion. Suddenly
    she thought of Jenny Atkins. God, not Jenny, I haven't
    thought of her in years. Jenny, who'd told her about the ter-
    rible things stepfathers, and occasionally fathers, did to
    their daughters. Who'd made her fear her own father, al-
    ready aberrant, made her fear the same kind of twisted
    sick things from him. Every time he drank and they
    fought, and she took refuge in her room, she'd feared that
    it would not keep her safe just as Jenny's room had never
    kept her safe.
    
    As she cringed and held tight to the bed, she thought
    of all the years she'd spent in fear and humiliation. When
    had she ever been free of it? She couldn't remember.
    
    What had ever happened to Jenny? McKenzie bit her
    lip. The waiflike girl had disappeared in their junior year.
    One day at school, the next not. There'd been rumors.
    
                                         ~::     _
    

    





    58
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Jenny was pregnant, and gone. Or worse. Jenny'd been
    pregnant, and taken her own life. Even worse. Jenny'd
    been pregnant, and her own father had killed her. Mac
    had vowed to find out. She'd tried to enlist her mother's
    help but had been discouraged by her instead. That was
    the Atkins' family business. Her mother had frowned.
    Leave it be.
    
    And Mac had, sensing a house of cards that, if it came
    tumbling down, might well catch them, too. After all, Jen-
    ny's stepfather drank, too. And inside, privately, she'd
    been mad at Jenny for making her fear her father in that
    way, as well. Hadn't everything else been enough?
    
    The door banged. "Dammit, Mac, open up!"
    
    "No!" The pillow muffled her voice, but she knew he
    heard her. His fist seemed to drum through her aching
    head. She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly.
    
    He left, roaring down the hallway like an angry bull. Af-
    ter long moments, though she did not think it possible,
    the warmth of the spread lulled her to sleep.
    

    





    sQ~
    
                    Chapter 5
    
    The assassin slipped down old alleyways, where asphalt
    crumbled under the weight of battered trash cans. The
    streetlights glowing orange on the facing side of the
    nightborhood cast only a thin glow here, but it was
    enough for him. Stucco garages opposite him held the
    ghostly tracings of tagger marks, painted over yet stub-
    bomly remaining, shadowy etchings under new paint. A
    ginger cat darted across his path and disappeared in tufts
    of Bermuda grass which had never seen a weed whacker.
    
    He liked the older tracts, with the alleys dissecting
    their stucco depths. By the sixties, most had disappeared
    from the newer tracts, as developers realized how much
    gold existed in California real estate and had found a way
    to cram square footage into every nook and cranny of a
    development site. But for him, like the ginger cat and now
    the drab opossum which froze as he passed it, the alleys
    remained a quaint and preferred corridor of travel.
    
    He turned to look at the possum. Its scaly, ratlike tail
    hung over the block-wall fencing, its shoulders under an
    altar of oleander sprays. The creature skinned black lips
    back from needlelike teeth as he raised a hand toward it.
    The stalker paused, and grinned. If he'd had a light, this
    nocturnal sack of fur would be frozen in submission.
    
    A cat yowl made him turn his face away. When he
    fumed back, the oleander spray shivered over thin air,
    59
    

    





    60
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    the possum disappearing while his back had been turned.
    He-put the palm of his hand on the top of the block wall,
    absorbing the warmth of the creature, feeling the aura it
    had left behind. A living body was like a fiery torch, fe-
    vered with the heat of all its processes. Through his palm
    he could, if he did not already know, cipher blood flow-
    ing hotly through flesh and fur, feel the exhalation of
    breath, the shiver of fear when it had first sighted him.
    He held the top of the wall until the masonry went cold.
    
    He withdrew his hand and began to pick his way down
    the alley again. Crabgrass poked its way under grapestake
    fences and inched over the corroded alley. He was hunt-
    ing and, like the ragged-eared ginger cat who leaped
    across his path, he had little doubt that the hunt would
    be good.
    
    The aroma of night-blooming star jasmine drifted from
    a breezeway. He took an appreciative breath as he
    crossed, a welcome respite from the lingering smell of gar-
    bage cans just a day or two away from being put out for
    collection. This was a neighborhood of ethnic foods. The
    cans carried lingering odors of turnip greens and fatback.
    He heard a swelling of music, then it faded as he moved
    across the street, from one neighborhood into another,
    and the smell of jasmine was traded for that of the jaca-
    randa, muckier, sweeter, almost winy as it collected in the
    alley potholes.
    
    He paused behind a brown garage which had seen bet-
    ter days, the cracked corners of its stucco revealing
    chicken wire and tar paper. Across his line of sight, he
    could see a man in his backyard, taking out the trash and
    listening to the Dodgers' game. The man dunked a sack
    into a tough plastic can and paused by the side of a tarp-
    covered vehicle. Radio balanced on his shoulder, he lis-
    tened as he fussily tugged the car over into better
    placement over the bumpers. The stalker also listened.
    

    





    ; ~›
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    61
    
    The peppery coach had just livened up the proceedings by
    getting thrown out, and now his team, as hoped, had ral-
    lied to tie the game up. The roar and hiss of overvvorked
    radio speakers straining to broadcast the excitement
    reached him.
    
    He reached in his back pocket, drawing out a kitchen
    match, and lighting it with his thumbnail. The match
    hissed and flared into being with a smell of sulfur and
    smoke. He liked matches. He liked calling them lucifers,
    as they had been called a century ago. Fitting, with the
    bite and smell of hell itself, ready at the scratch of its
    chemical head to loose the power of chaotic fire. He
    watched the flame settle into its tear-drop shape and
    through it, eyed the house as he always liked to do, think-
    ing as he'd been trained to do, looking for the weaknesses
    where fire could strike. Where the inhabitants could flee,
    once the flames betrayed their security and shelter. Peer-
    ing through the match flame as he might through rose-
    colored glass, he assessed the home. Beyond, for a
    distracting flicker of a moment, in a back bedroom, he
    saw a silhouette thrown up against drawn shades, and like
    a hound which has winded a fox, his nostrils flared.
    
    Prey.
    
    Ta-rah-rah-BOOM-ti-ay, have you had yours today, I had
    mine yesterday, from the girl across the way .... Vulgarities
    blazed across his mind, his lips moving soundlessly to the
    words, his attention caught by the beauty of the girl. He
    dropped the match and ground it out, watching instead
    the lithe candlestick form of the naked girl, her brush of
    hair its own flame. Caught by the endless possibilities of
    all the ways he might kill her, he crouched down to spy.
    
    A thin veil of sweat crept down his face, under the vi-
    sor of his gear. It was irritating in the sultry night. He
    could not reach the salty moisture to wipe it away, and
    the air would not evaporate it. He blinked, rapidly, several
    

    





    : ~:: :~ ~ ~ ~: :::~: ~
    
                  : ~ f .~ i ., _
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    times, aware he was losing sight of the girl as he did so.
    He sucked his breath in through his lips with a deep, in-
    haling hiss. She aroused him, and because of that, the
    sleeping man began to awaken also.
    
    Like the sun in eclipse, a magnificent corona of hair
    stood away from her shadowed head and torso. Like a B~
    man candle, he thought in admiration; then, the moment
    passed, and the light snapped off. For a long second, like
    the corona of the sun in eclipse, he retained a vision of
    her. Then the silhouette disappeared in total darkness.
    
    Business before pleasure. And doing her would be plea-
    surable. Very, very pleasurable. As he had done with the
    possum, his instinct was to go after her, put his hand on
    the windowsill, leech off the warmth of her presence,
    stand in the shadows outside the house, and listen to her
    fall into sleep. The need to feel her warmth, to see her
    again, to trail his fingers down the length of her throat . . .
    with a great force of will, he stood where he was, aware
    she had a protector, knowing that he liked to strike the
    solitary. Ta-rah-rah-BOOM-ti-ay.... He hadn't had his
    that day.
    
    Someone else watched through him. He bit his lips,
    tasting the flat, iron sweet of his blood, driving the sleep-
    ing man out of his thoughts. He would not treat this
    woman as she deserved to be treated. He would . . .
    
    cutÄbiteÄripÄrapeÄtormentÄ
    
    Images sheared through his mind. He blinked again, as
    if to wipe them away, strobe-lit visions of atrocities which
    fired him even as they disgusted him. The sleeping man's
    memories.... Duct tape. Blades with serrated edges. Vi-
    olence and desire interchangeable. The sweet flesh of the
    inside of the thighs being filleted, excising savage tooth
    marks . . . blood pooling . . . vise grips biting down on rosy
    areolae ....
    
    Death.
    
    _~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    63
    
    He took a deep breath and shook himself like a dog
    shedding water even as he fought being caught up in the
    flashing emotions.
    
    His muscles were tensed under his dark sweatshirt.
    They rippled with subconscious desire. Though compact,
    he kept himself built up, and he had no doubt he could
    overpower anyone who stood between himself and his
    chosen quarry. But this was not a physical foe. The sleep-
    ing man lay inside his mind, of him but not him, and the
    sweat rippled down his face inside his mask, cascading
    like a waterfall.
    
    Remember who he was. Remember what she told him,
    she who'd sent him here, she who would be terribly dis-
    turbed if he failed in his mission. Think. Reason.
    
    The thing which kept him free to hunt, his will, his in-
    telligence, his ability to come and go without witness or
    interference, held him back. She had imprinted that on
    him. That, and his mindfulness of his original target.
    Bound, the sleeping man began to collapse, slumping,
    then melting away altogether. Gone.
    
    This was business. Pleasure later. He nudged forward
    to the side of the alley, where a handful of avocado trees
    hung over weatherbeaten wooden fencing, and the house
    could still be watched from the back window of the car.
    
    The stalker smiled. He sought prey tonight. He would
    have to gracefully bow out of this hunt. For the moment.
    The night was still very young.
    
    He wove his fingers together and stretched them until
    the knuckles popped faintly. He had infinite patience. He
    stepped farther back into the shadows, turning to leave.
    
    Under the leaning branches of an avocado tree, a roof
    rat raced across the boards, snatched a green fruit, and
    disappeared over the top of a garage.
    
    The stalker continued down the alleyway until he found
    the house he searched for, a beige house, different from
    
    ~ .
    

    





    64
    
                 Elizabeth Forresf
    
    the others on this block in that a second story had been
    added. Done in ocher with white trim, it was a house that
    exuded a quiet kind of class and prosperity that set it off
    from the rest of the neighborhood, which was teetering
    between middle and lower economic groups. The man
    had not left the neighborhood when he'd begun to pros-
    per, but had tried to take the neighborhood with him.
    Under different circumstances, the assassin might have
    admired the councilman, a man of color, who'd gone far
    and worked hard. But this was nothing personal.
    
    The stalker paused in the shadows again. Overgrown
    oleander shrubs and bottlebrush leaned over him, hiding
    him, their dust as irritating as the oleander leaves were
    poisonous, but he held his breath for the moment he hud-
    dled in their sanctuary. Briskly, he checked his weapon,
    secured it, ran his fingers over the odd contours of his
    face, snugged his hood into place. When he stepped out,
    it was with business in mind.
    
    It was not conscience which drove MacBeth from his
    sleep and his wife into a waking nightmare, Ibie decided,
    as he swung his feet over the bed and slipped them into
    worn-out, faded plaid slippers. It was a bad prostate.
    Shakespearean prose not withstanding, it seemed to be
    the fate of all men, wicked or innocent.
    
    He scrubbed a pink-palmed hand over his face, digging
    out the sleep, and sighed, looking at his clock. Not even
    one-thirty. That meant he'd be up again at least one more
    time before dawn.
    
    He yawned with the realization and then lurched out of
    bed, the mattress springs creaking. He grabbed for his
    robe, as comfortably worn and threadbare as the slippers,
    and shrugged it on. He ought to go in and have the damn
    thing yanked, or cut, or whatever the surgeons did. He
    ought to, he knew he ought to, but he couldn't quite bring
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    65
    
    himself to do it. No, sir. Not when his doctor had ex-
    plained some of the possible side effects.
    
    No, sir. Ibie grinned at himself as he shuffled down the
    upstairs hallway. He had no intention of giving up the la-
    dies. Not that he had many, at his age, and with his dig-
    nity of being a city councilman, but he had his chances,
    
    iqnc1 hP intPn~lP~ tm t~LL, tlhP~ A h~ll~ ;, ~.__A ~]
    
    his passage, grizzle-haired, mahogany-skinned old man,
    shoulders still straight, face heavily lined, eyes heavy with
    sleep.
    
    No, sir, Ibie had no intention of getting cut if he didn't
    have to. He already knew it wasn't cancerous. Just
    damned inconvenient. But he liked to stroke the sweet,
    velvety insides of a woman as much as the next manÄ
    more, when he'd been young, and he wasn't giving that
    away. Uh-uh. So, until they could convince him that he
    wasn't going to lose anything but the discomfort, he would
    get up in the middle of the night with his prostate feeling
    like a damn cantaloupe, waddle down the hall, and try to
    pee standing up. If he was too damn sleepy, then he
    would just sit down, like an old woman. That's why he
    wore pajamas and a robe now. It wouldn't do to be scaring
    anybody if they found him asleep on the toilet in the
    morning.
    
    He made his way to the bathroom, relieved himself in
    spits and spurts as much as he was able, found some
    comfort, and then decided he was hungry. He'd eaten
    lightly at dinner and now his stomach growled much the
    way it had in his youth. Ibie grinned at the memory. He'd
    had a voracious appetite when young, for women, food,
    and the law. He'd done all right by all three. He straight-
    ened his pajamas, and left the bathroom, padding quietly
    downstairs toward the kitchen.
    
    His aides all slept with a deafness he admired. Of
    course, he wore them out. But they did not fear the night,
    
    ..,' ..
    

    





     ~0,[.~ ~ ~ t~ -~
    
    r,Ilza 7etn rorrest
    
    a~ed eves.
    
    he thought, as he put a hand out to turn on the down-
    stairs light, then hesitated. The telltale gleam might wake
    NaShonda or one of the other aides who lived in his old
    house. The kitchen light would be good enough for his
    
    Ibie scuffled his slippered feet into the kitchen at the
    back of the house, wondering what there was he could
    eat. If Tildie, bless her heart, was still alive, there'd at
    least have been sweet potato pie, like pumpkin pie, but
    sweeter, more pungent with clove and nutmeg and the
    taste of the sweet potatoes themselves. My, he missed
    thatÄand her, the only woman who'd been able to tame
    him. Had it only been thirty-two years they'd had to-
    gether? Not long enough. He would make a point of tell-
    ing St. Peter that at the gate, when he met him. Not long
    enough at all. He would take the time to tell St. Peter that
    before sprinting through and finding his beloved, sass-
    filled Tildie.
    
    He turned the corner and reached out again for the
    kitchen plate switch, eyes already blinking against what
    would be a white flood of light, when he saw a movement.
    Heard something twitch even as his fingers flipped the
    switch, and he looked toward the deep corner, the corner
    which angled toward the back door and porch.
    
    As the light came on, it struck the thing which waited
    for him. Ibie staggered back, slammed into the wall, his
    head smacking solidly. But the pain he felt was in his
    throat, noÄhis chest, spearing downward as he tried to
    gasp and scream at the same time.
    
    Never in his life had he been so terrified, not even de-
    cades ago when he'd awakened to find a white-sheeted
    and hooded man in his living room. Then, young and
    strong and fearless, he'd thundered out, "This is Los An-
    geles. Get the hell out of here!"
    
    Now. words failed him. Thev swelled in his chest and
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    67
    
    weighted him down like an anchor. He gargled and
    clawed at his mouth as if he could free a scream.
    
    The thing moved at him, manlike, dressed in sweats,
    for Gods' sake, but its faceÄand Ibie tried to roll away
    from him, the awful pain in his chest spreading up into
    his neck and down into his arm.
    
    The last thing he managed to do was to trigger his
    alarm necklace and send it blasting into the night, waking
    his aides and, hopefully, the whole damn neighborhood.
    There was no way in hell Ibie Walker planned to let any
    alien take his body and keep him from the gates of heaven
    and his Tildie.
    
    When the assassin dove back into cover, the coolness
    had evaporated. His hands shook as he disassembled his
    weapon which had not even been fired. He dropped the
    hood from his head, ran his fingers over his face, and
    ripped off the masklike equipment. He breathed hard.
    Still in a low squat, he made his way to where he could
    see the angled front of the house and waited.
    
    He crouched under the oleanders as light flooded the
    target house. Sound and fury woke the neighbors. A low
    siren sounded. He could see the emergency vehicle slow,
    stop, the paramedics disembark, their cases in their hands
    as they ran to the house.
    
    Nothing in the plans or the preparation had gone
    wrong, except that he had miscalculated the insomnia of
    the old. He and his target had run into each other in the
    kitchen hallway, surprising each other. The councilman
    had fallen back, gasping. The old man had clutched his
    chest and gone down, rich brown face graying with pain.
    He'd had enough presence of mind to set off his medic-
    alert alarm, but had never uttered a word.
    
    Fright might have done the job meant for a bullet, but
    the assassin couldn't count on it. He cn~lr1 not :~11~ th~
    

    





    :- ~ ~::
    68
    
                ~ _ ::. -~: .---- ~ ~ ?~:-  ~ ~
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    councilman to regain consciousness, to remember, to live.
    He stayed crouched in the bushes long enough to hear
    the paramedics talking to one another as the first resumed
    to the vehicle for more equipment, communicating to the
    mike clipped to his shoulder. He learned where the coun-
    cilman was going to be taken, which triage unit had room
    and staff available to treat him immediately.
    
    The assassin backed out of hiding and bolted down the
    alley, knowing that all attention was directed elsewhere, to
    the spectacle of the paramedics on the councilman's front
    lawn, desperately trying to save a life.
    
    ..
    

    





                    Chapter 6
    
    Light from the backyard flooded her window. It flared into
    her dreams. McKenzie woke, blinking, her chest heaving
    while she remembered where she was. She lay still, her
    pulse thundering in her ears. He'd been chasing, she'd
    been running. Like Death with his scythe, he'd been after
    her with a baseball bat, himself faceless, taller, faster, ma-
    levolent. Unlike the bloody visions which washed across
    her from time to time, this had had a reality to it that,
    even now, pumped adrenaline through her.
    
    She took a deep breath, trying to exorcise the night-
    mare. She'd slept in her clothes and felt vaguely uncom-
    fortable. The scent of the jacaranda lay heavily on the
    night air. For some reason, it reminded her of years ago,
    blocks and blocks away, where the scent of spring was the
    rich and heavy star jasmine that bloomed at night. Think-
    ing of pajama parties, small escapes from home, she
    kicked back the covers.
    
    It hadn't all been a nightmare. She could hear the tim-
    bre of a rich, male voice rising in anger. Her father's voice.
    Did she smell Four Roses on the air, the cheap whiskey
    which used to fuel his alcoholic rages? What had she
    done, what had she come home to? Or was he just being
    Walt, arguing with the baseball announcer over some call
    on the game?
    
    McKenzie turned her head to read the dusty face of the
    
                   t~-  69
    

    





    70
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    clock radio. After two. It couldn't be the baseball game,
    now long over, players off the field and out of the show-
    ers. The voice continued to swell in belligerence. She lay
    back uncertainly, wondering if the radio was still on, if she
    even knew her father's voice.
    
    "Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?" It
    had to be Walt, bellowing through the house. "Get out of
    
                                         here before I call the cops."    ~
                                         She sat up. Her jeans had twisted and she squirmed   11
    
    around in them for more comfort. A thinner, more distant
    tenor answered her father.
    
    "I came for my wife."
    
    ~ - ~;
    
    McKenzie froze, fingers tucking at the hem around her
    ankle. Her blood went cold. She breathed quick, twice, in
    and out, then grabbed her ancient baseball bat from the
    corner. Its weathered wood, old and gray, fit the curve of
    her hand snugly. She hefted it. The sound of crashing
    china came from the kitchen.
    
    She opened the door cautiously and put her back to the
    hallway, crab stepping through the dark tunnel. Only the
    bat in her hand seemed familiar. She wrapped her hands~
    more tightly about it.
    
    Light from the kitchen spilled out, menacing and sharp
    to her sleep-darkened eyes. McKenzie stopped as the ar-
    gument grew louder, took a deep breath, then stepped
    around the corner.
    
    Floodlights from the yard silhouetted Jack's angular,
    wiry body as he moved across the kitchen. She could feel
    him look at her. "McKenzie," he said. '~ou Iying little
    bitch." Her vision opened. His lips were thin and tight,
    and his white teeth gleamed. He looked grimly pleased.
    
    Her heart plummeted. It was impossible, there was no
    way he could have known, she had had it all planned,
    buried in Los Angeles under thousands of SmithsÄhow
    
                         ~7
                        ser
                          

    





                    DEATH WATCH
    
    could Jack be here? Only Sarah could have located her
    and she never would have told voluntarily....
    
    Walt flinched. He brought a fist up. "Don't talk to my
    daughter like that."
    
    The smell of bourbon did fill the air, but now she could
    tell it did not come from him. But he was between her
    and Jack, stubbornly set, and the fear she'd felt for Sarah
    now suddenly transferred to her father.
    
    McKenzie screamed. "Dad, no! Get away from him.
    Run!" She hefted the bat.
    
    Jack took a confident step forward. His boots crunched
    on broken dishware. His muddy eyes glinted sharply.
    "She's my wife, old man. Get out of the way." He shoved
    her father against the kitchen counter. Walt hit with a
    grunt. He grabbed for a frying pan left on the stove stop.
    Jack caught his wrist in midair, twisting it back. His lips
    twisted scornfully. The pan went clattering to the floor.
    Her father breathed heavily, sweat across his upper lip.
    
    "Get out of here! Don't you touch us. Leave me alone!"
    She didn't care who heard. In fact, she hoped the neigh-
    bors would hear, and call for help. For once Mrs.
    Ethelridge's nosiness would be welcome. Her voice tore
    from her throat, like the roar of a lioness, but it did not
    move either man.
    
    Light and dark streaked the room starkly. Jack took a
    stride forward. Her father moved instinctively to block it.
    She saw Jack reach out and shove her father aside. He hit
    the rim of the kitchen sink and held on, gasping. She
    tightened her grip on the baseball bat. "I'll kill you, so
    help me!"
    
    Jack laughed, answering softly, '~ou're not going any-
    where." He grabbed for her.
    
    Her father lunged between them. McKenzie cocked the
    bat. She hesitated knowing she couldn't swing without
    hitting him. "Dad, get away." She hesitated, seeing Cody,
    

    





    72
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    blood-laced and torn, then her father again clearly. "Dad,
    go call 911. Daddy, please."
    
    Jack shoved again, hard, pushing the older man back-
    ward. Walton hit the threshold to the back steps. He
    rolled off the stucco, going to one knee. Jack watched in
    satisfaction, before turning for McKenzie. She saw her fa-
    ther hook a leg out. Jack stumbled. Irritation replaced the
    grim pleasure on his face. He wheeled around and
    grabbed her father up by his shirt collar. The two began
    to grapple, sliding off the porch and into the backyard.
    
    Jack's fists slapped into her father's ribs. He grunted
    coarsely, and her father's breath sounded like a steam
    whistle. She began to shake uncontrollably. Her throat
    ached. Arms locked, faces going red, the two men wres-
    tled. Jack's lips peeled back in a fierce grin of pleasure.
    
    She screamed again, "Help! Somebody help us!"
    
    Her father let out a sound of pain. He went to one
    knee, clutching his shoulder. Jack clasped his hands to-
    gether and clubbed him on his back. Walt put a hand to
    his chest. He twisted around, gaspinR. Sweat poured
    down his purplish face.
    
    "McKenzie ... get out of here ... now....
    
    He started to fold up, like a broken toy. Jack put out a
    booted foot, paused, then deliberately kicked him over.
    He left her father writhing on the ground. He shot a look
    at McKenzie, who stood frozen in the kitchen doorway,
    and took the porch steps in a single leap. She swung the
    bat and missed.
    
    They stared eye to eye. Jack reached out and knotted
    his long fingers around the end of the bat. McKenzie tried
    to twist it free, and couldn't. She hadn't enough strength
    to wrestle it back from him, and she didn't have enough
    nerve to drop it and run. She just stood, rooted to the
    ground, numb, as he pulled the bat toward him. Like a
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    73
    
    "And just where did you think you were going, little bit?
    How far did you think you could get without me? What
    kind of lies have you been telling?" He began to twist the
    bat. Her wrists burned as she could not let go, and her
    arms contorted. "Did you forget to tell him you liked it
    rough? That I was the best thing that ever happened to
    you? WhatÄdid you think you could just spit in my face
    and walk OUT?" He wrenched the bat from her grip and
    threw her backward.
    
    The concrete edge of the porch smashed against her
    spine as she landed. The hot streak of agony made her
    gasp. It stung her eyes, made her think. She could die
    here, broken just like Cody, if she didn't move! She could
    hear her father gargling in pain . . . what was happening
    to her father?
    
    Jack leaned close, grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked
    her face up to meet his. He bit her lips, teeth tearing
    sharply. Her flesh ripped as she pulled her head back in
    pain. McKenzie could feel the blood well up as she let
    out a strangled sob. She raised a foot and kicked, hard.
    
    ~Jack staggered back.
    
- _ McKenzie rolled over and clawed her way up the back
    porch. She pulled herself up, through the door and into
    the house. Behind her, she could hear both her father's
    feeble cries and Jack's pungent curses.
    
    9-1-1. 9-1-1. Her nails, splintered and torn, ached un-
    bearably. She could feel blood running down her chin.
    Her butt felt as though it had been kicked in. She skidded
    barefoot over the hardwood floors, trying to find the
    phone.
    
    A chair crashed behind her. McKenzie didn't look back.
    Either Jack had fallen over it, or he'd thrown it at her. She
    didn't want to know. She burst through the swinging doors
    of the dining room into the small living room, looking
    frantically through the dark.
    

    





    74
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    There it was! On the side table, near the TV. McKenzie
    launched herself at it. She grabbed it up, punched in
    9-1- I, and without waiting for an answer, threw the phone
    to the side of the couch, receiver off. She heard Jack be-
    hind her.
    
    They screamed at one another as he grabbed for her.
    She felt the slaps and blows, hair torn from her head, her
    face go hot with pain and hurt. She fished around for the
    phone with her left hand. He jumped on her hand, the
    rough soles of his shoes digging into her, bones crunching.
    She kicked and yelled back, fighting uselessly. They
    crashed to the floor and he straddled her. She couldn't
    breathe as he took his hands and cradled her face. Then,
    grinning, he began to bash her head into the floor.
    
    Faintly, she could hear herself crying, "Oh, God! Some-
    body help me!"
    
    Pain ricocheted through her skull. It brought her twist-
    ing into exploding darkness.
    
    She was aware of lights stabbing into her eyes. She
    winced away from them, found her arms tangled and then
    imprisoned. Voices floated around her, some near, some
    far, one strident and jarring. They made no sense to her.
    Words pounded into her, but McKenzie could not under-
    stand them. A lance of light seared into her pupils. She
    flinched from it. Someone cradled her head. Strong fin-
    gers imprinted her scalp, holding her steady. Over the tur-
    moil, the dizzying wash of light and sound, she could hear
    clearly the buzz and static of a police radioÄodd, how
    could she hear that so well? And, beyond that, someone
    was playing "Stairway to Heaven." Or perhaps she merely
    imagined it. The riff went on and on. It must be the long
    version.
    
                      `... ..
    
    ~eep your eyes open.
    
    Fillttf~r~r1 ~c chf~ looked
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    75
    
    up. Dark blue uniforms over, around her. A thick collar
    about her neck. A shunt pricked the tender skin inside
    her elbow. She felt the sting of alcohol, then the cool
    smoothness of the needle sliding into place. Quick hands
    layered tape over and around her arm. An 1Y they were
    giving her an IV. Help. Help had come.
    
    The realization sank into her. She could feel herself Iy-
    ing on the grass, the sharp-edged blades of the St. Augus-
    tine jabbing her. She felt raw. Someone held her head up
    slightly, leaning over her. She could see other figures
    dimly, working a few feet away from her. The red, white,
    and blue flash of lights illuminated, then shadowed, fire
    trucks and EMT vehicles, all crowding the street and
    curb. They dazzled her eyes, and she could not bear to
    stare at them.
    
    The pinpoint beam of a flashlight stung her eyes again,
    and a voice said, "Okay, pupils normalizing, I think we've
    got her back again." A pleasant, tense face leaned over her
    as she blinked in reaction to the beam.
    
    Footsteps by her other flank. McKenzie shifted slightly.
    The hands imprisoning her head relaxed, let her look. A
    thick-bodied man squatted down beside her, all in blue,
    darker blue, notepad in hand. He smelled faintly of cof-
    fee. "Can you tell us what happened?"
    
    Her throat cracked. "Jack" came out like a croak.
    McKenzie gave a hard swallow, tried again. "He was so
    mad at me."
    
    "Jack who? This him? And who are you?"
    
    Her hearing buzzed loudly. Everything blurred suddenly,
    started to go swinging past. She put her free hand out and
    grabbed for the policeman's trouser cuff as if it were a
    lifeline and could steady her. The sharply creased fabric
    filled her hand. "I came home . . . my father. How's my fa-
    ther?"
    
    Material twisted in her fingers. The masculine voices
    

    





    76
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    around her paused. There was a rhythm to them, she re-
    alized suddenly.
    
    A voice called out, "Five, four, three, two, one. And
    clear." A sharp buzz followed it.
    
    "Okay, that does it. Sinus rhythm. Get the ringers go-
    ing, put the mask back in place."
    
    She had this sense she ought to understand what they
    were talking about, what they were saying, if she could
    just concentrate....
    
    The policeman answered her then. "Looks like he's go-
    ing to be okay. Can you tell me what happened? Did he
    hit you? Was there a fight?"
    
    Her face felt warm. She let go of the officer. She put
    her hand up, could feel something sticky trickling down
    it. Blood? Tears? She couldn't tell. She stared at her hand,
    unable to see in the unsteady lights what coated it. A
    sob squeezed her throat tight. "I tried to stop him. My
    father . . . His chestÄis it his heart? He fell. Collapsed."
    
    McKenzie squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again
    quickly as the paramedic touched her forehead, saying,
    "Keep 'em open. We need you awake right now. Thatta
    girl."
    
    'What can you tell us?" The policeman persisted.
    
    She swallowed tightly. She tried to remember Jack
    Trebolt. Everything wavered. Her hearing began to close
    off, and the vision in her eyes narrowed to a tiny tunnel,
    at the end of which the paramedic waited. She thought
    she got out, "He drives a truck."
    
    The paramedic leaning over her picked up her hand,
    steadying the IV, and remarked, "From the tread marks on
    her skin, he drove over her."
    
    There was a flurry of motion beyond the officer. Her
    tunnel of vision widened enough to show her that they
    were moving her father in concert, a many-legged, multi-
    armed blur, hoisting him onto a gurney and taking him~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    77
    
    away. She felt an odd distancing come over her, as if she
    weren't even involved, just watching. The back doors of
    the ambulance closed, shutting her out, and then the ve-
    hicle left. Another remained at the curb. For who? she
    wondered.
    
    Paramedics surrounded her, hands on her ankles, under
    her hips, back, and shoulders. "One, two, three!" She was
    lifted and moved. The scent of crushed grass and dew
    wafted up. Agony roared through her body as they settled
    her again and strapped her in place. The buzzing in her
    ears escalated, and waves of dizziness overwhelmed her.
    
    Someone said, 'We're losing her again."
    
    'Where's she going?"
    
    "Mount Mercy. You can follow up there."
    
    "I'm through here, anyway." Faintly, "I'm getting tired of
    seeing this shit."
    
    Her eyelids fluttered. McKenzie could feel the corners
    of her mouth turn up slightly. Someone else thought Jack
    was a son of a bitch. Maybe it wasn't all just her. The gur-
    ney bumped over the grass, jostling her. Mrs. Ethelridge
    leaned over her. "We'll close the house up, dear. Don't you
    worry."
    
    The gurney thumped past an old woman with silver-
    gray hair, and many wrinkles, and a crumpled lavender
    wrap. McKenzie barely recognized her.
    
    "Poor dear . . ." the woman said faintly. "She and her fa-
    ther used to have the worst rows. Wake the whole neigh-
    borhood. Just came back yesterday...."
    
    Mac couldn't stay awake any longer, no matter how
    they urged her. The ocean surged in her head, carrying
    away the words, sweeping her away with it.
    
    He didn't need the equipment for the hospital. He al-
    ready knew it like the back of his hand. He tucked the
    gear inside his shirt, where it clung wetly to his rib ca~e,
    

    





    78
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    sticky from the sweat of his face. No one took any real
    note of him as he entered through the ambulance corri-
    dor, hood up, face down. His mind darted ahead, planning
    how to finish the job he'd begun earlier, how to take out
    his target, how to get away unnoticed, unnoticeable. She
    would be extremely displeased if he did not.
    
    The emergency room was mainly filled with the sick,
    indigent families gathered around a flickering TV set,
    awaiting their turn, rocking babies who coughed and spit
    up phlegm intermittently. He strode through without stop-
    ping. The schizophrenic nature of an emergency ward was
    that a good many cases were not emergencies, except that
    no regular medical care had been or could be sought, and
    then there was the unit beyond the doors, beyond the
    EMT entrance where the real traumas were being treated.
    Some nights the wounded would fill these corridors.
    Other nights, like tonight, had been quiet up until his ar-
    rival. He had never seen a triage unit so galvanized. It
    suited his purpose in that it became much easier to blend
    in on the emergency wing, steal greens, and become a
    part of the scene. It did not suit his purpose in that the
    energy was mainly devoted to saving the man he intended
    to kill. He stayed in the corridors, found a clipboard,
    walked back and forth as though he had a destination.
    
    A second man in cardiac arrest being brought in drew
    his keen attention, curtains separating one end of the tri-
    age from the other as teams worked to stabilize both men.
    
    There were no similarities. One black and fragile elder.
    The other late middle-aged, stocky and white. Both
    meeting and finding a fate in the night. Trays and carts of
    supplies were rolled through hastily, nurses and residents
    lined up, monitors and leads beeped into frantic service.
    He watched as, almost simultaneously, the vast needles
    for cardiac injections were held up, tapped, extraneous
    fluid squirting into the air to clear air bubbles from the
    
    r
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    79
    
    syringes, then doctors bent and injected into the chest
    cavities of the patients, the synchronization unnoticed by
    any but he. He observed, wondering if there was a way he
    could turn the havoc to his advantage. Seeing none, he
    decided to wait until the delicate moments when the sta-
    bilized patient would be left in triage, awaiting transport
    to ICU.
    
    He cut across the first floor to the blood labs, found a
    plastic tray with empty vials, labels, and disposable syrin-
    ges and lifted it. Blood work was always being done. It
    gave him an excuse for being anywhere, anytime. He
    might even find an excuse for the syringes. When he re-
    turned, the councilman was Iying quietly, a single charge
    nurse monitoring him. The window of opportunity would
    shortly open.
    
    He stepped across the hall, behind faintly yellow cur-
    tains, to wait. When he turned, he saw that there was an
    occupant there, her face battered, but still and silent. A
    clipboard was thrown across the foot of the bed. He
    picked it up. Head and chest x-rays had been ordered.
    Her monitor showed her heart rate stabilized, her IV had
    been taped to the inside of the rail. She would remain
    there, forgotten until the cardiac cases were resolved.
    
    The curtains were troubled by his entrance, but the
    young woman did not awaken. He stood to one side, just
    out of her peripheral view should she come to suddenly,
    knowing he could be out of the area before she could fo-
    cus on him. Watching her, he was drawn as much by the
    bloodstains and bruises on her face as by the kind of plain
    beauty they marred.
    
    She slept as she would have normally, if her life had not
    abruptly met with such violence. In the late evening,
    closer to sunrise than sunset, her breathing matched that
    of the tides, slow, sure, ebbing. Morning would bring it
    surging back, along with her soul, and her awareness.
    

    





    80
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    He loved women. They did not understand him, mvar~-
    ably. They turned away when he needed them most. But
    he loved them. He loved the curve of their eyes, the gen-
    tle creases and folds around their expressive orbs, the tan-
    gle of their hair, the shell-like cupping of their ears. He
    had never seen a woman with ugly ears. But it was their
    hair which he loved most, lustrous and thick.
    
    He reached out and stroked her hair gently. His finger
    caught briefly in a silken strand. She had good color,
    young and rich and natural, unbleached . . . he abhorred
    bleached hair. He plucked a strand of grass out of it,
    stroking, styling it gently away from her battered cheek-
    bones, tucking it behind the delicate ear. Then he saw the
    
    violation, the rough patch where someone had sawed
    away a lock. Crudely and savagely, her skin was raw, hair
    torn or hacked from the roots.
    
    He snatched his hand away as if burned by the mock-
    ery. He took souvenirs to remind him of the affairs he'd
    had, curling tresses to press into his hand whenever he
    wished to summon memories of the passion, the love, the
    blood.... He knew it was his signature, and did not care.
    It was the portion of his quarry which would never die,
    which would go into the grave as beautiful as it had been
    alive, never subject to the putrefaction of the flesh,
    strands which would perfume and tickle his fingers as
    long as he dared to hold them. Every woman's mane was
    different, as individual as she was, scented with her body's
    aroma and the soft perfumes of shampoos, each strand a
    road of memory as vibrant to him as a photograph or
    video.
    
    And if stealing a lock of hair was his signature, then
    what was this forgery? Who dared to take what was his
    and his alone?
    
    Voices broke into his fevered thoughts. He stepped
    back, catching the blood work tray with his elbow, righted
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 81
    
    it, vials quivering. He could not see beyond the curtains,
    but he recognized the tenor of the voices. Police.
    
    Casually, he moved to a spot where he could see the
    stainless steel supply cabinets lining the walls, found an
    image in the mirrored surface, and watched it. Two men
    meeting, both uniforms.
    
    "What are you here on?"
    
    "A Domestic. Same old, same old." A heavy sigh. "You
    waiting for Ibie Walker?"
    
    "Yeah. If he comes to. Once they plant him in ICU, I'll
    call the serge and let him know. If he wants me to stay,
    I'll stay." A shrug.
    
    "Why? Didn't he just drop?"
    
    "Word is he might have surprised an intruder. We treat
    it lightly, overlook anything, and there'll be racism cries
    from every corner. Downtown wants a statement as soon
    as I can get one."
    
    A low whistle. Then, even lower, confidential. "Heard
    that drive by was in here earlier tonight."
    
    "The kid? Really? What happened?"
    
    "He didn't make it. He's down in the chop shop al-
    ready."
    
    The image of the conferring officers blurred, as if both
    shuddered slightly. Then the taller one muttered, "Maybe
    some good'll come out of it. Lucky you aren't at Bayshore.
    Place is crawling with Feds."
    
    "Shit. A congressman there, a councilman here. Did
    somebody call a war and we missed it?"
    
    'Welcome to El Lay. Come on. I know the maze. Let
    me show you where the coffee is. The charge nurse'll
    come get you."
    
    Listening to the effects of his handiwork, he felt a cer-
    tain satisfaction in the chaos.
    
    In a moment, the stainless steel reflection cleared, foot-
    steps leading away. The charge nurse in question had not
    

    





    82
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    looked up from her stool, her post, keeping an eye on her
    patient's monitors. He watched her a moment longer. She
    wore her hair in one of those curly, curly perms. He dis-
    liked the frizzy, chemical feel of it. Whatever attraction
    she'd held for him quickly faded.
    
    He stepped back behind the curtains softly. Turned and
    saw the young woman watching him.
    
    Seeing himself in her eyes, he stepped forward, putone
    hand across her mouth and the other across her throat.
    Her eyes widened in sudden, conscious fear. She strug-
    gled, one arm free, flailing at him, too weak to bother
    him.
    
    "Bloody hands!" she got out, before he hardened his
    palm across the sweet plump lips, dampening all sound.
    She tossed her head, but she could not throw him. She
    quit fighting suddenly. ~-~-
    
    He looked at her fondly, his quarry, glad she had fought
    off her potential harmer, glad she had saved herself for
    him, for his more skillful hands. Not for her the ignominy
    of an estranged boyfriend, a drunken husband, a misun-
    derstood suitor. No ordinary battering and death for her.
    She lay there like a victim, but he knew her better. He
    knew her heart and soul. He would not abandon her.
    
    No.
    
    His fingertips found the pressure points in her neck.
    His marks would scarcely be noticeable among all her
    other bruises. His hand tightened.
    
    Her hair fell across the back of it. Soft, a silken caress.
    
    As her eyes dimmed and her breath stilled, he knew he
    didn't want her like this. He needed more.
    
    Her lids shuttered. She went limp in sudden submis-
    sion. He waited another few seconds, deciding, then lifted
    his hands from her abruptly.
    
    Her chest rose and fell in a sudden gust of breath and
    
                         .]
    
                        : ~
                          

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    83
    
    awareness. At his back, he heard one nurse call for an-
    other.
    
    "Stacy. Come give me a hand with this, will you>"
    
    Remembrance of his purpose flooded back. He turned
    and put an eye to the slit in the curtain. He saw the nurse
    leave the councilman's quiet form and walk to the far end
    of triage, to where the second man still fought for stabi-
    lization.
    
    The window of opportunity, however small, had finally
    opened. He took rubber gloves from the blood work tray
    and pulled them on, swiftly, efficiently. Four long strides
    and he was across the unit, standing at the old black
    man's head, looking down at the creased face, half-hidden
    by tubing. He reached up, found the connector to the
    drip bag, took a syringe and injected one, two, three bub-
    bles of air.
    
    He turned and left, thoughts seething. The blood work
    tray he deposited on a sink in the bathroom. The gloves
    he stripped off and disposed of in an infectious waste
    container. The greens he did not shed until he was across
    the parking lot and in the shadows. He did not slow, but
    he recognized the glint of a police uniform as he went
    around the elbow of the parking structure and disap-
    peared.
    
    McKenzie, drowning, struggled to awaken, her throat
    raw and sore. Dreams of Jack and drowning men trying to
    take her down, keep her down, filled her. She fought
    back, clawing and kicking, and came awake, IV tubing
    snaking across her chest like something alive.
    
    There was a man there, leaning over her. Fear of Jack
    exploded like shrapnel through her. The color of his white
    jacket didn't register. As he reached out, she reacted to
    the grasping hand, determined not to be dragged under
    again. She balled her fist and swung. He staggered back.
    

    





                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    A tray went clattering. The triage unit chimed with noise.
    He grabbed at the curtain. It and the circular rod came
    down with a vast ripping.
    
    "Nurse. Nurse!"
    
    People came running. She had a blurred and tipping
    view of the triage ward, filled with white coats and greens.
    Monitors beeped like brassy car alarms.
    

    





                                      Chapter 7
    
    The hour was late, his story was done, and Carter figured
    he ought to go home, but he lingered at the hospital and
    finally decided to go to the lounge to get a cup of coffee.
    The shooting of Nelson unsettled him. That hadn't been
    his assignment, the news had bled in around the emo-
    tional tragedy he'd been covering, but the notion lingered
    in the back of his mind that he would find a message or
    voice mail when he got home. Lets meet for lunch or, How
    about dinnerÄsome good Mexican, and decent margaritasÄ
    you buy. Im a goddamn congressman, for crissakes. You
    might even get a story out of me.
    
    The Feds would be all over Nelson's death, as a con-
    gressman and lately one of their own. If John had called,
    they'd be tracking him down soon enough. Carter didn't
    mind it, hell, he welcomed it. But he had nothing he
    could tell them. He didn't know why John was in town.
    Who he'd planned to meet. Or how he'd met his death.
    
    But he was a reporter. He ought to care enough to find
    out. As Carter walked along, he scratched the underside
    of his jaw, where the razor blade had nicked him two or
    three days before and a small but decidedly itchy scab
    now rested. He knew before the matter even started that
    the Feds would freeze him out. He'd have to wait for the
    news conferences and media releases like anyone else.
    
    So, with nothing else he could do to help change any-
    
    \,..:,.
    

    





    86
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    one's status in life, coffee sounded good. He could smell
    it long before he got there, the aroma drifting through the
    corridor of the back way of Mount Mercy. The hospital
    was in a state of flux, halfway through renovation and ad-
    ditions, and the corridors were raw, open to their under-
    pinnings. In some areas big sheets of opaque plastic hung
    down and fluttered in the perpetual drafts. The beams
    and insulation were laid open, elevator shafts bared and
    inoperative and cordoned off, and Carter reflected that
    the hospital resembled one of its own patients, sliced
    open in surgery for probing and healing.
    
    The reflection suited his shitty mood. John Nelson had
    come to town and had gotten himself drilled. The day had
    not improved from there, until sunset when it had really
    hit the pits, with another innocent victimÄand he'd been
    called in to milk the story.
    
    Back here, beyond Emergency and Triage, away from
    Billing and Admitting, downstairs from the wards and up-
    stairs from the operating theaters and the morgue, there
    were only x-ray and lab techs wandering, their fatigues
    wrinkled and open at the neck, their faces gray under the
    unflattering light. Their eyes did not meet Carter's. Back
    here in the bowels, if he knew where he was going, then
    he probably belonged. Renovation had wiped out all the
    little courtesy arrows pointing to this region or department
    or that and only a participant in hospital business could
    wend his or her way through the labyrinth of hallways
    without getting lost. Carter wondered if they knew him
    for himself, or if they thought he was a surgeon, or maybe
    from the coroner's office.
    
    He turned the corner. A sheet of plastic moved with
    him, wearily, shifting as though a gray hde followed him.
    He felt like a piece of driftwood, old, weathered, twisted
    and beaten, half-skinned by the harshness of the sea
    which had carried him along and beached him here. He'd
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    87
    
    been beached a number of fumes since letting himself be
    swept out of Chicago. He'd left when he'd been firedÄ
    no, that was wrong. He'd left before he'd been firedÄthe
    certified fax had followed himÄin search of Bauer, he'd
    told himself, but he had not found the killer.
    
    The tide had taken him all over until he'd been cast up
    in California. He'd worked at the Sacramento Un?on until
    it had gone belly-up in early '94. Now he was here in
    L.A., where reality ground at him until he sometimes
    thought nothing would be left except a tiny pile of fine
    dust. Which, he supposed, was one way of achieving what
    he had not been able to do earlier.
    
    He had already let go of life. He no longer clung to it.
    He ate when he wanted, which was seldom, and smoked
    if he thought about it, and slept only when he absolutely
    had to, and did not care what others thought of him. At
    first, there had been that vague possibility that finding
    Bauer might save him, might give him the grip he needed
    to hold on, but he had been unsuccessful. His paper had
    tolerated his misuse of the information pipeline far longer
    than he would have guessed. The VICAP hookups, the
    taps he had put into various systems, ears to the ground,
    listening for the mortal footfall of Bauer.
    
    It was as if the killer knew that Carter would come af-
    ter him. The last time Carter had talked to an FBI suit,
    the unofficial word was that Bauer was considered prob-
    ably dead, his mind having disintegrated to the point that
    he could no longer exist. Like Jack the Ripper, the re-
    porter had been told.
    
    Carter didn't buy it. Bauer was not a disorganized killer
    like Dahmer, so mentally ill that eventually he would be
    unable to cover his crimes, so disturbed that his fantasies
    and murders would hang on him like crimson flags. No.
    Georg Bauer was a student of torture and sexual violence,
    and he carried his tools with him so that he might always
    

    





    88
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    be prepared if an opportunity arose, but he was not care-
    lessc Having been caught once, and liberated by chance,
    he would not be caught again. Unlike Bundy who'd
    thought himself above catching, Bauer did not have arro-
    gance. He had confidence. He was still out there, had
    found a quiet way to satisfy his blood lust, and he would
    not surface if he could help it. He would kno``T (:~arter il ~
    as well as Carter knew him, and he would know Carter
    
    W~: ~ ~.- ~
    
    1t Carter's current existence could be so optimistically
    described. He shrugged his shoulders which felt as
    though something incredibly heavy bowed them down,
    stiffening his neck, and turned the corner, that much
    nearer to a good cup of coffee.
    
    He should go home, his story had been filed, and there
    was nothing left for him to do, but he did not want to be
    alone. The story hadn't been nice, he knew it when he'd
    been sent out. That didn't matter, but there were times
    when he wanted it to be nice. He knew his readers
    needed that pat ending, that Disney flare, that hope for a
    rainbow-colored fade-out.
    
    A toddler had gone down in a gang shoot-out. Pro-
    nounced brain-dead here at Mount Mercy, the family had
    been talked into donating the youngster's organs so that
    not all had been lost, but Carter got no sahsfaction out of
    the gesture. He couldn't escape the image of the mother,
    her dusky skin darkened further around her eyes and
    mouth from crying. This was one gun the toy exchange
    hadn't swept up, one life the Rebuild L.A. committee
    couldn't save, one more death to be mourned as unneces-
    sary. His story would not be exceptional. Ibie Walker
    would be up on his feet in council and exhort the neigh-
    borhoods to come together, to stop children killing chil-
    dren, but even that gentle black giant, that elderly
    
    was waiting.
    

    





    DEATM WATCH
    
    89
    
    African-American statesman would not be able to stem
    the tide.
    
    He could hear low voices drifting from the lounge, and
    slowed his step to listen, a newspaperman, a reporter al-
    ways, an eavesdropper by profession.
    
    'What are you waiting for?"
    
    "Moreno wants a statement if I can get it out of her."
    
    'What about the other one?"
    
    "The old man? In a coma now, ICU's got him. He was
    muttering when the EMTs got there, but I dunno." A
    pause. "Looks like they just beat the shit out of each
    other, but then there's the hairÄ"
    
    "Oh, yeah? Think it's the Blue killer?"
    
    Carter stopped in the corridor, turning his head slightly
    to focus better. He recognized instantly what the cops re-
    ferred to, for it was cops talking in the lounge, the pitch
    and tone of their voices unmistakable even in Southern
    California. No civilian spoke like a cop spoke.
    
    There was another stalker out there, someone as deadly
    as the Hillside Strangler or the Nightstalker, and this was
    someone they'd dubbed Mr. Blue. It wasn't Bauer, Carter
    had determined that early on, unless Bauer had changed
    his tastes a great deal, but he hadn't been able to deter-
    mine much else about the killer, and he had yet to be able
    to access VICAP successfully. L.A.'s finest were sitting on
    this one, and so was he, until he found out more.
    
    But he did know, as the police did, although none of
    them were sure the killer himself realized it, that he had
    a predilection toward slate or blue-gray houses. Just as
    Ramirez, the Nightstalker, had subconsciously chosen vic-
    tims who lived in light yellow or beige houses, Mr. Blue
    was drawn by wedgewood. Wedgewood and women left
    home alone, for one reason or another.
    
    The speaker made a slight noise, shifting his weight in
    the lounge chair no doubt, for it squeaked with a protest-
    

    





    9o
    
             Elizabeth Forrest
    
    ing echo a second after. "Could be," he said. "She had
    some hair cut, sawed off her scalp, just behind her ear,
    real recently."
    
    "Thought he didn't like to take souvenirs until after they
    were dead. And I thought the profile had the perp figured
    as a young man."
    
    There was a pause, a shrug on the conversation, and
    Carter knew he couldn't stand there in the corridor much
    longer. Someone was bound to discover him. He backed
    up a couple of strides, coughed, and then went on in.
    
    The two officers had subsided to idle chitchat when he
    entered the lounge. He went straight to the coffeepot, and
    watched the lines of their bodies ease slightly as he
    passed them. "Gentlemen," he said, as he picked up the
    pot and poured himself a large styro cup full. "Long day."
    
    He did not know their names, for the L.A. Basin beat
    was a massive one, but they knew him; hence the silence.
    He would not get around that tonight or, at least, not eas-
    
    "What brings you here, Windy?" the younger cop a~
    conversationally. He had put his feet up on a second
    chair. ~
    
    The older cop had been hunched over his coffee. He
    looked up with eyes that reminded Carter of fried eggs.
    "Jesus Christ," he said. "How much did you hear?"
    
    His partner did a barely perceptible double take, then
    flushed all the way to the collar of his uniform. He
    ~ ~ ~a ~ to the table
    
    -
    

    





    :: ~ :~:
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    91
    
    He controlled his reaction to the term. '~eah. The fam-
    ily decided to donate everything." He swallowed, felt hot
    liquid surge down his throat. "Good copy. But it never
    should have happened." He looked at the morose senior
    cop. "So what was itÄa domestic or Mr. Blue?"
    
    "Can't tell you anything." The cop hid his face behind
    the two bis~. callused hands curled around his CUD.
    
    "I know you don't know, but what's your best guess?"
    
    "My best guess," the man said heavily, as he pulled
    himself to his feet and signaled his partner to get up as
    well, "is that we wouldn't have serial killers if the media
    didn't give them so much publicity. Just like shooters and
    carjackers. News is a billion dollar business, and, God
    knows, you wouldn't want to miss any. Why don't you go
    chase the Feds? I heard Nelson and you go back a ways."
    
    Carter felt the corners of his mouth pull back in a hu-
    morless smile. "We haven't written word one about this
    guy yet, but you've still got a string of bodies laid out at
    the county morgue. And I don't think you have a chance
    in hell of blaming us for what happened to John Nelson."
    
    The younger cop grunted in agreement, but his fellow
    officer took a deep breath.
    
    "Maybe you want to bring the copycats out of the
    woodwork, too. Maybe you'd like to sign up broadcast
    rights before someone else sells out. Maybe you'd like to
    get in my way while I try to do my job." The cop's chin
    jutted out belligerently.
    
    Carter tilted his head back. "Don't worry, boys, I don't
    intend to muddy the waters. I'm not asking for anything
    you won't be making public later. But I'll wait a while
    longer. When the department's ready to let go, just make
    sure I'm first in line, okay? And if there's any line at all on
    Nelson, anything, I'd like to know. But right now, I'm let-
    ting both you and the Feds do their jobs."
    
    He got no answer as the two men shuffled out of the
    

    





    92
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    lounge. The younger man paused a half beat, then threw
    Carter a look over his shoulder. He gave his hair a tug,
    scissored it with his fingers just behind the ear, then
    smoothed it down and put on his hat. Carter watched
    them disappear down the corridor.
    
    Mr. Blue liked to take souvenirs. He put his coffee cup
    down and stared into the murk. When he'd drunk as
    much as he wanted, and the rest had gotten cold, he de-
    cided to go see if he could find the domestic, maybe talk
    to the woman.
    
    The long, cold room tilted. She could see shapes run-
    ning toward her and then across the room. Her heart
    pounded in her chest. Everything looked strange and in-
    distinct. Nothing was familiar. Where was she!
    
    McKenzie dropped back onto the bed, shaking. Her
    teeth rattled in her jaw. She could not stop shaking. Dark-
    ness closed in on her like a tunnel swallowing her whole.
    Her vision went. Her hearing roared, muffled, sensing a
    drama somewhere beyond her. In the distance, forms
    bobbed and weaved in a dance she could barely see or
    hear, but one which sent a chill down her back.
    
    "Clear! Four, three, two, one, Hit! Okay, that's it. Sinus
    rhythm is back. Change that IV tubing. We nearly had an
    embolism thereÄpull the curtains round him and leave
    him here, they're making room in ICUÄ"
    
    "What about Sleeping Beauty?"
    
    Ghostly forms seemed to turn and consider her. Mac's
    head felt as though it were bursting.
    
    "She coldcocked Zucker. She'll be all right. Move her
    up to Third when you've got a chance. And watch out for
    that right hook."
    
    They stood in a crimson pool. It splashed across their
    whites, up to their knees, dripped down from the gurney
    they had been attending, shed by the gray-haired black
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    93
    
    man they'd been working to save. It flowed from him, life
    itself, expiring. She had to tell them, warn them. Someone
    had been here. Someone would be returning.
    
    Her voice caught on the raw edges of her throat. Her
    arms and legs had lost all strength in the joints. She could
    move nothing.
    
    She had to tell them what she saw. Bloody hands, com-
    ing for her. Handprints on the old man. Evidence. Some-
    one had been there, killing.
    
    She could not breathe properly. Or think.
    
    Mac gave in.
    
    Sharp pain hammered through dully throbbing pain.
    McKenzie lay very still. If she could become flat enough,
    the agony lightning its way through her head would miss
    her. She held her breath, pressing down into the bedding.
    Lying still did help, some. But then she realized she was
    in a bed, cool sheets tucked in around her, and she strug-
    gled to open her eyes. Her lids wouldn't cooperate. Some-
    thing heavy sat on her hands, refusing to let them go free.
    Panic sliced through her. Tied down. She was tied down.
    Did they doubt her sanity?
    
    Her throat constricted as she tried to cry out, and noth-
    ing issued forth. Like a nightmare, she could not call for
    help or run. She could do nothing but lie passively while
    the evil thing approached. McKenzie thrashed. The cords
    on her neck pulsed with her silent scream. Pain answered,
    stabbing through her with such intensity that she saw
    flashing stars through her darkened lids, just before she
    sank back into oblivion.
    
    She took shreds of consciousness with her this time,
    dreaming. She was wiping up the kitchen floor, crying, her
    tears washing across her face like a curtain of rain. She'd
    wrapped Cody in his blanket, his body cold and stiff, her
    first realization that there was no hope for him. She
    
     ::....~ - - _ ~    ~
    

    





    94
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    couldn't carry him into the backyard, she had to drag him
    on the blanket, then stand in the mist of early evening
    with rain just beginning to gather like a breath of heavy
    fog, and dig a hole for him.
    
    When she was done, she stood over the hole and gazed
    down at the still form. He seemed so alone and aban-
    doned, like some poor animal thrown by the side of the
    road, not a pet who'd been loved and cherished. Not
    someone who'd slept on her sneakered feet while she read
    or did homework. Not a creature that had ever romped
    and chased Frisbees or the neighboring cats. Not a com-
    panion that had ever been warm and golden and vital.
    
    Now he was something dead. Alone.
    
    Cody had always hated being alone. She stood in the
    drizzle, thinking it would soon be raining in earnest. She
    stripped off her T-shirt, spattered with blood and soaked
    with her sweat, and dropped it into the hole with: him.
    Like the time she'd had to board him for a weekend while
    she took a trip with Jack, and the vet had had her bring
    a worn shirt, so the pup would have her smell to comfort
    him. It was all she could give him now, and it wasn't
    nearly enough.
    
    The shirt drifted down to settle over the corpse and
    then, suddenly, it billowed up. Up and up and out of the
    hole and about her face so that she couldn't see. Couldn't
    see and she dropped the spade handle and clawed at it as
    it wrapped itself tightly about her head and faceÄshe
    couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe!
    
    Her scream tore her free.
    
                       . . ~
    - ~ . .
    
    Cold air. It whisked over her. McKenzie felt it rousing~
    her. She put a hand out, felt a metal railing, but could
    move her arm little beyond that. A soft, cotton tentacle
    wrapped her wrist. The other arm was shackled by a like
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    -95
    
    tentacle and an IV rigging. Mac made herself lie very still,
    fighting the panic of being tied down.
    
    The privacy curtains surrounding her bed were a faded
    buttercup yellow. She pried her eyes open as they wa-
    vered, and a fresh draft of air came between them. She
    saw a man standing there, quietly, watching her.
    
    She thought she should have been afraid of him, but
    she wasn't. Perhaps she had become so afraid that she
    had moved beyond it into a kind of numbness. There was
    something about the way he stood that made her think he
    didn't know she was awake, and didn't want to disturb
    her. McKenzie struggled to sit up in the bed. Her hair
    trailed across her forehead and she found it difficult to fo-
    
    cus.
    
    He noticed her then. Softly, he asked, 'Would you like
    a drink of water?"
    
    Her voice, so dry. It rasped out of her throat. Water
    sounded heavenly. She must have said so, because he was
    there, holding a cup with a bent straw for her. He
    brushed the hair from her face. The water, tepid and too
    little of it, slid down her throat.
    
    She lay back. "Thank you." The image of him split
    apart, slid back together, split apart fuzzily again. She
    closed her eyes as the effort to keep him in focus made
    her ill.
    
    She opened her eyes. The man stood there, patiently,
    understanding in his soft brown gaze.
    
    "Can you tell me what happened? Who did this to
    you?"
    
    Her mouth twisted. "Where am 1?"
    
    "You're at Mount Mercy."
    
    The neighborhood hospital. It had withstood both the
    1933 and 1994 earthquakes. The psychiatric ward here
    was infamous. Was that where she was? "Mount Mercy?"
    she repeated.
    

    





    96
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "That's right. You were hurt this evening. Actually, it's
    almost closer to say yesterday." His brown eyes watched
    her, coaxing. Warm eyes, like melting caramels.
    
    "My father...." McKenzie felt herself drift. She caught
    hold of the sound of her words. She had forgotten. Guilt
    stabbed at her, sharpening her wits. 'Where is he?"
    
    "He's in ICU. He's going to be okay, they told me."
    
    Intensive care. Her father was in intensive care. Why
    didn't they have them together so she could see what was
    happening to him?
    
    Her mind stumbled. It throbbed with flashes of mem-
    ory, incomplete, strained. Another elderly gentleman on a
    gurney, a man of color. Jack's foot upon her throat. His
    boot pinioning her hand to the floor. His anger. No, not
    anger, rage. Raw, unadulterated rage. Bloodied hands.
    
    She wasn't safe. Jack would come. She flexed her
    wrists. "Don't leave me like this. I'm not safe here."
    
    "Can you tell me what happened?" her visitor asked
    gently. "Sometimes that helps." r:
    
    He waited patiently, almost religiously, for her reply.
    She wondered if he was one of the chaplains on staff. At
    one time, the entire staff of the hospital had been clergy.
    She knew that number had tailed off, over the years. She
    remembered visiting her friend Kim from the fourth grade
    after a tonsillectomy. Her visitor now had the same quiet
    mannerisms as the padre who'd come in while they were
    giggling. He'd waited solemnly to inquire how the patient
    was doing, and then given all the girls popsicles in cele-
    bration.
    
    Her throat ached abominably, as though in sympathy
    for that long ago operation. What she wouldn't give for a
    popsicle now. A popsicle, far, far from here.
    
    Urgent to make him understand her danger, she licked
    her lips, her throat still parched. "I left my husband in Se-
    attle. He came after me." Her throat closed. She made a
    

    





      ~'?     ~
    
    noise. He reacted as though knowing she was about to
    break down, putting a tissue in her hand. He folded her
    fingers about it. It was useless with the restraints. She
    sniffled unsuccessfully. "You've got to let me go! I can't
    stay here! I haven't done anything. Please let me go."
    
    "You're not going anywhere like that," he answered. He
    reached out, touched her scalp. "Who did this to you?"
    
    "Jack." She crumpled the tissue into a tight, damp wad.
    Her breath knotted in her chest. "He said he'd never let
    me leave."
    
    An expression of profound disappointment swept the
    man's face. "He attacked you at your father's house?"
    
    "Yes. We tried . . . we tried to stop him . . ." Her father,
    moving in concert, trying to shield her as he'd never done in
    their past. She squeezed shut her eyelids.
    
    As if sensing her extreme emotion, he put a hand on
    her shoulder. The hospital gown slid a little under his grip
    and she could feel his fingers on the curve of her neck.
    Warm, solid, reassuring. Her initial reaction to flinch away
    from his touch calmed. He radiated reassurance.
    
    "You're safe. There are security guards in the hallways.
    You'll be fine."
    
    "But if he comes backÄ"
    
    "He won't. Not here. It'll be all right."
    
    In shame, Mac turned her face away. If she said any-
    thing else, tried to explain the cold intuition which racked
    her, he would think her crazy. If he did not already. If that
    was not why they had tied her down. She had not let the
    sleeping dog lie. She had awakened the furies. "I tried ev-
    erything," she found herself saying. "Nothing was good
    enough."
    
    He squeezed her shoulder. "It wasn't you. Now rest."
    He left, the lingering warmth of his touch still upon her
    shoulder long after the curtains had fallen into place be-
    hind him. She closed her eves acain. She fell into an un-
    

    





    98
    
    easy sleep, a dream like an old Star Wars clip, where
    everyone but her wore shielded helmets, their faces blank
    reflectors, nothing of humanity about them. They stared
    at her.
    
                  Elizabeth Forr~st
                          

    





                     Chapter 8
    
    It was clearly past dawn when he returned from his noc-
    turnal wanderings and slipped into bed. He had nowhere
    else to go, in the mornings, but home. Watching the
    steady stream of traffic with sly amusement, like ants
    pouring out of a mound, the stalker took side streets and
    alleys. The paper was waiting on the porch stoop when he
    locked the car at the curb. He picked it up to bring in
    with him. It was a personal triumph that, as the houses in
    this bedroom neighborhood began to empty, like bowels
    in the morning, he got to come home.
    
    He did not awaken his bedmate, but he knew she
    would rouse shortly anyway, for she had a work schedule
    to keep. He did not mind that she lived different hours
    than he did, and that all they had were fleeting moments
    now and again. It was better that way. He lay quietly upon
    his pillow, watching her face in repose, thinking that was
    how dead people looked, once the eyes were closed. He
    did not want to do her, for sex between them was a dif-
    ficult and ponderous thingÄnot for her, for she seemed
    to enjoy any contact with him, but for him. His satiation
    lay elsewhere, in the night.
    
    Also, he was afraid that, if he touched her, she would
    know of his terrible struggles, of his fear of the sleeping
    man. She would be contemptuous of him. He could face
    almost anvthin~ but her contempt.
    

    





    100
    
                  EUzabeth Forrest
    
    Her eyelids began to flicker as if she knew someone
    watched and subconsciously began to rouse. Her hair had
    been artificially curled, and sleep frizzed it a little. It
    would carry more sheen and beauty when she combed it
    later. It hung almost all the way to her shoulders, casually
    chic, its color natural and lustrous. Her hair was probably
    her best feature, although her breasts weren't bad. She'd
    never had children, so the wear and tear had not
    stretched and sagged them.
    
    She was already more than half-awake when the alarm
    went off. She put out a lily-white hand to slap it quiet.
    Girlishly, she scrubbed her face into her pillow, then
    looked at him.
    
    "Dudley. Just get in?"
    
    He hated the sound of his name except when she said
    it. Even inside his brain, it rattled around like a dead
    thing, beslimed and stupid as only the grave could make
    it. But she said it, and the name changed. From the Ugly
    Duckling which had plagued him all his life from kinder-
    garten through high school, it became a swan. He won-
    dered how she did it.
    
    He caught up her hand as she extended it, trying to
    snake it about him, and held it still. He did not feel par-
    ticularly like being touched. The scene of the attack, and
    the later scene at the hospital, still filled his senses. He
    did not want them dulled or marred by the mundane. He
    smiled as her fingers went still in his hand, acquiescent.
    She knew him well.
    
    '~ou know I worked late." He kissed the tips, where her
    acrylic nails crowned them, and she smiled back.
    
    ù`T'. ''
    
    r~ss me.
    
    She startled him. 'Why?"
    
    "Because." Her full lips stretched wider. "I like the way
    your lips taste after you've killed someone."
    
    Because it was an order, not a request, she snapped her
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    101
    
    hand free from his, grabbed at his hair, and pulled his
    face across to hers. Her lips were pillowy warm and sen-
    suous, and her tongue tickled inside his mouth, teasingly.
    He felt the pain of her nails raking across his scalp at the
    same time their lips met.
    
    It was like an electrical shock, hurtful and intriguing at
    the same time. He found something awakening in his
    groin, and before the kiss was finished, he flung his leg
    over her and pulled her toward him, their thighs meshing,
    his cock growing harder.
    
    She made a sound of amusement and desire, and
    pushed against him. She did not ask if he thought of his
    prey as his hands began to tear her nightgown from her
    shoulders, and she would not have cared if he told her the
    girl from the hospital was in his mind's eye, in the heat of
    his blood, the stirring of his manhood. He grew unbear-
    ably hard with the fire in his blood. Ta-rah-rah-BOOM-
    ti-ay....
    
    She would not have cared at all.
    
    McKenzie woke up choking as panic surged through
    her. Blindness drowned her, suffocated her. It had to be
    an attack. Something covered her head, her face.
    McKenzie clawed at her head. She couldn't see, couldn't
    breathe. "Get it off, get it off!" Her choking voice sounded
    muffled, as though she had already drowned, and the
    weight of the ocean lay over her.
    
    "Whoa, whoa! You're going to rip out your IV!" A
    squeaky voice sawed at her, scarcely louder than her own,
    but almost more frightened. Cold, dry hands on her. She
    could feel them touching her, patting her, helping her sit.
    The restraints were gone. That fact sank in. She put her
    hands up, felt something hard and slick covering her face.
    
    "Okay, okay. Sit up slowly Take a deeD breath. It's over
    

    





    102
    
    Elizubeth Forrest
    
    ~:
    
    your head, but your nose and mouth are clear. It's just a
    helmet. Here now .. . take a breath."
    
    'Who are you? What are you doing?" She still couldn't
    see. She started to put a hand back up, and had it caught
    up, and gently put back at her side.
    
    "Wait a minute. I've got to secure the IV." Noise of
    something ripping, and then a pressure across her left
    forearm. "I'm a tech." It was both cool and sticky. Tape,
    she realized.
    
    She touched it, felt the lumpy plastic body of the IV
    shunt inside her elbow, and tubing, now covered with
    tape. McKenzie struggled to orient herself, to remember,
    to see. "What are you doing to me?"
    
    "Boy, you had me fooled. You must have been out be-
    fore." A male voice, light in its youth, stammering with
    nervousness. "Okay. Don't panic. You're at Mount Mercy.
    You can't see because you're wearing a helmet device for
    testing, but you will in a minute when I start the program.
    I told you this before, thought you were talking to me. I
    thought you were wide awake." A boyish voice. Flat tones
    despite the worry she thought must be genuine. "First
    time this has ever happened to me. I thought the other
    techs were kidding when they said it had happened to
    them. You must have been unconscious. I'm supposed to
    be testing you."
    
    McKenzie repeated. "I'm still in the hospital."
    
    "Yeah. Concussion, probably. I'm going to run a little
    program. It'll be projected inside the gear you're wearing.
    I've got to put some gloves on you firstÄ"
    
    He caught up her hands. She fought the impulse to
    pull back. Material tugged across her knuckles, fit bulkily
    about her fingers. Gloves, just as he'd said. She thought
    she could feel cables trailing from them, but that just
    might be the IV tubing against her skin. McKenzie
    cleared her throat. It hurt. Her breath rattled and rasped
    

    





    ....      ~10.,
    
    ~:
    
    DEATH WATCH 103
    
    around inside of her. She coughed, once, harshly, and her
    windpipe felt raw.
    
    "Still with me?" The voice sounded anxious. "They told
    me you were conscious, to get in here and do the testing.
    You were talking to a cop. Do you remember that?"
    
    No. She wondered what she'd told them. Had she
    warned them?
    
    The tech shifted weight impatiently, she could hear the
    rustle of his lab coat and the soles of his shoes creak.
    "You're okay?"
    
    McKenzie started to nod. Her head felt like a bowling
    ball, her neck too weak to hold it, and she stopped the
    movement. "Yes," she said. Her voice did not sound like
    herself, muffled and weak. She cleared her throat again,
    and repeated, "Yes," going for strength.
    
    "Good. Okay, I've got you all hooked up. Now what this
    is," and she felt an additional weight atop her head as if
    he'd placed something upon it, 'is a helmet, dike a motor-
    cycle helmet, with a visor in front, sort of like binoculars.
    That's why you can't see. This is a testing unit. Something
    new. In a second, I'm going to turn on the program. It's
    three-dimensional. You're going to be looking right into it.
    What I want you to do is reach for and grip the balls. Use
    whatever hand is normal and best, okay? See how you do
    with that and then I've got another program to run."
    
    McKenzie felt as though she were listening, without
    comprehending. Before she could protest, the helmet
    buzzed slightly and her eyes ached as a curving screen
    woke up with light, and then refracted into a projected
    room which seemed to encompass her entire self, not just
    her vision. The effect startled her. She was there, and yet
    not there. The room reminded her of a museum: vast
    open spaces, columns, and arched doorways. The floor
    was black and white alternating tiles. Objects slid across
    ~-~-her~-~e?~Er;ozeD*~ tJhe~r~oor - d.
    

    





    104
    
    Elizabeth Forfest
    
    watched the animation come at her, reality without being
    real.
    
    An orange ball swung past her right cheekbone.
    McKenzie realized she should have reached for it when
    she heard faintly, "Did you see that?" The tech sounded
    annoyed.
    
    "1. . . saw it. I just forgot." She braced herself. A lime
    green beach ball bounced along the marble flooring. She
    reached for it on the bounce, caught and held it. It dis-
    solved between her hands.
    
    A wall in front of her began to birth bubbles, which so-
    lidified slowly. She found no difficulty in reaching out and
    grasping each one before it disappeared, even when the
    tempo sped up.
    
    Everything went dark. McKenzie stopped. There was
    that additional weight on her head again, and she realized
    the tech must be resting his hand on the helmet.
    
    "Good. Okay. Are you left-handed or right?"
    
    "Right."
    
    "Okay. Everything green is for the right hand. Every-
    thing red is for the left. It won't be coming at you, you
    have to go and get it. Okay?"
    
    McKenzie could feel her lip swell between her teeth as
    she worried at it. Without waiting for her answer, the ab-
    surd movie began again. This time she had to reach out
    and up or down to grasp the object and pull it toward her.
    The room was filled with red and green geometric shapes.
    
    Then, suddenly, she saw Cody. He came loping across
    the black and white marbled floor, his magnificent golden
    coat gleaming with that red overcast. His tongue lolled
    out of his mouth as he leaped at her hands, trying to
    snatch the balls away. He wanted to play. His soft brown
    eyes glistened with doggy joy as he jumped and mouthed
    at her hands. He kept her from going after the shapes,
    putting himself between her and them. He wiggled with
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    105
    
    excitement as though knowing she had been gone and
    now she was back. She fondled his ears and massaged his
    ruff, scolding him gently for not letting her catch the
    balls.
    
    Panting, he lay across her feet at McKenzie's admonish-
    ment. Another series began and she put her hands up to
    reach for them again. Cody got to his feet, stiff-legged,
    growling. He leaned against her knees, forcing her to back
    up. He snapped at the shapes bombarding her, his move-
    ments growing ever faster and more frantic as if he
    thought to protect her.
    
    From what?
    
    She kneed him aside. "I have to do this, Cody."
    
    The dog lay down again, quivering, shuddering with
    fear. She reached for the objects as they swooped down at
    her from animated space, without rhyme or reason or
    menace.
    
    Cody moaned with fear. Then, as another wave began,
    he stood up. She looked down at him, head aching, eyes
    unfocusing. Like a tide crashing down on both of them,
    the ruby stream flooded them. He pressed against her,
    trembling and whining, forcing her back, back, until she
    was out of the imaginary hall, and the images were too
    faint to perceive or catch. She felt the terrible pressure of
    ... something. Something with a growing awareness of
    her. Something awakening. Confusion gave way to that
    gnawing dread which had become familiar over the last
    few days.
    
    "Where are you?"
    
    She stood in emptiness. Cody made a last, throbbing
    whine, licked her hand, and disappeared. McKenzie felt
    his going like a cold chill passing through her. She froze
    in place, suddenly bereft.
    
    The weight disappeared from her throbbing head. Yel-
    

    





    106
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    low light glanced across her eyes, and off the hospital bed.
    She blinked weakly at the sudden flood of sight.
    
    "All done."
    
    She shook herself mentally "What are you going to tell
    them?"
    
    The tech was stripping off her gloves. All she could see
    were lanky strands of hair across a flat head, colorless
    strands, and when he looked at her, his face wasn't much
    different. He shrugged. "It's got to be read by the depart-
    ment head. It's the doe's program. But, like, there's no
    right or wrong answers. It's all perceptual."
    
    "It's all in my mind? What will it show them?" Would
    it show them the blood? Would they know the state of her
    sanity?
    
    He stuffed the gloves into the helmet and tucked it
    under his arm. "Neat, huh. Like the ones in the arcade."
    
    McKenzie stared dully. The young man's face wrinkled
    slightly in disappointment. "Virtual reality," he said. "Like
    the arcade games."
    
    "Oh." Her voice sounded somewhat muffled to her, as
    though her ears were stuffed with cotton. "Games."
    
    "But not this stuff. We can tell brain damage, optic
    damage, nerve pressures, spatial interpretation, all sorts of
    things with this little goodie. If the program gets passed,
    we're going to be able to diagnose and treat all sorts of
    crud." He stroked the helmet. "Sorry I scared you. Listen,
    there's forms to sign about doing this, but they won't be
    around until after breakfast." He checked his watch. "I'm
    early. That'll be a while."
    
    "Will you be back?" Unspoken, her fear. Will you tell
    me what they find?
    
                                       "If not me, someone else." He cracked a grin. "Good    E,
    
    thing I'm doing this now. From the looks of that shiner.
    your eye'll be too swollen to see from in an hour or so.
    Well, catch you later."
    
    l
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    107
    
    The railings on the bed were up. She could see the IV
    tubing coiled about them and reaching to her arm. Wher-
    ever she looked, there were livid bruises on either side of
    the shunt. She put her right hand to her throat, wonder-
    ing. Before she could ask, the lab tech disappeared out
    the curtains.
    
    McKenzie lay back. Her eyes fluttered shut, too heavy
    to keep open. She had questions. It wasn't about Cody.
    But what . . . what was it she needed to know . . . ?
    
    "I think I'd like a look at the other guy," the nurse said
    cheerfully as she put the breakfast tray down on the table
    and swung it efficiently into place.
    
    McKenzie started to shake her head, winced, and
    stopped. Swelling had nearly closed one eye, and she had
    an ice pack tied over it now, the soothing coolness making
    up for the awkwardness of the compact. "No," she said
    carefully. "You wouldn't."
    
    "Well, he must have looked like something. You were
    still fighting when the EMTs brought you in last night,
    they tell me. You nearly knocked out our resident." The
    woman stood appraising her. "Still water runs deep, eh?
    Proves what you can do when you snap."
    
    "I hit a doctor?" No wonder they had tied her arms
    down.
    
    The nurse was California tan, with sharp crow's feet
    etched at the corner of her neutral blue eyes, her hair
    streaked with yellow amid the brown and gray. It was
    pulled back into a curly ponytail, and made her nurses'
    cap ride high. She made a face. "Don't you remember
    when they brought you in?"
    
    "Not much."
    
    "Well, you're our hero, girl. You raised such a fuss in tri-
    age, that you brought everybody running. You saved Coun
    cilman Walker. He'd come in earlier, been stabilized, no
    

    





    108
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    one was even looking in on him. He threw an embolism,
    went into cardiac arrest. But you, child, had raised Cain
    and he got noticed. Then you decked one of our more ar-
    rogant interns. When you decide to fight back, it's no
    holds barred." She shook her head. "Don't feel bad. There
    isn't a one of us who hasn't wanted to deck Zucker."
    
    She found it hard to believe. "I'm sorry. I don't remem-
    ber."
    
    The nurse grinned cheerfully. "Don't worry about it.
    Happens all the time."
    
    Her jaw had become very sore and stiff. She looked at
    the breakfast tray and realized she'd be chewing on one
    side. Her mind felt as swollen as her eye, memories
    puffed up and inaccessible. She did not remember much
    except for the fear and the anger and the struggling. Her
    head ached. As much as she would have liked to lie there
    all day, the need to get out was like a thorn in her side.
    "How soon can I leave?" .:~
    
    "Not today, hon." The nurse paused, straightening2her
    pillows. 'You that anxious?" ~
    
    No, but she felt cornered. And even if she were re-'
    leased, how could she leave her father behind? "I'd like to
    
    see my fatherÄ"
    
    The nurse scarcely slowed as she bustled to the bed
    controls and raised her into position. '~ou need to take
    care of you, first." Instead of answering the question, she
    offered her opinion. "Somebody did a number on you. Too
    bad you didn't Bobbitt him," she offered. "I think I would
    have used a knife instead of a baseball bat."
    
    Visions of her old bat flashed through her, its weathered
    gray wood with the grain standing out like ridges. Sharp
    stabs chased them from her mind. She put her hand to
    her brow.
    
    "Am I ... am I safe here?"
    
    The nurse glanced at her so quickly her ponytail
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    109
    
    bounced. "If I have anything to do about it." Her elbow
    bumped a phone receiver tucked into its niche in the rail-
    ing.
    
    Sarah. She ought to warn Sarah about Jack. "Can I call
    someone?"
    
    "Not your father, if that's what you had in mind. There's
    no hookup in his ICU. Anyone else, you'll have to wait
    until we get the lines open this afternoon. Too many pa-
    tients, not enough lines."
    
    Without hesitation the nurse swept the covers off the
    food platter. "Ever been in a hospital before?"
    
    "Not as a patient."
    
    "Well, today you get whatever we felt like ordering you.
    You'll be in for a couple more days, so you'll get menus
    this afternoon, order what you want. Doctor didn't want
    anything too chewy, so you've got scrambled eggs, oat-
    meal, toast, and juice." The nurse stepped back, making
    sure that McKenzie was up to feeding herself. She eyed
    her sharply
    
    McKenzie stared at the utensils, then picked up the
    fork. Her hand was swollen, tears across the knuckles and
    bruises dappled the back of her hand. It looked as if
    someone had stomped her with heavily rippled soles.
    Transfixed, she looked at herself, and saw, for a moment,
    the hiking boot coming down viciously on her hand. Dark-
    ness slanted the room in night and grays and she tried to
    hide among the shadows as she pulled herself along the
    hardwood floor. The boot descended with a smash and
    ground into bone, tendon, and nerves. The fork trembled
    in her hand.
    
    'You going to eat, honey? Because you need to."
    
    Startled, she looked up, found herself in the brightly-lit
    hospital room, the nurse eyeing her closely. She took a
    deep breath. 'Yes. I . . . I was just thinking." She switched
    hands and flexed her fingers.
    
    , ~
    

    





    110
    
                 Etizabeth Forrest
    
    ... ,. ~.= .
    
    The nurse picked up the chart and flipped through it.
    "Sore? They x-rayed it last night. Nothing broken. You had
    some old breaks, though." Mac could feel the nurse ob-
    serving her, but she did not let herself react. "Tell you
    what, after breakfast, I'll bring you another ice pack, put
    it on that hand." She grinned, her crow's feet breaking
    new ground, fracturing into her tanned face. "We get the
    pros in here after a game, sometimes, football players and
    hockey players. You look like you went up against one of
    them without the padding."
    
    "I feel like it." McKenzie flexed her hand again, decided
    to eat with her left hand, and awkwardly dug at the
    scrambled eggs. Whatever warmth they'd had was rapidly
    fleeing, but they tasted good. She was hungry, she sud-
    denly decided, and it made her feel human.
    
    The nurse slid the chart back into its holder. "My
    name's Shannon, and I'll be in whenever you need some-
    one. We operate on a total care system here, which means
    we don't use orderlies unless we have to. I bathe you,
    mop the floors, change the linens, whatever needs to be
    done. My shift is over at three, and then you'll probably
    have Connie." She hesitated. "Your doctor won't be mak-
    ing rounds for another hour or so. You'll have to save your
    questions for him."
    
    Questions. She should have more questions. The enor-
    mity of the situation came tumbling down around her like
    an avalanche. EJer breakfast stuck in her throat suddenly.
    She coughed and then managed to swallow, but the tears
    couldn't be dammed back. "Do you know if I can see my
    father?"
    
    Surprise crossed the woman's face, then she stepped
    forward and laid a gentle hand across McKenzie's back.
    "Honey, you look like you've been thrown up against walls
    and half-scalped. All I know is what's on your chart here.
    The doctor will have to tell you more." She paused, as
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    111
    
    something clipped to her lapel chimed. She put a hand to
    the shoulder pager. "Gotta run. I'll be back to pick up the
    tray, and don't you try to go to the bathroom by yourself
    yet. Those legs Qf yours are bound to be wobbly." She bus-
    tled her white-uniformed self out the door and disap-
    peared.
    
    McKenzie managed a nod. She reached for a paper
    napkin and blew her nose lustily, then sat and looked at
    the breakfast tray. The oatmeal no longer steamed, it con-
    gealed.
    
    She closed her eyes a moment. He'd tried to accost
    Jack to protect her, hadn't he? He had never been much
    of a father before. And had she been much of a daughter?
    What had she brought home to him? Pain throbbed
    through her skull with every word and thought until she
    didn't think she could bear it. Surely, if something serious
    had happened, they'd have come and told her.
    
    McKenzie opened her eyes and rubbed at them. She
    needed to maintain an even keel. There was a little stain-
    less steel pot of hot water for tea along with several pack-
    ets of flavors. Constant Comment sounded bracing
    enough. Mac brewed up a cup, and dunked her cold toast
    in it to soften. She stirred the oatmeal, found some still
    hot bites on the bottom, and ate a little. Finally, she
    pushed the tray away. Pain raked across the back of her
    shoulders as she did.
    
    Was there no place on her body that did not ache?
    
    Mac stared at the closed door. There was an emptiness
    inside of her that food, hot or cold, could not fill. How
    safe was safe; Was there anyone she could depend on if
    she couldn't depend on herself?
    
    She lowered the railing. The IV tubing caught and
    tugged a bit. She freed it. Her feet, when they touched
    the floor, went from pins and needles to icicles in a flash.
    The cold sent shivers up her body.
    

    





    1 1 2
    
                 Ellza1 - h Forrest
    
    Mac clamped her teeth together and slid out of the
    bed, holding onto the railing as if it were a lifeline. The
    room swung around her in a blurred circle. She put her
    head down, to the backs of her hands. Sweat broke out on
    her forehead despite her chill. She took a deep breath to
    steady herself. The one hand felt hot and puffy, as though
    its skin were stretched close to breaking. There was pain,
    but it was an overall pain. Funny. She hadn't thought about
    the different kinds of pain there might be. Throbbing, stab-
    l~ing, fiery, constant....
    
    McKenzie lifted her head and stood straight. "This is
    gonna hurt me worse than it's going to hurt you," she mur-
    mured, and took a sliding step forward.
    
    Her ribs shouted in cramping complaint, but her legs
    held her. She pulled the IV pole away from the bedside,
    wheeling it as she took another step. The unwieldy unit,
    ironically, seemed ten times more stable than she did as
    she crossed the room. She pushed it ahead of her into the
    bathroom and then hung onto the doorway, counting
    breaths until her head stopped swimming and the roaring
    pain between her ears subsided.
    
    Using the toilet without help was a major triumph. Af-
    terward, Mac stared at her hands as she washed them,
    unable to look herself in the face. She did not want to see
    what damage Jack had done.
    
    She made it back halfway across the room before she
    collapsed.
    
    McKenzie felt the tape rip from her arm, but the IV
    stayed in, the tubing stretched to its utmost length. She
    lay there a moment, tile cool beneath her aching body.
    She stared at it. Then she closed her eyes, unable to bear
    the sight of it anymore, seeing it slick with blood, Cody's
    blood.
    
    All right, Mac, get a grip! She swallowed tightly. Swam
    like a legless thing, one foot, two feet, closer to the bed.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    113
    
    The IV rack reeled and wobbled along with her. Either
    she'd have to do it on her own, or lie there until the nurse
    came back with lunch. She wouldn't be helpless, couldn't
    be. Just another wiggle or two and she'd be able to catch
    hold of the bed railing.
    
    Weak as a newborn, she pulled her head up and tried
    again. Her left hand answered with fiery jolts of pain, her
    skin so tight she thought it would burst. Local Woman Ex-
    plodes in Hospital, Film at Eleven, Mac thought. She took
    a deep, gulping breath and made one last heave. The
    curved lower bar of the railing conked into her head as
    she arrived.
    
    McKenzie clawed her way back onto her feet and fell
    into bed, as wet from perspiration as if she'd just come
    from the shower. One little hospital stay and I'm shot, she
    thought wearily. As she tried to pull the IV rack back into
    position, she bumped a button on the control panel. The
    TV roared into life and she was a captive, spent audience.
    
    She got a spattering of local news, laid her head back
    on the cool taut sheets of the bed, and tried to concen-
    trate on something.
    
    The local morning news team looked incredibly in-
    formal. Paper coffee cups from chain doughnut shops,
    bags of chips, and other scraps of breakfast adorned their
    consoles as they chatted together, introducing their clips
    of news. She blinked, drifting, closed her eyes, and lis-
    tened.
    
    '~esterday's Board of Education meeting broke up early
    as members once again failed to gain a majority vote to re-
    lease additional funds to rebuild quake-damaged schools.
    Student and faculty safety and educational facility re-
    placement are two factors which remain at the center of
    the financial crisis."
    
    At the talk of the quakes, she opened one eye. The TV
    screen showed an impeccably-dressed young man, coa]-
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    black hair a contrast to his light eyes, looking disdainfully
    at the camera lens. She decided automatically that she
    didn't like him, whoever he was. The shot panned to the
    local anchor. "Stephen Hotchkiss denied rumors that his
    was one of the dissenting votes, but noted that the three
    hundred-million-dollar availability of funds was there only
    because of judicious handling in the past." The smug,
    overdressed man had to be Hotchkiss. He looked tight
    enough to squeak. "He pointed out that forty million had
    already been released since the quake last year, and that
    replacing those spent moneys would not be possible with-
    out levying new taxes."
    
    As the voices droned on, McKenzie's eyes began to feel
    incredibly heavy. Even the banter between segments did
    nothing to rouse her. She thought of childrenÄall the
    childrenÄwondering who would help them, who would
    protect them, keep them safe in the schools, everywhere.
    The heaviness seemed to overflow into her ears, and the
    TV became muffled, then far away, and finally it was gone
    altogether.
    
    Dr. Susan Craig stepped out of the shower, toweling
    herself briskly, her gaze already fixed on the small, nine-
    inch color monitor visible through the half-open bathroom
    door. Her world consisted of information, constantly alter-
    ing, and her home was full of the medium which trans-
    mitted that information continuously, if not always
    accurately. Every room in the house contained a screen of
    some kind. Her house would be stark if not for the perva-
    sive televisions. She lived alone; no memento of husband
    or boyfriends or family adorned the walls or mantles. Her
    furniture was functional and attractive, yet oddly sterile.
    Her life was not really here, the home suggested, and she
    would have been the first to agree with that.
    
    Miller's call from the hospital to get testing authoriza-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 115
    
    tion had awakened her early. She'd have test results from
    one new patient to review when she went in. The chal-
    lenge of another day beckoned her.
    
    The TV flickered its strobelike shadow over her face.
    The news today was not as good as the news had been
    yesterday. As she dried her legs, she showed her teeth at
    the TV screen as if considering biting it. Members of the
    Board of Education were shown leaving yesterday's
    meeting. Young Stephen Hotchkiss loomed large before
    the interviewer's mike. Pompous ass. She knew him well,
    through her biofeedback stress relieving seminars. He
    wouldn't be under constant stress if he weren't so anal, she
    thought, running a slim hand down her legs to assess
    whether she needed to shave before putting on nylons.
    
    How could he treat children that way? Did he not
    know, did he not understand, that they were the future of
    the world? All the facilities, all the opportunities of edu-
    cation should blossom to them. That now was the time to
    put the ideas into their brains which would carry them
    through a triumphant lifetimeÄ
    
    Thinking she'd like to take Hotchkiss' head in her
    hands and swivel it around a couple of times like a pos-
    session scene from The Exorcist, she moved to her bed-
    room and began to dress. This new monitor, gleaming
    from the mahogany depths of the built-in cabinet re-
    flected other, more worldly scenes at her from CNN.
    Even you, she frowned at the set, aren't as informed as you
    could be. As she withdrew a stocking from her lingerie
    drawer and held it in the air to ascertain if its delicate
    beige color matched that of the other stocking she'd al-
    ready put on, Bernard Shaw announced the collapse of
    Los Angeles Councilman Ibrahim Walker, his medical
    condition thought to be the result of an attack during a
    break-in.
    
    Susan droDDed her hand to her kneP Near ~IPz~th h''t
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    not dead. The old coot deserved to be dead. She'd prayed
    for it on more than one occasion. He'd blocked every
    funding bill or grant she'd presented for her projects.
    Shortsighted, stubborn old coot. Someone ought to drop-
    kick him into the twenty-first century, if he lived. Ibie
    Walker was said to be recovering at Mount Mercy. A thin
    smile etched its way into Susan Craigs early morning
    frown.
    
    She ought to pay him a little visit.
    
    Deftly, she pulled her stocking on, clipped it to the gar-
    ter belt she'd bought from Victoria's Secret just last week-
    end, and stood. She flung open her walk-in closet,
    examining the vast array of clothing awaiting her. Yes, now
    that Ibie was held captive by IVs and catheters and monitor
    leads and shunts, tied down like Gulliver in Lilliput, yes,
    now might be a good time to talk some sense into the old
    relic.
    
    She had to try. Her projects were too important to let
    go, to lie fallow in the labs, for lack of funding or under-
    standing. Hadn't she proved her worth? It wasn't the
    money she needed for herself. Hadn't she given
    unstintingly at the shelters, the halfway houses, the hospi-
    tal, helping whomever she touched? She paid for the van,
    for the equipment herself, but she needed more, and
    technicians for interpretationÄshe needed to be able to
    teach her methods, pass them on, research and write to
    justify them . . . she couldn't do it all alone. Couldn't they
    see the potential in her work?
    
    She plucked out a pair of linen trousers and a silk
    blouse, dressing quickly and efficiently, fingers flying at
    the silk-covered buttons on the blouse, her thoughts a
    million miles away.
    
    She stopped at the bathroom a last time before leaving
    the house. She checked the pregnancy kit, her unlined
    face knotting over the negative results. Susan looked up,
    

    





                                     DEATH WATCH
    
    caught herself frowning in the mirror. She put her chin
    up, and stroked her too flat stomach. Why could she not
    achieve what other women, lesser women, did at the drop
    of a pair of pants? Why could she not have a tiny bundle
    to croon to, to diaper, to teach and mold, to watch as it
    took its first of many steps, to fall, to get up and try again?
    
    Why not her?
    
    She threw the test kit into the wastebasket. It was not
    her. She'd availed herself of the medical facilities open
    to her. She knew it could not be her. Nor did she think
    it could be the man she'd chosen, this time, to be the fa-
    ther
    
    Susan looked at her hair, and sleeked it into place. She
    was still young. She still had prospects, potential. She had
    other things to achieve as well.
    
    She tightened her belt a notch and, with a last, linger-
    ing look at herself in the mirror, left for the hospital.
    

    





               ~1 ~` _ ~,      ~- ;~   ~'- ~rr ~~: r~ ~ ~ t:: ~ a ~: - -  ~
    
    Chapter 9
    
    McKenzie supposed she ought to have been grateful for
    the sponge bath and clean gown, but the friendliness
    Shannon had exuded in the early morning seemed to have
    been swapped for efficiency. Without~talking directly to
    her, the nurse communicated her displeasure at having
    discovered that Mac had been out of bed.
    
    "Like one of my kids," Shannon muttered. "So who do
    you think came in and peed in the toilet without flushing
    while you say you were in bedÄ'the invisible man'? When
    we say we want bed rest, that's what we mean. You were
    under mild sedation, young lady. You could have fallen
    and hurt yourself severely. Do you want yourself tied
    down again?" Without waiting for an answer, the nurse re-
    plied, "No, I didn't think so. Now I want you clean and
    tidy and in one place until after the doctor sees you."
    
    Arm up, arm down, leg over, roll on side, there you go.
    New sheets being put on without McKenzie even being
    taken out of the way. Sheet and thin yellow blanket folded
    neatly into position, comers squared.
    
    Shannon stepped back, her eyes harsh in her face, and
    dried her hands as McKenzie took the clean gown and
    tried to shrug into it. She helped only when the IV line
    became entangled in the sleeve. The nurse drew the plas-
    tic bag through and repositioned it above the gown, say-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 119
    
    ing, "You should be off this later today. Ready for visitors?
    You have someone waiting to see you."
    
    McKenzie clawed at her hair, ends sopping from the
    hasty bath.
    
    Shannon pulled a drawer open in the tray stand.
    "There's a comb in here." She drew out the courtesy pack
    and left it on the table.
    
    McKenzie found the cheap plastic comb and was still
    dragging it through when the nurse paused in the door-
    way, saying, "She can see you now, Officer."
    
    She paused in mid-stroke, her arm in the air, bruises
    dappling the underflesh, as the policeman entered. His
    square, compact form amply filled out his uniform blues,
    even their laundry-creased comers, his dark hair swept
    back from his forehead, revealing a face to match his body
    type, squared and looking as though he had nothing to be
    happy about. The expression on his face made her abrupt-
    ly drop the comb and brace herself.
    
    "I'm Officer Moreno," he said, as he hooked a foot
    about a chair leg and pulled it forward so he could sit,
    drawing his notebook from his shirt pocket as he did. "I'm
    hoping you'll want to talk to me about the domestic dis-
    pute you were involved in last night."
    
    His voice was rich and slightly flavored, and she real-
    ized that was one of the things she had missed terribly,
    the diversity of the Los Angeles Basin. Beyond the sound
    of his words, however, was a sense of disapproval. What
    had the hospital told him about her?
    
    Gathering herself, McKenzie asked, "You didn't talk to
    me last night? Someone didn't?"
    
    "Not at the time."
    
    The hope of having found some sanctuary fled. "Oh,
    God. I thought I told you, told someone. You should have
    been looking for him." She wasn't safe from Jack, had
    never been safe from him.
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Who?"
    
    "My husband." The word was difficult to say. She found
    there was already an insurmountable chasm between
    them. Their marital status was already in the past.
    
    Moreno frowned. His eyebrows, like his hair, was iron-
    colored, thick and luxurious, not gray but not raven black
    as it must have been once. "Let's get our business done
    here," he responded. "1 need to take your statement."
    
    Puzzled and worried, McKenzie sat back. Too much in-
    terest in her. "All right."
    
    Moreno looked at his notebook. "Neighbors called in a
    domestic at about two a.m. Iast night, but they told us
    they had heard loud quarreling earlier, about ten-thirty.
    Would that be accurate?"
    
    She wondered what Mrs. Ethelridge had told him.
    
    "Miss Smith?"
    
    "Ah." She swallowed tightly. "That would be about
    right."
    
    "Your residence is 1026 East Anita?"
    
    "My, my father's residence. Yes."
    
    "And we're told your relationship with Walton Smith is
    that of father, daughter. He's your father?"
    
    She thought she'd said that. 'Yes." She wet lips gone
    dry. "I know you have a report to write, but no one will tell
    meÄhow is he?"
    
    Moreno had black coffee eyes and something unread-
    able flickered through them as he looked up from his
    notebook. He scratched a thick eyebrow. "Let's stick to
    this first."
    
    "ButÄ"
    
    "Neighbors also tell me you've been gone from the
    residence nearly ten years, that you came homeÄ
    unexpectedlyÄyesterday, late afternoon."
    
    McKenzie gave in. 'Yes."
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    121
    
    'Your mother died several years ago. Why didn't you re-
    turn then?"
    
    "I didn't feel like it."
    
    His big square face twitched a little around the angle of
    his jaw and ears. "She was dying of cancer, and you didn't
    feel like it?"
    
    It wouldn't sound right, and there was no way she
    could make it sound right, but she tried. 'We'd talked over
    the phone. She knew how I felt, that I wouldn't be wel-
    come, that being there was something I didn't think I
    could do. And she didn't want me to come to the hospital.
    We'd already said good-bye."
    
    'Why didn't you think you could be there?"
    
    "My father drinks. Drank." McKenzie looked away.
    
    'Would it be accurate to say that you and your father
    have a combative relationship?"
    
    "I don't seeÄ" McKenzie stopped. "We had a very loud
    argument last night after dinner, and I'm sure Mrs.
    Ethelridge heard a lot of it, but I don't see what that has
    to do with anything."
    
    "You argued."
    
    'Yes."
    
    Moreno moved in his chair as if trying to become a bit
    more comfortable. His hands flexed around his notebook.
    'Words or anything more physical?"
    
    "Yelling. We always yell at each other." Her brow
    throbbed again.
    
    "Do you remember shouting. 'Leave me alone'?"
    
    'Yes." Her head ached and her vision blurred slightly,
    overlapping one intent Moreno next to another. She
    blinked rapidly several times. 'What does this have to do
    with Jack?"
    
    'Why don't you tell me? Who's Jack?"
    
    "Jack Trebolt, my ex, my husband."
    

    





    122
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Moreno paused, before answering carefully. "We have
    no information on that. Are you saying he's involved?"
    
    "I'm saying he's the one who did all this. Didn't anyone
    listen to me? You should be looking for him!"
    
    Moreno sighed. "Miss Smith, I'm proceeding on the in-
    formation we were able to gather earlier. I'm investigating
    an assault and battery, but from the marks on you, it
    could be you acted in self-defense."
    
    The blurring of her vision cleared, but now his words
    seemed to make no sense. "I don't understand."
    
    "The neighbors aren't sure who started the fight, and I
    haven't been able to get a statement from your father, so
    I don't know who picked up the bat and hit who first."
    
    "Jack started it." McKenzie clenched her jaw against
    the flood of emotion rising in her.
    
    "Miss, at this time, we have no report of a third party
    on the scene. As near as we can tell, this was strictly be-
    tween you and your father." Moreno sat rigidly frowning
    at her.
    
    McKenzie responded in stunned silence. Then, she
    forced each word out carefully. "You think IÄyou think
    Dad and IÄyou think I hit my father? You think we did
    this to each other?"
    
    "That appears to be the case. It happens. It sounds to
    me like one of you just snapped."
    
    The words plunged into her chest like a knife. She had
    lost it. The furies had woken up. She had crossed over the
    edge.
    
    She shook her head in denial. "You've got no clue." It
    had to be Jack. She had to cling to that. Jack had been
    real, the bloody visions could not be. Jack could be any-
    where. McKenzie pointed at Moreno. "You've got to find
    him!"
    
    "This man you say is your husband."
    
    "Yes." McKenzie peered around the hospital room. "My
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    123
    
    purseÄif I had my purse, I could prove it to you. My driv-
    efs license in my walletÄ"
    
    "The forged ID we found under the name of Fordham?
    The same name your vehicle is registered to?"
    
    She found it hard to take a breath. "I had to do thatÄ
    Jack wouldn't let me have a car of my own. I had to hide
    it."
    
    'You forged documents in Washington."
    
    "Yes, but you don't understand."
    
    Moreno lowered his notebook to his knee. 'Why don't
    you try explaining it to me, Miss Smith? Your neighbors
    don't seem to remember you getting married, but they do
    remember the argument you had with your parents on the
    day you left. So why don't you talk to me? I'd like to
    straighten this out."
    
    "My fatherÄ"
    
    "Your father is in no condition to give us a statement
    right now. Even if he recovers, he may have no memory of
    the events. All I have to go on right now is you, Miss
    Smith."
    
    And she looked into those coffee-dark eyes and knew
    he wasn't too happy with what he was hearing from her.
    They didn't believe her. They didn't want to believe her.
    This man sat there, looking at her right now, and what he
    wanted to believe was that they had gone for each other's
    throats, she and her father, and tried to kill one another.
    What kind of a world was this where this was the kind of
    truth they wanted to see? How could she ever hope to
    change his mind?
    
    "You can call Sarah Whiteside. She's a friend, the only
    one who knew that JackÄthat I left. You can ask him,
    too, if he'll tell you. I know he's not there. Jack drives a
    truck. I left because I knew he'd be gone five, seven
    days." But she gave them her home phone number as well
    as Sarah's, and added, "I want to see my father, anyway."
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "I'm afraid that's not possible." Moreno flipped over his
    notebook,, closing it. "He's under protective custody at the
    moment. Until we can make a decision as to who as-
    saulted whom, I can't let you see him. He's a very sick
    
    ,,
    
    man.
    
    "He's my father!"
    
    "I know." Moreno stood. "I'll leave my card at the
    nurses' station. If you decide later you have anything to
    add, please call."
    
    "You've got to find Jack. He'll come back, he'll finish
    what he started."
    
    "Miss Smith," and Office Moreno's voice sounded gen-
    uinely regretful. His eyes sagged at the corners. "If you
    can prove there was a third party involved, I'll be glad to
    widen the investigation. Right now, we don't have a lot to
    go on, except for your fingerprints on the bat."
    
    "What's the bat got to do with it?"
    
    He paused in the doorway, filling it, a solid figure in po-
    liceman blues. "That's the main weapon which was used
    on your father, miss. Someone tried to beat the pulp out
    of him while he lay helpless after suffering a stroke."
    
    q
    

    





                    Chapter 10
    
    Carter slept until early morning and woke surprisingly
    easily. The haunt of his messages had not disturbed his
    rest. Yes, Nelson had calledÄfrom the plane, not the ho-
    tel. Like a voice rising from the dead, he'd made arrange-
    ments for a lunch he'd never make.
    
    "Hey, Windy. Got a life yet? If not, after dinner, there's
    a little something I want to leave for you. Nothing really,
    just a tidbit. Something on Bauer I filed away and forgot
    about. When Bauer killed his psychiatrist and escaped, he
    left behind a grad student, a young woman who worked in
    the practice and labs for the good doctor. Not like Bauer
    to leave easy prey behind, was it? Anyway, I think I've
    tracked her down to L.A., thought you might be inter-
    ested. I'll bring the file with me."
    
    The voice was as chilling as watching a videotape of
    someone he knew was dead. There was a certain disorien-
    tation between life and the appearance of life. And if John
    Nelson had died any other way than he had, Carter might
    think Bauer was still around, acting in his own interests.
    But though Bauer had been many things as a killer, a neat
    and painless assassin he was not.
    
    Still, Iying there trying to decide whether or not he
    wanted to get out of bed, he wondered what might hap-
    pen to the file Nelson had brought with him. Seeing as it
    was probably part of a Bureau investigation, and that the
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Feds were now working on Nelson's death, Carter held lit-
    tle hope he'd ever see it.
    
    Carter ran the back of his hand over his chin as he
    swung out of bed. The sandpaper sound reminded him
    that he'd forgotten to buy razors. He'd have to fish the old
    one out of the trash and scrape it along one more time. As
    he crossed the bedroom/living room of the apartment, he
    paused at his computer. He flipped it on, and brought the
    modem on-line to the office.
    
    He only had a follow-up assignment posted. The boy's
    heart had gone to Loma Linda, and was being used imme-
    diately. They wanted him to wring out a few more han-
    kies.
    
    Heart transplants being as complicated as they were,
    Carter knew he had more than enough time for the
    follow-up. Loma Linda surgeons wouldn't even be avail-
    able for conference until after one. There was also a small
    compliment from the editor's desk about the work he'd
    done on the boy's death and the various donations. Heart,
    kidneys, liver, corneas, even skin to the USC pediatric
    burn ward. Only the heart had granted a follow-up re-
    quest, the rest of the recipients had anonymity.
    
    Carter allowed himself a little shrug of happiness. It
    wouldn't win a Pulitzer, but it had been a credible job. He
    tapped a quick acknowledgment and sent it, no need to
    hold it back until later in the day. ~
    
    His hours were his. He debated about John Nelson, but
    decided he would learn more if the Feds came to him. He
    shut the computer down. The follow-up shouldn't be too
    hard to get out of the way.
    
    And it gave him an excuse to go back to Mount Mercy,
    to see the young woman again.
    
    He didn't know why he wanted to go back and see her,
    but he did. And if he did, he told himself, he didn't need
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    127
    
    an excuse. He could do that without a long line of bullshit
    rationalization.
    
    Had it been that she'd been pretty in an unusual way,
    not the California Barbie Doll girl the state had been
    turning out for decades, but pretty in an unrealized way?
    Though, with the bumps and bruises she'd collected from
    her assailant, she could hardly be called pretty now.
    
    Or had it been because after he'd left her room, he'd
    run into the resident in the corridor, ice pack to his
    cheekbone, and the young doctor had cheerfully told him
    his story of the victim who'd still been fighting in triage.
    
    He didn't think it was only because there was a story in
    her. The police had the case listed as a domestic, but
    there was the matter of the hair, of the souvenir scalping.
    She'd told him her estranged husband had done it. There
    was no Mr. Blue, no Bauer here. Just the same old, sense-
    less battering that people do to one another. She was no
    different than any other case he'd pick up and do a story
    about this week.
    
    He stared at his computer terminal, thought of some-
    thing he ought to do, and pulled up the address file. His
    hard disk rattled a little as if rusty and then displayed the
    file. He couldn't access the number he wanted, though,
    so Carter shut down the whole machine. He'd been
    dragged kicking and screaming into the computer age. He
    didn't trust hard drives anymore than he would a three-
    time paroled felon. With a tug, he pulled a stuffed drawer
    open, sorted through floppies, found a real address book
    and thumbed through it until he got what he wanted.
    
    The phone rang dully and when it was answered, there
    was a background of children, laughing and screaming.
    
    "Joyce Tompkins, please."
    
    A pause, then, "This is she."
    
    "Joyce, this is Carter Wyndall." He pictured her as he'd
    last seen her several months ago, one of his background
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    resources on a story. A woman of color, she was as striking
    as she was forthright. She'd made women's rights her ca-
    reer and her passion. They'd gone out once after the story
    was done, but she'd laughingly called it a "mercy date"
    and said that she didn't need it. Told him to call when he
    was truly interested. Joyce attracted him immensely, but
    he'd not been interested in a relationship in years. No
    time.
    
    The background noise was shushed before the woman's
    wary tones warmed up. "Why, Carter. I didn't think you
    would call."
    
    Something a little like guilt, or maybe it was hunger
    pains, moved in his stomach. "Well, actually, this is busi-
    
    ,,
    
    ness.
    
    "Oh. I see." The warmth chilled a little.
    
    "Are you still an advocate?"
    
    '~ou bet I am. You got someone in trouble?"
    
    "I think so." He picked up his watch and checked it.
    "Are you free this morning? Can I pick you up in forty-
    five minutes or so?"
    
    "That depends, Carter. This person in trouble, is this
    business for you or personal?"
    
    He thought before answering. "Actually, it's personal."

    "All right, then. I'll be ready. Be sure to knock loudly,
    the doorbell's out and the kids ... well, they're noisy."
    Joyce hung up without saying good-bye.

    He sat for another moment at his computer desk. It
    shouldn't be personal to him.

    But the girl was. He couldn't explain it. As much as
    Joyce had attracted him, she hadn't moved him to action.
    This girl had.

    And he wondered how he would have explained the girl
    to Nelson, too. Got a life yet?

    Maybe it was because he couldn't explain it that he








    r
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    129
    
    wanted to go back, to talk to her, to see what color her
    eyes were.
    
    Maybe, Carter thought to himself, it was just a healthy,
    hormonal resporise.
    
    He wasn't sure.
    
    He hadn't had one for a long time.
    
    He sighed and slogged his way across the apartment to-
    ward the shower.
    
    It took the young woman a few moments to become
    aware of him standing at the edge of the room. "I remem-
    ber you from last night. The one with the kind eyes." Iro-
    ny chipped her words. "But you're not a cop?"
    
    "Ah, no, I'm not." He'd promised her security, but
    there'd been none on the floor, and he'd come into her
    room easily. He felt a little guilty. She looked worse than
    she had last night, but that was the way of bruises and
    healing. One eye was discolored all around, the cheek-
    bone brilliantly purple, swelling into her lids, what he
    could see of the eye itself was bloodshot around its green-
    gray iris. But it was not injured, or it would be covered,
    bandaged, hiding from him.
    
    But it was his eyes she'd commented on. So he moved
    through the faded yellow curtains toward the bed and
    tried what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I can't take
    credit for the eyes," he answered. "Genetic nearsighted-
    ness."
    
    He thought he saw her relax a little, shoulders dropping
    back. The whiteness of the sheets surrounding her em-
    phasized her paleness and bruising. She put a hand to the
    lopsided ice pack to remove it.
    
    He answered, "I was here when you came in last night.
    Carter Wyndall. I thought perhaps you could use a friend.
    You look like you've had a rough time." He stumbled over
    his name, so connected with his usual introduction as a

    130

    reporter that it didn't come out right when he abbreviated
    it. But something in her eyes warned him away from tell-
    ing her what he did for a living.
    
    "Oh." She twitched her jaw lightly as if there might be
    more words coming out, but none did. He took her to be
    no older than mid-twenties, possibly not even that old,
    but it would be hard to tell for sure until the bruises
    faded. "Th~t'c all I nP~(I " She looked at him wariness re-
    newed.
    
    "No, actually, what you need is an apology. 1, ah, in-
    truded on your privacy last night. This morning, actually,
    early, and I don't quite feel right." ~ ~:
    
    "You re apologizing to me?" ~-...;~ ~:
    
    He nodded. He felt as though he'd encountered an ice-
    berg, and he had better be careful of what he couldn't see
    in the depths. He cleared his throat. "I was here last night
    because of a little boy who got shot, caught between
    gangs, in the line of fire. The family was trying to decide
    how to deal with it, if they should turn off the machines~
    donate the organs."
    
    She looked away, toward the window, which had the
    shades drawn so that she could not see the view from the
    fifth floor, but she had not turned away so quickly that
    he couldn't see the renewed pain in her face. "Must have
    been some night."
    
    "It seems to have been." His hands felt chill. She
    turned back to watch him levelly, a spark deep in her
    eyes. She didn't encourage him, but neither did she turn
    him away, and it unnerved him a little. He made his living
    from news, from the events of the day, be they uplifting
    or disastrous, and his skin had thickened over the years.
    She was like a paper cut into that hide, trivial, yet signif-
    icantly irritating.

    She put her right hand in back of her ear, where the
    raw scalD had been slathered with what mi~ht be Mercu-

    131

    rochrome or betadine. The rest of her hair was long and
    soft enough to cover the spot and she tried to tweak it
    into place before dropping her hand back to her covers.
    
    A scuffle of impatience sounded in the hallway. He
    cleared his throat. "You told me your husband did that."
    
    "Did 1? And do you believe me?"
    
    'lies."

    She let out a tremulous sigh, and he realized that he
    had had no idea just how tense she'd been. The girl
    plucked at a sheet hem. "The police don't. They seem to
    think that my father and IÄthat we just sort of snapped
    and tried to kill each other. They won't tell me how he is,
    and they won't let me see him." Her voice stumbled to a
    halt, and she closed her swollen lips tightly.
    
    She'd given him the opening. "In that case," Carter said
    smoothly, "I won't have to apologize for this. 1, um,
    brought along someone you should talk to." He stood
    back.
    
    Joyce came in, dressed in tribal prints colored brightly
    in ivory, russet, and black. The geometries moved with her
    lush, firm body, doing a war dance. Her eyes were gleam-
    ing. She pulled up a chair and sat down in one move-
    ment, saying, "Girl, those police are going to be sorry they
    didn't call me."
    
    She looked from Joyce to Carter. "Who?"

    "I'm Joyce Tompkins. I'm an advocate for battered
    women, and I'm here for you." Joyce eyed Carter. "Why
    don't you leave us alone so we can ta]k?"
    
    Carter hesitated. "Is that all right?"
    
    Mac blinked. "No. I mean, that is, I don't knowÄ"
    
    Joyce looked pointedly around the hospital room, at her
    bed and the empty one next to the window. "I don't see
    anyone else here for you. Your mother?"

    "Dead. My cousins live here, but it's been ten
    years...." her voice trailed off. "I don't know."

    132

    "Of course you don't. I'll talk, you listen, then you talk
    and I'll listen. Whatever you need."
    
    The girl sucked in a breath. 'Whatever I need," she re-
    peated Her voice was shaky. "I need to know what's hap-
    pening."
    
    Carter said, "I'll be back in a little while to check on
    things." He backed out and before he'd crossed the door
    and gripped the handle to close it behind him, Joyce was
    leaning over the hospital bed, talking softly but firmly.
    
    He took his time finishing up the heart donor story, got
    a cup of coffee, and sauntered back up to the fifth floor.
    Joyce, file folder in hand, was just coming out of the hos-
    pital room. She took the coffee from him and drank it in
    two gulps.
    
    'You needed that," he observed flatly.-
    
    Her mouth twitched. She hugged her note-filled folder
    to her chest. "You're interested in this one."
    
    He paused. Then, 'Yes."
    
    "Why?"

    "I don't know."
    
    "Well, she's lucky."
    
    "Lucky?"
    
    Joyce nodded. "She's a little repressed, hurt, battered,
    but I didn't see the syndrome I usually have to handle.
    She comes from an alcoholic family, but she didn't decide
    to be a victim. Her husband sounds fairly domineering,
    but this is the first, second time he's gotten physical with
    her. She got out immediately. She's disoriented, bewil-
    dered, she hasn't discovered her own strengths yetÄbut
    she's done a lot right so far. She decided she wouldn't take
    it. From her father or her husband."
    
    "The father beat her, too?"

    "No. From what she told me, he yelled a lot, broke a
    few things, punched in cabinet doors. The x-rays show

    133

    some old breaks, but she told me that she was quite an
    athlete when she was younger. Broke one arm riding a dirt
    bike, and the other playing hardball. He didn't touch her,
    she says. She left because she simply couldn't take the
    drinking anymore. She had a scholarship, went away to
    school, and," Joyce smiled thinly, "like so many of us do,
    she fell in love and got married."

    "To the wrong man."

    "For her. Maybe for anyone. Anyway, she worked hard
    to make it a success, but she bailed out when he attacked
    her."

    Carter said dryly, "She can't be that lucky."

    "Maybe not. But some support work, self-esteem build-
    ing, and a little independence will go a long way with her.
    I don't have to spend years convincing Mac this wasn't
    something she deserved."

    He shuddered in spite of himself.

    Joyce added softly, "It's a good thing you brought me
    here.

    He looked at her.

    She nodded, emphasizing her words. "Right now, her
    life is upside down. The concussion is giving her head-
    aches, making her see thingsÄI can help her see clearly,
    think clearly. She needs that support."

    "All right."

    "I'll be back to see her tomorrow. I took Officer
    Moreno's phone and case number from her, I'll talk to
    him later today. You don't have to drive me home. I'll
    catch the bus. I need to pick up my car to do rounds any-
    way. But, CarterÄ"

    He had his hand on the door grip, ready to pull it open.

    "She doesn't need involvement right now. She can't
    handle it."

    "I guessed as much."

    "Then what are you doing here?"

    134

    "I don't know."

    Joyce stniled broadly. "Oh, Carter. There's a heart beat-
    ing under that newsprint hide, after all." ~ ~`

    'Don't tell anybody." ~ ~ ~ r

    I wont. Just don't scare her away by letting her know
    it, too. Give it a few months. Once we get her chin up,
    she'll start looking around for herself."

    "Promise?"

    She chucked him on the shoulder. "I'll do my damned-
    est. See you later." She brushed past him with a deter-
    mined click of her heels.

135     Chapter 11

    Carter entered the hospital room hes*antly. She looked
    up from a handful of tissues as he did. Emotion blotched
    her face. It did not detract from what he was beginning to
    think of as the endearing quality of her face. He wanted
    to smooth her hair back and kiss her brow. He couldn't
    think of a way to do it without feeling awkward, so he just
    stood there.

    "Came to say good-bye." He added, "How did you like
    Joyce?"

    "Now I know what they mean when they call someone
    a breath of fresh air."

    "More like a hurricane warning, but I'd trust her with
    anything."

    She pointed at the chair. "You can sit?"

    "For a minute." A mid-morning snack had been brought
    in while he was gone. Four cartons of juice remained
    among empty muffin wrappers.

    She picked out a carton of apple juice and passed it to
    him, saying, "I can't possibly drink all this." The IV had
    been removed from her arm.

    "I think they want you to hydrate."

    She sipped woefully at her pineapple juice. "One major
    fruit group at a time."

    He laughed in spite of himself. That seemed to please

    136

    her. She said, "Apology accepted. And thank you. You're
    the only thing that seems real in this whole nightmare."

    Carter decided against interrupting, and settled into
    what he could do best, which was to listen.

    The young woman looked across the room, at a smog-
    and dirt-obscured window. "He didn't like me having my
    hair cut, so he decided to do the job himself. With a
    knife." She winced with the memory, as he watched her
    talk. "So I left. He followed me all the way from the land
    of rain, manic-depressives, and wife-beaters to the city of
    smog, quakes, gangs, and serial killers. And last night, he
    came after me again."

    Carter felt himself smile wryly, pierced by both disap-
    pointment and relief that she had not been a target for
    Mr. Blue. "Like you said, it was some night."

    "My head feels like they all happened at once." She
    moved her jaw again tentatively. "So you know what no
    one else knows or believes. Or even asked," she added bit-
    terly.

    "Sounds like you have a beef against L.A.'s finest."

    "They think my father did this to me and IÄI retali-
    ated." Her voice broke. She did not continue.

    "They're not looking for your estranged husband?"

    She jerked her head in a negative.

    "What's the problem?"

    "They say there's no proof of a third party." She
    squeezed her eyes shut.

    "And you're afraid your spouse will come back."

    She hesitated long enough that he intuited that she was
    not afraid of many things, that this was one of them, but
    there was something else she wasn't telling him. Then she
    said, "Wouldn't you be? How many stories like that do you
    read in the paper or see on TV?"

    "Enough. It's not a welcome privilege." His gaze wan-
    dered across the room. over her chart hancino from the

    137

    foot of the bed. He ought to go, but he did not want to.
    He saw the notation penciled in the corner of her
    paperwork about her father's condition and location. "A
    talk with Joyce ought to clear up our boys in blue. Or
    when they depo your father."

    "He can't be interviewed, or so they told me." She
    slumped back on her pillows. The eyes closed in weari-
    ness or defeat.

    "Let me help."

    "Why?"

    "Because I don't want to have to read another statistic.
    If I can keep him from coming after you, if I can make
    the police believe in your husband, if I can keep you from
    stepping into the line of fire, so much the better."

    "All I want to do is see my dad. Can you do that?"

    I can try."

    "What do you mean?"

    "First, we need transportation." He stepped out of the
    room and went to the floor's nursing station. The women
    were brisk and busy. He took a wheelchair from under
    their watch and brought it back to the room. No one said
    a word to him.

    She was shrugging into another gown, wearing it like a
    robe. The soft, worn pale-blue-flowered pattern did noth-
    ing to enhance her looks. He caught a glimpse of one bare
    hip before she was able to pull the gowns about her and
    settle on the edge of the bed, waiting. That brief look of
    young and supple flesh was marred by a slashing bruise
    across its contour. Carter had been weighing tragedies in
    his mind, but the sight of the wound made him realize
    what the living suffered. She'd lost a husband, a marriage,
    and might yet lose her fatherÄand the police thought
    there were no victims here.

    Carter pushed the wheelchair forward. "Watch your

    138

    She swayed a little as she essayed the journey from
    bedside to the chair, just three halting steps, but he could
    see from the lack of color in her face the effort it cost her.
    
    'AII right?"
    
    She settled in the seat and caught her breath. 'Yes."
    She looked up. Her gaze searched his face, and seemed
    suddenly reassured. Her mouth twisted. "I keep wanting
    to get the number of the truck that hit me."
    
    He laughed without thinking, but that pleased her, and
    a little pink came back into her cheeks. "That's truer than
    you know," she added. "Jack drives trucks."
    
    He bent down to put the footrests into place. "It takes
    all kinds," he commented.
    
    She looked at him reflectively. "Must be awful," she
    said, "to live with someone and have absolutely no idea
    what's going on inside his head."

    "In most cases that's probably a blessing." He was glad
    she couldn't read his mind, with the image of her bare
    flesh still fresh. He pivoted the chair around. 'You up to
    the elevator? ICU's a couple of floors up."

    She nodded, winced, and said, 'Yes."
    
    As he wheeled her down the corridor to the elevator
    bank, he added, "I got your name from your charts.
    McKenzie Smith. Do they call you McKenzie? Or is that
    a hyphenated?"
    
    "Hyphenated?"

    "Two last names."
    
    'Oh. No, it's McKenzie."
    
    "Family name?"
    
    "It would have to be, wouldn't it?" She made a gusty
    sound. "I used to have to fight about it when I was a kid.
    But I got proud of it. At least it kept people from calling
    me Smitty. Didn't want to change it, not even when Jack
    and I . . . when we got married. What about you?"
    

    139

    "Wyndall's a southern name." He drawled it slightly so
    she could get the effect. "Most people call me Windy."
    
    "But you prefer Carter."
    
    'Yeah, I do..l've always liked the sound of it."
    
    The elevator door opened. There was another wheel-
    chair in residence, the woman flushed with life, her stom-
    ach fairly palpitating with the kicking child inside her, her
    hair already sweat-streaked back from her face, and there
    was no doubt where she, the admittance nurse handling
    the wheelchair, or the nervous man pacing behind them
    were going. The pacing husband was counting, the wom-
    an's mouth pursed as she "Hee, tree, hoo'd" in time. They
    fairly charged out of the elevator on the next floor.
    McKenzie waited until the doors were closed, then said
    softly, "That was cute."
    
    "Cute? I thought the guy was going to have a coronary.
    I think giving birth must be easier on the woman."
    
    She tilted her head back to eye him. "Oh, you do, do
    you?"
    
    "Be nice or I won't tell you what floor ICU is on."
    
    'You don't have to," and she pointed at the board. "It's
    marked."
    
    He could tell that the bantering had relaxed her a bit,
    reading her with an ease that came from years of reading
    interviewees. He wiggled the chair a little, saying, "Don't
    upset the driver."
    
    She laughed. It pleased him immensely to hear her,
    though the laugh was raspy and dry. What would she be
    like to listen to a month from now, when she'd healed and
    life looked immensely better?
    
    He was relieved when the doors opened again, check-
    ing his train of thought.

    He said, as he began to push her out, "Don't let it scare
    you."

    She put a hand on the wheelchair arm, arippinp it with

    140

    a hand that was bruised with treadmarks, puffy and dis-
    colored, and held on tight until the misshapened knuckles
    paled.
    
    No inattentive nurses here. A finely-featured East In-
    dian woman looked up, saying, "May I help you?"
    
    "Walton Smith." Her voice was scarcely higher than a
    whisper. "He came in last night."
    
    "Ah." She turned aside to look at something on her
    desk, then looked up, with eyes that were, startlingly,
    green-hazel, with coffee flecks deep in them. "No visitors
    yet, but you can stand outside the room and watch for a
    moment. He's in critical, but stable, condition. Cubicle

    His passenger almost stood up out of the chair. He put
    his hand on her shoulder, and she relaxed again. He took
    his hand away to push her to the viewing window, then,
    casually, dropped it back in place again, lightly, comfort-
    ingly. From the stillness of her body, he had no idea at all
    what she must have been thinking as she looked upon the
    sheet-shrouded form of her father.
    
    McKenzie looked through the window, and could hardly
    see her father for the reflection of herself in the glass, and
    for the bank of equipment that surrounded him, less so-
    phisticated than she imagined, almost menacing. She
    rubbed her eyes, trying to keep her vision sharp, failing
    slightly. He could have been dead, for she could see no
    rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, but she could see
    the blips and lines across the monitor registering his life
    force. She had no idea if there were really protective cus-
    tody, or if they had just slipped through somehow, but she
    was fiercely grateful for this moment.
    
    For once not the main obstacle in her life, he'd tried to
    stand between her and disaster. Don't touch my little girl!
    He hadn't done well, but he'd tried. And she'd failed as

    141

    well, for if she could have dealt with Jack, her fathe~
    wouldn't be Iying there half-dead.

    She brought a hand up to her mouth, felt her lip swol
    len and split, and trembling. She would not try. Not now
    not yet. Stable condition. Critical but stable. What did
    that mean, exactly? Poised on the brink, but not likely tc
    fall one way or the other, not wobbling, just . . . balanced
    She found herself holding her breath, in case she migh
    be the factor which toppled him over that brink.

    She had a weird sense of deja vu, a memory of her
    younger self Iying quietly on a hospital gurney, head throb
    bin", to wake and see her father standing and watching
    her, tears in his eyes. She'd been hit by a pitched ball.
    She'd seen double for three days, McKenzie suddenly re-
    membered. Her father had been terrified she'd never play
    ball again. She'd used his wooden bat until she made the
    high school team, and graduated to aluminum.

    There had been good times. McKenzie gripped the win-
    dowsill. There had.

    She'd forgotten all about Carter until he asked softly,
    "Are you all right?"

    It was then she realized he had in his hand on her
    shoulder, a softly bracing touch. When had he put it
    there, and why didn't it hurt? When every square inch of
    her felt as though it had been pounded on, why didn't it
    hurt where he touched her?

    McKenzie swallowed. "I'm okay," she answered. "It's
    justÄ"

    "Difficult. I know."

    He must know better than she did. McKenzie stirred.
    He lifted his hand away. A nurse passed behind them, on
    softly creaking shoes, offering, "We'll know more tomor-
    row."

    McKenzie found herself nodding. Carter backed her
    away, driving her back toward the elevators. She became

    142

    aware that there were tubed and wired occupants Iying
    quietly in most of the other cubicles. The nurse was busy
    readying the "F" cubicle. She had the doors thrown open,
    banks of monitors being hooked up, when the double el-
    evator doors opened.
    
    A cart came out, two nurses, a man and woman, in at-
    tendance. There was no doubt about a police escort here.
    Two men, faces drawn, one black, one Asian, brought up
    the rear. McKenzie found herself drawing back in the
    chair lest they see her.
    
    Carter stopped to move the wheelchair to the corridor's
    side. She stared in fascination as this new group passed,
    caught in a drama of their own, unaware of McKenzie and
    Carter, the elderly black man on the bed with a gray pal-
    lor under his dark skin, his eyes shut, his face in many
    folds, his grizzled hair matted by the tubing and elastic of
    the oxygen mask.
    
    "That's Ibie," Carter murmured. "Councilman Ibrahim
    Walker." He did not push her forward until the cubicle
    doors had swallowed up the emergency team, and they
    had begun transferring the man to the bed, wiring and ca-
    bling him into the new equipment. "Looks like he's been
    here overnight and nobody informed us."
    
    "How do you know?"
    
    Carter was watching the scene avidly. "I know," he said
    absently. "It's my job."
    
    Walker lifted an arm wearily and tried to assist in the
    maneuvers. She watched as they tucked him in and
    smoothed the cool white sheets around his rich, coffee-
    colored torso. He mumbled, nearly incoherent, his voice
    slurred and masked by oxygen feeders. "Animal. Alien.
    What was that?"
    
    The fear in his voice ran a shiver down McKenzie's
    spine. The whites of his eyes showed.
    
    143:
    
    The nurse closest to him shushed him gently and put
    his arm in place.
    
    "McKenzie," Carter said shortly. "I need to take you
    back, and then find out what's happened."

    'Why?"
    
    "I have to." He was looking around, attention riveted on
    Cubicle F as banks of machines came on-line. "McKen-
    zie, I'm a reporter."
    
    Her throat tightened. No wonder he'd been interested
    in her. A paycheck for her grief. Her knuckles went white
    as she dropped her hands down to the wheels of the chair.
    She spun them, wrenching the chair from his grip.
    
    "McKenzieÄ"
    
    "I can take care of myself!"

    He stood, feet spread, hands out, torn. But he kept
    looking away from her, back to the action.
    
    His kindness, even bringing Joyce, had been a sham.
    She kicked a foot to the floor, pushing the chair away.
    
    "No. I got you this far. It's just thatÄ"
    
    "It's your job," she finished for him. "Let me know how
    it all comes out. Film at eleven, right?"
    
    "NoÄthe evening edition."
    
    She could hear in his voice the pride that there was a
    difference, to him. Not to her. "I thought you were a
    counselor. You talked about the heart donorÄI thought
    you cared. I never thought you were here because it was
    your job." She leaned forward painfully to propel herself
    toward the bank of elevators. Without a word she rolled
    through the first door that opened.
    
    "McKenzie!"
    
    The door shut in his face.
    
    She caught her thumb under the rim as she tried to
    settle the vehicle. It grabbed skin. She snatched her hand
    away and sat, sucking the injury, verging on tears again.

    144

    The elevator sank all the way to the basement before she
    realized she hadn't punched in her floor number. She
    looked out on colored lines directing her to the morgue
    and to the surgery theaters. Dumbly, she pounded her
    hand on the panel to get out of there. Her head began to
    throb again as the lift dropped, then began to climb.
    
    She studied the floor, praying no orle would walh ill alla
    see her alone. Toward the corner, a brilliant bubble of red
    glistened wetly. It caught her attention. She stared, trans-
    fixed. Blood. She swung about, but this crimson, shivering
    drop did not follow, did not drown her. Real, then. Vital
    and, in this day and age, dangerous. Whose? What pa-
    tient?
    
    The doors slid open on the fifth floor. McKenzie rolled
    herself out with an effort. No one stood at the nurses' sta-
    tion. There was some luck in that. She didn't feel like fac-
    ing questions about where she had been, and why. She
    felt empty, drained. Her rib cage ached as she bent
    slightly to roll the wheelchair down the corridor. She had
    only been gone, what, fifteen minutes, but her legs felt
    like lead. At the corner of the nurses' station, she got out
    of the chair. Mac tottered, then determinedly caught her-
    self on the edge of the counter.
    
    Behind her, the elevators opened and closed. She piv-
    oted, but saw no one who could have come out. For a
    moment, she thought Carter might have followed her.
    Hope and disgust that he might have warred inside her.
    
    Mac pushed away from the counter. One step at a
    time, she delicately trod the distance to her room. Behind
    her, from the far side of the nurses' station, on the other
    side of the U that comprised the floor, she could hear the
    laundry cart, and women chatting casually. No one would
    even know she'd been gone.

    She leaned her weight wearily on the hospital door,
    swinging it open.

    145

    Streaks of crimson pierced her vision. She blinked, not
    understanding. Was it real, or imagined? It was as if she
    stood on a threshold; one step one way or the other could
    prove disastrous. She put out her hand. She touched the
    wetness. The curtains that separated the beds had been
    drawn. In her half of the room, something awful had
    struck. She stumbled forward.
    
    Scarlet streaked her bedsheets. It dripped down the
    walls. Then she saw the white teddy bear on the pillows,
    gutted, its stuffing strewn everywhere, laced with crimson.
    An ice pick pinned it to her sheets. What might have
    been a heart or a liver quivered about its shaft.
    
    "Oh, my God." Her voice leaked thinly from her throat.
    
    The bloody streaks led to the mirror above the small
    console at the room's end where someone had written, in
    tall, gory letters BITCH.
    
    McKenzie backed up, feeling her legs start to give out
    from under her. Someone had been there. Could still be
    there. The privacy curtains rippled as though someone
    waited behind them. She could feel a cold draft as if the
    window had been forced open. McKenzie clawed herself
    along the wall back to the exit.
    
    She turned to run, lifted her hands to the door, saw her
    fingers glistening with the stuff. It runneled down her
    skin, wet and still warm.
    
    McKenzie shrieked.
    
    Shadow grew solid beyond the curtains. Her mouth
    gaped, throat empty of further sound, as a hand reached
    around and gripped the fabric edge, pulling it back.
    
    Jack stepped out.
    
    Her heart hammered. He smiled thinly. "Is that any way
    to greet me, honey?"
    
    Her jaw worked, found words. "Why are you doing
    this?"

    'Why, because we're married. You're mine, little bit.

    146

    And," and the thin smile stretched widely. 'As the saying
    goes, if l can't have you, no one else can, either. I'll make
    sure of that."
    
    He took a step forward, the narrow hospital bed the
    only obstacle between them. McKenzie felt her eyes flut-
    ter. The room went suddenly atilt. Everything felt as
    though it were sliding away. Her voice was the one
    weapon she had left. -~3,: ,': -
    
    "Nooo!" she screamed. ~ '~r~. ' ~7
    
    Jack pivoted and charged the windows. He dove head-
    first out the open frame.

147    Chapter 12

    Jack fell farther than he thought he would, thudding onto
    the fourth floor veranda. The hit nearly took his breath
    away. He rolled and got to his feet quickly. Adrenaline
    pumped. He looked back overhead, still hearing the
    echoes of McKenzie's terror. Damn, it felt good. Jack
    hugged it to himself to enjoy later and ran the length of
    the veranda until he reached the fire escapes at the build-
    ing's end cap and swung down to the third floor. From
    there, he returned to the private waiting room window,
    pulled himself in through the lower vent, and straightened
    up. Imagining the activity in the vandalized room several
    floors above, he tucked his shirt back into place and saun-
    tered down the hallway, took the elevator, and was down.
    
    Jack brushed his hand through his hair as he neared
    the brace of security guards in the hospital lobby. Lookin'
    for baby stealers, he thought. He was no baby stealer. He
    attracted no more attention than a casual glance. Their
    demeanor was bored, and their faces were pinched
    slightly as if their feet hurt. They havens heard the news
    yet. Wont there be some excitement when they do. They
    ought to pay me for keeping them from being bored to death.
    Jack smiled at them as he walked by.

    The bulge in his jeans' hip pocket began to ring as he
    exited the lobby doors. He put a hand to the cellular
    phone, removing it once he was outside and flipping it

148

    Opcn. T ll~ parking ;Ot smelleci oi- aspinaic, ciirr, anci smog.
    His nose wrinkled as he leaned a hip against the fender
    of his rental car and answered the phone, eyes watching
    the lobby doors to see if there were any activity.

    "This is Jack."

    The line was relatively clear, but he could hear the faint
    crackling of a long-distance transmission. Someone was
    trying to reach him in Seattle. He'd done well to have his
    calls forwarded. The corner of Jack's mouth drew back
    even as the caller responded, "Is this Jack Trebolt?"

    "You're talking to him." : := -~:` .

    "Mr. Trebolt, this is Officer Moreno of the Los Angeles
    Police Department."

    "El Lay, you said?" Jack gave a short laugh. "I know I
    put the hammer down between home and Des Moines,
    but I know I didn't hit L.A. What's up, Officer?"

    "Actually, this is about your wife, McKenzie Smith. You
    are married to a McKenzie Smith?"

    "Mac? Damn right. Is she okay? She isn't in trouble, is
    she? She bolted out of here about three, four days ago,
    like a scalded cat. I called all her friends, but she'd just
    taken off. She's not down in L.A., is she?"

    The caller cleared his throat. "Actually, Mr. Trebolt, I'd
    like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

    A sparrow went by, chirping and singing. Jack watched
    it before answering, "No, that's fine. You've got me at a
    good time. I'm just sitting here at a rest stop waiting for
    my lunch to hunker down."

    "And you said you were outside Des Moines?"

    "That's right. You've caught me on my roam phone. I
    carry a cellular in case Mac needs to reach me. I can get
    calls damn near cross the country. She gets skittish at
    home alone." He paused, then added, "If she's in trouble,
    any kind at all, you tell me and I'll fly right over. Just treat




    DEATH WATCH

    149

    her gently, okay? She gets upset easy. I can't figure out
    what the hell she'd be coin' in L.A., thou~h."

    "It appears she left you."
    
    Jack kept his voice smooth. "Officer, she thinks about
    leaving every time she gets PMS. Hormonus humungous
    amongus, y'know? I give her as much love and care as I can,
    but, man, her whole world just goes tilt. I'm glad I'm on the
    road then, know what I mean?"
    
    "Are you telling me she has an unstable personality?"
    
    "I'm telling you the little lady is like a rubber band. She
    snaps at least once a month. I can't blame her, though. Bad
    childhood. Father was an alcoholic. She just gets skittish,
    y'know? Insecure. I wish I could be more help, but it takes
    time."
    
    "Does she take medication?"
    
    "New. The doc wanted to give her Valium, but she won't
    touch it. She's always dieting, says it's supposed to help. I
    can't see the difference." Jack fished a little. '~ou didn't tell
    me if she was in trouble."
    
    "A little," Officer Moreno admitted. His voice grew
    fainter, as though he had shifted the receiver away.
    "Nothing we can't handle. I'll let you know when we've done
    a little more investigating, let you know how the case
    stands."
    
    "Case?"
    
    "I really can't go into details at this time, Mr. Trebolt. I'd
    like to thank you for your cooperation. Can I reach you on
    this number later?"
    
    "It'll be kind of patchy once I leave here, but I should be
    near a transmitter tomorrow sometime. Then you've got a
    clear channel all the way to Boston. Ah, Officer, will you be
    seeing Mac later?"
    
    "Yes."
    
    "Would you . . . would you ask her what happened to the
    dog? Don't upset her or anything, but I couldn't find
    
    
    

    


    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Wll~ll I 8,UL IlUliltl. JUst 111b UUg, L)ldllKtlL UUL 111 Lll~
    
    tr~ch It w~c n11 rrllctv with wh~t 1~^k~A lik~ rlrirrl hlooA
    I'd hate to thinkÄwell, I'd hate to think she'd really done
    something awful before she left."
    
    "Do you think your wife is capable of something like
    that?"
    
    Jack said earnestly, "Officer, Mac is an incredible
    woman. She can do anything she puts her mind to. But
    it's the mind I'm worried about. Look, I don't know what
    happened to make her bail. Maybe Cody got out, got hit
    by a carÄshe loved that pup. Purely loved him."
    
    "I see. Well, thank you, Mr. Trebolt. I'll be in touch as
    soon as I can tell you something definite."
    
    The phone line went dead. Jack took the cell phone
    down and folded it back up. It was warm in his hands.
    The little light warning of low charge flickered at him.
    The police had only intended to tell him what they
    wanted him to know. Well, he knew all. And by the time
    he was through spinning his little tale about Mac, he had
    had Officer Moreno thoroughly convinced. His lips
    skinned back from his teeth. The bitch, his beautiful
    bitch, looked as though she'd seen a ghost. Both times.
    He could read her like a book. He knew she'd bail after
    he taught the dog a lesson. Jack rubbed a finger into the
    corner of his eye. It was still gummy after the red-eye
    flight. But he was there, and he had her. He had the
    plans, he had the brains. "I got you, babe," he informed
    the phone. "Gotcha."
    
    Still grinning, he climbed into the car and pulled out of
    the hospital parking lot.
    
    She thought her heart had stopped. Then it sputtered.
    McKenzie put a hand to her chest, feeling its cold thump.
    She could not look and pinched her eyes shut. Dont re-
    act. Stay calm, quiet. Attract no attention, no predator, no
    

    





                    DEATH WATCH
    
    hunter. It couldn't have been Jack. And if it was, he couldn't
    ,~ve su;mved the Jall. (:ould he?
    
    The door opened suddenly, spilling McKenzie onto the
    floor. She landed sprawled across the feet of a figure in
    ivory and sand, a woman who looked down at her with
    piercing blue eyes.
    
    'What is going on here?"
    
    Before McKenzie could say anything, the woman
    stepped back abruptly, disentangling herself from Mac's
    bloody form. She looked back over her shoulder. "Nurse!
    I need a nurse in here!"
    
    Then she looked back down at McKenzie, her lips
    pursed. As if she'd made a decision, she bent down
    slightly. "Don't move. You're the concussion client, aren't
    you? There's blood all over you. Are you hurt?"
    
    "No." Barely audible. She could scarcely hear herself,
    but this brisk woman who wore her doctor's jacket like it
    was part of a designer suit heard her.
    
    "Good. Don't move. I don't have my gloves on. If you
    didn't do thisÄ" the blonde head cast about, before look-
    ing back down on her. "This could be contaminated. It's
    best you don't do anything. You're all scraped up, you
    don't need any of this worked in. Understand?"
    
    Nearly frozen, still in shock, Mac nodded. Her lower lip
    began to quiver. "Jack," she said. "Out the window. He
    can't be alive."
    
    "Someone was in here?" The woman eyed the open
    window sharply. "Are you certain?"
    
    "He can't be alive," Mac repeated numbly.
    
    The doctor began to pat her jacket pockets as if search-
    ing for something. Her name tag bounced on her left
    breast: Dr. Susan Craig. Cyberlmago. She pulled out a tis-
    sue, took a step toward the bed. She probed at what had
    been pinned to the gutted bear. "Afterbirth," she said.
    "Fairly fresh." She let out her breath. "Possibly not con-
    

    





    152
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    laminated, after all. Somebody's been into the medical
    waste.ii
    
    Running footsteps interrupted the doctor. Shannon
    halted in the doorway. "Good lord."
    
    "We need to get her cleaned up and out of here as soon
    as possible." Susan Craig turned back to the gory teddy
    bear.
    
    Shannon looked down at McKenzie in amazement.
    Cold authority rang in her voice. "What on earth did you
    have in mind?"
    
    "I didn'tÄ" McKenzie put out her hand beseechingly,
    then pulled it back when she saw the blood covering her
    fingers. She kept her other hand gripped tightly. She
    looked up to the wall, where her palmprint dotted the
    streaks. "Oh, God. You don't believe me." Her voice rose
    tightly.
    
    Susan Craig looked down at her, before locking eyes
    with the nurse. "Is this the one who snapped last night?"
    
    'Yes."
    
    Her jawline softened. Still out of clear range of
    McKenzie, she bent down. "It happens," she said gently.
    "That's what we're here for." Directed at Shannon again,
    "She's going to be put in my wing, isn't she?"
    
                      ...,~ ,,
    
    lomorrow.
    
    "Good. I came in to set her up for retesting. The pro-
    gram run this morning came back glitched. Miller called
    me." Dr. Craig gave a satisfied nod. "This will all work
    out.
    
    "I didn't do anything," McKenzie begged of both
    women. 'Why won't you believe me? Just look out the
    window. HeÄhis bodyÄit has to be there!"
    
    Craig straightened and edged past Shannon. "There's a
    ledge of balconies down there. They run the length of the
    floor. I doubt if the fall would kill anyone. If anyone had
    been here to jump. But, then, someone had to do this,
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 153
    
    didn't they? The world is full of depravity." She checked
    her watch. "I'll see you again after breakfast tomorrow."
    
    "Let's get you out of here," Shannon said tightly, "while
    I clean up. I'm putting you in the nurses' lounge. Nobody
    will bother you there. Then I'm calling Security. After
    which, I'm getting a mop." She pulled Mac to her feet
    and put her on the foot of the bed which was relatively
    clean. "Can you sit up?"
    
    Feeling dizzy and disoriented, McKenzie opened her
    eyes. "He was here." The words forced themselves from
    her throat. "He was here!" This was hell, and she was
    trapped in it.
    
    Shannon repeated in a firmer, but slightly warmer
    voice, "McKenzie. Can you sit up? I've got to get a disin-
    fectant wash for you. I don't want you falling off and hit-
    ting your head again."
    
    "I can sit," Mac said wearily. Her shoulders slumped as
    Shannon left in a white blur. She was back almost before
    Mac could even realize she'd gone, hands filled with a ba-
    sin and a squeeze bottle.
    
    She watched dispassionately as Shannon sponge-bathed
    her again. Blood. Ironic, she thought, that anyone who
    works in a hospital should be so afraid of blood. Ironic and
    terrible.
    
    She inched out of her gown, and pulled on clean cloth-
    ing while Shannon left again for a wheelchair.
    
    As she sat and Shannon wheeled her around, Mac said
    "I didn't. Honest to God, I didn't do this."
    
    "Well, whoever did it is going to be sorry," the nurse re-
    sponded. "We'll get Security here in a jiffy. That bear was
    just delivered for you. I brought it in and found you miss-
    ing. I've been looking for you."
    
    "Shannon."
    

    





    154
    
                  Elizabeth Fomst
    
  I. ~ .~-~1he nurse looked down as McKenzie twisted around.
    - ~d Officer Moreno talk to you>"
    
    The other's mouth got very small and tight.
    
    "Call him, too. Tell him what happened. He didn'tÄhe
    doesn't believe me that my husband's here, that my hus-
    band did this."
    
    "It's not my businessÄ
    
    "Look what he's doing to me! To my father. No one be-
    lieves me." McKenzie put her hand on the other's wrist.
    "Please."
    
    Shannon shoved open a door, and guided the wheel-
    chair into a small, but efficient lounge, with a woodgrain
    plastic table and four chairs. The kitchenette was tidy, but
    clothes hung helter-skelter in the open closet, shoes scat-
    tered below them. There were street clothes and freshly
    laundered uniforms, and even a pair of panty hose dan-
    gling from a hanger.
    
    One beat-up recliner in the corner held an occupant,
    her feet up, reading PEOPLE magazine. She dropped the
    periodical to her lap, looking slightly put out. She was
    young and Latino, her dark hair an ebony cloud under her
    starched cap.
    
    "Company, Shannon?"
    
    "Someone just did a number on her room. Keep an eye
    on her while I call Security, will you?"
    
    The recliner foot went down with a bang. "Of course I
    will."
    
    "McKenzie, this is Nita. I'll be back in a while." The
    hard look on her face promised nothing before she went
    out the door.
    
    They eyed each other. Nita pulled a lipstick case from
    her pocket and outlined her wide, generous mouth with
    another layer of coral. She got up and went to the small
    refrigerator in the corner. Popping out a carton of apple
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    155
    
    juice, she found a straw and with a push and a twist
    made the drink ready. She put it in McKenzie's hands.
    
    'You look like you could use a drink," she said, and
    smiled widely.
    
    "Thanks." As McKenzie lifted the carton to sip, her
    hand shook slightly. The juice went down icily, tasting
    only marginally of apples, but good nonetheless. It
    seemed to etch a path down her dry and paralyzed throat.
    
    Nita wore a white pant-quit. She hiked up a leg and
    perched on the edge of the dinette table. "What's the
    problem?"
    
    "Someone decorated my room."
    
    "Well, don't you worry. Shannon will have Security all
    over his ass, and if he comes back, she'll probably put her
    mop handle up it."
    
    McKenzie found her lips curling about the straw as she
    bent her head to take another drink.
    
    Nita leaned back a little, folding her arms over her am-
    ple bosom. 'Yes, indeed, Mount Mercy nurses are better
    than guard dogs." She raised a penciled brow. "And pret-
    tier, too."
    
    "Definitely," McKenzie conceded. Sitting in the lounge
    talking with Nita, she almost felt human.
    
    "This the same someone as took some pretty good shots
    at you? You came in last night?"
    
    'Yeah."
    
    "I thought you were the one. Punched out our best res-
    ident."
    
    "'I'm so sorry," McKenzie got out.
    
    "Don't worry. He got a free beer for it when his shift
    went off this morning. Our residents live for the tales they
    swap. Now he gets to tell a better one than the doc who
    was held up two weeks ago." Nita swung her leg. "Maybe
    you shouldn't be so good with your fists. Make the policia
    wonder, eh?"
    

    





    156
    
                 Elizabeth Forress
    
    "No." McKenzie shook her head, feeling her cheeks still
    flushed from embarrassment. Everyone on the floor must
    know of the suspicion. "I'm not like that."
    
    "Practice being invisible, huh? Well, pardon me, but it
    don't look like it works." Nita stood up. She looked at her
    watch. "I gotta get back on shift." She walked over to the
    microwave, leaned down, and bared her smile at her re-
    flection, checking her teeth. She found a lipstick mark
    and began to rub it off with her finger.
    
    Shannon appeared at the lounge doorway. A wisp of
    hair had escaped her cap and hung down the side of her
    face. She said cheerily, "All ready to go back?"
    
    McKenzie hesitated. The nurse added, "I've put you
    across the hall. Janitorial's going to have to come in and
    paint the roomÄI can't get all the bloodstains off the
    walls and your Officer Moreno told me not to touch it. So
    Security advised me to switch you. I doubt if you'll mind
    that one bit, right?" Without waiting for an answer, she
    took charge of the wheelchair and McKenzie.
    
    Joyce Tompkins was waiting for her in the new room.
    The woman tilted her head, high cheekbones arching as
    they looked at one another.
    
    "What happened? I popped back in to check on you,
    and they sent me here. Who trashed the room?"
    
    McKenzie sagged. Shannon told the advocate, her
    words like her uniform, crisp:, clean, efficient. McKenzie
    crawled into the hospital bed, the nurse holding her by
    the elbow for support. Joyce's face showed little emotion
    as she looked from one face to another.
    
    "And yet no one believes her."
    
    Shannon's mouth moved into a thin, pink line. "We had
    occasionÄ"
    
    "I don't want to hear it." Joyce surged to her feet. "I've
    seen a parade of battered women. I know what I'm lookin'
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    157
    
    at. And so do you. Now, the question is, what are we go-
    ing to do about it?"
    
    "She's being moved to psychiatric tomorrow morning."
    
    Joyce bent over and pulled the clipboard off the foot
    railing of the bed. She scanned it quickly.
    
    McKenzie lay still for a moment, as another siege of
    dizziness and double vision hit her. It passed quickly, and
    she swallowed down two breaths as if she could keep it
    locked away. "I'm not crazy," she managed.
    
    Joyce patted her knee. "No. I know you're not and after
    a few tests tomorrow," she shot an angry dark-eyed look at
    Shannon, "they'll know it, too. But, in the meantime,
    you'll be safer there. Everything is monitored. No one gets
    in or out easily."
    
    McKenzie felt herself relax a little under Joyce's touch.
    There was something both formidable and maternal about
    the African American woman.
    
    "All right?"
    
    She nodded.
    
    Joyce looked to Shannon. "What's for now?"
    
    "A light sedative. A quiet evening."
    
    "Good. Sounds like just what the doctor ordered." Joyce
    returned the chart to the nurse. "And I'll see you tomor-
    row. Late morning. Okay?"
    
    McKenzie nodded again.
    
    Shannon patted the pockets of her tunic, found them
    empty, and said, "I'll be back with your meds." The two
    left together.
    
    McKenzie rolled in her bed. There was a small but
    pretty floral arrangement on the side table. Her name was
    on the card. Carter, trying to apologize? It scarcely mat-
    tered now.
    
    She reached for the envelope. Something bulky lay in-
    side. She shook it out onto her Dalm. SomethinQ soft and
    

    





    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    a moment.
    
    McKenzie closed her fingers about it. Her chest
    heaved. She began to sob, violently, without sound, tears
    cascading. She retreated into the bed, pulling the sheets
    up around her, cocooning, and did not even notice when
    the nurse returned and injected her.
    
    Hotchkiss pushed himself away from his desk, leaned
    over to grasp the remote, and clicked his set off. All in all,
    the interview had gone well enough, despite the tendency
    of the media to condense everything down to sound bites.
    He'd taped all the major channels and feeds. A quick
    skim had proved they'd all pretty much handled the story
    the same way. He hadn't been the hero, but neither had
    he come off villainous. He was saving the taxpayer, not
    depriving schoolchildren of the facilities so desperately
    needed to develop their growing minds.
    
    The sudden tragedy of Ibie Walker's condition had al-
    most displaced him on the news altogether. Ironic and fit-
    hng, that Stephen had been biding his time, waiting for
    the old man to falter, because he intended to replace
    Walker. Everything works out. Hotchkiss had great faith in
    the balance of the universe.
    
    He swiveled his chair around, facing his computer. Out
    of habit, he checked to make sure that he was alone. His
    secretary had blocked all incoming calls, he was at his
    home office, the part-time housekeeper was not sched-
    uled for the day.
    
    He'd worked hard the past few months, indeed, the
    year and more since the San Fernando quake, and the
    days of solitude and rest had been few. But the upcoming
    election year should see him reap the rewards, following
    in the sweep of the gubernatorial election. He was in a
    good position to vault into place for the off-year elections,
    
    }i
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    159
    
    and his backers knew it. He had the drive, the confi-
    dence, the training to do it. Even his youth and bachelor-
    hood could not be held against himÄnot in California.
    No. He should go as far as he wanted. Then he could
    come forward in the next gubernatorial election and try
    for a statewide position. Ten years or so, maybe even the
    governorship.
    
    He'd been born into the best of times, Hotchkiss de-
    cided, as he ran a stroking hand across the keyboard. Se-
    crets could unmake the man or woman, secrets tried in
    the media without benefit of court or justice, secrets
    which would not be understood or condoned. Everybody
    had dirty laundry, he thought. Who grew up prepared to
    be examined microscopically? The recent rash of nomi-
    nees on both state and federal levels who could not stand
    up to the scrutiny of the media-fed public ~vas not sur-
    prising, although lamentable. But who knew, then, twenty,
    thirty years ago, what might later come back to haunt
    them?
    
    It made Stephen uncomfortable to think that the next
    generation of appointees and office holders might be ho-
    lier than thou prisses whose sole career was not based on
    achievements, but on the avoidance of secrets, of offend-
    ing anyone and everyone. What a sorry lot of wnsses those
    candidates would be.
    
    But for now, he could afford to ride the tide of righ-
    teousness. He had managed himself well. He had done all
    r~ght.
    
    He could reward himself.
    
    He booted up the computer and took a disk out of a
    plain paper bag. Its three-inch surface was beautiful in a
    clinically technological way, shining with opalescent color.
    Its beauty had little to do with its use. It was unmarked,
    unlabeled, totally unremarkable in any way.
    

    





    160 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Hotchkiss held it between his index and thumb fingers,
    looking at the striking colors that shimmered off the sil-
    very surface. He did not play games. If he had another
    fault in his personality, it was the lack of gamesmanship.
    He was a poor loser, and an even worse winner. He had
    managed to groom himself for the game of politics, but
    that was different. It was real life. Real power. For that,
    he could learn to smile convincingly, to give and take and
    be humble.
    
    It wasn't worth the effort for a mere board game or a
    deck of cards.
    
    But this was different. He slipped the disk into the CD
    drive of his computer and booted it up. The color monitor
    came to life, displaying its brand name and then, as the
    drive whirled, the logo faded away as the memory gath-
    ered the new material. Sitting on top of the monitor
    rested a full-visored helmet. Like modified motorcycle
    gear, the front shield was smoked ebony. The fiberglass
    helmet itself had been custom painted a deep, electric
    blue, with black striping. It looked ordinary, until one saw
    the network of cables cascading from the nape of the
    equipment. Next to it, gloves lay nested, one atop the
    other, thick and bulky, studded with connectors and more
    cables, their image sexually powerful and stirring.
    
    The helmet and gloves were his passport from reality
    into virtual reality, an antiseptic environment where nearly
    anything could happenÄand carry no consequences.
    
    Before settling the helmet over his head, Hotchkiss
    checked out the room again. The fine, custom-built oak
    paneling and library shelving. His hand-routed desk.
    There was a Chagall on the wall, not an original, but a
    very low number lithograph. Baccarat crystal gleamed on
    the wet bar. The Persian carpet upon the floor, vibrant in
    its red and blue weave. These were the trappings of his
    office, but they did not feed the soul.
    
    ~-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    161
    
    It was reward time.
    
    He a'ese',~ved it.
    
    The helmet slipped down. Its wiry cables snaked about
    HotchLiss's shoulders and down his arms as he pulled on
    the massive gloves. He flexed them, feeling the potential
    power in them, dormant, waiting for him to complete the
    connection. With crisp, precise movements, he clipped
    the cable ends together and let the computer power flood
    them.
    
    His visor exploded with color. Hotchkiss sat back in his
    swivel chair as sound issued from the helmet's interior,
    soaking in the experience flooding his senses. He closed
    his eyes a moment as the virtual reality graphics came on,
    a beach, golden with sunshine, and young bodies, na-
    ked, unblemished by puberty or experience. He stood,
    braced, within it. He existed here, and only here, for the
    moment.
    
    It filled his senses. He could hear it, touch it, see it,
    even taste it, by God. It came roaring in on him like the
    sea in flood tide, sweeping over him. He threw his head
    back, a laugh fountaining from his throat.
    
    The rhythmic surge of ocean water upon sand sang in
    his ears. Sunlight broke into diamonds on the crystal blue
    water. Towels striped the beach. Surfboards and body
    boards lay dormant, their colors like the rainbow. He had
    every sense but smell inundated as the title, SURFER
    BOYS, played across his line of sight. It played across him
    like a banner trailed by a plane. He put a hand up and
    pushed it away.
    
    Gone was his constricting business suit uniform. Jams
    and a tropical shirt open at his chest replaced it. He stood
    barefoot on the beach. He swore he could feel the very
    warm grains cushioning him. Crossing the sand, he could
    feel the salt breeze in his face, see the boys waiting for
    him. Only boys, and only him.
    

    





    162
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Bare skin met the glowing sunlight. Clothing optional,
    the young ran past, into the splashing waves. They
    laughed and shouted to one another, carrying surfboards
    and boogie boards, or simply racing one another into the
    water.
    
    Flesh, everywhere he looked. In all hues from the un-
    touched to the bronzed. Buttocks rounded and firm.
    Shoulders lean, not yet bulked by the hormonal rampage
    of puberty. Bodies still coltish, some still rounded with
    baby fat, romped upon the sands.
    
    His gloved hands curved to caress and possess.
    
    There would be no one to tell.
    
    Hotchkiss took a deep breath and let himself stride for-
    ward into the scenario. He let it wash over him, bathe
    him in its sunlight, drawn by the silhouette of a boy laying
    facedown on his beach towel. The hair, like winter wheat
    upon his head, the skin just beginning to acquire a sun-
    drenched hue, fine hairs upon his legs like wisps of spun
    gold.
    
    So young, so pure, the skin unmarked by the coarsen-
    ing of hair and stubble, no pustules of acne scarring, no
    shaving scars, no marks of adolescence, the youth so
    clean and innocent. He could not resist the touch.
    
    The boy on the beach towel stirred. He could feel the
    warmth of the skin under his palm, the ripple of muscles
    as the child turned over and smiled, white teeth showing
    his wheat-colored hair dipping down into his eyes.
    Stephen could get lost in those eyes, echoing pools of the
    blue water behind him. They warmed as they beheld him.
    A smile of welcome.
    
    Then the boy said, "We know who you are, Hotchkiss."
    
    The words catapulted him backward, slamming him
    back into the reality of the embrace of his office chair.
    
    He sat back in shock. Set off by his trembling, cables
    rippled around him like electric eels.
    

    





    ;~:
    
                    Chapter 13
    
    "The nurse says you'll corroborate McKenzie's where-
    abouts."
    
    Carter looked at the growing crowd of reporters, gather-
    ing for the official press release on Ibrahim Walker's
    condition. He'd already made the early edition with the
    news break on Ibie when he'd called into the city desk.
    Now, with the update imminent, he no more wanted to be
    escorted off hospital property for improper conduct than
    he wanted an extra hole in the head, but neither did he
    want to lie outright. Moreno had shown up moments be-
    fore, hot and rumpled as though the staff car he drove
    had no air-conditioning. Face growing more and more dot-
    ted with perspiration, the policeman had filled Carter in
    on the destruction downstairs. Without seeing the scene
    for himself, he couldn't imagine McKenzie having done it,
    or taken the initiative to do it. He looked at Moreno.
    
    "I can't tell you that I was with her every single second
    and that she couldn't have done it herself. I stayed up
    here when I saw Ibie brought in. She could have been
    alone, fifteen, twenty minutes, an hour. I lost track of
    time."
    
    "Then what can you tell me?"
    
    "The room was clean when we left it. I didn't bring her
    back, so I don't know what it looked like later. She
    mourned her father. I can tell you that she's worried about
    

    





    164
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    her husband finding her. From what you tell me, it looks
    like he did." Carter pulled at his collar a little. "I don't
    think it makes much sense that she would come home all
    the way from Seattle just to duke it out with her father.
    And I don't think I need to point out to you that this town
    is beginning to have a big problem with the way ordinary
    people are treated, compared with celebrities."
    
    Moreno had been jotting in his notebook. He met Cart-
    er's stare. "The neighbors remember a very combative re-
    lationship. Stranger things have happened. If we can lift a
    print from the room, prove someone else's involvement,
    we can turn the investigation around. As far as her status,
    be glad she's not somebody. If she were, this place would
    be filled with the news media from stem to stern . . . and
    she would already be judged and sentenced."
    
    "What about taking her word for it? I wasn't aware
    spousal abuse was getting rare."
    
    Moreno's eyes glittered. His mouth worked as though
    he was choking back what he wanted to say and he ended
    with, "Wouldn't that make a headline?" Carter sighed and
    he put his pen away in his shirt pocket. He nodded to-
    ward the makeshift podium, awaiting a doctor and a press
    rep. "What's the word about Ibie?"
    
    "He may or may not have surprised an intruder, but it's
    his old age that took him down. Recovery, if he makes it,
    will be slow."
    
    Moreno made a tching noise through his teeth. "Hate to
    see him retire. There's a lot of work left to do."
    
    Carter grinned. "Retire? He'll be ordering his aides and
    secretaries in here tomorrow. The joint will be filled with
    fax machines and cell phones."
    
    "Cell phones," the policeman repeated. Then he
    laughed. "Yeah, I guess so." He started to turn away as the
    crowd around them ~rew, makina their conversation even
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    165
    
    more difficult to keep private, then turned back. "Too bad
    about your friend Nelson. Any idea why he was in town?"
    
    Carter paused. "Officially or unofficially?"
    
    "Either way."
    
    "We never had a chance to talk. I might have an idea
    if I could find out what the suits are saying. Any leads?"
    
    Moreno's color deepened slightly. "Nothing I could do
    about it if I wanted to," he returned. "The Feds are crawl-
    ing all over that one."
    
    "Wouldn't hurt to nudge them in the right direction,
    though. No, I don't know what he was doing here. We
    were supposed to have lunch when he called . . . but he
    didn't get a chance to." He saw the corridor beyond the
    room fill with personnel. Time to cut this conversation
    short, and he thought he knew just the stopper. "Now, you
    want to trade some real information, let's talk about Mr.
    Blue. '
    
    Moreno shook his head. "Now you've reached my
    limit," he said, smiling, and began to move off.
    
    Carter watched him go for a few feet, then turned his
    attention back to the doctors who were filing in. He found
    his fingers twitching as if he already sat at the keyboard.
    A portly neurosurgeon at the front of the room tapped a
    microphone and cleared his throat. Instantly, the room be-
    came deathly quiet.
    
    There was a light at the end of the black tunnel.
    Hotchkiss groaned, seeing it, and shifted again in his
    chair. His life had been passing before him, he knew it,
    he could taste its bitterness in his mouth. He coughed.
    His neck creaked stiffly and the helmet, which had been
    sloughing off, fell farther off his forehead. The pinpoint of
    light became a blazing sun. I lotchkiss stared and blinked
    at it, until he realized he was looking at the room's ceiling
    light, not at God.
    

    





                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    uolt uprignr in tne cnair and snatcneo the hei-
    met from his skull. One of the cables ripped loose and fell
    to the desktop with a clank of its metallic head. Hotchkiss
    brushed it aside with a trembling hand as he might a
    snake. He threw the helmet as far from him as he could.
    
    Leaning heavily on his elbows across the desk, as if he
    were pulling himself free from a drowning sea, he gasped
    and trembled. What was happening to him?
    
    He looked down at his hands, now swollen and puffy,
    fingernails bitten to the quick. The mark of an overcriti-
    cal, anxious, and analytical person, he told himself.
    
    A person who could feel life grinding him down, bit by
    bit.
    
    What could he do?
    
    He reached for the phone, but his trembling hand went
    astray and, instead, he punched the radio news line but-
    ton on his intercom. Voices flooded the office, overriding
    the thunder of his heartbeat and the tortured, sobbing
    gasps of his breathing.
    
    ". . . extent of the damage to Walker is unknown at this
    time. His doctors say it will be another day or two before
    neurological tests can be conducted to determine if the
    stroke will leave him permanently incapacitated. No in-
    terim replacement for Mr. Walker has been named to the
    council yet, but committees are scheduled to meet tomor-
    row to discuss this latest development. To recap, news at
    eleven thirty reports, from the wires and hospital sources,
    that Councilman Ibrahim Walker has suffered a major
    stroke during the night and is now resting comfortably at
    Mount Mercy Hospital.!..."
    
    Hotchkiss jabbed a finger hastily at the radio line,
    deadening it. He reeled back in his chair, struck by the
    news. He could feel the heat of the overhead light, beat-
    ing down on the back of his neck as if it were the sun. He
    could smell the coconut tanning oil, hear the swish of the
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
     .'  i .1 .
    
    167
    
    stood....
    
    We know who you are. You will be called, and you will
    serve, and you will remember that we know who you
    are....
    
    All the years of discretion and service, none of that
    availed him now. They knew that he and his party had
    been hoping to quietly jockey him into position for Walk-
    er's post in a year or two, when surely the old man would
    be precipitously close to retirement anyway. They knew
    that Walker had been struck down.
    
    He put the back of his hand to his mouth. His lips,
    salty with perspiration, were swollen.
    
    He had to get out, even if just for a day or two. Get
    away and think. Out of town, out of the heat and smog,
    somewhere where he could just think. Destroy the
    disk....
    
    He stiffened his back. Destroying the software would
    be a start. He picked up his phone, left a message on his
    secretary's voice mail. "Cancel my appointments for the
    next few days. I've been called out of town. Put everything
    on hold`. You're not to give out the information, but I'll be
    at my condo at Lake Arrowhead. Do not forward any calls
    or messages to me, no matter how urgent they appear to
    be."
    
    He hung up and took a deep breath. There. He was
    gaining control again. Thoughts, which had started to fall
    like dominoes, began to stack up neatly. He would be in
    charge again.
    
    He shoved himself away from the desk and chair and
    stood. His knees wobbled, then caught. His suit, horribly
    wrinkled at the knees, fell away from his legs. He had
    been sitting in a daze for, what, hours? No more time to
    waste.
    

    





    168
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    A sudden thou';hi fulro-w-ed his bt-ow. He leaned over
    and made one last phone call, then left his office to pack.
    
    Moreno looked in on the girl before he left the hospital.
    `~œter talking to the husband, he wouldn't normally have
    made a trip back, but something pulled him. As Carter
    had reminded him, he was all too familiar with domestic
    violence. She lay with her eyes to the window, lids
    hooded, unresponsive as he toed open the door. The nurse
    behind him, the same one who'd let him interview her
    earlier, leaned close. She wore Jean Nate splash, like his
    Margo used to, and he found the citrus scent overwhelm-
    ing. He cleared his throat heavily. The young woman Iying
    supine in the hospital bed flinched, but otherwise seemed
    totally unaware of him.
    
    "She's sedated," the nurse said.
    
    "Thought you didn't do that with possible concussions.-
    
    "We don't. Preliminary tests show that her head injury
    is mild. The sedation is light, should wear off in an hour
    or two. Dr. Craig in psychiatric thought it advisable. Once
    the case physician concurs, we'll be moving her there for
    observation." The blonde's face smoothed slightly, sympa-
    thetically. "Sometimes anyone can just snap, y'know?"
    
    Moreno pushed on into the room, to get away from the
    perfume as much as anything. He looked at the bank of
    windows. "This go down to the same verandas?"
    
    "Where she said her husband jumped? No. That's on
    the other side of the building. If he'd been here, if he'd
    jumped from here, you'd have found him smashed like a
    ripe watermelon down in the courtyard."
    
    Moreno's stomach clenched slightly, not at the imagery
    but because he'd seen scenes like that before, and did not
    like the memory. He ran his tongue over his teeth, won-
    dering if he had indeed talked to Jack Trebolt or not. After
    all, who was to say?
    
    . ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    169
    
    Her ri,qht hand rested on ton of the sheets. fisted over
    somethmg. tie looked down, saw a corner, golden and
    fuzzy. He picked up her hand, turned it over, and carefully
    loosened the fingers. A scrap of something rested on her
    palm. He looked at it thoughtfully, then took an evidence
    baggie from his pants' pocket and slid the object into it.
    
    "Find something?"
    
    Nurses. Bossy and curious, like surrogate mothers.
    Moreno cleared his throat of the perfume again. "Probably
    not," he answered. His voice had gone gravelly.
    
    "Catching a cold?" She smiled cheerfully at him, one
    patient forgotten, her attention quickly transferred to an-
    other. "I can get you something for that?"
    
    "No." He scratched the corner of his mouth. "It's the
    smog. Give my office a call when she's transferred over,
    will you? I'll be needing to speak with her again."
    
    The ponytail bobbed as the woman nodded. Moreno
    brushed past her as he pocketed the baggie. He did not
    take it out to look at it more carefully until he was alone
    in the elevator, doors closed after him. There he pulled it
    out and opened it, running a fingertip curiously over. At
    first, he had thought it a scrap of material, a patch of mo-
    hair from a teddy bear or some such. Women, young
    women, were as crazy about stuffed animals as they were
    ahout flowers. He couldn't figure it, but Margo had told
    him that when the two of them first started dating. Any-
    thing, she'd said, any little sentimental gift. A card, a rose,
    a little stuffed bear....
    
    But this was not fabric. For one thing, it had a definite
    odor which he could now smell in the confines of the el-
    evator, an odor of rotting. Moreno pinched the piece
    gently between his thumb and index finger, getting a real
    feel for it. Soft, silken on both sides, fine golden hairs,
    ragged edges....
    
    And then, suddenly, he knew what it was, and the
    

    





    170
    
    thought sicL.ened him. so much that he nearly'.,onnited. ~e
    bit off the gorge behind his throat, resealed the baggie
    and thrust it back into his pocket. When the elevator
    doors opened, he left them as though he had been
    launched.
    
    What in God's name was she doing with part of a dead
    dog's ear in her hand?
    
                  Elizabeth Forrest
                          

    





    Susan sat going over the new patient's chart again, looking
    at the synaptic anomalies. She had already highlighted
    them with a dry pen, so that the paper would not bleed,
    and she sat now with the same pen in hand like a
    weapon, as if she might find another spike or curve to
    color. Miller had long since gone home, but it wouldn't
    help even if he were there. He didn't know the virtual re-
    ality program, he hadn't helped design it, he barely knew
    how to utilize and score it.
    
    She rested the tip of her pen upon the paper. The ink
    bled immediately into the fiber, glowing apple green in re-
    sponse, like a dot at the base of an exclamation point. She
    couldn't fault Miller there, for all his shortcomings. He
    had done almost as well at scoring as she would have.
    
    So the anomalies weren't his fault.
    
    She dropped her pen and shoved her chair back. The
    noise screeched in the quiet lab, and the boy in the far
    corner, head helmeted, avid in front of a colorful monitor,
    jumped as if the sound had gotten through to him. Dr.
    Craig watched him for a moment to see if he made any
    more disruptive responses, but the boy did not, and so she
    pushed the chair back a little more, softly, and stood up.
    
    The spare helmets, there were only two others besides
    the one currently in use, sat on a Formica counter, cables
    neatly wrapped beside them.- Miller's obsession for order-
    

    





    172
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    liness superseded almost any other work drive he had.
    Craig smiled thinly in response as she reached up and
    took down the equipment. He had marked the patient as
    being tested in helmet C. She grasped it between her
    hands, turning it over and over. The leads seemed fine.
    The 64K processor would have to be removed, and the
    chip tested elsewhere, but she was willing to bet it was all
    right as well. With the kind of usage she gave it, what
    could have gone wrong?
    
    Only the software and the patient herself could be sus-
    pect. Craig turned the helmet over again, teeth nibbling
    against her lower lip as she thought. It was a given that
    her program was experimental. Yet, although she had not
    offered it up to FDA testing because she was still com-
    piling her own results, she knew that it could not have
    produced the synaptic responses graphed from the pa-
    tient.
    
    Therefore, it was the patient herself who was responsi-
    ble for the aberrant reading.
    
    Susan would have to test her again to confirm that, of
    course. Tomorrow morning, when the young woman was
    transferred over, she would have ample opportunity.
    
    She tossed the helmet back on the shelf, loosening the
    clip which held the neatly coiled cable, and watched it
    snake loose, striking at her, like a moray eel from the
    depths of the ocean. Absentmindedly, Craig pushed the
    cable back as well, and returned to her table and report.
    Before she could sit, there was a sound from the corner.
    
    Brandon had finished the program and was calling for
    her, his thin eleven-year-old voice muffled by the helmet.
    She'd almost forgotten she'd planted him there earlier.
    The wiry wrists were both bandaged lightly, hiding the
    newly healing scars of a suicide attempt. As she stood up,
    she noted the body language, the vulnerable and uncer-
    tain way he sat at the console.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    173
    
    Some people should never be allowed to have children.
    Licenses for bearing and rearing offspring ought to be
    more important than fishing licenses. Susan shrugged into
    her lab coat, then put her chin up.
    
    Briskly, she joined him, and began to unclip the various
    leads. His freckled face, when it emerged from the visor's
    cover, was pale but excited.
    
    "Did you see my score?"
    
    'Why, no." Craig bent over and examined the monitor,
    trying to muster enthusiasm.
    
    He had his hand on the monitor screen, ignoring the
    faint static crackle, saying, "All the way to level nine!"
    
    "That's good. That's very good. But remember what you
    promised me. An hour of game, a half hour of biofeed-
    back, right?"
    
    His face went slack, hazel eyes deadening.
    
    "It's important," she told him. "Or I wouldn't ask you.
    You need to know how to handle all those knots that
    tighten up inside you. This will help. Besides, we made a
    deal, right?"
    
    Then, he nodded. "I promised."
    
    "Right." Susan wrapped the helmet up. "But you don't
    have to do it now. I'll wheel you back to your room, you
    can have afternoon snack, and maybe I'll see you after
    dinner. Okay?"
    
    Some of the enthusiasm and color returned to the boy's
    face. "Okay!"
    
    She toed the brake off the wheelchair and brought the
    boy around, but her mind, as she took him out of the lab,
    was somewhere else entirely. When she returned, she sat
    down at one of the several computers.
    
    Her fingers played elegantly over the keyboard, as if
    awakening a piano. She watched herself type, not because
    she did not know the keys, but because she liked to watch
    the interplay of her hands. She thought of Holly Hunter
    

    





    174
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
                                        in her award-winning role, her hands so elegant, so work-  I
    
    strong, so emotive.
    
    >>HEL'LO.<<
    
    After a moment, the screen responded. There was no
    real reply, there could not be, but a synaptic grid came on.
    She watched the grid avidly.
    
    A spike jumped. Susan caught her breath, watched it
    closely. A second spurt followed. Awareness. A stirring of
    awareness, flaring into kinetic thought. She responded
    without thinking, coaxing.
    
    >>i'M HERE.<<
    
    The screen exploded into a frenzy, spikes and valleys.
    She watched the grid as whatever it measured fought its
    containment.
    
    >>DhEHM.<< She rested her hands on the wrist board,
    watching the lines oscillate, REM patterns like that of
    sleep. Always dreaming. The matrix could not do other-
    wise until she awakened it.
    
    But it seemed fitful, and that worried her.
    
    She hastily switched on a second computer. The hard
    drive whirred into lazy life. "Come on, come on!" In the
    corner of her eye, the first monitor continued its starburst
    of activity.
    
    She opened up the modem line and began to type a
    rapid string of commands, her hard acrylic nails staccato
    on the keyboard, leaning over from her chair to reach it.
    Fine beads of sweat dotted her upper lip. She licked them
    away, tasting salt and makeup.
    
    After long moments, the activity on the first monitor
    began to soften, to slacken, to lapse back into somnolent
    readings. There was one last hiccup of a spike.
    
    Susan Craig sat back in her chair. She found herself
    breathing, spent, as if she'd just run a 5K. After long mo-
    ments, she felt confident enough to shut down the second
    terminal.
    
    *6i-: i, .~, ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    175
    
    What had she done?
    
    Susan flung herself back in her chair, face hard for a
    moment. Then she forced herself to lean forward, out of
    the morass of self-doubt which threatened to envelop her.
    
    "Soon," she said soothingly, her fingertips brushing the
    terminal as if she stroked a patient's hand. "Soon."
    
    The phone rang. Susan answered it and listened, and
    felt her face grow cool. She put a fingertip to the corner
    of her mouth, as close to chewing a nail as she ever got
    now, her tongue tickling the hard acrylic edge. For a sec-
    ond, she felt her teeth bare as if she would not be able to
    resist a bite.
    
    She cleared her throat gently to intone, "That's no prob-
    lem. Thank you for calling."
    
    Her hand tightened about the receiver as she hung it
    upon, her fair, pale skin going to dead white about the
    knuckles.
    
    She punched out a number quickly and, when the party
    answered, said without preliminaries, "Hotchkiss thinks
    he's going to run. He's canceled all his appointments. But
    I know where he's going. We've discussed it before. I want
    you to drive up to Arrowhead and let him know just how
    serious we are." She paused. "No, I don't want him hurt
    badly. I just want his attention."
    
    She smiled tightly at the response.
    
    Carter returned home, filed a backup story, and was
    signing off when Dolan caught him on-line. The editorial
    assistant "sounded" much the same on a computer screen
    as he did in person.
    
    >>HEY, K`DDO! SOME 5THRY<<
    
    Carter leaned back toward the terminal with some re-
    grets. >>THR~KS. H`GHT PLFCE BT THE RJGHT TIME.<<
    
    >>SOME ~EDPLE HRUE BLL THE LUCK, H~ JT LUDK FOR
    iBiE?rr,''~<<
    

    





    176
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    >>r.lDEDOY'S SBYJ0.lG. GUESS iT DEPER.lDS O~ HIM.<<
    
    >>liCIU. THE BOSS SAYS TO GHEGK YDUR UOiCE M~JL Ot.lGE
    it.1 ~ RHiLE. PL.lD THE FEDS GHME BY TO SfiY HELLO.<<
    
    >>THBL.lKS EDR THE ~BL.llL.lG. DJO I MJSS PL.lYTH`r.lG IM-
    PORTA~T?<<
    
    >>THERE'S ~ GJ~ FDR YOU TO DOWClLORD. ~r.lT ME TU
    STPL.10 BY it.1 GHSE YDU 0.lEED HELP?(Gk<
    
    Dolan needn't have shorthanded a grin at the end of his
    query. Carter could pick up voice mail, download and up-
    load files on his computer, but graphics were another mat-
    ter. >>GUESS YOU'D NETTER<<
    
    >>] KEEP TELL`r.lG YOU, IT'S JUST POINT Ht.lD GUGK<<
    
    "Ha," Carter muttered. He pulled down his message
    menu and located the flag which told him there was a file
    waiting. The mouse did not seem to want to run smoothly
    as he tried to position the cursor to download the file.
    Then, when he thought he finally had it, his drive rattled
    at him, reminding him that he hadn't put in a disk. Fi-
    nally, he had it.
    
    The phone rang. Eyes fixed on the screen, as he now
    tried to load the GIF from his floppy, he answered the
    phone one-handed.
    
    "Yeah."
    
    "It's me, Windy. I had to get off the net. How's it goin'?"
    
    "Sorry to keep you hanging, Dolan. I've got it now. It's
    just coming up . . ." Carter paused, watching the screen as
    the pixels began to give him an incredibly clear picture.
    
    "Don't need my help?"
    
    "No, I, ah...." Distracted, Carter fell into incoherence.
    
    "Good goin', big guy. See you around." Dolan hung up
    with scarcely any reaction.
    
    Carter sat in front of his screen for a good five minutes,
    telephone receiver in hand, staring at what he had. As the
    phone began to beep at him, he set it back in its cradle
    without tearing his eyes away from the monitor.
    

    





                                     DEATH WATCH
    
    Nelson must have uploaded it for him. Maybe he knew
    he wouldn't make it with the file, or maybe he was just
    farther along in computer technology than Carter was, or
    maybe it was his best way of sneaking the information out
    of the Bureau.
    
    He'd never know, now.
    
    He stared at the newspaper photo, with its Bureau
    stamp on the corner, knowing it was out of Bauer's files,
    that it had to have come from Nelson because no one else
    would have left it for Carter.
    
    It showed Nelson escorting Bauer to the psychiatrist
    who would work with him. But that wasn't the focal point
    of Carter's interest. Nelson had circled another figure, al-
    most out of the camera's range of focus and illumination.
    He had penned there, neatly so as not to obscure the
    photo in any way, "still alive."
    
    Still alive.
    
    A grad student, Carter thought. Too young to be anything
    else. I know her, or rather, I knew her. Who thc hell is she?
    
    Because he had to remember. He had to.
    
    If for no other reason than the intense look on the
    young woman's face, naked expression, unaware the cam-
    era was catching her, unaware of anything but the serial
    killer being brought into the lab. The lens had caught her,
    immortalized in its stare, just as she stared upon the mur-
    derer. Sheer, unabashed adoration shone from her face as
    she looked at Bauer.
    

    





                    f~hanter 1.S
    
    "Shit." Frustration knifed through him. Add ten years onto
    her and he knew her, he knew her. But he didn't recognize
    her.
    
    Had Nelson thought so, too?
    
    He stared at the monitor, the picture so lifelike, so
    achingly clear, transfixed by the look upon the young
    woman's face. Had she known what the camera revealed,
    would she have veiled the open admiration, the passion
    she felt? Carter knew the type. He'd run into them be-
    fore. He could never understand the phenomenon. It was
    as though they responded to the same raw power that
    fueled the killer, not sexual, but fantasy and control and
    viole nce.
    
    How could he have missed that? And Nelson, too. Or
    had this one particular photo just surfaced after years, af-
    ter wads of photos had been studied? Had it even been
    hidden from lohn Nelson by other, more ambitious inves-
    tigators?
    
    Who was she? Where was she now?
    
    Carter found his fingertips moving along the lip of the
    computer desk as though he were already writing copy.
    Damn it, he knew her, and that astonished him, too. By
    all rights, when Bauer killed his doctor and escaped, she
    should have died,-too. Bauer rarely overlooked an oppor-
    tunity to indulge his capacity for cruelty.
    

    





    :d~
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    179
    
    He had to get the photo back to Dolan for computer
    aging. A newer hairstyle, some maturity to a face so young
    then it might have been made of marshmallowÄhe might
    know it when updated. While Dolan worked on that, he
    would backtrack to the psychiatrist's estate and records,
    see if he could find out what grad students from his uni-
    versity classes might have worked with him that fateful
    spring and summer. He had never concentrated on Bauer
    before the escape, only after.
    
    Carter stared. Why did Bauer spare her? Or had he
    been too rushed? That was a possibility. Bauer had always
    liked to take his deliberate time with his victims. Too
    long. Carter and the forensic experts had run across vic-
    tims who'd taken two, three days to die.
    
    He shuddered at the memory.
    
    The computer-generated image began to waver as his
    screen saver program took over, darkening into a galaxy,
    with otherworldly transports traveling over them. The pro-
    gram went into effect whenever the monitor stayed on
    text or an image too long, keeping the screen from being
    burned with the image permanently. A touch on the key-
    board or mouse and the GIF would return. Carter
    blinked, then rubbed his eyes as the space opera rolled
    across the screen. Amid the faint sound of warp drives
    and phasers cutting across space to blast enemy ships, he
    sat back.
    
    A firm knock sounded on the door.
    
    Carter reacted instinctively. He popped the floppy out
    of the drive and tossed it in a bottom drawer, where it lay
    amidst a stack of floppies. He put his fingers into the pile
    and stirred it around a little. Then he got up to answer the
    door.
    
    No one came to his apartment. There were only a few
    he might be expecting. Therefore, he was not surprised
    when he opened it to two suits, both of somber color.
    

    





    180
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    The redhead was perspiring heavily. There was a pallor
    under his flush and freckles that told Carter he came
    from back East. Washington, probably, although he could
    be from the Chicago Bureau. The second man leaned in,
    his stomach bulging out over his belt buckle, pushing the
    ends of his tie up toward his chest. The white shirt con-
    trasted violently with the splashed lime green tie. Carter
    raised his eyes from the fashion statement, meeting a
    tired gaze framed by crow's-feet as deep as any he'd seen
    etched into a California face. He'd spent a lot of years
    squinting into L.A. gridlock. This suit was definitely from
    the L.A. office, although he didn't recall that they'd met.
    
   "Carter Wyndall?"
    I am."
    
    "Agents Sofer and Franklin, Federal Bureau of Investi-
    gation. May we come in?"
    
    "Of course. I was expecting you." Carter let them pass,
    a subtle formality because Franklin, tie and all, was al-
    ready halfway into the apartment. "Father's Day present?"
    
    "What? Oh." Franklin looked morosely downward.
    '~es."
    
    "You'll have a new model in a couple of weeks."
    
    Sofer was grinning ear to ear as he pulled out a hand-
    kerchief and mopped his face and the back of his neck.
    "Let's hope," he agreed. He folded the sodden cloth over,
    mopped again hopelessly, and then put the handkerchief
    away.
    
    "Let me turn on the air-conditioning," Carter offered as
    he shut the door. "I haven't been home all that long. Place
    still feels shut up."
    
    Sofer's face eased into a grateful half-smile as Carter
    passed him on the way to the thermostat. The freckles
    had begun to turn bright red. The apartment let out a
    couple of creaks as the system cranked up, and air began
    blowing.
    
    5
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    181
    
    Franklin had parked himself in front of the computer,
    watching the Star Warsian display. Without turning
    around, the middle-aged man grunted, "You know why
    we're here."
    
    "I would guess it's Nelson. I could use a drink. No beer.
    Mineral water, juice?"
    
    "Water," both men answered. Carter bowed into the
    kitchen, found a lime and sliced it for the water glasses.
    He kept water stocked in the refrigerator. Los Angeles wa-
    ter was detestable. He'd grown used to almost everything
    about the city but that. It was only just better than no wa-
    ter at all.
    
    The outer space display was still twirling planets,
    spaceships, and tractor beams when he brought the drinks
    out. Carter avoided looking at it as he settled himself into
    the wing-backed chair which had become his favorite.
    Sofer sank onto the couch, Franklin stayed on his feet
    and pulled out a recorder. He put it on the coffee table
    and aimed it in Carter's direction.
    
    "Interview, May 16th, Carter Wyndall, agents Sofer and
    Franklin." He cleared his throat. The lime tie wafted with
    the motion, then settled. "Mr. Wyndall, would you please
    explain to us your acquaintanceship with Congressman
    John Nelson, formerly of the FBI."
    
    Carter knocked back about half his glass of water, then
    smiled and said, "Before we get too far into this, guys, is
    there any reason I should have my lawyer present?"
    
    No laughter. They cracked not a smile line between
    them. Sofer busied himself mopping his face again de-
    spite the now chilling air and Franklin fished his lime
    slice out of his water.
    
    Carter looked back and forth. "Good God. Don't tell me
    it's been twenty-four hours and you guys don't have the
    slightest idea who did Nelson."
    

    





    182
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "How about if we just stay away from speculation and
    answer the questions, Mr. Wyndall."
    
    "How about if we end this friendly conversation right
    here and now before I find myself the prime suspect."
    Carter had been sitting with his legs crossed. He now
    planted both feet firmly on the floor.
    
    Sofer said reluctantly, "We know it was an expert hit.
    That's about all the evidence we have. Hotel security
    cameras show very little. Whoever it was knew how to get
    in and get out, and exactly where John would be."
    
    "No weapon? No fibers?"
    
    "Everything was clean. The weapon hasn't been found
    yet."
    
    Carter let out a low whistle while Sofer hastened to
    add, "This is not for publication."
    
    He shook his head. "I don't step on toes. As long as you
    two keep in mind the last time I was on a target range, I
    managed, barely, to hit the broad side of a barn, I'll talk
    to you. I know John from a case he worked on years ago,
    when I was a newsman in Chicago."
    
    "Georg Bauer," put in Franklin, flatly.
    
    "That's the one."
    
    'You the newsman the bastard spilled his guts to? Giv-
    ing up bodies just before he was scheduled to be exe-
    
    "That's me. No one, not even John, wanted Bauer back
    on Death Row worse than I did." Carter felt his teeth
    showing, pulled his lips down. "We crossed paths trying to
    find him for a couple of years. Then the trail went cold.
    John saysÄused to sayÄI'm still looking. But he retired,
    then ran for Congress. When he has occasion to be in
    town, which isn't often, we knock back a cold one, chew
    on a steak, compare our cholesterol, and wonder what
    happened."
    
    "So you heard from him this time?"
    
    E:
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    183
    
    They suspected already, of course. "He called from the
    plane. I was out on a story, he put it into my voice mail."
    
    "Could we hear that message?"
    
    Carter shook his head. "Sorry. I dumped it when I re-
    trieved it." Which wasn't strictly true, he'd recorded it, but
    the message was no longer on the voice mail system.
    
    Sofer said to Franklin, "That's okay. It should be the
    same message we picked up."
    
    A hackle rose along Carter's back. "You heard it
    earlier?"
    
    "That's right. Your employer thought, under the circum-
    stances, it was all right to let us access your mail."
    
    Carter felt his jaw tighten. It wasn't all right. Not by a
    long shot. He bit down on the rim of his glass and took
    an angry swig of mineral water, felt it hissing down his
    throat.
    
    Franklin asked mildly, "What was Nelson hoping to
    pass on to you?"
    
    He was done cooperating. "Damned if I know." A news-
    paper, of all employers, should know about confidentiality.
    He found it difficult to believe that his editor would give
    even with the Feds leaning on him.
    
    "If he was passing anything about Bauer on to you, it
    would have to be Federal property. We would have to con-
    fiscate it." Franklin looked edgy. He kept pacing back and
    forth. Carter tried not to watch him or the computer mon-
    itor across the room.
    
    "I wouldn't want the Feds angry with me." He tried a
    shadow of a smile. "What makes you think Nelson's death
    had anything to do with Bauer?"
    
    "Nothing. But, so far, nothing makes us think it doesn't.
    Nelson hadn't been a congressman long enough to get
    himself into hot water. There haven't been any terrorist
    claims, no threats. We don't even have an official reason
    as to why he was in L.A."
    

    





    184
    
    .11 ~ 1
    
    he was coming out betore ..._ _ ..
    
    "According to our records, there was nothing extraordi-
    nary about the visit. He liked the hotel, it was quiet, con-
    fidential. He usually didn't bring girls in. John was faithful
    to his wife. He had appointments later in the week to do
    some poliLickillg, l~ut frUIll all upl,vllilll`< ~.` 1-`,
    
    here specifically to talk to you." --~..~..~
    
    "He did?" That frankly surprised Carter. As diffident as
    he'd been about the old leads on the Bauer case, his ac-
    tions were not. Nelson must have thought he had some-
    thing and wanted Carter's take on it. He'd been casual
    because he knew the world of voice and E-mail was not
    
                          Elizabeth Forrest
    
    a secure one.
    
    Franklin paused by the computer. "This Star Wars?"
    
    "Not exactly. A clone, more or less."
    
    "Do you like to play computer games?"
    
    "I enjoy it once in a while. I'd rather meet with an old
    friend and enjoy good conversation, but my schedule
    doesn't always allow it."
    
    Carter put down his water glass, edged forward slightly
    in his chair. The agent's beefy hand waved over the com-
    puter as if itching to reach for the mouse or keyboard.
    
    "What's your high score?"
    
    "I don't keep one."
    
    Franklin's hand shot out for the mouse control before
    Carter could say anything further. At the touch, the
    screen dissolved away from the galactic scenario, and re-
    assembled in the gray-tone photo clearly marked as FBI
    evidence.
    
    "Shit." Franklin turned on one heel. "What is this?"
    
    Carter kept his face neutral. "You tell me. I just down-
    loaded that."
    
    'You know as well as I do what that is."
    
    Sofer got to his feet as well. He had stopped sweating,
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    185
    
    ~rally; and now fresh beads popped out on his excited
    face. "Holding out on us;"
    
    "Now do I need my lawyer?"
    
    Franklin brought up an editing menu. He brought the
    cursor up to "delete." "I don't think so," he answered. "You
    have this saved yet?"
    
    "Don't touch that!" Carter jumped forward.
    
    Too late. The agent clicked the selection. The hard
    drive whirred, the picture went dark, and then the light
    amber screen came up.
    
    "I would hate," Franklin said, "for a friend of John's to
    be compromised by his indiscretion."
    
    Sofer added, "So would 1." He headed to the door. "If
    you think of anything else you'd like to tell us about Nel-
    son, just call."
    
    Carter felt the corner of his cheek twitch. He let it, be-
    fore asking, "Anything I should have known about that
    picture? Since it's possible John died for it?"
    
    "Only that the Freedom of Information Act doesn't ap-
    ply to it. You shouldn't have seen it. You didn't." Franklin
    straightened his tie. "Be careful, Wyndall. If John was a
    target because he was a congressman, you're in the clear.
    But if he was a target because of the Bauer case, you're
    next in line."
    
    Carter said dryly, "I guess that gives me an incentive for
    cooperating with you."
    
    "It should." Franklin scooped up his recorder, shut it
    off, and slipped it in his pocket. "No one downtown has
    a clue, for what it's worth. If I find out anything, I'll give
    you a call."
    
    "So let me ask you one question."
    
    The two suits paused. In the air-conditioning, Sofer's
    complexion had calmed down to its normal pallor, sprin-
    kled liberally with freckles. He stretched his neck out over
    his collar.
    

    





    186
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Why are you two so worried about Bauer if he's sup-
    posed to be dead? We both know he didn't do Nelson.
    There's a world of difference between a professional killer
    and a thrill killer. We're not talking about the same man.
    Is the photo that significant?"
    
    "You think Bauer is dead?" Sofer's voice rose, with an
    edge.
    
    "Yes, I do."
    
    "Well, I have no information that he's considered dead.
    His case file is open."
    
    "It's been years since a victim was found matching his
    ... methodology. We have networks now that we didn't
    have then. VICAP or one of the others should pick him
    up immediately if he's begun killing again." Carter stood
    his ground.
    
    Franklin sniffed. "We can hope, but we can't confirm
    anything. I would hate for you to be his comeback." Sofer
    started to add something, halted as Franklin wagged an
    index finger at him. "Carter, we don't know that there's
    anything about that photo or anything else John may have
    tried to get to you. Our objection is that Nelson is no
    longer an agent. He had his hands on, and was distribut-
    ing material that is government private property. We don't
    know why he did it. We only know that he's dead. We
    need to find out why, and if his actions had anything to
    do with it. Was he flushing somebody out? Was he into
    blackmail? I don't think so, John was a good agent. But it's
    our job to look and secure whatever loose ends he left be-
    hind."
    
    He was silent for a moment, then said, "Point taken."
    
    "Good. We'll be in touch."
    
    Carter let the two of them out. After long moments,
    he thought he heard car doors close and a car slip away
    from the curb. He returned to his computer desk and
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    187
    
    opened the bottom drawer. Dipping his hand in, he pulled
    out the utility disk with the bright red label.
    
    He popped it into the computer, brought the photo up
    again, and stared.
    
    . - .... ~ ~ 4- ~ .~: 1
    
    -- . ~: ~ ~. .-~ - ,W,~
    
    -_:,
    
    (, _1~
    
    _
    _
    : ~ _
    - =z
    i ~ I, ~ ~
    - ~ _
    _, ~ _
    

    





    ChaDter 16
    
    the highway and the electricity which ran air conditioners,
    radios, TVs, pool pumps, telephones, refrigerators, hair
    dryers, you name it, ceased its incessant hum. Oh,
    Stephen thought, there are lines here, even high-voltage
    lines, but the traffic they manage, the population they cater
    to are so thin it scarcely matters.
    
    One of the eeriest things after the Northridge quake he
    remembered, was the total absence of electrical sound. A
    few car alarms pierced the air, but everything else was
    dead quiet at first. Then the dogs began to bark. Then,
    from the shifting dust, people emerged wailing.
    
    But, oh, the heavenly quiet for those first few shocked
    moments.
    
    That made Arrowhead even better. It took no natural di-
    saster for it to quiet. He sat in the Jag, car door open, and
    just breathed. The air did not smell quite as fresh, but
    then it was late May. Even up here in the mountains, the
    lack of rain was keenly felt. It would be dry, dusty, and
    even somewhat smog-tinged, though nothing compared to
    the basin he'd just driven out of. Going back, when he
    went back, he would hit that dingy brown curtain and, for
    just a moment, he would wonder if the fires had begun,
    but there would probably be none. The haze so thick it
    could be cut with a knife was just the normal air hanging
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    189
    
    over Ene basin. It wouia be suckea ail across ~ne con~men~
    clear to Denver, under the right atmospheric conditions, as
    if Denver didn't have its own problems with smog.
    
    Hotchkiss sighed and scrubbed his face with his hand.
    He blinked several times to clear his eyes, then smiled as
    the mountain home focused in his sight. He loved his
    mountain retreat. He called it a condo, to avoid specula-
    tion about its worth, but it was a house, all his, all three
    stories, meandering and stacked and built in a most un-
    conventional way on the sharp hillside overlooking the
    lake. He'd bought the house in foreclosure several years
    back when the real estate market had absolutely crashed
    to a ten year low and interest rates had plummeted after-
    ward, though the second mortgage had been straining.
    Then his grandmother had died and the strain was gone,
    and he was eternally grateful he had not missed this win-
    dow of opportunity.
    
    He reached around back for his duffel and slid out of
    the car. This was his haven, this was home, this was
    where no one else could reach him or touch him. He had
    no phones here, though his cell phone, if he left it on,
    could function. He didn't think he would even turn it on
    today. This afternoon, this day, these last rays of sunlight,
    he intended to enjoy.
    
    Tomorrow morning he would think about what to do.
    
    Hotchkiss threw his keys on the foyer table and locked
    the door behind him. Through this section of the house,
    he could see the sunken living room with its fireplace,
    and beyond, the deck.
    
    Fallen branches and small, rusty piles of needles lit-
    tered the deck. A few pinecones had eddied to a stop in
    the deck corners. He could sweep for a while, just enjoy-
    ing the rhythm of the corn straws across the redwood, or
    he could go upstairs, fill the spa, and wait for it to heat.
    
    That sounded better.
    

    





    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    .1 I .1 1 . I r I
    ~ tf IIUU~II L11= ~L~II~II, ttJLlI1U :tVIlIG 1111Ä
    
    ported beer still cold in the refrigerator, popped the cap,
    and carried it with him. The mountain air had made his
    mouth feel like it was full of cotton and the beer tasted
    great. This would be a premium day after all. Peaks and
    valleys, peaks and valleys, all life was peaks and valleys.
    Guess it took a valley to make anyone appreciate a peak.
    
    Upstairs, the wing took a sharp turn, and then wound
    around. The guest rooms and first set of bathrooms and
    storage closets were here. He opened a door which looked
    as though it belonged to a pair of additional closets and,
    two at a time, took the stairs to the third and master floor.
    The wood creaked as if welcoming his step. He could
    smell the faint scent of the cedar lining the closet even
    before he opened the door to the master suite.
    
    It was not opulent, despite the dhurrie carpet and sev-
    eral lamb rugs scattered over the planked flooring. The
    massive bed, the dresser, and armoire were all in Danish
    modern, spare and clean of line. He tossed his duffel onto
    the bed and went straight to the bathroom, which was a
    corner of the suite. The cobalt-colored tile bathroom
    beckoned, but he stepped past it to another deck, hidden
    completely from any other aspect of the house, and began
    to fill the spa. A squirrel ran along the railing, flipped his
    tail when spray from the tub caught it, and ran away chat-
    tering. Stephen set the heater as well, not hot, for he
    wanted it tepid, then returned to the bedroom to unload
    his duffel.
    
    He paused when his fingertips came across the soft-
    ware. He took the laser disk, then Frisbeed it across the
    room into a shadow-darkened corner. He would deal with
    it when he felt like it. Tomorrow. Perhaps later tonight.
    Maybe he would roast it in the fireplace, then sink its
    warped remains in the lake. He stripped down to swim-
    ming trunks, finished unpacking and laying out clothes for
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    191
    
    the next day. The massive cedar-lined closet filled the
    room more fully with its aromatic scent.
    
    The spa shut off when it reached its fill line. Stephen
    lay down on the bed and waited for the heater to bring
    the water up to its preset temperature. He stared at the
    ceiling, rough-hewn beams painted a soft, yet very dark
    blue, with ivory, amorphous stars splattered here and
    there. It was not unlike the sky and cloud-filled ceiling his
    mother had painted in his room when he was very young,
    only this room held a touch of dark mystery, a brush of
    the unknown, a hint of New Age mysticism. He was star-
    ing at it when he fell asleep.
    
    The sky's glow had turned to pumpkin when he woke,
    its harvest glow slanting over the floorboards and through
    the window shutters. Hotchkiss blinked. His tongue felt
    thick and his throat was dry again. The room's ceiling had
    darkened as well, casting long purple shadows into the far
    end of the room, nearly obliterating the bathroom. He sat
    up, massaging the back of his neck, thinking that the spa
    would be ready by now. He could almost imagine the
    surge and pulse of the water over his aching body. It
    would soothe away anxieties, cool his brow....
    
    "Time you were awake, Hotchkiss."
    
    A cramping pain shot through his neck as he swung
    about in alarm. From the far depths of the bedroom's
    shadows, a pearlized planet gleamed, a shimmering disk-
    ette that rose and tracked through the air as if levitated.
    He could only see the man-shape that held the disk
    vaguely, smokelike, in the beyond.
    
    His heart thumped. His voice leaped brashly ahead of
    his other emotions and fears. This was his territory, his
    sanctuary! "How'd you get in here?"
    
    "Easy enough. You seeÄ" and the diskette came sling-
    ing at him across the room, slicing through the dusk like
    
    ~ ~ <:t:
    

    





    192
    
                 Elizabeth Fo~rest
    
    a pendulum of the Inquisition. He ducked and batted it
    away.
    
    "We not only know who you are, we know where to put
    our finger on you any time we want you."
    
    'Who the hell are you?" His voice rose, near to break-
    ing, the cords in his throat aching from the effort to keep
    it steady.
    
    It moved forward, and the stray column of afternoon
    light that moved across its face lit up a horror which made
    Hotchkiss gasp into strangled silence. It was nothing hu-
    man, not the eyes, not the harshness of its metallic shell,
    not even the mouth. A hooded sweatshirt was drawn
    tightly about it and even as Stephen gargled his panic, he
    thought, Mask. Ie's got to be a mask.
    
    But it looked like no mask he'd ever seen. It took an-
    other step forward, back into striped shadow.
    
    "Don't play games with us," the being warned. "We
    don't want to have to play games with you."
    
    "I'm notÄ"
    
    '~You ran this morning."
    
    "IÄI don't like to be pressured. Whatever else you may
    think of me, I . . . I vote my conscience."
    
    The being shifted. Its massive shoulders shrugged back,
    the chin of the horrendous face rose, and it began to
    laugh, as if hugely amused. Stephen felt stung. It pierced
    through his fear. The thing was laughing at him! It knew
    his darkest secrets, it thought to manipulate him by them,
    and now it laughed at him!
    
    Hotchkiss shied the diskette away from himself, back at
    the intruder, who slapped it down and then stamped a
    heavy foot upon it, grinding it down into the floor.
    
    "Whatever you want from me, I won't do it."
    
    "Oh, I think you will. After all, Hotchkiss, we both
    share a love for children. Children are the future, the rea-
    son for everything that we do. They are the hope, the po-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    193
    
    tential." The shadowy being shuffled a step closer. The
    diskette under its feet shattered into a thousand sparkling
    crystals. It looked down. 'What a shame. But there are
    more where that came from. With your name and self
    within it. A truly personalized program of porn and perver-
    sion." It laughed again, as if amused by its own clever-
    ness.
    
    "It's not as if we're asking so much of you. We're not
    asking for more air pollution, or money laundering, or
    contract kickbacks. We're not asking for racial discrimina-
    tion or union shortchanging. We're asking for some over-
    due honesty, Hotchkiss."
    
    Hotchkiss tried to swallow. He couldn't quite manage
    enough spit to do it, and ended up choking. The strange-
    faced beast waited patiently until he caught his breath.
    
    "This time," he got out.
    
    "Well, of course. We've put too much time and effort
    into this for a one-shot deal. You're very astute, Hotchkiss.
    I don't know what we have planned for your future, but
    I'm sure that we have a future planned for you."
    
    Stephen rubbed his throat. "I can't do it."
    
    "Oh, we think you will. You've worked too hard to upset
    the applecart this far along, haven't you? We're not that
    unreasonable. We won't ask much of you, in the long run.
    We've worked too hard, as well." The intruder stepped
    backward abruptly. Shadows blurred.
    
    Hotchkiss blinked. He jumped off the bed, ran forward,
    running into . . . nothingness. He found the light switch
    and flooded the room with yellow-gold illumination.
    
    Nothing.
    
    "Where the hell are you?"
    
    Emptiness answered him.
    
    Hotchkiss stood, breathing raggedly, for long moments.
    From outside, he thought he heard the faint sound of a
    

    





    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    far on the quiet mountainside.
    
    "I won't do it!" he screamed. His throat tore with the
    sound.
    
    A mountain breeze came in off the balcony. It carried
    a high altitude chill with it. The skin on his forearms
    prickled with gooseflesh.
    
    Sure he would.
    
    He had too much to lose.
    
    Walking like a broken thing, he shuffled across the
    room, heading for the spa. Sharp cutting particles ground
    into the soles of his fish-belly white feet, but he scarcely
    noticed it. Did not see the faint trail of blood as he
    stepped into the spa.
    
    He had to think. Had to. Had to.
    
    Hotchkiss lowered himself into the water, oblivious to
    the red ribbon swirling about him as he turned on the
    jets. The water churned, late afternoon had become sun-
    set, its own pinks and roses spilling across him, over the
    foaming water, tinting the side of the deck and house.
    
    The water felt tremendously good. He settled into it,
    letting it rise up over his shoulders, lap up against his
    neck. He would relax first, then think.
    
    He never felt the gaping wound in the sole of his right
    foot, bleeding steadily into the foam. The purpling shad-
    ows of the dusk off the lake colored everything.
    
    Hotchkiss sighed and let himself bleed away into the
    bubbling water.
    
    Jack Trebolt leaned his hip against the worn linoleum
    corner of the Fat Boy burger counter and knocked off the
    last of a tepid cup of coffee. The coffee, like the stand's
    burgers, was best tossed down steaming hot ... colder,
    they both tended to congeal. He ran his tongue over the
    front of his teeth to clean them. The sun was lowering
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    195
    
    o`.,er the c.mog-tinged cityscape. He eyed the horizon idhy,
    then checked his watch. Dinner must be over. He won-
    dered what McKenzie had had to eat. Something fat-
    tening, he supposed, something which would make her
    hips bulge out like saddlebags and drop her butt down to
    the back of her knees. Or maybe, since this was Califor-
    nia, she'd have gotten sushi and sprouts instead of meat
    loaf and mashed potatoes.
    
    Grinning at his wit, he pushed away from the food
    counter and sauntered across the broken asphalt lot to his
    car. In the privacy of his door-dented vehicle, he pulled
    out his phone to make a call.
    
    It was answered on the second ring. "Mount Mercy
    Hospital."
    
    He smoothed his voice. "This is Reverend Michaels. I
    understand one of my parishioners was admitted last
    night, poor girl. I don't have her room number, but her
    name is Smith, McKenzie Smith."
    
    "Just a moment and I'll connect you," the helpful
    woman offered.
    
    In a moment, there was another ring, muted, softer. He
    counted them. A-one ringy dingy, a-two ringy dingy, a-three
    ringy dingy. Why McKenzie must be a real little sleepy-
    head tonight, and the sun not even down.
    
    He recognized her drowsy voice when she picked up.
    
    "Hello?"
    
    "How'd you like your present?"
    
    Blurred, confused, Mac repeated, "Hello?"
    
    "It's me, Mac. How'd you like that little bit of home I
    brought to you?" He laughed dryly. "Well, there's more
    where that came from. You see, we miss you, me and
    Cody. We figure you ought to be back home. We're coin'
    what we can to bring you back. Of course, Cody has his
    heart sunk into it.'
    
    "Jack!"
    

    





    196
    
    EI=abeth Forrest
    
    'You remember me. Having a nice rest, Mac? I just
    called to tell you...." His voice dropped involuntarily,
    dropped to that hard cold place inside of him where he
    sometimes had to live.... "I just called to tell you it'll be
    a long, cold day in hell before you walk away from me.
    Hear that? Don't ever think you can walk away from me!"
    
    The cell phone did not give him the intense physical
    satisfaction of slamming the receiver down, but he did
    hear a shocked cry from McKenzie before he discon-
    nected. He must have sat in the car grinning like a fool
    for a good ten minutes before he put the car in gear and
    headed to Motel S.
    
    Moreno called from home. He charged it to the office
    card, but it was late, and he'd put in enough hours, and
    he sat in the little den of his ranch-style California
    stucco-sided home and looked at the plastic evidence bag
    while the phone rang somewhere in rain-soaked Washing-
    ton. He'd have to refrigerate it and wondered if his wife
    would put up her usual fuss, then give up and hide it in
    the back to keep the kids from seeing it. Though, truth to
    tell, he wasn't sure what kind of evidence this would be.
    It certainly didn't prove McKenzie Smith or Fordham or
    Trebolt or whatever she liked to call herself hadn't come
    to blows with her father. If anything, it might lean toward
    the "had."
    
    He became aware that the phone had not been an-
    swered by the fourth ring. Automatically he checked his
    watch to verify the time, wondered what time it was in
    Washington, chastised himself for being so damn stupid
    about the time zones, reminded himself that, as the
    thirteen-year-old like to remind him, at his age brain cells
    were dying by the dozens, and stayed on the line. This
    was a family phone, and if the Whiteside family were any-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    197
    
    thing like his, a ring-through was a wonder in itself. It
    ought to be, even with call waiting, terminally busy.
    
    So maybe the family went out for burgers.
    
    In that case, the answering machine ought to be on.
    
    But nothing picked up. Tsking impatiently, Moreno set-
    tled in for the long haul, knowing that if there were an
    answering machine but it had been turned off absent-
    mindedly, if it was a newer model, it would turn itself on
    by the twelfth ring or so.
    
    And, if they didn't have an answering machine, the in-
    cessant ringing was probably driving the family pet out of
    its gourd.
    
    Moreno's stubby fingers strayed over the evidence bag
    again. Trebolt had said his wife had killed the family dog.
    He didn't buy that. Women very seldom killed anything
    out of rage, and when they did, unfortunately, it was gen-
    erally their children. But by far, when it came to domestic
    violence, the evidence pointed to the man of the house. It
    was he who rose to the testosterone level of professional
    athletes during the Super Bowl, World Series, Olympics,
    World Wrestling Federation, you name it. It was he who
    could not stand to be disrespected, ignored, hassled, or
    hampered by family demands.
    
    Ten rings.
    
    So what was she doing with this ghoulish piece of flesh
    in her hand, clutching it as though it were a teddy bear?
    
    Eleven rings.
    
    Moreno sighed. He'd eaten a big dinner, but he was
    still hungry, something unsatisfied nibbling at his edges.
    He ought to go back on his diet. If he had to chase some-
    body down now, he'd be out of breath in two blocks,
    hellÄ
    
    The line clicked. "Hello, this is the Whiteside resi-
    dence. If you've called for (and the individual's voice
    spoke each subject's name), John, Sarah, Terry, or Freddie,
    

    





    t ;198
    R: - --tlease leave a message atter the beep. ~orry we mlssea
    
    .,,
    
    yOU!
    
    Good old Washington, where people weren't afraid to
    say they were gone. Moreno listened to a brief stretch of
    music, something scratchily sounding like the theme to
    Raiders of the Lost Ark, and then came a faint beep.
    
    He left his message, couched as carefully as he could
    to not alarm, but to make an impression as to the impor-
    tance of responding, then hung up.
    
    He wondered when the Whitesides would be home.
    
               Elizabeth Forrest
                       

    





                                     Chapter 17
    
    He made a copy of the disk and waited for Dolan to show
    up to pick it up. Both of them had worried that the Feds
    might have Carter staked out, but Dolan said he'd taken
    care of it. Even so, Carter was a little surprised when the
    doorbell rang and he answered it, to find Dolan dressed as
    a pizza delivery boy, passing him through a savory smelling
    pizza box out of the thermal envelope. He looked the part
    of a delivery boy, spotty face, ill-gotten haircut, his shirt
    tucked in sideways.
    
    Dolan palmed the disk and a five dollar tip as Carter
    passed it over. He grinned. "I oughta deliver pizza more
    often."
    
    Carter pried open the corner of the box. He wrinkled
    his nose. "Next time, no mushrooms."
    
    "Why not?"
    
    "They're slimy. If God had wanted mushrooms on a
    pepperoni pizza, He would have put them into the
    pepperoni along with God knows what else is in it."
    
    Dolan beamed. "Next time, order Chinese. I know this
    great place up on HillÄ"
    
    Carter interrupted, "Don't you think we're carrying this
    a little too far? If I am being watched by Feds, by now
    they must think we're exchanging phone number"Oh. Right." Dolan tucked the thermal envelope under
    199
    

    





    200
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    his arm. "I'll have your photo tomorrow afternoon. Early-
    .. ..
    
    sn.
    
    "Good-ish," Carter answered, and shut the door in his
    face.
    
    Hot pizza and cold beer. A near perfect dinner. He sat
    in his recliner, put the pizza and his beer down on the
    wooden tray table next to it, and thumbed on the remote.
    
    Three slabs later, he had to admit that picking the
    mushrooms off was defeating him. His taste buds ad-
    justed to them slowly, or perhaps the beer was overcoming
    a natural aversion. As he chewed and looked the box over,
    a certain fact had become self-evident. One, Dolan had
    brought an extra large pizza and two, he wasn't going to be
    able to make much more in the way of inroads on it.
    
    Besides which, there was a certain congeniality in eat-
    ing pizza, a camaraderie lacking when teaching it. Carter
    sucked down the rest of his beer. Eating it alone beat not
    eating at all. It even beat eating a regular dinner, if hospi-
    tal food were involved.
    
    He thought of McKenzie Smith. He wondered what it
    would be like to have her sitting across the table from
    him, wrapping strings of hot cheese around her fingers
    and tongue, tucking the triangle of pizza into her mouth
    and smiling. Wiping off corner dabs of tomato sauce from
    her mouth. Leaning toward him, smelling slightly of par-
    mesan and oregano and pepperoni....
    
    "Shit." Carter put down his empty. It was a shame to let
    a good pizza go to waste. He vaulted out of his chair and
    into the kitchen, where he found a substantial roll of alu-
    minum foil, left over from Thanksgiving and turkey, prob-
    ably. He covered the pizza box with its silvery sheen and
    then, somewhat impishly, found an old Christmas bow in
    the corner of the living room, blew off the dust bunnies,
    and taped it in the middle of the box.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    201
    
    Smelling redolently of pepperoni pizza, Carter attracted
    a few stares as he went up in the hospital elevator. A sur-
    geon dressed in greens stared at him intently, before
    breaking into a smile and saying, "I hope your buddy ap-
    preciates that."
    
    "He will if I can do an end run around the nurses."
    
    "If not, bring it to the cardiac lounge on the second. 1
    missed dinner." The heart surgeon got out a floor before
    he did.
    
    He knew McKenzie had been moved, but Joyce
    Tompkins had left word for him with the new room
    number. Almost diagonally across the unit, the door to her
    room was closed. Dinner had come and gone. The nurses
    were gathering the carts of empty trays to take back to the
    kitchen. As visiting hours were still in effect, they paid lit-
    tle or no attention to him, even when he slipped past the
    door marked "Restricted."
    
    She lay in a clump of sheets, facing away from the
    door, toward the curtained window bank. The room had a
    smell to it, a smell that he did not like, and liked even
    less after he identified it. The last occupant of this room
    had had a lingering illness, and died here. He wondered
    if she could sense it, too.
    
    He dropped the pizza box on the portable tray table,
    the foil bursting open as he did so, filling the room with
    the smell of pepperoni and cheese. "I don't like eating
    alone. How about you?"
    
    She stirred and turned about in a tangle of covers, her
    eyes drooping and weary. The eye which had.threatened
    that morning to swell closed had alteady begun to heal,
    going purple with yellowish streaks, the swelling nearly
    gone. "Already had dinner," she managed, her voice thick.
    
    They'd sedated her. Carter felt disappointment drop
    into his guts, where it simmered along with other feelings
    

    





    202
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    he didn't seem to be responsible for. "Sure, but did you
    eat?"
    
    "Not ... much."
    
    "Come on, come on. Besides, I owe you an apology."
    
    "Again?" She gave a humorless smile. "Most people just
    bring flowers."
    
    Despite the sedation, there was a hard glitter as she fo-
    cused on him. He felt himself shrink a little under the ex-
    amination. To her his failure must have been just one of
    many. He waved the pizza box seductively, wafting the
    aroma.
    
    "Smells like a peace offering."
    
    "Smart girl."
    
    '~ou're not doing a story on me? Evening edition or
    maybe you string for the National Enquirer?"
    
    "Ouch." He screwed his face up. "That hurt. No. I'm
    not doing a story. As a matter of face, you're wasting my
    valuable time."
    
    "Oh I am, am 1?" A slightly amused look replaced the
    vulnerable one. 'What do reporters do when they have to
    have dinner>"
    
    "Sit up and pay attention." He leaned over the railing
    found the TV control. "The Dodgers are still on the road,
    but they're broadcasting the Angels tonight. They're still
    chasing the Rangers for first."
    
    "It's early in the season. Never get excited until after
    the All-Star break," she said faintly.
    
    "Oh, another baseball fan, huh? Or just a critic?"
    
    She shrugged, winced a little as if it hurt, then sat up,
    hugging her knees.
    
    The TV set warmed up and the game came on, with
    the announcer saying earnestly, "The Angels roared out of
    their hottest spring training ever, slowed down a little, but
    now they're back in the hunt for first place as June is just
    around the corner...."
    

    





      ~.r
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    203 ~
    
    She gave a lopsided smile. "Same old Angels."
    
    He agreed. "Like a house on fire until the All-Star
    Break."
    
    "My dad . . ." she swallowed carefully. "My dad always
    wanted to see a Freeway World Series."
    
    "Never happen. It's a conspiracy. The Dodgers win, the
    Angels lose. The Angels win, the Dodgers lose. It's an un-
    written law of the franchise." He passed a decently warm
    piece of pizza on a napkin to her. "it's a little known fact."
    
    She wrinkled her nose. "Mushrooms on pepperoni?"
    
    He laughed and settled back to watch the game. She
    managed two slices, he ate three more and the last couple
    were snagged by the night charge nurse who dropped in
    to see who was visiting. She recognized Carter from the
    heart transplant story and backed out quietly, once bribed.
    
    He watched McKenzie neatly lick the last of the pizza
    juice from her fingers, dainty as a kitten grooming itself.
    
    "That was good," she admitted. "But I expect chocolate
    if you want me to forgive Moreno."
    
    "Moreno? He giving you a hard time?"
    
    She dried her hands on a cloth napkin. "He doesn't be-
    lieve me. None of them do."
    
    "Did you trash the room?"
    
    McKenzie shot him a look, almost of betrayal, then
    shook her head. The meal seemed to have revitalized her
    slightly. Her speech sharpened, her eyes brightened. "As if
    I would want to. Jack was here. In fact, he left me
    somethingÄ" She began to search among the blankets.
    "He sent it in a card with the flowersÄ" She picked and
    looked, then gave up with a frustrated sigh. "I can't find
    it."
    
    "A threatening note>"
    
    "A piece of my dogs ear."
    
    I le had been knocking back one of her multiple cartons
    of apple juice and choked as it went down his windpipe.
    

    





    204
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Cho c^t 9.^A ~s~st.^l~o~ 9O 1-~ AL~ 1A:^ ~ A~IA R A-
    
    ù=l~ot?" , ~ , i,,
    
    "I had a dog. I've always had dogs, so there's like this
    big empty hole in here without one," she made a fist over
    her chest, "so Jack let me get this golden retriever pup.
    Cody. Biggest feet you've ever seen. A good dog. Jack
    came home early from a trip. Came home mean. I don't
    know why, I never knew why. Cody got between us, tried
    to protect me, so JackÄJack carved him up. So I cleaned
    up the kitchen and buried my dog and as soon as Jack left
    the house, I left, too. I don't know how he found me. I
    haven't spoken to my father since I left high school. He
    wasn't someone you'd think I'd come back to. But Jack
    found me. And he brought a souvenir." She looked at her
    empty hand. "He told me he had more. Bits and pieces of
    my dog...." She cleared her throat. "They gave me a sed-
    ative, y'know. So I've been just sort of Iying here, sleeping,
    drifting in and out and you know what I keep thinking of,
    what I think I'll find when I wake up? I think I'm going
    to find his head on the pillow next to me, just like that
    guy in The Godfather did his racehorse."
    
    He watched her shudder. He hadn't had a dog in a long
    time. With his lifestyle, a cat was more suitable, but even
    that was difficult. There was neutering, traveling, ad-
    justing to new apartments and cities every few years. His
    last cat had gotten disgusted and wandered off, found a
    new home. He knew because the adopted owner had
    called the ID tag's number, asked about shots, and re-
    fused to return him, saying the cat was obviously happier
    at his place. He would have liked to dispute that, but
    knew the finder was probably right.
    
    "Dogs can be like a member of the family," he said, fi-
    nally, inadequately.
    
    "Yeah." She held her breath for a moment. "I miss him.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    205
    
    There are times whenÄwhen I still think he's here, close
    to me." Then, "l never once imagined a pizza box."
    
    She reminded him of the punching clown he'd had as
    a kid. Knock her clean over and she still bounced up.
    Looking at her, seeing anew the marks from the past few
    days, he was struck by the irony of that.
    
    "Look, it doesn't matter if Moreno doesn't believe you
    as long as Joyce does. She'll fight like a tiger for you."
    
    Mac wrapped a corner of the sheet around her finger.
    Her gaze strayed to the television screen where Tim
    Salmon came up to bat and hit a hard line drive that he
    stretched out to a double for the Angels. "Did she tell you
    they're sending me to psychiatric tomorrow?"
    
    That would have scared him, and he thought he could
    tell that it scared her. "How do you feel about that?"
    
    "Joyce says it's okay. Actually, it's probably the best way
    to prove I didn't flip out. A few tests and I'm out of there,
    right?"
    
    "Probably."
    
    "And when my father comes out of the coma, he can
    tell them what happened." Her eyes went to the television
    screen again, tracking the game.
    
    UAny word on his condition?"
    
    She shook her head. Then she said, "Do you know your
    fingers twitch when you talk to me?"
    
    He felt his face warm. "Old habit," he answered. "I
    learned to type the hard way, practice, practice, practice.
    I still do it, unconsciously. I'm typing our conversation
    even as we speak."
    
    "That's not good."
    
    "Why?"
    
    "You're not paying full attention to me. Half your mind
    is directing your fingers what keys to hit."
    
    "Half? Even a chimpanzee can type with only a quarter
    of his brain."
    

    





    206
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
      ~  ~1
    
    be worse. Your nose could twitch when you talked."
    
    "My nose?"
    
    "No, seriously." McKenzie waved at him to listen. "I
    had this girlfriend in high schoolÄshe got her nose done
    for graduation. Done early, actually, so she could enjoy her
    senior year. And I don't know what they did to it, maybe
    they made it too short, but every time she spoke, her nose
    bobbed up and down in time with her upper lip. We
    stared at it for months, fascinated."
    
    "Another plastic surgery horror tale. This town is full of
    them." Carter sat back, thinking of older movie queens
    with faces drawn so tight they looked like Mardi Gras
    masks.
    
    The phone chimed. McKenzie jumped, rattling the tray
    table. Carter caught the pizza box as it went sliding. She
    made no move to answer it. Her face went cold.
    
    "What's wrong?"
    
    "It's Jack," she said. '`He's called three times tonight al-
    ready. I don't know how he gets through. I called down-
    stairs. They said the switchboard closes at ten. So I won't
    answer any calls until then."
    
    "Let me talk to him. I'd like to aim a shot or two at
    him." He reached for the receiver.
    
    "No."
    
    "It'll ring forever."
    
    "Why do you care?"
    
    Carter stared at her. There was a unique beauty under
    her recent wounds. Not Barbie Doll pretty, but strength
    and intelligence, the way Ingrid Bergman used to be
    beautiful. God, how he missed seeing movies with Ingrid
    Bergman in them. "I don't know why I care, I just do," he
    answered.
    
    Another ring. Then McKenzie reached for the receiver,
    said, "Hello," and shoved the phone at Carter.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    207
    
    He could hear the man's voice long before bringing the
    instrument up to his ear, a flat, plain voice, stringing ex-
    pletives through the air. Carter listened until the first
    break, then answered, "If the stalking laws don't get you,
    I will," and broke the connection.
    
    She looked at him, not wide-eyed, she'd been through
    too much for that, but measuring him. The phone began
    to ring again, so he unclipped the cord from the end of
    the handset. It stopped abruptly.
    
    "After ten," he said, "Reconnect it. And give me a call
    then, okay?"
    
    He stood up. "I know psychiatric sounds scary, but you
    won't be in the high security ward. They'll put you in the
    first ward. People will have to sign in and out, and the
    calls will be screened. In the long run, you'll be safer."
    
    She digested that. "All right." She paused. 'Will I get
    any more pizza deliveries?"
    
    "Chinese next time. I'll see Joyce puts me on the
    approved visitation list. Okay?"
    
    The baseball crowd erupted in a muted roar. The cor-
    ner of her mouth curved upward. "Sounds like they ap-
    
    .,
    
    prove.
    
    "What about you?"
    
    "I don't have much choice. Hospital food is terrible."
    
    Carter left, his heart, not to mention his stomach, both
    lighter and fuller than it had been when he came in.
    
    Susan stared at the results from the Smith testing until
    she thought she would go cross-eyed, then she realized
    what she saw. From a deeper level of consciousness than
    she thought possible, the young woman was introducing
    and directing other stimuli to the program. It was almost
    as though she'd dropped into REM sleep, but she couldn't
    have, not even with concussive symptoms. Not and still
    be receiving the projected program.
    

    





    208
    
             El~zabeth Forrest
    
    What, then, had she done?
    
    And, if she could drop into this state at will, what stim-
    uli could she respond to? Accept. Produce. Interface with.
    
    She tapped the end of the pen on her teeth, as she
    scanned the readout again. That was one possible expla-
    nation for what she saw on the grids. She picked up the
    phone, called the room to interview her. Someone picked
    up the line and abruptly disconnected it. Susan stared at
    the receiver, then redialed. The phone rang interminably,
    with no one answering it.
    
    Switchboard overload, no doubt. All her questions
    would have to wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow the subject
    would be hers. Tomorrow Susan would learn what poten-
    tial McKenzie Smith had to interface with the subcon-
    scious mind . . . and outer stimuli.
    
    She walked across the lab to the sensory deprivation
    chamber, tapped on the shell, and opened it slowly.
    
    The water inside stirred sluggishly. She could smell its
    faint chlorine odor from the chemicals which flavored the
    Los Angeles water supply as the young man within coiled
    and uncoiled. She checked her watch. "That was an excel-
    lent session, Brandon. How do you feel?"
    
    Other than his head, which was kept in a mild restraint
    (it would be too easy for him to slip down and drown him-
    self, if he wished), he floated effortlessly, surrounded by
    torpid water, cushioned by the soundless chamber of the
    egg. He'd screamed the first two times she'd put him in.
    She hadn't heard it, of course, not once the chamber was
    closed, but she had heard the telltale hoarseness in his
    voice when she'd come back for him. She undid the neck
    restraint, not unlike the pillories used for Puritans.
    
    He didn't like to cooperate with her, this Brandon, and
    he stared balefully at her now. He liked to be called
    Brand, as in Brand X, from Generation X, yet another re-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    209
    
    flection of his low self-regard. She refused to cooperate
    with that. "Brandon?"
    
    "Fine," he said.
    
    Actually, if he were into it, she knew the expenence
    could be quite relaxing. He kept himself bunched up now,
    and she looked at him critically, his cheeks turned bright
    red.
    
    He was at that age, she thought, when personal pri-
    vacy was at its utmost premium. She turned away, hold-
    ing a towel out for him. Water sloshed as he grabbed it
    up.
    
    His modesty mattered little to her. The cameras scan-
    ning the lab had already recorded his lithe, naked figure
    as he'd climbed into the chamber. She would take the
    film out before she left that night, take it home, and ready
    the video for translation to software, to be digitized and
    transformed.
    
    The computer age was full of marvels.
    
    From the rustle, she could tell that he was pulling on
    the soft cotton drawstring pajamas the hospital had issued
    him. She would tell him that she had absolutely no inter-
    est in his fledgling body, but she would simply embarrass
    him more. What did hold an interest for her was his psy-
    che, wounded and malleable. His fragile ego, his trem-
    bling soul. Those she had designs upon. "Ready?" she
    inquired softly, before turning around.
    
    He'd barely hissed, "All right," before she was facing
    him.
    
    He scrubbed a hand across his face defiantly, pushing
    the hair off his forehead.
    
    "Good."' She checked her watch again, recording the
    time on her clipboard. 'fTen minutes with the helmet, and
    then I go home, and you go back to your room, with con-
    trol of the remote."
    

    





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    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Something sparked deep in Brandon's eyes. "I don't
    want the helmet."
    
    He couldn't possibly suspett anything. He was merely
    being balky. Susan dropped her clipboard to her hip and
    reminded him, "We had an agreement about this."
    
    "I don't like it."
    
    'fBrandon, we're here, working for you, but this is like
    trying to do a tango with a brick wall. You do want to go
    home, don't you?"
    
    The intensity in his eyes flickered. Susan realized then
    that she had struck at the core of him. He didn't want to
    go home. Not really. Something there had been so hellish
    that it had driven him to this desperation in the first
    place. She softened- her voice. f'Lct me put it this wayÄ
    you don't want to stay here, do you?"
    
    "No."
    
    ~fThen you're going to have to work the program. I can't
    work for you if you don't. Do you want me to leave a note
    for Dr. Whatley that you're being uncooperative?"
    
    Whatley was the physician who'd committed Brandon
    to the psychiatric ward.
    
    Sulkily, "No."
    
    "Then let's finish up with ten minutes in the helmet
    and we're both off the hook."
    
    She laid her arm gently across his shoulders as she
    walked him to his room. She could feel the tension in his
    body as she did.
    
    Brandon had no way of realizing that he was coming
    along beautifully in her experimentations. No way at all.
    The ten minutes flew by as if it had wings. Then she se-
    cured the software from the helmet in her private safe
    and got ready to leave.
    
    Humming, she shrugged out of her lab coat and locked
    her desk. She walked out of the psych ward, the orderly
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    211
    
    on the front desk smiling at her as she passed through the
    swinging doors, breaking into song, her voice floating be-
    hind her.
    
    "Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me...."
    
    =
    
    -;
    

    





    Chapter 18
    
    Brandon waited until he could hear the tuneless hum-
    ming of the doctor as she left the ward. Then he threw
    himself out from under the covers of his bed. He ran to
    the bathroom where he threw up, once, retchingly, so
    painfully that he hugged his rib cage as his dinner came
    up. He watched it floating sourly in the toilet before he
    reached out a shaking hand and flushed it down.
    
    When the water was clear, he kept staring down at it,
    dizzy and nauseated, afraid that he would have to barf
    again. If the guys could see ine now, worshiping the porce-
    lain godÄOle Brand X has tossed it again. What'd you lose
    down there, four eyes?
    
    He leaned on his wrists and slowly became aware that
    they did not pain him anymore. They had itched madden-
    ingly for the last few days. He wondered what kind of
    scars he would have. If he would have to hide them, face
    all kinds of dorky questions from jerks who should know
    better than to ask them anyway.
    
    His stomach clenched again. Brand opened his mouth
    and his throat ached, but nothing came out but strings of
    drool.
    
    He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet again any-
    way. Then he put his head under the sink faucet and
    rinsed his mouth out, the vomit still bitter tasting. Hospi-
    tal water wasn't m,uch better. He splashed some on his
    212
    
        _.  ~.I f                       .~,.     ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    213
    
    face and squinted into the bathroom mirror. Strange, to
    see his face without his glasses. They wouldn't let him
    have them here. Something about breaking the lenses and
    using them. He'd told them and told them his lenses were
    plastic, lighter weight for the thickness, but nobody had
    paid any attention to him. His right hand balled into a fist
    and hit the rim of the sink in frustration.
    
    Nobody paid any attention to him at all, except for Dr.
    Craig, and Brand thought, heck no, he knew she was
    spooky. Oh, she acted like all the other doctors, dressed
    nice, looked like she didn't know how to sweat, but those
    eyes of hers. They were like high beams from one of the
    X-Men. They could see things that other people could
    only guess at. They sure saw through him.
    
    That was one of the things about her that scared him.
    He got the feeling she knew everything about him that he
    knew, and more. All the stuff he didn't know, all the stuff
    that swam round and round in his skull until he felt like
    bursting, because he'd never understood any of it, never,
    but knew it must be awful.
    
    And she seemed to like him anyway, despite the bad
    stuff, and that bothered him, too, because he didn't know
    if she liked him because she was a good person and
    thought he was all right. Or if she liked him because she
    was some kind of tweaked pervert like he was.
    
    Brand made a face at himself in the mirror. He stag-
    gered back to the bed and lay down on top of the covers.
    He plucked at them nervously. Yeah, Dr. Craig seemed to
    know everything, even the stuff they never talked about.
    He'd tried to, once, and she'd just raised her chin and
    looked him in the eyes, and the words had gone all quiet
    in him. He not only couldn't get them out anymore, he
    lost them. He hadn't spoken for most of the rest of the
    day.
    
    But then he'd realized it didn't matter. She'd known,
    

    





                                        214 Elizabeih Forre ~-  Pi'
    
    she must have. And if she didn't, if she'd hadn't, what
    would she think of him now?
    
    It was those thoughts that kept him awake, made him
    sick to his stomach, churned everything around worse
    than a Tornado ride. He'd never had thoughts like that be-
    fore in his life, not before coming to the hospital, and he
    didn't know what to do.
    
    He'd never wanted to kill anything before in his life, ex-
    cept possibly for himself, and he'd never thought of what
    he'd done in that way anyhow. No, he'd done what he'd
    done because he couldn't stand the pain and emptiness
    and guilt and hurt anymore. That he'd lived while
    Grammie and Dad had been taken. He couldn't stand the
    numb way his mother had begun walking through life,
    taking care of him, feeding him breakfast, taking him to
    school, bringing him home, as though it were some kind
    of joyless life sentence she'd been condemned to.
    
    No, he hadn't tried to kill himself. He'd merely tried to
    cut away the pain. He wasn't trying to hurt anyone. He
    was just trying to take the hurt away. No one seemed to
    understand.
    
    What scared him more than anything was that they said
    they did. That they understood far more than he did, be-
    cause that was their job. They'd spent years learning it in
    college and beyond. They understood, and they'd help
    him. At first, Brand had hoped they couldn't.
    
    Now he was scared stiff one of them could look into his
    skull and see what kind of monster lived in there. Woke
    up at night and stirred around. Something that lived in
    blood and splashed it all over, sloshed through it like he
    used to do when he was just a kid wading through rain
    puddles. Something like knives and barbed wire and doing
    things to soft flesh....
    
    Women.
    
    Brand plucked at the covers again and then yanked
    

    





    !.
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    215
    
    them from under him and wrapped them about him. He
    knew his body was getting older, changing. It was daunt-
    ing to wake up in the morning with his penis all hard and
    stiff and hurtful, an ache that took forever to go away. He
    knew it could happen at school, though it hadn't to him
    yet. And he knew it had to do with girls, with women, and
    sex, and fucking....
    
    It was one thing to stare at the girls in his sixth grade
    class and watch them grow boobs, little buds of soft flesh
    poking through their T-shirts and blouses until they grad-
    uated, finally, to bras. It was always a relief when that
    happened. It was one thing to stare at the old copy of
    Playboy that he and Mike had picked out of the trash, but
    this thing that had taken root in his skull like one of the
    creatures from Alien, threatening to burst out....
    
    His stomach roiled again. Brand put his hands to his
    face, as if he could hold onto everything that way.
    
    All he could dream about was people laid out like so
    much road kill. It was all getting mixed up together, the
    throbbing of his growing needs, and the blood, and the vi-
    olence and torture....
    
    He couldn't tell anyone. He knew they would be horri-
    fied. They would shove him away, lock him up for good in
    some nut hospital, worse than this one.
    
    He grabbed up the remote and turned the TV on, even
    though the screen was blurry without his glasses. He
    couldn't go back to sleep, he wouldn't. He tuned in "Nick
    at Night" where every mom seemed born to the job.
    
    His forearms itched. He scrubbed a hand over the
    bandages on first one and then the other, faint relief. One
    thing that he had learned here was that he'd cut wrong.
    He'd cut across. Next time he'd cut up and down, from
    the elbow to the palm. That was the way you did it. When
    you wanted to end the pain. When your head felt like it
    

    





    216
    
             Elizabeth Forrest
    
    was going to explode and something terrible was going to
    come leaping out, when you weren't you anymore.
    
    After dinner hours at Silverado eased slowly from hec-
    tic into quietude. Joyce checked her watch and got ready
    to summarize the points she'd been making to the class of
    eight who sat and slouched around the living room, listen-
    ing. They occupied worn-out recliners and sagging sofas
    and sprawled across pillows thrown on the floor. Their
    faces were of every color, shaped by every economic sec-
    tor, and they were universal in that, when she had first
    begun speaking to them weeks ago, their sole expression
    had been compounded of fear and fatigue. She normally
    would not have been out this late without having been
    home first, but today, as her mama would have said, her
    plate was full. Full to overflowing.
    
    She thought of blaming Carter Wyndall for her sched-
    ule, but she knew better. If not Carter's friend, there
    would have been someone else for her to take on. There
    always was. That was the discouraging side of her voca-
    tion. There was always another battered spouse, another
    abused child. She'd like to take a piece of chalk, draw a
    line, and say, "All right. That's enough. The shit stops
    here." But she knew better
    
    Her mind working, her mouth on automatic, giving a
    lecture she gave weekly to five different shelters through-
    out the county, she finished up, then looked at her watch.
    "Okay, ladies, what's next?"
    
    "Bathtime," three young mothers said, and slunk out.
    The rest of her audience checked the wall clock.
    
    "It's Dr. Craig's night."
    
    "Oh? Is it?" Joyce usually didn't overlap with Susan
    Craig's rounds. "Take a break, then. I don't see her van
    yet."
    
    She watched the women go' thinking that she might
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    217
    
    take the opportunity to discuss McKenzie Smith with the
    doctor before she left. The resistance of the police to
    treating the case as that of a battered wife frustrated her,
    though she had to admit that the preliminary investigation
    gave them little choice. The neighbors had seen no one at
    the residence but the two of them, and there was a his-
    tory of family domestic violence.
    
    One of the residents, a lovely dark-haired girl with two
    small babies under the age of two, came back into the
    living room with an iced tea for Joyce. Joyce took it, mur-
    muring, "Thank you."
    
    Drucilla would not look up. She shrugged her shoulders
    and walked away quickly. Joyce watched the young
    woman as she picked her way through the cluttered, com-
    fortable rooms, never looking up, always looking down as
    if afraid to see what might be facing her. Joyce sighed and
    downed the iced tea.
    
    She sat and made notes in her casebook, then looked
    up and saw the time. She had her own family to think of,
    Joyce chided herself. Susan Craig was late. A phone call
    in the morning would have to suffice. She packed her
    briefcase, drank the last sugary sips of her cold drink, said
    good-bye to the resident adviser, and left.
    
    As her battered Hyundai pulled around the corner, she
    did not see the van easing out of a shadowed driveway
    from the other end of the block.
    
    l
    
    Susan Craig waited until the advocate's car had rattled
    out of sight before easing the van into a stop at the curb.
    Joyce had a lot of savvy. It had been a long day, and Susan
    did not feel like encountering her. She sat at the curb five
    long minutes, heat building up inside the van, before
    opening the door to step out. At the panel doors, she
    opened both wide, revealing five computer stations, pad-
    ded chairs, and equipment. At the sound of the panel
    

    





    218
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    doors sliding open, there came an echoing whoop of ex-
    citement from the house, and the front yard filled with
    children.
    
    Susan found a smile. The children were not well-
    dressed, the clothes were hand-me-downs, usually too big
    and well-worn. WORLD CUP 1994 soccer shirts seemed
    to be in favor here, the silk-screened letters and designs
    nearly faded clean away. The biggest boy, with flashing
    dark eyes and hair pulled back in a slicked-up ponytail,
    had the Lion King shirt, even though it pulled tightly
    about his armpits and shoulders.
    
    She put a hand up for stillness. The children bustled
    about, the impacts of their bodies noisy, but their mouths
    shut.
    
    "Your mothers are first," she said. "I know I'm late, so
    I can't take too many of you today But I'll be back. You
    know I'll be back."
    
    To a chorus of "awwws," she added, "Next time.^w~ell
    have a kids only day. Okay?" , ~ ~ .
    
    They screamed approval. Susan reached out, tousled a
    few heads, slapped palms with the Lion King, and turned
    her attention toward the modest house which bore the ri-
    diculous name of Silverado. She had once asked the res-
    ident supervisor, Tricia Gardener, why the name. "If every
    cloud has a silver lining," the answer had come, "why this
    place must be a mother lode."
    
    Susan dealt with her clients briskly and efficiently, be-
    lieving neither in patronizing them nor coddling them.
    They had made the decision to strike out on their own,
    changing forever the downward spiral which had been
    consuming them. She placed each woman at a computer
    and started the biofeedback program designed to help
    them combat stress as well as reinforce self-esteem. The
    lone computer in the corner belonged to the children, and
    
    . Ä
    
                         1
    
                         i
                          

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    219
    
    they waited, big eyed, for her to choose the one who
    would get to play today.
    
    It would be Lion King, of course, Donaldo of the flash-
    ing eyes, ten years of defiance and sly intelligence, eyes
    too old inside that cranium. He jumped into the van,
    avoided the women who were already sinking into beta
    wave activity, and went straight to his station. He sank
    into the captain's chair and swiveled it around, waiting for
    her.
    
    She leaned over, making sure that the station had a full
    battery pack, and above, her hand brushing across it casu-
    ally, that the camera was fully focused on the boy. Donnie
    leaned over the keyboard and picked up the joystick. His
    shirt bound him.
    
    "Wouldn't you like to take that off? I must have another
    shirt around here somewhere."
    
    "Lion King?" he asked.
    
    "Maybe. Maybe 7~e Shadow. Maybe something newer."
    
    He considered it, head tilted, bright eyed like a mock-
    ingbird in the garden considering a grub in the grass. The
    head went from side to side. "Okay," he said, and
    shrugged out of the shirt.
    
    He had a beautiful body, scarred in only two or three
    places. The cigarette burns, she recognized, she was un-
    certain of the cause of the third scar. Still, they did not
    matter. The computer which would record and interpret
    the data would airbrush those blemishes out. As the cam-
    era scanned his body for later translation into digitization,
    she took her time rummaging in a handled shopping bag
    of old clothing and finally came up with a BATMAN
    FOREVER promo shirt which had never even been worn.
    
    "Wow!" Donnie snatched the bete noire shirt away from
    her and pulled it over his head. "This is cool."
    
    'You bet it is. Okay, want to play today?"
    

    





    220
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    His answer was muffled as he strapped on his helmet
    and slid his hands into the virtual reality gloves.
    
    Susan smiled widely. "Good." She reached forward and
    initiated the program. Frame by frame, layer by layer, she
    was constructing a new person from the foundation
    named Donaldo. When she was done, she hoped to have
    learned something extremely important. Then, she would
    deconstruct him. Like an onion, she would peel him back
    down to his original psyche. Like Brandon at the hospital
    ward, this boy was hers, hers as clearly as if she'd birthed
    him. And no one, not at Silverado, not at Mount Mercy,
    had the slightest inkling of what she was doing, or could
    do, with the computer terminal, software, and subliminal
    programming.
    
    She sat back and watched as the boy submerged into
    his fantasy world. Children were so important. They were
    the hidden resource of the future.
    
    His mother would never enter the van. She leaned in-
    side it now, her hair a thick burnished brunette, French-
    braided down her back. She had done it herself, no doubt,
    for Susan had often seen her braiding her hair and that of
    the others, fingers flashing in intricate patterns. Graciela
    had high, delicate cheekbones and wide, dark eyes. Her
    lips were not particularly pretty, and she was somewhat
    chinless, but her dusky skin had stayed unblemished de-
    spite her youth. She did not look old enough to be
    Donnie's mother, but Susan knew that she'd carried him
    at fourteen, had him at fifteen.
    
    Her ears were pierced up into the cartilage. She wore
    four studs in one and six in the other, all tiny gemstones
    twinkling with a brightness she would never achieve, not
    until she tore the veil of shyness from her face.
    
    "Doctor Craig," she said quietly. "Donnie can't come no
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    221
    
    Of all the words Susan had expected to hear from her
    mouth, those astonished her.
    
    "What?"
    
    She frowned. '.'He can't come no more. I'm leaving. I'm
    moving out."
    
    This was usually a milestone. "Why, Graciela That's
    wonderful."
    
    The young woman would not meet her eyes. She
    looked around the van. "I've got a place," she said. "For
    the two of us."
    
    "Are you working?"
    
    Graciela nodded. "I get my license from beauty school
    next month. I've got work already." She smoothed a wing
    of soft, lustrous hair from her brow.
    
    "That's wonderful. Have you celebrated yet?"
    
    "No. No one else here knows. I didn't tell nobody."
    Graciela's tone matched her sullen expression. "So he
    can't come," she added for the third time.
    
    Susan looked back over her shoulder at Donnie. His
    face, what could be seen of it under the helmet, was
    pinched tight in concentration. She'd come so far with
    him. She took a deep breath and, reaching out, squeezed
    Graciela's shoulder in encouragement. "You've come a
    long way. So has Donnie. Tell you whatÄgive me your
    new address, and I'll try to come by once a week for him."
    
    Graciela's already slim face narrowed. Then, she nod-
    ded. "If you don't tell nobody."
    
    She was probably not being released from the program,
    Susan thought. She was probably leaving to rejoin her ex-
    boyfriend or a new one. "I can't tell, Graciela," Susan an-
    swered brightly. "I'm your doctor, right?"
    
    Graciela took the scrap of paper Susan tore out and
    handed to her and, screwing her face into lines of concen-
    tration that mirrored Donnie's expression, painstakingly
    wrote out her new address. She shoved it back into Su-
    

    





    222
    
                 Elizabeth Forress
    
    san's hand. "I'm moving in tomorrow," she said. "Don't tell
    nobody."
    
    "I won't." Susan watched as the young mother left,
    shuffling her way across the worn, celery-colored front
    lawn back toward the shelter house. She put the address
    into her wallet thoughtfully, wondering how to salvage
    Donnie from all this.
    
    Hotchkiss felt cold. He sank deeper into the tepid spa
    so that it became a supreme effort just to keep his jawline
    above the water. The gentle waves, for the jets had gone
    off timer long agoÄwhen was it? He had no memory of
    itÄthe soft tide left in their wake lapped at his chin. His
    eyelids had anchors on them. Sunset had left the horizon,
    and he stared, when he could keep his eyes open, at a vel-
    vet shroud sprinkled with crystalline pinpoint of light. The
    mountain air was so clear, he could even distinguish blue
    stars from white.
    
    If he cared to.
    
    Stephen Hotchkiss found that he cared less and less,
    about anything. Even the constant roar of his own pulsing
    bloodstream in his ears had weakened, leaving him in to-
    tal peace. There were no worries prickling at him, no nags
    yelling into his ears, tugging on his arms, images standing
    in his way. It could only get more peaceful below the wa-
    ter.
    
    His spine sagged and he slipped farther into the tub.
    He let out a deep sigh, and allowed himself to slide all the
    way down. The water had a flat iron taste to it, almost
    bloodlike. He coughed onl~y once as the liquid raced into
    his mouth and nostrils, a token cough, token of his resis-
    tance to the fate awaiting him.
    
    A hand grabbed him by the arm. Water fountained up-
    ward with the violence of the attacker. Fingers of steel
    coiled themselves into his hair and jerked, yanked, pulling
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    223
    
    him upward, out of the water. Hotchkiss coughed again,
    weakly, retching wetly down the front of his chest. Night
    air iced into his face. He blinked numbly, unseeing.
    Someone muscled him out of the spa and then hefted
    him over a shoulder. His ears roared as he lay head down-
    ward. He heard the floor creak as the man carried him
    into the bedroom, warm air caressing him, so much
    warmer than the water had been, and dropped him like a
    wet sack onto the bed.
    
    '~ou don't get out of it this easy, Hotchkiss," his rescuer
    said.
    
    Stephen blinked into the face of the same apparition
    which had haunted him earlier, but fear had gone. He
    could not muster any emotion. He rolled over onto his
    belly, clutching the bedcovers around him for warmth as
    he began to shiver violently. The hand, skin so hot it felt
    like it was branding him, grasped an ankle.
    
    "Nasty cut, Hotchkiss."
    
    There was a moment of pain, quite sharp and distinc-
    tive, and then the foot was being wrapped.
    
    "We know who you are, and you're not getting away
    from us this easily."
    
    Hotchkiss retched damply into the corner of the bed-
    spread, moved his face away from it, feeling weak as a
    mewling kitten. Someone tucked warm and dry covers
    about his quaking form.
    
    "Don't forget you owe us.
    
    He could not reply.
    
    The floorboards creaked as his tormentor left. He dared
    not move until the house had grown as still as a mauso-
    leum.
    
    Hotchkiss lay facedown, then realized how close to
    death he'd come, how close to release and safety, and that
    he'd been pulled back.
    
    He began weeping. It was not for joy.
    
    ,,
    
    ..
    

    





    224
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Dudley called her from a phone booth. The conve-
    nience store lot was busy and he watched the young girls
    stroll by, seemingly oblivious to his gaze, as the signal
    rang. She picked up on the car phone, he could hear the
    difference in transmission.
    
    "Our boy tried to go down for the count," he informed
    her.
    
    "No." There was a pause which might have been pen-
    sive, or simply interference. Then, "I wouldn't have
    guessed it of him. Before or after your visit?"
    
    "After. I went back because I had my doubts."
    
    "He was not successful."
    
    "No."
    
    "Was there ... official interference?"
    
    "No. I handled it."
    
    "But you're sure of the attempt?"
    
    "Yes." ~ ~ ~ '
    
    "He can't be relied upon, then.-
    
     ,     :  4    : .  .
    
    Dudley watched a Vietnamese girl go by, her long dark
    hair like ravens' wings fluttering almost down to her waist.
    "I wouldn't think so," he answered, watching her, thinking
    about her. "I made sure he knew he owed us, b~$e_
    doesn't have much spine.
    
    "I rely on your judgment. You know that."
    
    The girl turned slightly on one heel, her tanned legs
    bare to the mid-thigh hem of her miniskirt. She looked at
    him askance. She knew that he watched her from the
    phone booth. Dudley turrSed away then. She would say
    something to somebody, perhaps. Even if he trailed her
    home and waited until the darkest hours of the night,
    someone might remember he'd been watching her earlier.
    Ta-rah-rah-boom-ti-ay, you wont stay free that way.... He
    brought a match out and lit it, concentrating on its beauty.
    
      . .          ~x   ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
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    He closed the song out of his mind and found words.
    "Use him while you can."
    
    "I will. Go home. Have a good dinner. We'll talk later."
    
    She cut the connection without any sentimentality. He
    hung up, too, and left without giving anyone another
    glance. She would reward him, she always did. She had
    taught him patience to go with his cunning.
    
    As for herself, she would have to check into alternate
    plans. A return to the hospital seemed advisable. She
    would need the quiet, the relatively laid-back attitude of
    the night shift to help her decide what to do about Ibie
    Walker.
    
    McKenzie woke in the darkness of the room. The TV
    had gone off. Only the light board behind her glowed. She
    lay in the hospital bed a moment, letting wakefulness
    chase her dreams away. The night nurse had given her
    sleeping pills. They had dissolved sourly in her stomach,
    heartburn creeping up the back of her throat. She got out
    of bed carefully and made her way to the bathroom, only
    a little dizzy.
    
    The night-light in the bathroom threw her face into
    sharp relief. Bruises shadowed it even more starkly, but
    she could see both eyes were wide open now. She'd al-
    ways been a quick healer. She could not stand to see her-
    self. Mac ran her hand through her hair. Surely they'd let
    her shower tomorrow morning. Her skin crawled at the
    thought of the sweat and dirt ground into her hair, not to
    mention how the rest of her must smell. Even now she
    could catch the pungent odor of pizza and sweat
    
    She leaned over, ran the water until it warmed and
    shampooed her hair with the hand soap, lathering and
    rinsing, and lathering again until she felt human. Then
    she bathed all over again, toweling off carefully with the
    

    





    226
    
                 Elizabeeh Forrese
    
    one small towel allotted her. She felt human for the first
    time in days.
    
    Once back in the bed, she reconnected the phone and
    lay down. She thought of calling out and changed her
    mind, because it was after ten, and she knew Sarah pan-
    icked at calls after nine, wondering who'd died.
    
    I did. But I'll be all right soon.
    
    Sarah and Seattle were already a lifetime away. It was
    as though she'd shed a life, the way a snake does a skin.
    She wondered if reptiles felt cleansed, as well as raw and
    new.
    
    For a dizzying, disorienting second, it felt and sounded
    almost as though something had crossed the room and
    jumped onto the foot of the bed, settling its comforting
    weight against her ankles and the back of one calf. Just as
    Cody had always done, jumping into bed with her. In bed
    if she was alone, on the floor of the closet among her
    shoes if Jack was home.
    
    She accepted the phenomenon and then clenched her
    jaw shut, realizing that nothing was there, nothing could
    be there. If she sat up and reached down to her toes, she
    would not encounter any soft, silky hide and ears, wet
    nose nuzzling her back, paw pads scratching at the covers
    to get comfortable again.
    
    So she did not sit up. Mac closed her eyes and held
    tight to the ghostly sensation, knowing it would evaporate
    with logic. She did not feel like being alone. And what-
    ever it was, it was better than a veil of blood being drawn
    over anything she looked at.
    
    The phone shrilled. She jumped at its noise in the still-
    ness and grabbed it up.
    
    "How's the dreamin'?"
    
    Her throat closed. She could not speak for a moment.
    
    "Miss me?" lack laus~hed
    
    ~,
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
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    Her breath squeaked in her chest as she inhaled deeply.
    "I'm not coming back. Leave me alone."
    
    "You've been watching too many soaps, Mac. This is
    real life, you and me. I want you to come home with me,
    where you belong."
    
    Her eyes squeezed shut. She could see the kitchen
    floor, Cody's life bubbling across it. She could smell it on
    her hands, her clothes, as she tried to scrub it up. Bile
    rose in her throat again. She did not know where she
    belonged, but it wasn't there.
    
    She denied him. "No."
    
    'You liked college. What if you enroll full-time next se-
    mester? I could make an extra run or two, pay for the tu-
    ition. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
    
    Her voice husked. "Jack, I can't go back with you."
    
    His tone changed from coaxing to belligerent again. She
    winced at the volume coming from the phone receiver.
    "Why not? And who the hell was that who answered the
    phone last time? You got a policeman sitting up there with
    you? You got a man in there with you, and you wearing
    nothing but one of those ass-open flimsy little hospital
    gowns? Who was that?"
    
    She didn't want to involve Carter. "It was . . . nobody. It
    wasn't anybody. I don't have anybody up here with me."
    
    "Well, Mr. Nobody got real smart-ass with me. You tell
    him to mind his own business. Or, better yet, you tell him
    to watch out for me."
    
    "I don't want to talk about this anymore, Jack. Just go
    away and leave me alone. I'll forget anything happened.
    You can go home. But I won't go with you."
    
    "You'll go if I have to drag your carcass. And don't count
    on your Mr. Nobody to protect you."
    
    He sounded so close. So confident. She felt cold all
    

    





    228 Elizabeth Forrest
     .. . . . . . .. . .
    
    How did youÄthe switchboards closed. ~ow can you
    even call me?"
    
    He laughed again, that low and humorless laugh. That
    mean laugh. "It's closed to outside calls. But not to me.
    I'm on the inside, babe. I'm right here. I'm watching out
    for you."
    

    





    ~:
    
    Chapter 19
    
    Rasheed Tompkins struggled out of the garage with a bas-
    ket of freshly dried laundry. He put a lean, thirteen-year-
    old shoulder against the door to close it behind him and
    waited a minute in the breezeway, the smell of clean
    clothes filling his senses. From his vantage point, he could
    see his mother as she came up the driveway and went
    into the house from the front, illuminated by their amber
    porch light. Her steps had been weary. He counted them
    to the kitchen counter/desk where she would drop keys,
    purse, and pager, and then into the family room where his
    brothers and sisters and aunt were sprawled watching
    some stupid musical on the Disney channel.
    
    He started into the kitchen from the garage side, bang-
    ing his way into the house.
    
    "Hey, Mom!"
    
    She was late, really late, but they'd left her some dinner
    and now he'd have to do the dishes, just when he thought
    he was off the hook. He balanced the clothes basket on
    his hip for a moment, long enough to pinch the pager but-
    ton to the "off" position. Just a few hours, that's all he
    wanted from his mom. Just that, nothing more. He'd done
    it once or twice before. When the movie was over, he'd
    duck back in, get a soda and turn the pager back on, but
    for now, their mother belonged to them. He was tired of
    229
    

    





    230
    
                 Elizabeth Forrese
    
    the problems of others taking her away. He had his own
    crap to deal with.
    
    He took four giant gangling strides out of the kitchen,
    into the heart of his family, and dropped the laundry bas-
    ket in front of his sister. "Your turn to fold," he an-
    nounced. "I got dishes to do."
    
    Joyce turned her face to him. His mom was beautiful,
    he thought, if old, and that smile of hers could ripen the
    tomatoes he had growing out back. "Rasheed. You did a
    good job tonight."
    
    "Thanks. Want your dinner?" He needed to keep her
    out of the kitchen for a while.
    
    "In a minute. Let Lucy get it for me. How was practice
    today?"
    
    "I sank forty-two percent from the free throw line."
    
    She nodded. "Getting better."
    
    He wrinkled his face. "I still won't be tall enough. Not
    no seven foot."
    
    "Not any seven foot," she corrected mildly. She put an
    arm around his waist and drew him close for a modified
    teenage hug. "Neither is Jason Kidd, and look what he's
    doing. Remember, those big guys aren't so agile. You've got
    quickness. Develop your shots and you'll do anything you
    want to."
    
    And she pulled him closer to finish the hug. For a sec-
    ond, a tiny second, he felt a prickle of guilt for doing what
    he'd done to the pager. It didn't last.
    
    Jack said cagily, 'You don't know where I'm going to be.
    So I want you to treat me nice when I call."
    
    Mac closed her eyes tight, unbelieving. She wanted to
    scream, but knew if she did, no one would be on the
    phone by the time the nurse came running in. This
    couldn't be happening to her.
    
    "Do you hear me, darlin'?"
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    231
    
    I near you, she responded flatly. You come near me,
    Jack, and I'll kill you. I don't know how I'll do it, but I
    will."
    
    That low, raspy laugh. "You just like to fight, sweet-
    heart, so we can kiss and make up. You know you do. Be-
    sides, I not only know where you are, I know where your
    daddy is. You wouldn't want anything to happen to Daddy,
    would you? Think about it."
    
    Her throat stayed so tight she could barely swallow spit,
    but she got the words up. "You think about this. I hate
    you, you son of a bitch. Touch me again, or my father, or
    anyone else I even know, and I'll hunt you down. And
    that's a promise." She slammed the receiver down and
    jerked the cord out.
    
    Her heart thumped wildly in her chest like a frightened
    rabbit. She sat up in the hospital bed and flung her legs
    over the side. She couldn't stay. She couldn't'.
    
    Hands shaking so hard she could barely do it, she
    plugged the cord back in long enough to dial a number.
    Her lips felt dry and cracked, but her tongue was just as
    dry and she put a hand out, searching for a glass of water
    on the swing-out table. She curled fingers around it just
    as the phone number answered abruptly. She punched in
    the beeper number Joyce had given her, and then her
    number.
    
    Mac drained the glass of water. It trickled down her
    dusty throat, more irritating than soothing. The phone
    rang, too soon to be Joyce. She picked it up and discon-
    nected it, but not before she heard a hooting laugh. There
    was no way she could avoid Jack and still get Joyce's call.
    She stared at the cord in her hand, then looped it around
    the rail.
    
    She was a sitting duck. Mac pushed herself out of the
    bed. The room swung abruptly, then stilled as vertigo
    throbbed through her skull. Her feet went icy and for a
    

    





                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Ithtaking moment, she thought it had something to do
    with her concussion, then she realized the floor was sim-
    ply cold.
    
    She didn't think anything could be colder than the way
    she felt. It hadn't seemed cold moments ago when she'd
    gone in and bathed. Yet now, it iced its way up her joints
    and into her muscles and nerves until she felt frozen, like
    some ice queen. No feelings, no life. Dead.
    
    Numb.
    
    What was wrong with her? Why couldn't she move, re-
    act, defend herself like a normal person?
    
                                       Bases loaded, no one out.     ~
                                       She could react to that. She could defend herself ~-
    
    against that threat.
    
    Dad coming home drunk, Mom upset.
    
    That she could deal with
    
    Jack in the hospital. Mac bit her lip. She wished she
    had her old bat. It was probably Iying in Moreno's evi-
    dence locker, dusted with soot for fingerprints.
    
    The phone sounded again. The noise made her jump,
    shattering the icy shroud which had imprisoned her. She
    stared at the receiver. It had to be Jack again. She
    wouldn't know if she didn't answer.
    
    Mac reached for it, curled her fingers in midair and
    snatched her hand back. She didn't want to know. She
    only knew that if Jack was in the hospital, she couldn't
    stay ;
    
    Her cotton shift drooped off one shoulder. Mac pulled
    it back up. She wasn't going anywhere dressed in a gown
    with her tush hanging out the back. The phone rang two
    more times, then went silent.
    
    He'd guessed she wasn't going to answer it. Either he
    would leave her alone for a while . . . or he would find his
    way to her room.
    
    There was no way in hell she intended to be there if he
    
      :::::   ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    233
    
    did. Mac ran her fingers through her still damp hair.
    Clothes. Not hers, they were grass-stained and bloody and
    they would probably reek. She wouldn't get out of the
    hospital wearing them. Some security guard would proba-
    bly tackle her and drag her into the ER.
    
    Mac closed her eyes, trying to think. Clothes. In the
    nurses' lounge. She'd seen the open closet with a uniform,
    a couple of sweaters, some dry cleaning, hanging there.
    And there were shoes below, several pairs. She grabbed
    up the extra gown she'd been using as a robe and bolted
    for the door, tugging it on as she went.
    
    The phone began to ring again as she went through the
    door. Sony, bud, strike three. Only two more outs, and 7'm
    out of the inning.
    
    Shannon's clothes were extravagant on her. The
    pant-quit fit her with enough room to slip in another es-
    capee. Mac looked at herself critically in the mirror. Only
    the joggers fit well, but the outfit would have to do. It was
    infinitely better than the gown with the built-in air-
    conditioning.
    
    Someone had also left makeup in the small bathroom
    adjoining the lounge. Mac used the hair dryer, fluffing
    what body she could into hair that seemed as defeated as
    she had felt ten minutes ago. Then, she carefully put on
    foundation, patting it tentatively about her bruised face.
    She eyed herself. Sunglasses were not an option at ten
    thirty at night. If they were, she might pass. As it was . . .
    Mac sighed.
    
    "I ran into a door," she said aloud to her mirror image,
    and grimaced at the sound of her voice. Maybe it would
    work, maybe not. It wasn't like she was trying to escape
    prison.
    
    Not yet, anyway.
    

    





    234
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    No one looked up as she entered the elevator. The
    doors closed on her before she'd decided where to go.
    
    She didn't know where she could go, but she knew she
    could not leave without trying one last time to see her fa-
    ther. It might be her last chance to say good-bye. She
    owed him that much. When the chips were down, 3-2,
    he'd stepped in between her and Jack.
    
    Just like a father should. ~: ~ -
    
    She swallowed down a sudden lump in her throat and
    punched ICU's floor number.
    
    . .::~,
    ,` ~
    
    .
    
      ,  .
    
       ~,
    
    Susan Craig had long ago found out what most cons
    knew instinctively, that tones of brisk efficiency and man-
    nerism that echoed automatically broke down bureauc-
    racy. She tucked her clipboard under her elbow as she
    approached the security guard.
    
    "Little late for a round, isn't it, ma'am?" A tired smile
    fractured across the man's seamed face
    
    "Actually, I'm early." She looked over the guard's shoul-
    der at Ibie Walker's shrouded form. "He's coming in for
    speech therapy on the soundboard tomorrow morning."
    
    "The soundboard?" the guard said, drawling slightly
    "That that computer thing which makes the voice for you?
    Ibie going to have to talk like that now?"
    
    "It's probably temporary, but it's hard to tell with stroke
    victims." Susan tilted her head slightly, engagingly. "I need
    to measure him for the headgear. Since I'm still on the
    floor, I thought I might as well do it. It won't disturb him,
    I'm sure.'
    
    The guard made a noise of agreement in his throat
    "Ain't nothing much disturbing these two. It's like a
    morgue in there. Nothing makes noise but those damn
    monitors."
    
    She gave him a sympathetic smile. "I know it seems
    like that, butÄ" and she consulted the chart she'd picked
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    235
    
    up un Lne way ~eross me uml. rles uowg well, actuary.
    He's been sedated for rest this evening, tests and therapy
    tomorrow. As for the other manÄ" Susan looked across at
    Walton Smith.."He's being kept under purposely." The
    doctor had logged in instructions to keep him down to al-
    low the brain swelling to subside.
    
    "If you say so."
    
    She checked her watch again. "Look, I'm going to be
    here, ten, fifteen minutes. Why don't you go get a cup of
    coffee? I smelled a fresh batch as I passed the lounge."
    
    The guard shifted restlessly. 'You wouldn't mind?"
    
    "Not at all. And you look like you could use the caf-
    
    œ ,,
    
    eme.
    
    "That's true. I'm here for the duration, until six a.m."
    He scratched his brow with a blunt fingernail. "Fresh
    brew, you say?"
    
    "Nothing smells quite like it." Susan held her smile,
    though her face felt brittle.
    
    "That's the truth. If you don't mind, Doc...."
    
    "I don't mind at all. Any trouble, and I'll holler. You'll
    just be a couple of doors down the hall, anyway."
    
    He tipped his hat. "I'll be back in a few, then."
    
    She watched him turn the corner on the U-shaped floor
    and disappear. Then she slipped into the cubicle. Out of
    habit, she pulled the privacy curtain out and across the
    foot of the bed, though the cables from the many moni-
    tors warped and dragged at the fabric.
    
    Ibie Walker's mahogany color had grayed a bit. The
    veins on his left arm looked like they'd collapsed on them-
    selves. A telltale bandage revealed the former position of
    the IV which was now in the right arm, something not
    normally done on a right-handed person. It was either
    there, or on the neck, if the veins in the left arm had
    given out. But, all in all, the councilman looked as though
    

    





    236
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    he was resting in peaceful sleep. Susan checked the mon-
    itors, confirming what she had read on the clipboard.
    
    The bastard was a tough old rooster. He was going to
    make it. The doctors earlier that day had determined
    there was loss of speech and some mild paralysis, but he
    was expected to recover from both with time. He was
    scheduled to go to her lab for biofeedback speech therapy,
    something relatively new in the field. Though she was
    technically psychiatric, her computer equipment was the
    most sophistocated in the hospital, and physical therapy
    often came up to use her facility when called for. Head-
    gear placed on the face about the cheekbone, temple, and
    jaw translated the minimal muscle movement of the face,
    fed the movement into a computer and sound bites re-
    sulted. It would never replace speech, and, Susan re-
    flected, the remarkable voice which had come out of Ibie
    Walker with all its witticisms and idiosyncrasies. But it
    would enable those partially paralyzed to make their needs
    known, and accomplish a little beyond that. It was a proc-
    ess which needed to be learned, much as an amputee
    learns to work with a prosthesis, tightening and loosening
    
                                         muscles to operate some of the artificial limb function.  ~i9
    
    The diagnosis that had seen Ibie ordered to have com-
    puter therapy brought him right into her lap. She needn't
    even be standing here, now, jeopardizing all that she'd
    worked for. Still ... she put her hand into her jacket
    pocket and then reached toward the oxygen flow monitor.
    A slight adjustment would ensure the slowness of Ibie's
    recovery. There might be a chance of minimal brain dam- -
    age, but that did not matter. She needed time to work
    
    with him.
    
    Her fingers grasped the dial, preparing to cut back the
    oxygen by at least half, when the cubicle door opened.
    Susan froze. She could not see who entered, except for
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    237
    
    battered white joggers beyond the privacy curtain. Who-
    ever it was had come in for the other patient.
    
    Susan dropped her hand from the dial and withdrew it
    from her jacket. She grasped Ibie Walker's bony shoulder
    and squeezed it slightly. "You're doing fine," she said softly.
    "Tomorrow I'll be working with you."
    
    She reached for the curtain to draw it back and did not
    see his eyelids dart open for a fearful moment, then shut
    again.
    
    The curtain came back with a rattling of the hooks
    which held it upon the rod. Unveiled, the visitor recoiled.
    
    Susan Craig looked intently at the young woman in the
    nurse's uniform, instinctively sensing that something was
    wrong, and then the woman's face appeared out of the
    dim illumination of the unit. Bruises had streaked through
    her makeup, confirming Susan's reaction.
    
    'What are you doing here?"
    
    "I had to see him." McKenzie took a cautious step
    backward, toward the exit of the care unit.
    
    Susan folded her arms loosely across her chest. "I take
    it you haven't been discharged."
    
    "You don't have to say anything to anybody."
    
    Susan felt a muscle in her jaw twitch slightly. She'd
    probably already lost Hotchkiss. She had no intention of
    suffering any more setbacks. "That's right, I don't." She
    gauged the distance from Walker's bedside to where the
    young woman stood. "But I don't think walking out would
    be in your best interests. The police, for one, will be less
    likely to believe any story you tell them."
    
    "They don't believe me now."
    
    "Then you need to convince them."
    
    A dry laugh. "They're not listening."
    
    Susan shrugged. "They weren't listening this morning,
    either. Why didn't you bolt then?"
    
    "He's out there. Now he's in here."
    

    





    238
    
                 Eiizabeth Forrest
    
    The note of desperation in her voice piqued Susan's in-
    terest higher. "Your ax-husband? He's still in the hospital?"
    
    "He's been calling."
    
    Susan made a quick decision. "You need protection un-
    til the police can substantiate what's happening. You can't
    go out like that. You look . . . all wrong. The guards will
    pick you up. Listen. You're due to check into my ward to-
    morrow morning, but I can put you in tonight. We have a
    guard at the door, sign in and out . . . he won't be able to
    get through."
    
    A wary look shone in the young woman's eyes. She
    stood, her chin up, as skittish as a wild pony.
    
    Susan held out her hand. "You're going to have to trust
    somebody sooner or later."
    
    "I won't be isolated."
    
    "Isolated?"
    
    "If Joyce wants to see me, or Carter, they can?"
    
    Susan put on her best smile. "Of course they can,
    within our visiting limits, which are pretty liberal. And
    once I'm done testing, we'll have a fairly good idea of your
    overall health." She inched forward. If she talked long
    enough, the returning guard would handle the problem for
    both of them.
    
    McKenzie shook her head tentatively. Susan knew that
    look. She put as much warmth into her smile as she could
    muster.
    
    "I'm here to help you. We all face the same worries, no
    one wants to have their insides opened up and looked at,
    but we don't work that way. Did you ever have one of
    those gifts as a child, called a surprise ball? It looks like
    a big ball of yarn, wrapped with streamers, and when you
    unwrap it, layer by layer, little surprises and toys fall out?"
    
    The young woman stood with a flicker of memory on
    her face; then, with a shy smile, she gave a slight nod.
    
    "It's just like that," Susan told her. "We don't know what
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    239
    
    surprises are in there any more than you do. We give you
    the support to start unwrapping your life, and we help you
    deal with what comes out, good or bad. We aren't witch
    doctors and we're not psychics, and we don't enjoy stirring
    around in the stew of your mind. We do get satisfaction
    out of helping. That's all." Her hand wavered in the air.
    She had closed the distance between them. Suddenly, it
    became very important to Susan to complete the contact
    between them before the guard came back.
    
    McKenzie teetered.
    
    "There is a guard," the doctor said. "He's on break, but
    he's due back any minute. It would be wel1 if you made
    up your mind before then."
    
    "Don't let Jack find me." McKenzie surrendered, col-
    lapsing into her arms.
    
    Susan embraced her awkwardly. She smoothed back a
    strand of hair from Mac's forehead. "Don't worry. I'll take
    care of you."
    

    





    Chapter 20
    
    Jack got tired of trying the phone. He bought himself a
    cheese roll and a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria
    and sat in the corner, half-listening to a group of people
    wail over some dying old lady. The commotion amused
    him at first, then annoyed him, and he pushed himself
    away from the table after wadding up what was left of the
    sweet roll and throwing it into the ashtray. What the hell
    did they think happened in a hospital, anyway?
    
    He strolled down the back corridors, where plastisheets
    flapped instead of walls, and took the stairs. The fire door
    clanged loudly when he entered the ward, but no one
    looked up or seemed to hear. The only bright spot of light
    was the nurses' station in the center of the hallways, but
    only one woman was there, and she sat, rocked back in
    
                                       her chair, feet propped on the counter, reading a book.     ~
                                       Her head nodded in time to the music from her ear-     _t
    
    phones. A head-banging nurse.
    
    Jack boldly pushed open the door to Mac's room and
    then narrowed his eyes in the dusk light. It only took him
    a heartbeat or two to see that the room was empty, the
    mattress stripped of sheets and blankets. The phone re-
    ceiver had been set back into its niche in the railing con-
    sole, but no one had noticed that the cord was unplugged.
    He trailed his fingers over it, wondering where she'd gone
    
             ~L
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    241
    
    He'd been wasting his time. He didn't like wasting his
    time. No, sir. Not when he had so much to do.
    
    Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, he backed out
    of the room. He made his way to the elevator, then halted
    when he saw the nurses' station was now empty. A red
    light blinked on the control panel, and the earphones had
    been thrown hastily next to it.
    
    The edge of Jack's mouth quirked. He strolled up to the
    chart rack and looked for "Smith, M" and did not see it.
    Then he saw the aluminum file Iying tossed on the
    counter under a sweater, its end peeking out. Someone
    had put a Post It note on it. The scrawled message read.
    Transferred to Psychiatric, 1 1:19 P M.
    
    Jack heard a soft footstep and turned away. Scratching
    his chin thoughtfully, he continued to his original desti-
    nation of the elevator. So Mac had gotten herself into
    the loony bin. He grinned. Had he pushed, or had she
    jumped?
    
    He'd find out in the morning how to deal with the
    psych ward. He wasn't done with her yet, not by a long
    shot. When he was done with her, she'd wear her knees
    to bloody scraps crawling after him, begging him to take
    her back. Telling him she'd been all wrong, and that she
    knew nobody loved her more than he did. Nobody. He
    pushed through the doors. "Sweet dreams, babe."
    
    Dudley found himself sweating profusely in the car. It
    dribbled down his flanks from his armpits, making his
    shirt stick uncomfortably He'd started perspiring once out
    of the mountains and past San Bernardino, less than an
    hour from home. It poured down his forehead, making it
    hard to see. He had the air-conditioning jacked all the
    way up, until the tip of his nose felt numb from the chill,
    but he kept blinking the sweat out of his eyes as it cas-
    caded down his forehead and nooled in the n~lmc ~r hic
    

    





    242
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    hands. Finally, he pulled off the freeway and just sat, wip-
    ing his hands and face on his handkerchief, over and over
    again.
    
    As he looked out the windshield, it was as though he
    looked through two pairs of eyes. One, bloodshot and
    tired from driving, and the other, night-sight keen and re-
    lentless, searching, stalking....
    
    Dudley wiped his brow again, hand shaking. He licked
    his lip, as heavily salted as a pretzel, and took a deep
    breath.
    
    Not here. Not now.
    
    He knew what he needed, what he wanted, and that
    Susan would never allow it. He would jeopardize all they'd
    worked for, all the children, funding for the future, helping
    all the neglected, channeling precious resources too often
    abandoned or beaten or molested by the uncaring present.
    He could never bear the burden of her displeasure.
    
    Yet.... It stirred in him, the sleeping man did, and
    brought things up, as a restless rogue tide did from an
    ocean floor, things thought buried and drowned in the
    sandy bed. Things that no one wanted exposed to the sun-
    light. The sun burned. Burned fiercely.
    
    He found himself looking at a 1960's housing tract,
    wood-shingled roofs, mailboxes sitting at the curb, the
    stucco sides painted in bland colors, one a pleasant bluish
    hue that cooled his fever as he watched it in the dark out
    the passenger side window of the car. Just looking at it
    gave him peace, like laying a cold compress over a fever
    blister, calmed the racing beat of his heart and pulse,
    soothed his throbbing temples. He imagined for a mo-
    ment the family who might live there, though the lights
    were all off except one, and from its shape and angle he
    knew it was the bathroom light. He knew. Someone could
    be slipping out of panties and bra even as he watched,
    speculating, stepping out of lacy lingerie and stretching,
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    243
    
    sinuous body, silken skin, hair Iying across a bare back
    like a flame . . .
    
    A white-hot beacon pierced his thoughts. Dudley
    jumped.
    
    "Something wrong, buddy?"
    
    He blinked into the glare, momentarily blinded, but he
    knew the style of voice and rolled down the window. "No,
    officer. Just driving home. The air-conditioning got over-
    heated, so I pulled over. Didn't want to stop traffic on the
    freeway."
    
    "Everything under control?"
    
    "Oh, yes." He leaned over, reaching for the glove com-
    partment. "Do you want the registration?"
    
    The flashlight wavered. Then the featureless voice be-
    hind it said, "No. That's all right. Better get a move on,
    though, you're still at the edge of the ramp."
    
    Dudley looked about, as if seeing his surroundings for
    the first time. "I'm sorry, Officer." He started the car. He
    pulled away slowly, to take the cloverleaf back on, dou-
    bling back toward the San Bernardino Mountains, not
    wanting to let the patrolman know his true destination.
    He would get off and back on again down the road. In
    the mirror, he could see the officer now, faintly visible in
    the glow of a streetlight, standing in uniform beside his
    bike, watching Dudley pull away.
    
    He'd never even heard the motorcycle. The patrolman
    had either approached him coasting, or he'd been lost in
    thought so deepÄ
    
    Never mind. No harm, no foul. Dudley cleared his
    throat. The profuse sweating had dried, leaving his face
    and torso feeling flaky and crusty. He looked for the near-
    est exit, so that he could swing about and head home.
    
    No. Not home. He wanted to look at something beau-
    tiful.
    
    He headed toward Mount Mercy Hospital.
    

    





    244
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Are you an angel?"
    
    Dudley stood over the shrunken form in the bed, and
    smiled. "Why, yes, ma'am. You've been calling for me,
    haven't you?"
    
    The kindly face looking back at him reminded him of
    an apple doll from a country fair, an apple doll who'd lost
    her blushed cheeks to the gray of pain and death. The
    faded blue eyes were nearly lost in the withering of her
    skin. "I have," the old woman said, breathily, haltingly.
    "They won't let me go, you know. My cats are home. My
    plants. No one to take care of them the way they should
    be. No one who cares the way I do. And my armsÄ" She
    tried to hold up her arms, where bruises testified to the
    difficulty of keeping a good vein for the IV, but she'd been
    tied with soft rags to keep her from pulling out the shunt
    yet another time. "They hurt. And I'm so tired."
    
    Dudley put his hand on a monitor. "You need to rest
    first," he told her. "And then you can go home."
    
    "Rest?"
    
    'tYes, rest." He watched her as her eyes dutifully flut-
    tered shut. Then he put a pillow over her face and held
    it down until the feeble struggles ceased.
    
    She was not quite dead when he removed the pillow.
    Dudley turned the oxygen off. He wiped his palm print
    from the monitor as it began to spike and beep softly in
    alarm.
    
    Using the tail of the sheet, he pulled the shunt from
    her arm. Something wet spilled on the mattress. He left
    swiftly as steps down the hall told him the nurses had re-
    acted to the frantic alarm of the machinery.
    
    The grease pencil schedule board by the station was
    not more legible than usual, but a quick scan told him the
    patient he wanted had moved on. The curve of his smile
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    245
    
    deepened. He was an angel, he told himself, as he fol-
    lowed the trail. The angel of mercy.
    
    Behind him, the intercom bleated, "Code Blue, room
    307, ~"
    
    He found her with little trouble, edging the door open.
    Light from the corridor fell across her sleeping face like
    sunbeams from heaven, illuminating the rises and hollows
    of her features. Her hair caressed the pillow slip, a halo
    about her face. She'd cleansed her hair. It framed her face
    in tiny, soft, and unruly fringes, the longer tresses in
    waves that made him ache to run his hands through
    them. The bruises had already begun to fade, and he was
    a little relieved to see he had not left severe ones on her
    slender throat. She was beautiful, in a unique way, if
    marred, and he was glad he was not responsible for the
    marring. He stood and watched her, drinking her in like a
    feverish man gulps cool water, for a very long time.
    
        ~.; ~ ~
    
    l\icKenzie woke, a splinter of harsh light from the hall-
    way prying at her eyelids. Someone was watching. Her
    door lay pushed slightly open and she blinked at the intru-
    sion, her mind fogged by sedatives which had finally taken
    hold. The quivery feeling of dread had begun to build in
    the pit of her stomach again, but it had dulled this time.
    Though her senses seemed blunted, they were still func-
    tioning. Someone was in the room with her, just inside
    the doorway where the night lay pooled in shadow. She
    heard the breathing.
    
    "Who is it? Who's there?" She shaded her eyes against
    the beacon.
    
    "Me."
    
    She looked to the flow of shadows along the wall.
    "Who's me?"
    

    





    246
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    The answer made no immediate sense to her. 'You're
    
    I ,,
    
    rea .
    
    A boyish voice. Not Jack's. Tension flowed out of her
    body.
    
    She felt real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, torn and worn
    hairless and bruised. Mac pulled herself up in the bed. "I
    think so. Are you?"
    
    "Damn right." The young voice, though strained,
    sounded definite.
    
    Mac reached back to the light switch on the wail. It
    clicked on, flooding the room with its glow.
    
    A boy sat on the floor by the front door. He wore hos-
    pital pajamas, pullover top and drawstring bottoms, his
    hair tousled. He had the coltish look of a boy about to
    pass that threshold into adolescence, still innocent, but
    not very. He blinked furiously against the illumination,
    put a foot out and closed the door to the room, shutting,
    himself in with her.
    
    "They'll see that!"
    
    'Well at least I can see you. What are you doing here?"
    
    "I wanted to look at you." His nose wrinkled, and he
    did not quit squinting even as her eyes adjusted to the
    light. He must need to wear glasses. "I waited until they
    all left. They put the temps in here, you know."
    
    "Temps?"
    
    He must be all of, what, eleven or twelve? His chin
    nodded emphatically. "Temps. The ones who never stay.
    Sometimes they die in here. Sometimes they just get
    taken away in the morning." He cocked his head. 'You're
    pretty banged up. What did you doÄuse the car to try it?"
    
    Mac asked back, baffled, "Try what?"
    
    He held up his arms. The hospital top sleeves slid
    down a little, revealing bandages wrapped about each
    wrist. There were seeping rusty stains on his left arm.
    
    Her stomach clenched as she realized he was talkina
    

    





    t~ ~
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    247
    
   -suicide. She did not want to offend him, and swallowed
    down her reaction. "Not . . . quite like that."
    
    He lowered his hands. "So, do you think you're crazy?"
    
    "Do you?"
    
    His face twitched. "I dunno. I guess so." He got to his
    feet, back braced against the wall, sliding upward, a game
    of youthful agility. "I just came to warn you."
    
    "Warn me?"
    
    "Yeah. Don't let her touch you." Did he mean Susan
    Craig? Or were there women techs on the floor? What did
    he mean? Was her last refuge unsafe, after all? "I don't
    understand."
    
    "I don't either." He scuffed a bare foot on the linoleum.
    "Just don't let her touch you."
    
    "Dr. Craig? She hasn't . . . molested you, has she?"
    
    His preadolescent face reddened. "New! Nothing like
    that."
    
    "Then what do you mean?"
    
    He looked back up. "I told you, I don't know. If I did,
    I'dÄ" he looked away, across the room. "I'd tell somebody.
    If they'd let me. Mom or somebody."
    
    'You can't talk to your family'"
    
    He scratched now, behind his ear, like a gangly pup-
    py. "Not yet. Dr. Whatley says it's too upsetting for me . . .
    and them. I'd tell Whatley if I could, but he's gone on a
    seminar. The only one left is her."
    
    "Them?" McKenzie repeated.
    
    "My mom. M'stepdad. The others." His eyes met hers,
    flicked away again. "They don't want to hear about it."
    
    The lump she felt for him settled in her throat. "It must
    be tough."
    
    He crossed his arms across his chest. "It's not so bad.
    I get ice cream when I want it. It's just thatÄit's just
    there's nobody to talk to. Everybody in here is crazy."
    
    She thought she knew what he meant. Not crazy, per-
    

    





    248
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    11~1p:', UUL ~Id/,~U. I~ldllLIL U~II~VIUrS ;:lflU cnougn~s. I~o one
    for an eleven-year-old to talk to. How could she be much
    better? "There's the telephone. You have buddies ..."
    
    "I don't have one," he interrupted. "Neither do you." .
    
    She thought for a moment he meant friends, and pre-
    pared to argue bitterly with him, then realized what he re-
    ferred to. Mac ran her hand across the inside of the
    railing, along the console board. No phone was tucked
    into its niche. Hers lay empty, too. Panic managed to
    pierce her benumbed thoughts. No way to reach Joyce.
    Or Carter. Or anyone else.
    
    "So," the kid continued. "Do you think you're going to
    stick around?"
    
    "I don't know. I have . . . some things to work out."
    
    He nodded wisely. He started edging toward the door.
    
    "Leaving?"
    
    "I get in trouble if they catch me out of my room. Then
    she," and his face creased, "finds out." .
    
    "But surely they just want to help you."
    
    "I have nightmares," he said abruptly. "No one can help
    me." He turned, put a hand on the door. He looked back
    over his shoulder. "Do you have dreams?"
    
    She felt a sudden deep kinship with him. Visions and
    dreams. "Sure."
    
    He shuddered.
    
    Suddenly afraid, McKenzie said, "I'll see you tomor-
    row?"
    
    "Maybe."
    
    "If I don't, what's your name? I'll come looking for you."
    Prompted, he stood silent for a long moment. Then,
    "Brandon. But I like it when every one calls me Brand."
    
    "Brand?"
    
    "Yeah. Like in Brand X, the stuff nobody wants."
    
    Before she could say anything else, he pulled the door
    open partway and slipped through the crack.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    249
    
    McKenzie sat and watched the door to see if anything
    else might happen, thinking, What a strange child. Yet, she
    could not help but think of Cody, and what Cody would
    be like if he'd suddenly been made human.
    
    A half-grown, awkward, lonely eleven-year-old.
    
    Mac reached out and turned the light back off,
    slumping down into the bed.
    
    The doctor in her made Susan rub carefully, trying not
    to tear the delicate tissues of her face, but she couldn't re-
    frain from succumbing to the satisfaction of massaging
    her tired eyes. Elbows on the desk, she rested her head in
    her hands for a moment. She looked down at the printout
    on her desk one last time, readying for the setup in the
    morning. Miller could do it if he came in. She would
    rather do it herself, but he would think it peculiar if she
    assigned it to herself only, out of rotation. She did not
    want any flags.
    
    A shadow fell across the paper. She looked up. She
    frowned. 'What are you doing here?"
    
    Dudley smiled. "It's late," he said. "I came to see you
    home."
    

    





                                    (:hante.r 21
    
    Susan kept her voice neutral. "I'm not sure if I'm ready to
    go yet."
    
    'You're tired," he answered. "You can't do it all in one
    day."
    
    She might need to. Dudley could not read them, but all
    the signs were there. She might have to close shop here
    and move on. Move on before anyone became truly aware
    of who she was and what she was doing.
    
    She made the decision to go with him. With brisk
    movements, she snapped the file back into place and left
    the schedule across the desk where Miller would look for
    it, and pulled her purse out of the desk drawer. 'You're
    right. I should never have come back this evening."
    
    He escorted her out of the lab area and down the hall
    like a soft-spoken gentleman. The corridor lights were
    harsh on his face, showing evidence of where the neuro-
    surgeons and plastic surgeons had put him back together,
    the hairline showing gray along the scarred seams, but the
    same scarring would barely be visible in softer daylight.
    The ward tech at the desk looked up, saw them approach-
    ing, and went back to her book. She knew Dudley almost
    as well as she knew the doctors.
    
    Though he looked calm and unruffled now, she could
    smell the sweat on him and see that his clothes were
    travel rumpled, and she wondered how close he was to
    250
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    251
    
    !osing it. She talked to him about Brandon, idle chatter,
    while reading his body language, what he wasn't saying.
    
    He half-paused near the room which she had assigned
    to McKenzie Smith. His head partially turned as they
    slowed in passage, and Susan could feel her brows
    tighten. He knew she was in there. How? . . . and why?
    
    Especially why?
    
    He seemed to realize what he was doing, and quick-
    ened his stride, sweeping her past the tech and through
    the double doors of the ward.
    
    By the time they reached the quiet of the employee
    parking lot, she knew how he'd cross-connected with the
    girl, and why he'd come to the hospital, using Susan, us-
    ing his time on and around the ward to give him access.
    And she knew she wanted it stopped.
    
    At least until she knew whether the girl was of any
    value or not.
    
    She swung around at her car door, instead of using the
    key.
    
    "Stay away from her," she said, without preamble.
    
    They knew each other too well for him to pretend to
    misunderstand her. A frown rippled across his face.
    'Why?"
    
    "Because I told you to."
    
    "And if I can't?"
    
    Susan's mouth was dry, but she managed, '1hen I'll let
    him loose, Dudley. I'll let the sleeping man wake, and he'll
    eat you alive. There won't be a scrap of you left." She
    watched as he paled under the garage structure's lighting.
    "Do you understand?"
    
    Rough-voiced. "You wouldn'tÄ
    
    "I can and I will."
    
    Words failed him entirely. Dudley looked down and
    nodded.
    
    She put her hand on his shoulder. "We've come too far
    

    





    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    what vou need. I won't let you down, either."
    
    -! need ..." he began and halted.
    
                                        "I know." She caressed the key chain in her hand. This
                                        day had not gone well for h-er. She faced losing Donnie,
                                        Hotchkiss, Brandon, and now the Smith girl. Even Dud-
                                        ley, if he could not obey her. She could recoup her losses,
                                        she'd done so before, but such a staggering blow might set
                                        her back years. She needed to salvage something from the   Et'
                                        program. Brandon had family. Donnie had only Graciela,
                                        who had strayed down the wrong path before. She found
                                        the words. "I've got someone else who might please you as
                                        well."
                                        He looked up.
                                        "We'll talk at home."
    
    She knew she was dreaming. That gave Mac only a lit-
    tle comfort as she passed into a corridor which was eerily
    like and yet unlike the hospital. No cheery paint on the ~ 5 -
    walls here. All was in a gray-green, a color that she~
    
    thought of as "cadaver green," and it covered the walls
    and ceilings as far as they stretched. She walked hesi-
    tantly through the maze, turning and occasionally trying a
    door, but none would open to her. She passed empty
    counters which might, or might not, have been nursing
    stations. Was she dreaming of Mount Mercy? This was
    more like a dungeon. She put out her hand, touched her
    fingertips to the wall. It was cold, as chilled as the inside
    of a refrigerator. Morgue, she thought, as she snatched her
    hand away.
    
    She came to a halt at the T-section, thinking she had
    been there before, and wondered which way to go.
    
    She heard him just moments before she saw him: dog
    claws scrabbling on the hard linoleum flooring in leaps
    and bounds. Cody burst around the corner, tongue lolling
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
        1 ~
    
    253
    
    .....
    
    lIl a llappy tlUUI~ III UU~;y g1111, 111~ Ldll W~V111g gdlly. ~
    
    slid to a stop and barked and whirled around, daring her
    to catch him, coaxing her to follow.
    
    She took a step, he gaily retreated. She put her hand
    out, he bowed low on his front legs, rear in the air, asking
    her to play in dog body language. "Cody," she called softly,
    to hear her voice echo in the cavernous hallways.
    
    His ears pricked. He whined, as though aware he was
    behaving badly by not coming closer. He shook himself
    and turned around again, pleading with her to follow.
    
    It was almost as though there were a distance between
    them he could not cross.
    
    McKenzie looked down the hallway he wanted her to
    enter. Cloud gray at the mouth, it darkened down its
    length, ominously, like a growing storm. It frightened her.
    She did not want to go after the golden retriever. She
    stepped backward reluctantly.
    
    Cody whined sharply, in warning. A metallic crash
    sounded behind her. McKenzie jumped at the sharpness
    of the sound. She wanted to turn round and see what it
    was, and could not. A second clash shattered the echoes
    of the first. Cody barked sharply, urgently. He dashed
    away, then turned and whined, urging her after. Fear
    raised the hackles of his coat.
    
    Someone was out there.
    
    Her danger rang in her ears. Mac fought to move, but
    her feet stayed frozen to the corridor floor. She could hear
    something moving behind her, coming closer, closer ...
    she could feel the warmth of another being's breath in the
    chill corridor touch her, and heard a low, menacing laugh.
    
    Cody threw back his head and let out a bloodcurdling,
    mournful howling.
    
    McKenzie broke loose and lunged at him. They collided
    in the intersection of the hallways. Cody yelped once,
    

    





             Elizabeth Forrest
    
    heedless or the darkness which loomed. The unkilo-w-n
    presence behind her was worse, far worse. The Someone,
    or something, followed.
    
    As she sprinted, she could hear her own footfalls, but
    no others, but she could hear his breath grow as ragged as
    her own, his low, guttural curse as they skidded around a
    corner. Cody stopped, incredibly, to raise his leg and mark
    the wall at a four-way intersection. McKenzie slid past
    him, crying, "Cody!" and the dog looked at her as if to
    compel her to remember the area. She looked at the wet
    puddle on the floor, yellowish stain, and the faint marks
    dribbling down the wall, like a shadowy fracture. Then
    Cody took to his heels again, leading her off into an
    ebony-shadowed tunnel which lightened only as they
    breached it.
    
    She ran until she got a stitch in her side, and had to
    gulp for breath. Cody's pink tongue hung from his jaws,
    throwing droplets of moisture to the floor as he raced. But
    no matter which way they turned, or how often he marked
    the passage in his own doggy fashion, they could not lose
    their pursuer.
    
    Cody reached a last intersection. He lifted his leg in
    vain and could not urinate. He half-fell, half-sat and
    whined as she stopped by his side. She reached down to
    pet him, to run her fingers through his familiar, silken
    coat. She could feel the heat rising off him in this icy
    mausoleum.
    
    "It's okay," she murmured softly to him. 'You and me
    against the world, huh, boy?"
    
    Her hand passed through him. He rolled his eyes as if
    he had felt it, wary of it, a tiny hurt, like the bite of a flea.
    
    "Oh, God!" She pulled her hand back. Warm tears es-
    caped her eyes, making it difficult to see the dog. There
    was nothing she wanted more in the world than to hug
    him, his silken, wiggly dog body, to feel the love in him
    

    





    ::-
    
    ^~&TE! W4TCH
    ~ IL~A ~ ~&
    
    255
    
    brimming over, to feel him safe and whole again, to give
    him back the love.
    
    Cody lurched to his feet, his lips peeling off his teeth,
    hackles up, growls rumbling through his throat.
    
    McKenzie knew the time had come to turn and face
    whoever, whatever pursed them. The awful certainty, the
    dread, the dire sense of wrongness and evil began to rise
    in her. She braced herself and started to turn around.
    
    She did not make it in time. Something immense and
    dark hit her with a jolt andÄ
    
    Gasping, Mac sat up in the hospital bed, grabbing for
    the railing, the breath knocked out of her, heart racing,
    eyes wide in the twilight of the room. She hugged herself
    as the fear ricocheted around inside of her.
    
    ~-~9SaraTi White-side sat inside the family minivan, huddled
    behind the steering wheel, staring at the outside of her
    home. A thin, Seattle mist trickled down the outside of
    the windshield and, in a few minutes, she'd have to turn
    the van on again to defrost the steam fogging up the in-
    side.
    
    She hugged herself, afraid to go in, yet knowing that, in
    the three hours she'd had the house staked out, she'd
    seen nothing more than the daring teenagers down the
    street drive past. The mangy marmalade tom from over
    the fence had gone strolling through the hedges. The
    moon had risen and disappeared into the cloud cover.
    
    Sarah gritted her teeth. Damn that man for making me
    afraid to enter me own house. Damn him for hurting Mac
    and driving her off. Damn him, damn him, damn him.
    
    Her fingers wrapped themselves about the steering
    wheel until the knuckles pinched chalk-white and ached.
    After a few long minutes, Sarah noticed the pain and gin-
    gerly let go. She winced as tiny aches lightninged through
    her joints as the circulation returned.
    

    





    256
    
    Elizabeth Forrese
    
    It had been four days. The kids were cranky, her par-
    ents and her friends had let her know that she was being
    overly fearful and cautious and eccentric.
    
    She couldn't help it. Mac had frightened her into flee-
    ing, and only now did she have the nerve to come creep-
    ing back. Not much nerve. Enough to park under old lady
    Rhodes' creeping wisteria and aging carport and stake out
    her home anxiously. She'd been sitting there until her butt
    had gone numb and that, Sarah reflected dryly, was an ac-
    complishment in itself.
    
    So. The time had come to either get her nerve up, or
    tuck her tail between her legs and creep back to her par-
    ents' house. And her arrival at three o'clock in the morn-
    ing, as her father would so eloquently put it, would upset
    every one.
    
    She sucked in her lower lip and chewed on it as she
    turned the key, started the van up, and pulled slowly out
    of the carport. Long, trailing vines of feathery wisteria
    with their lavender buds pulled across the car like fingers,
    leaving trails in the damp. She did not turn on the head-
    lights, though, as she drove down the street and into her
    driveway. As she turned the engine off and pulled her
    keys out, she sat another moment, debating whether to
    lock the van doors or not. Quick entrance if she needed
    it, but what if Jack Trebolt were sitting in the car seat
    laughing at her when she came back?
    
    Sarah opted for a quick entrance into the van and
    crossed her fingers, praying no one would take advantage
    of the unlocked doors. She slid down and outside, shut-
    ting the door quietly but solidly behind her.
    
    She loved this house. She had always loved this house
    from the first day she and her husband had bid on it until
    this evening when she looked on it in abject cowardice.
    Had it betrayed her or had she betrayed it'
    
    Doesn't matter. Sarah decided, suddenly realizing she'd
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    257
    
    chewed her lip into a puffy !ump. She stretched her
    mouth open, trying to soothe it, and pushed her feet up
    the sidewalk to the back door.
    
    It was closed, but not locked. It gave way to the subtle
    pressure of her putting the key in, squeaking slightly, as it
    opened inward to the darkness. Sarah's heart did one of
    those little pipsqueak jumps and settled into a racy pulse.
    
    This has to be better than aerobics, she thought, as she
    eased into the storm porch and then into the kitchen.
    
    She felt for the light switch plate, then hesitated again.
    Light or no light? What if he was sitting here in the dark,
    waiting for her?
    
    What if he wasn't? Did she really need to break a leg
    stumbling over something in the darkness?
    
    Damn him. Damn him to hell forever. This was her
    home, and she knew every square inch of it, even when
    the kids messed it up and left their junk Iying around. She
    could slink through it in eternal darkness without bucking
    a shin or stubbing a toe, she knew it so well.
    
    Until tonight.
    
    Impatiently, Sarah turned the lights on and then stood
    a moment, blinking in the sudden illumination.
    
    The kitchen looked perfectly ordinary. There was some
    dried grit on the flooringÄit had been raining last week,
    too, when they'd loaded the van to leave. Someone had
    tracked in mud. Time had dried it. Sarah took a deep
    breath and passed into the rest of her home, throwing on
    lights wherever she could touch the switches.
    
    She made her way straight to the answering machine. It
    blinked sullenly at her. There had been nothing on it for
    days, because she had checked it by remote. She sat
    down in the easy chair next to it, casting her glance over
    the living room, seeing nothing out of place, and triggered
    the machine.
    
    >>YOU HRUE O~E MESSAGE,<< it told her.
    

    





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    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    She retrieved it. Listened in amazement to a detective
    from Los Angeles. The second time around, she had cob-
    bled together a scrap of paper and a pencil so she could
    write the number down.
    
    She sat back, and decided it wouldn't help Mac to call
    the police in the middle of the night. She'd go home,
    wake her husband, tell him they could come back, and
    then sleep until the kids woke her. Life could ease back~
    into normalcy.
    
    Jack had undoubtedly gone after McKenzie. She had a
    thing or two she could tell Pete Moreno, but it could wait.
    
    Sarah stood, her throat suddenly dry. She needed a
    drink. If she remembered correctly, there were still a cou-
    ple of peach Snapples in the fridge.
    
    She left the living room light on, gained confidence as
    she passed through the rooms. The hardwood flooring
    seemed to creak happily under her shoes as she walked.
    It was lonesome, this huge, old house. It was waiting for
    her and the family to come home.
    
    Feeling vindicated that she had come back that night,
    Sarah yanked open the refrigerator door.
    
    The sight hit her full on. She blinked. It took a moment
    to realize what she saw.
    
    A bloody, severed dog head stared back at her from the
    milk carton's shelf.
    
    Sarah screamed. Her legs folded under her and she felt
    herself collapsing to the hard kitchen floor, collapsing like
    a house of cards.
    



                                 Chapter 22
    
    Dolan's call woke Carter at an ungodly hour. Eight thirtytwo
    or something to that effect. He squinted his eyes against the
    harshness of the late May sun creeping through his
    bedroom shutters as the editorial assistant said, "No artist
    today, Carter. I can't put her onto it until tomorrow morning."
    
    Carter didn't like the delay, but what could he do? He said
    as much.
    
    Dolan returned, "Thought you'd see it that way. Anyhow,
    I'll be by tomorrow for dinner. What do you want?"
    
    "Mu shu pork, but only if the crepes are thin enough to
    see through. Lo mein. Fried rice. I've already got the Tsing-
    Tao on ice."
    
    "Gotcha, boss." Dolan clicked off the line.
    
    Carter rolled over in bed and contemplated the ceiling of
    his bedroom. Tiny spiderweblike cracks from the various
    tremors over the years greeted him. Outside the apartment,
    he could hear the faint, distant sound of heavy equipment
    working on the nearby segment of the subway system. He
    had the day off.
    
    He drew his hand up to tuck it under his head, bringing
    the equally scarred landscape of his wrist into focus. Then
    he slipped his hand into place, and thought of McKenzie
    Smith. Even if he didn't have the day off, he'd find a way to
    go to Mount Mercy and be with her.
    
    259
    
    
    

    


    260
    
             Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Uneasiness crawled around a little, somewhere under
    his rib cage. Or rma`,ybe it was ,ust gas from !ast night's
    pizza. ~e closed his eyes to think and slipped back into
    restless sleep.
    
    "Well, girl, as they say in my neighborhood, don't you
    clean up nice."
    
    Mac had been standing at the window, looking through
    the reinforced glass, determined to stay on her feet as
    long as possible, building up strength, when Joyce hailed
    her. She turned around, smiling. "Like the duds?" She was
    weanng a pullover pajama top and drawstring bottoms,
    nothing remotely like street wear, but far better than she'd
    had the past two days.
    
    Joyce, wearing a Monet-inspired print of blues, laven-
    ders and blue-greens, sat down with a grin. "Hey, I got
    nothin' against seeing a perky little ass once in a while,
    but it wasn't yours I've been thinkin' about."
    
    McKenzie came over to her bed and perched on it, legs
    folded Indian-style, laughing in spite of herself. Joyce pat-
    ted her on the knee briefly. "I came by early to check on
    you and saw you'd been moved already. I heard you had
    some problems last nightÄI wanted to tell you why I
    wasn't there for you. The batteries went down in my
    pager. I never even saw the 'lo cell' warning. Mac, I'm
    sorry."
    
    "It's all right. I just . . . I couldn't stay there. He kept
    calling. He said he was inside the hospital."
    
    Joyce frowned, her ebony brows drawing close. "And
    you want to know if he could have been."
    
    Mac nodded.
    
    "I won't lie to you. He could have. But Heaven knows,
    he'll have trouble gettin' into Psychiatric. Those double
    doors lock if the receptionist doesn't like the look of any-
    one trying to get through. Speaking of which, I better put
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
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    Carter's name on the guest list or he won't he ahlf tn ce
    you, either."
    
    Mac looked up. "He wants to visit?" Faint surprise was
    in her voice.
    
    Joyce had been fishing through her purse. She met
    Mac's expression. "What do you think?"
    
    "I don't know anymore." Mac rolled her hand into a soft
    fist and pushed it into her stomach, just under her ribs. "I
    don't know what to think. It's gone all numb, and it hurts
    at the same time, right here."
    
    Joyce answered softly, "You don't have to feel, just now.
    But you have to think, and keep thinking. The feelings
    will come along later."
    
    "Have you known Carter long?"
    
    "Not long. He's only been in Los Angeles, three, maybe
    four years. All I can say is that he's not going to use you
    to sell newspapers. Not that he isn't a good reporter. He
    is, one of the best. It's just that he's interested in you, not
    your story."
    
    Mac looked away then, back at the window, the
    diamond-shaped screen reinforcement hiding any real
    view, her fist still in the pit of her stomach. "I'm sorry for
    all the trouble."
    
    "Trouble? Defending yourself is trouble?" Joyce stood,
    gathering her belongings. She put a hand to her glossy
    dark hair, scooping it back from her face. "I get my hands
    on that spouse of yours and we'll see what trouble is."
    
    "I'm worth it, right?" Mac said dryly
    
    "Of course you are! I never met a woman who wasn't!"
    
    "I'll bet you haven't." Mac's gaze tracked her to the
    door. Then, "JoyceÄ"
    
    'Yes?"
    
    "How long do I have to be in here?"
    
    "Ideally, just a day or two. Long enough for you to feel
    better, and for us to get our hands on Jack Trebolt."
    

    





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    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Then what do I do? Where do I go?"
    
    'Why, home. If not, I've got a place for you." Joyce's
    mouth worked a second. "Do you think your father would
    want you at home?"
    
    "I ... don't know. He's still not conscious, is he?"
    
    "Not yet, but the good news is, he's not supposed to be.
    He's been kept in a coma purposely, while the brain swell-
    ing goes down. We won't know about injuries or damage
    until they let him begin to waken. Once they take him off
    the ventilator, he can talk a little, though he won't be co-
    herent right away. But if you don't want to go home, or we
    can't find Jack, don't you worry. I've got a place for you."
    
    Mac pointed at the closet. "I've got some money in my
    jeans. It's not much, butÄ"
    
    "Girl, don't you talk like that to me." Joyce put her chin
    up. "I've got a good job, and it pays me well enough. Save
    it for someone who needs it."
    
    Mac's face flushed deeply. Joyce pointed a finger at her.
    "Next time I come in, I want to you to be ready to sign
    legal papers.
    
    "What kind? Not to stay here?" Her eyes widened.
    
    "Are you crazy? Of course not. Petitions for restraining
    orders. I'm picking them up from my legal offices late this
    afternoon."
    
    "Against Jack?"
    
    "Unless you've got someone else in mind?"
    
    Legal action would infuriate him. He hated attorneys
    with a passion. Mac closed her eyes briefly at the thought
    of the reaction. Then she opened them. "No. He's the
    one."
    
    "Good girl." Joyce put her hand on the door, saw a hes-
    itation in Mac, and asked, "Anything else?"
    
    "How long . . . how long will they keep me here if I've
    been seeing things?"
    
    "McKenzie Smith. I'd think you were crazy if you
    

    





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    weren't seeing things the way you've been knocked
    around. You just get another day or two of rest under your
    belt, and stop worrying. You're not in here permanently,
    okay?"
    
    She let out her breath. "All right."
    
    "Good. Now I've got work to do. And rememberÄ"
    Joyce was already out the door, and she looked back in,
    dark eyes sparkling. "Page me. I've got new batteries this
    time."
    
    "Right."
    
    The door shut.
    
    Too late, Mac remembered she'd forgotten to tell Joyce
    she had no phone. She put her knees up and hugged
    them. In a way, it was a welcome relief to be dulled and
    listless, to have lost the knife edge of terror and dread that
    had been stalking her for the last few days. The unrav-
    eling feeling had gone. Whether it would return, she
    didn't know.
    
    The door opened tentatively, and she saw a tousled
    head peak in. The boy had a scattering of freckles and
    squint lines between his brows as if he needed glasses.
    She recognized Brand.
    
    "The Nintendo lounge is open. Can you play?"
    
    "I thought the warden didn't let you out."
    
    He flashed a grin. "They haven't built a jail cell yet that
    can hold me. Anyway, do you play?"
    
    "A little."
    
    "I see you've got your padded cell suit. Come on, let's
    go before all the good games are gone."
    
    McKenzie swung her feet to the floor. "I'm supposed to
    have some tests."
    
    Brand shrugged. "They'll come find you. How far can
    you run?"
    
    Running. Like a slash across her eyes. Cody, weavin~ his
    way through a maze of tunnelsÄ
    

    





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             Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Mac?"
    
    "Yes." She had herself braced at the foot of the hospital
    bed.
    
    "You spacing out on me?"
    
    "I . . . must have been."
    
    Brand wrinkled his nose. "Don't take your meds. Pre-
    tend to swallow them, then spit them down the toilet or
    something. Otherwise you'll be so full of dope you'll be a
    zombie." He made a noise of disgust. "I gotta have some-
    body around here I can talk to."
    
    "Right." Mac pushed away from the bed. The vision
    fled, leaving vertigo in its place, a moment of instability
    when she literally could not tell top from bottom. Then it,
    too, faded and she was at the door. Brand looked quizzi-
    cally up at her. She shrugged and made a face of tics and
    grimaces. "What are you waiting for?"
    
    'You're stupid," he commented with delight and dragged
    her out into the corridor.
    
    Susan slept late. The lunch trays were already being
    put away when she entered the lab. Miller sat at his com-
    puter terminal, a can of soda at one elbow and a
    gnawed-on apple at the other. The sounds of Tetris came
    from the computer as he tapped keys frantically in re-
    sponse to the falling shapes.
    
    Her mouth tensed, but she decided not to scold him
    for playing games on the work machines. Miller was not
    an outstanding technician, but he did his work without
    questions or a second thought, which suited her quite
    well. She was as certain as she could be that the moment
    he went home, the day's work disappeared from his skull.
    When the time came for her to move on, and it would,
    even if she solved the current crises, that unremarkable
    memory of Miller's could be worth its weight in gold.
    
    "Did you get the Smith girl retested?"
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
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    "Yeah." He tapped a disk sitting on top of the monitor,
    lost a moment in the frantic pacing of the game, and
    moaned in frustration. He cleared the screen to start
    again, and paused. "I had to look all over for her."
    
    "Look for her? Where could she have gone? I had
    enough thorazine in her to bring down an elephant. She
    had a bad night."
    
    "She was in the game room with Brand X."
    
    Susan paused in folding her suit jacket. She laid it care-
    fully over the back of her chair. "With Brandon?"
    
    "Yeah." His attention went avidly back to the game
    screen. "I've got ten more minutes of lunch."
    
    "That's fine," she answered abstractedly. There was no
    reason for the uneasiness she felt over the pairing of the
    boy and the young woman, but she didn't like it, all the
    same. Until she was finished with Smith, she'd have to
    find a way to keep the two of them apart. Just in case.
    "What were the two of them doing?"
    
    "Playing Super Mario."
    
    A game of concentration and reflexes. Susan considered
    the ramifications and decided to increase the dosage be-
    ing prescribed. She sat down at her terminal and loaded
    the new exam disk, sharp blue eyes narrowed. It was the
    nature of entropy that things would, sooner or later, begin
    to decay.
    
    But it was much too soon for what she had planned. If
    she was going to be forced out of here, to cut and run and
    start over, then she'd do it on her own terms. If a retreat
    was in order, she'd make certain the enemy had wounds
    of their own, suffering of their own, to take care of.
    
    First, there was Ibie Walker.
    
    If all went extremely well with Ibie, then perhaps a re-
    treat would not even be necessary.
    
    Secondly, there was Stephen Hotchkiss. She had to
    determine what his next move would be. He might under-
    

    





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             Elizabeth Forrest
    
    stand instinctively that he had to fo!!ow her snu~estions.
    Or he might need to be nudged further along.
    
    Or he might need to be dealt with altogether.
    
    It might also depend on how much she could count on
    Dudley. His personality was beginning to show the stress.
    He needed another overlay, but she was uncertain if that
    would put him beyond her ability to handle him. He had
    begun to show the classic signs of disintegration, and they
    both could ill afford it.
    
    Frowning at the possibilities and alternatives, she did
    not notice at first the results coming up on the screen.
    When she did, she sucked in a hissing breath. Miller
    stopped what he was doing and swung around to look at
    her.
    
    She raised an eyebrow as she met his dweebish expres-
    sion. "Lunch hour," she said carefully, "must surely be
    over by now."
    
    Without hesitation' he shut the computer down. "Right.
    Who's up next?"
    
    "We'll be working with the speech therapy for Ibie
    Walker."
    
    "The soundboard?"
    
    She nodded. Miller, of the weak chin and lank hair,
    flashed a sudden smile. "I'm working a double shift today.
    I'll go set up the equipment."
    
    "Do that."
    
    As his footsteps faded, Susan turned back to the mon-
    itor. She touched the command for the printer. It began to
    tractor feed paper and print out as she read the screen.
    
    The results were scarcely different from yesterday's
    readings.
    
    She tapped a thumb on the keyboard, lost in thought.
    All the work she had done, all the research, all the im-
    printing, had been done from the aggressor's point of view.
    Her hopes of finding an empathic match had been dashed
    

    





      :~_i,
    
    DEATH WA~CH ~y
    
    time and again, if not by personality disintegration of the
    subject, then by fear of discovery by the authorities.
    
    But she had never, ever considered trying from the view
    of the victim. .
    
    Until now.
    
    Susan leaned close to read the screen. 'Who are you,
    little woman, and what are you doing to my program? Just
    what do you think you can get away with?"
    
    As the spikes and grids flashed past her eyes, she began
    to come to a decision.
    
    Brand crowed as he successfully brought his character
    through a colorful segment and punched his fist into the
    air as the Nintendo screen flashed a score in starburst.
    Then he caught sight of the doctor watching them from
    the game room door, and he scowled.
    
    "What is it?"
    
    "It's her," he answered, putting aside his control pad.
    He leaned forward and saved their progress in the con-
    sole, then snapped the television screen off as well.
    
    McKenzie stood up, a little more stiffly than she'd an-
    ticipated, not wondering that her adult body had not
    taken to the floor seating the way Brand's frame had. She
    watched as the doctor wove her way through the rec room
    to them.
    
    Dr. Craig folded her arms lightly over her white jacket.
    "Nurse tells me you didn't eat lunch today, Brand."
    
    He bounded to his feet. "Didn't feel like it."
    
    The silvery-blonde woman inclined her head slightly.
    "That's not our deal, is it?"
    
    The boy refused to look the doctor in the eye. Finally,
    he shrugged, saying, "I guess."
    
    Craig brought up a slim wrist to catch the time. "It's
    not too late. I've had a tray put in your room. You don't
    

    





    268
    
    have to eat everything, but I want you to make an effort.
    I asked them not to make it too awful. Okay?"
    
    He shuffled a bare foot. "I guess," he repeated.
    
    "Then I guess you'd better go." She put a hand lightly
    on his shoulder, urging him.
    
    Brand rolled an eye at McKenzie and went. The doctor
    waited until he was gone from the room and then turned
    back. She was smiling.
    
    "Glad he found somebody to relate to. I hate to make
    him eat, but he needs to."
    
    "Why?"
    
    "Hes a manic-depressive. Dr. Whatley treats him with
    drugs, of course, but nutrition has something to do with
    it. We re trying to impress on him the importance of what
    and when he eats. The more stable we can keep his mood
    swings, the better off he'll be."
    
    "Who's Dr. Whatley?"
    
    "He's the head of Psychiatric, actually. He's been out on
    seminar. He's not due back until the end of this week. I
    work with Brand on self-esteem and a new form of ther-
    apy which uses rapid eye movementÄare you familiar
    with that?"
    
    McKenzie thought. For a moment, she dizzied and as
    she looked at Susan Craig, she saw a wet, ruby veil drop
    across her face and then disappear. She blinked, hard.
    "No ... I don't think so...."
    
    "It's relatively new. The therapist trained in it takes a
    patient who's suffered trauma, recent or even long pastÄ
    there's been some success with Vietnam vetsÄanyway,
    the patient follows a series of hand movements visually.
    Or watches software, in the helmet, as you were doing
    this morning. Somehow, and we're still not sure how, the
    mind gets retrained and focused, and the traumatic mem-
    ory is reduced so that the patient can handle it.'
    
              Elizabeth Forrest
    
        ~:.                          .      ~_
    

    





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    The doctor had begun to escort her across the game
    room.
    
    "I thought Brand's problem was psychiatric."
    
    "It is, mainly. But he also witnessed the death of his fa-
    ther when he was very young and that seems to trigger
    problems. So he gets to wear the helmet, too, twice a
    day." In the corridor, Susan Craig faced Mac triumphantly.
    "You wouldn't believe what we can do with that little vir-
    tual reality helmet. Or what we can diagnose."
    
    McKenzie felt a pinprick of ice on the back of her
    neck. It began to spread.
    
    'You've read my results?"
    
    "Yes, I have." The doctor nodded. "Your concussive
    symptoms are extremely mild, according to the spatial and
    other results. However...."
    
    She kn~ws. McKenzie felt her whole body go cold. She
    had to know that Mac was seeing things, terrible, horrific
    things that were entirely a figment of her imagination.
    Cra2 y....
    
    "I wanted to suggest to you that you'd be a good candi-
    date for therapy yourself. The trauma of domestic vio-
    lence IS as severe as any wartime experience. It would be
    voluntary. I can't force you, and since Dr. Whatley isn't
    here, he can't put it on your orders. But," and the slender
    woman's smile grew warmer, "I'd like you to consider it."
    That wrist flashed up again as she consulted her watch.
    
    "In fact, I have someone coming into my lab now for
    yet another kind of therapy. Why don't you come in,
    watch, see for yourself? Then when I'm finished, you can
    sit in for a session, if you like." Susan put her hand on
    McKenzie's wrist as if sensing her withdraw slightly.
    
    How could she not? She felt as though she were being
    peeled away. "I don't ... I'm not...."
    
    "Please consider it," Craig said seriously. "And there's
    another possibility. With your cooperation, we might be
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    able to re-create the scenario through computer anima-
    tion."
    
    "The scenario?"
    
    "The attack," amplified Craig, irritation edging her
    voice. "The violence which brought you here in the first
    place. The police have just begun using crime scene sce-
    narios to work up cases during the investigation not jl~ct
    for court presentation. If you cooperate, I think we can
    present Officer Moreno with some persuasion that you
    were attacked by your ax-husband. A custom-made pro-
    gram, from your memories."
    
    "In virtual reality?"
    
    "Of course. Interested?"
    
    How could she not be?
    

    





    n
    
                                     Chapter 23
    
    "Don't do it." Brand's tone was sullen. Mac watched the
    way he pushed his food around his plate, picking rather
    than eating. It didn't look too bad, actually, the hospital
    equivalent of chicken nuggets and baby corn, with french
    fries, and some electric neon blue flavor of gelatin in a
    cup on the side.
    
    She pinched a fry. It had been oven-baked, but it was
    edible. Tasty, even. She pinched a second fry and Brand
    leveled his betrayed expression on her. "They could be
    drugged."
    
    Mac snipped the fry in two with an even bite and
    waved the remainder of it. "They're not bad. Wouldn't
    they have some sort of groady aftertaste if they were
    drugged?"
    
    He blinked. "Maybe," he said dubiously. He speared a
    couple and ate them. "Maybe not." He opened his mouth
    to show the half-chewed food. "My tongue turn some
    weird color?"
    
    She had to puzzle out the words, muffled as they were
    by the mulched-up fries. Mac shook her head emphati-
    cally. "Not yet." She was betting on the gelatin.
    
    He looked almost disappointed. He pushed his food
    around some more. "I'm not really hungry. Why don't you
    eat some more so it'll look like I di"I can't do that. Besides, you need it."
    271
    

    





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             Elizabeth Forrest
    
    His stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, bub-
    bling discontent into the air
    
    Mac acknowledged the noise. "Even your body says dif-
    ferently. Your system has to stay in balance "
    
    He shoved the tray away viciously "Cut the crap, okay?
    You're not my doctor and not my mom."
    
    She sat on the end of his bed. He dropped his chin, not
    looking at her, and folded his arms over his stomach as if
    he could quell the hungry sounds by sheer effort. His face
    looked pale in the hospital room lighting, and there was a
    light sweat over his forehead.
    
    "So what's your point?" Mac asked lightly.
    
    "The point is . . . the point is, I have a mom. But she's
    not here. She's never here."
    
    "She isn't supposed to be, is she?"
    
    Brand looked at her fiercely. "If your kid was in the hos-
    pital, would you let some flaky old doctor keep you away?
    For weeks? Would you?"
    
    Her temple throbbed briefly, but her vision stayed clear.
    She rapped him on the knee, thinking of Cody and how
    she'd failed him. "I don't know what I'd do."
    
    Brand picked up a chicken nugget and threw it across
    the room. It made a moist smack against the beige wall
    and slid to the floor. "Well, I'd do something. I would. I
    will!"
    
    Joyce would be back later. Maybe Carter would visit.
    "Brand."
    
    He looked at her, his eyes sunken, pink-rimmed.
    
    'What if I had a friend call your mother? Tell her you
    miss her. See what happens."
    
    "Could you?"
    
    She nodded, then added, "I can't guarantee anything."
    
    "I know." He opened the tiny drawer in the tray table.
    "They won't let me have pencils or pens. Too sharp. But
    I've got crayons." He pulled them out and began to write
    

    





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    furiously on his paper napkin. "Hide it," he ordered as his
    fingers flew. "Don't let anybody else see it."
    
    "All right." She watched him as he laboriously wrote out
    a message, choosing different crayons for emphasis, then
    folded the napkin in half and gave it to her. The tension
    in his thin body seemed to evaporate as the message
    changed hands. Mac forced a smile. "Now you finish your
    lunch for me."
    
    "Deal." He began to stuff the food into his face.
    
    She stood. "I've got to go. I'll see you later. If I get
    through this lab in time, we can play some more
    Nintendo before dinner."
    
    He nodded vigorously, the thatch of his uncombed hair
    bobbing. Mac slipped out of the room.
    
    . ~, -~ ~:
      ,_wr,~
    
    Councilman Walker brought an entourage with him, a
    nurse pushing his wheelchair, a proud, beautiful young
    African-American woman with her hair in dreadlocks, and
    an immaculately suited Hispanic man on her heels. The
    councilman himself was propped in his chair, one arm ]y-
    ing weakly across the arm of it, IV tubes tangling with ox-
    ygen tubes, and a machine on its table being wheeled in
    tandem with the chair.
    
    The left side of his mahogany, seamed face drooped
    markedly as he looked about the long laboratory room.
    His gaze swept Mac, went on and came back, measuring
    her.
    
    Down but not out, she thought. Incapacitated but not
    crippled. He would, she could see instinctively, do every-
    thing in his power to regain what he'd lost. He might even
    be impatient and querulous in the process. She put a
    hand to her neckline, suddenly unable to understand why
    looking at him made her throat tight and hard.
    
    The female aide brought the chair to a halt at Susan
    Craig's desk, and leaned over to whisper something. He
    
    :: ~
    

    





    274
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    made a feeble wave, dismissing it. She spoke again, more
    sharply, and this made Ibie Walker sit up straighter. He
    tried to shake his head but did not complete the gesture,
    ending up with his head wobbling feebly as he sank back
    into the wheelchair. Susan sat, fiddling with what looked
    like a headset, and did not acknowledge any of them.
    
    The nurse straightened hiin a little. Looking up, she
    said to both the young woman and the man, "I'll have to
    ask you to leave."
    
    The young woman's voice rose. "I'm not going any-
    where. I'm watching you like a hawk."
    
    The nurse shrugged, her starched whites rustling. "I'm
    not going to be doing anything." She set the chair brakes
    with the toe of her shoe. "I'll be back in an hour," she
    
                                        directed at Susan Craig.     ~~--
    
    Miller sat at a computer console and monitor, leaning
    back in the chair he'd swiveled around to see the action.
    A smirk crinkled his features.
    
    The doctor looked up coolly. "Is there a problem?"
    
    "Damn right there's a problem. He needs to be in bed,
    recovering. You're hauling him around, monitors and
    allÄ"
    
    Susan Craig parted her lips slightly, pleasantly, icily.
    "This is part of his recovery." She looked at Ibrahim
    Walker. "You've had a stroke, Mr. Walker, and part of what
    you've lost is your speech. Therapy session will be short
    today, working the soundboard takes training. We'll also be
    asking you to do some exercises to build up the strength
    you've lost in your left arm and hand, but I'm not going to
    ask you to do anything beyond your limit. These measures
    will help, whether your impairment is short-term or long-
    terrn."
    
    She looked up then, over Ibie Walker's grayed head and
    said, "Is that understood?" to the young woman's heated
    expression.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    275
    
    The male aide put an arm in between them, saying
    smoothly, "Sounds jus' like what the doctor ordered."
    
    "Since I am a doctor," Susan commented, getting to her
    feet, "I couldn t agree more. Mr. Walker?"
    
    The young woman's cafe au fait skin flushed slightly
    darker. "As you all remarked, he can't speak for himself."
    
    "Of course he can," Susan interjected. "As I saw when
    you wheeled him in. You've already worked out a few hand
    signals. Well, is this session yea or nay? If you don't feel
    strong enough, I can reschedule you for tomorrow." She
    swung the headset in her hand, cord dangling.
    
    Walker moved his right hand. It trembled, but even
    Mac could see there was a definite pattern to it.
    
    His aide took a deep breath, then set her jaw. "All
    right," she said. "But I don't want to leave him."
    
    'You don't need to."
    
    The Hispanic man shifted weight. "I have those
    faxesÄ"
    
    "All right, all right, Rafi. Go on. I'll see you after the of-
    fice shuts down, at six." Still flushed, the young woman
    looked up angrily, then dropped her hand protectively to
    Ibie's shoulder.
    
    "Good enough." He turned and left.
    
    Susan shook out the cable to the headset and leaned
    forward, placing it on Walker. It wrapped over the top of
    the skull conventionally, but there were three fingerlike
    arms that lay over his cheek, temple, and jaw. The doctor
    took a few minutes to satisfy herself with the placement.
    When she was done, she unlocked the wheelchair's brake,
    and said to the aide, "Steer the monitor, will you?" as she
    drove the chair to the computer setup where Miller sat
    waiting.
    
    'What's going on here?"
    
    Susan fed the cable to Miller, who plugged it into the
    setup. "Know anything about biofeedback?"
    

    





    276
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "A little." The muscles along the young woman's jaw
    worked.
    
    Susan looked amused. It seemed she had noticed the
    tension as well. "Actually," she said, and pointed to the
    aide's face with her finger. "That's how it works. This
    picks up muscle groups as they tense. Even very minor
    shifts. It converts the tension to sound groups. The com-
    puter interprets the sound groups and signals the sound-
    board to electronically make that sound. That is
    somewhat simplified, but basically, that's what we're going
    to be doing." She looked down at Ibie. "Arch an eyebrow
    and you could be telling them of a personal need. What-
    ever. Conversations will be basic, but you will be able to
    voice some of your concerns."
    
    The young woman rocked back on a heel. "Really?"
    
    "Really. It'll take some training. Tomorrow the speech
    therapist will be up here, doing most of the real work. I'm
    just introducing it for her today. It's new, but it's been a
    successful program." - ~.73~ ~-~-
    
    "How limited is the speech?" - -~
    
    "It's expanding every day as we learn more about the
    technology. Though," and Susan dropped a fond glance
    down at Walker, "we won't hear any of your oratories from
    the soundboard. We haven't come that far, yet."
    
    He jerked his hand impatiently.
    
    Mac sat back. The real warmth in Susan Craig's voice
    was reserved for the technology, not the patient, and she
    supposed that was what set Brand off about her. Kids
    were always so much quicker to pick up the phoniness.
    The doctor set off a certain uneasiness in McKenzie, too,
    but there was no doubt Craig had been there last night
    when Mac needed her.
    
    At Ibie Walker's bedside.
    
    Craig stepped back. ~ ~
    
                               "What are you doing?" the aide demanded.        ~
    

    





                                     DEATH WATCH
    
    Susan swept an arm at the station.
    
    "Aii it takes is MiiIer. we're going to iet Mr. walker see
    just what kinds of noises certain movements produce."
    
    Across the room, the computer began to grunt and
    squeal. Then it made a series of "Ta" sounds.
    
    It was not a human voice, but by the time Susan indi-
    cated satisfaction, Ibie Walker had learned to make vowel
    sounds and the consonants T and N. His aide had put
    one curved hip against the table, body language reading
    that her judgment, at least for the day, had been sus-
    pended.
    
    Under the VR helmet, face partially obscured, the wiz-
    ened hand Velcroed into its glove, the councilman looked
    less assured.
    
    His aide stared defiantly at Susan. 'What are you doing
    now?"
    
    'This is a virtual reality program. All we're doing is ask-
    ing him to react to the simple 3-D exercises he's watch-
    ing. One hand and then the other. It's strictly repetitive.
    Tomorrow, again, the program will be more specialized for
    him."
    
    Walker brought up his right hand, made a gloved fist.
    The left wobbled, wavered, almost accomplished a like
    maneuver. After five minutes of raising, opening, and clos-
    ing, the left could scarcely lift off his robed lap. Susan
    reached over and tapped Miller on the shoulder.
    
    "That's enough for today"
    
    Her assistant shut down the program and helped strip
    the helmet and gloves from Walker. The elderly man's
    color had grayed slightly, but the monitor showed his vi-
    tals still strong.
    
    Susan said, "That was a good session."
    
    She leaned down, and looked into Ibie Walker's eyes.
    "Tomorrow," she added, "we'll have something special for
    you. We'll make some real progress."
    
    277
    

    





    278
    
    Ibie's hand quivered as though he tried to make a ges-
    ture, hut fatigue defeated him. He sagged back slightly
    into the wheelchair.
    
    Susan straightened. "Miller, please help Mr. Walker and
    his assistant back to ICU."
    
    Miller took the chair, rotating it around, leaving the
    monitor and IV stands to the aide. -~
    
    As they passed, the councilman's measuring gaze wa-
    vered over McKenzie again. The coffee-dark eyes held
    hers.
    
    Then Miller leaned into the chair, hurrying it across the
    lab. Mac wet lips suddenly gone dry. There had been a
    look in the elderly man's eyes, a plea, a fear that had not
    been there before. She sat there wondering if she had
    seen what she had seen.
    
    "You're next."
    
    McKenzie started. Susan had crossed the la=b room
    without her even noticing.
    
    "AlrP~riv?"
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
     .~..     ~
    
    ~ ..
    
    ~ .Ä
    
    . ~. _~ _~ .
    
    Craig reached for the virtual reality helmet connected
    to the computer station at Mac's elbow. "You're the one
    who's going to be getting a real workout."
    
    She settled the helmet over McKenzie's brow and dark-
    ness descended.
    
    The doctor's voice, when it reached her, sounded very
    muffled. "First, I'm going to run a program we have here,
    it's an architectural program, shows the basic layouts and
    floor plans of homes. I want you to talk to me, describing
    the house first, where the doors are, the furniture,. and
    we'll animate it. Let us know when we're close."
    
    Mac looked into the visor, seeing the program as if a
    projector had been startingÄshowing nothing. "California
    tract home, mid-fifties," she said. "Stucco outside, three
    bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room, kitchen with eat-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 279
    
    ing nook. No dining room. About fifteen hundred square
    feet, built absolutely square."
    
    A 3-D outline of a house played onto the screen, rotat-
    ing on its axis. It made her ache dully somewhere behind
    her eyes to watch it. It settled into place.
    
    "Porch?" asked Susan faintly.
    
    "A step up porch, two steps, to the front door. Two col-
    umn beams on the porch. There's a little rooflike eaves
    over that."
    
    The porch roof came out of nowhere as if a genie had
    blinked it into being. And, how odd, it looked a little like
    her home, if her home were only a stick figure of a build-
    ing, with no solid walls. She looked into the architectural
    rendering. As she spoke, the bedrooms and kitchen and
    bathroom realigned themselves, the drawing a virtual car-
    ousel until she said, "That's it."
    
    "Close enough?"
    
    If it were any more accurate, she'd say they'd were dead
    on. 'Yes," Mac murmured, intent on the drawing. "Except
    for the back steps."
    
    "Is that important?"
    
    'Yes. It's whereÄit's where Jack attacked my father."
    
    "Okay, then we'll work on that. Tell us what you want
    to see."
    
    She wondered what Miller was doing, if he was punch-
    ing in numbers, if he saw what she saw, through cables
    wire thin. The helmet weighed on the bridge of her nose.
    She felt a drop of perspiration run across her cheek and
    along her jaw. She put a hand up to wipe it away, and the
    VR glove stopped her.
    
    "Whoa!" Miller's voice. "What are you doing?"
    
    "Twitching," she said apologetically. "Sorry." Her house
    had begun to come apart, sliding off its foundation as if
    sundered by an earthquake. "The kitchen door is here,"
    and she traced an index finger lightly as the house was
    

    





    280
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    righted, and Miller focused on the kitchen from the in-
    side out. A door outline appeared. "Three stens down;
    pipe railing on the left. Then a small sidewalk to the right,
    to the driveway. The driveway leads back to the garage."
    
    The details became part of the sketch. It wasn't exact
    here. She couldn't quite figure out what was wrong, but it
    was close enough. Then, as she looked at the back of the
    house, she realized the windows were just white outlines.
    Not the wood-framed, prettily curtained eyes to the world
    that she'd remembered.
    
    Virtual reality lacked the finesse. Mac took a deep
    breath, somewhat relieved.
    
    "Now," Susan said softly. "Tell us what happened. We're
    recorded visually as well as `1 audio. The computer eye is
    your viewpoint."
    
    Mac heard the voices. She picked up the baseball bat.
    She headed out of her bedroom door.
    
    A thin film began to edge downward from the ceiling.
    It tinged everything blood-red in its wake. She could feel
    a tightness in her chest, squeezing her voice as she talked.
    Her jaw ached. She blinked fiercely, trying to dash away
    the crimson tide which slowly, inexorably, began to oblit-
    erate all that she saw.
    
    She went through the line-drawing back door and de-
    scribed the two men she saw there. A simple, stocky line
    drawing of a man represented her father, but when she fo-
    cused on the other, Jack grinned at her. "We're the real
    flesh and blood, babe," he said.
    
    McKenzie gripped her bat tightly as he began to push
    through toward her.
    
    She remembered screaming.
    
    Running. Furniture crashing, lamps exploding, pain
    thundering. Someone was right behind her. Someone
    aruntina and cursing, pounding steps, right behind her,
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    281
    
    sleeping fury, growling like a dog trapped in a nightmareÄ
    Dont let him wake! Dont. Let. Him. Wake!
    
    Mac sat up, eyes staring, breasts heaving, sweat run-
    ning off her face, her naked face, as though she stood in
    a Seattle rain.
    
    'Whoa, whoa!" Carter was there, reaching for her flail-
    ing arms. "No wonder your rails are up." He caught her,
    pinned her, made soothing noises in her ear until she re-
    alized that she was in her room, under cool sheets, with
    strong arms protectively about her. "They'd said you'd had
    a rough time this afternoon."
    
    The dream so realÄ
    
    She'd been re-creating it in virtual reality. What had
    happened? McKenzie swallowed tightly. Her head
    throbbed, her eardrums felt as though they could burst
    with the drumming of her heartbeat. She swallowed again
    and began to pull back, fighting his restraint.
    
    "I'm all rightÄ"
    
    "Actually, I kind of like this." He held her a moment
    longer, hands patting her shoulder blades in that rhythmic
    soothing motion mothers use with babies and lovers with
    each other, a familiar caress. Pat, pat, pat.
    
    Her heart slowed down to match it.
    
    "They told me you were napping." Carter loosed her,
    letting her sit back in the bed. He fluffed a pillow behind
    her back. "Nobody told me you came out fighting." He
    grinned widely. "Actually, I take that back. I heard about
    the doctor you decked down in triage."
    
    "Carter."
    
    "Yes." He stayed close to her, leaning over the railing,
    one elbow hooked over it.
    
    Her vision blurred, separated, so that she saw two of
    him. Kind eyes, two, three, no, four, no, three of them,
    watching her. She closed her eyes tightly, dizzy. When she
    

    





    211;ii.~ ~,'~ ~'~.~lizabeth Forrest
    
    opened them, it came with a blinding flash, ruby-red and
    wet.
    
    His hands and arms dripping with the color.
    
    Mac gasped.
    
    'What is it?"
    
    She backpedaled away from him, pulse shooting sky-
    high again.
    
    "McKenzie, what is it?" He reached for her.
    
    "Don't touch me!"
    
    "What?"
    
    "Don't!" She shied away, against the other railing, hit-
    ting it so hard the bed shook violently.
    
    Carter recoiled. "All right. I won't touch you." He took
    a step away from the bedside. "Do you want me to call
    someone; Someone else)"
    
    McKenzie put her hands to her skull, gripping hard,
    tight, as pain like an ice pick shot through. "No," she got
    out. "Don't call anyone."
    
    "Then I'll just, ah, go. All right?"
    
    She didn't want him to leave. She peered at him
    through her fingers. "No. I'll be . . . this will go away." She
    closed her eyes again and then pounded her forehead
    onto the railing. "1. Want. It. To. Go. Away."
    
    He came around the other side, catching her up again.
    "Mac, stop it!"
    
    She refused to look. Refused to open her vision to one
    of blood. She kept her eyes squeezed tight and just lis-
    tened to his heartbeat, pacing hers, then quieting, his
    breath. He smelled faintly, she realized, of his own odor,
    and a touch of aftershave, and pizza.
    
    "I'm listening," he murmured, running his hand over
    her hair. He avoided the sore patch behind her ear.
    McKenzie felt a touch of shame that he knew it was
    there. "What is it)"
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    283
    
    "If I tell you," she said ironically, "they'll never let me
    out of here."
    
    His stroking movement stuttered, then started again.
    "In this ward, you mean."
    
    "I see things, Carter."
    
    "You had a head injury. Double vision, dizziness, that's
    all part of the game. You should hear the sportswriters talk
    about the jocksÄ"
    
    "Stop it!" She took a deep breath. "You've got to listen,
    now, because I don't think I'm going to have the nerve to
    talk about this again."
    
    She put her head back, and opened her eyes, so close
    to his face that her nose grazed his chin. Carter said
    gently, his breath tinged with coffee, "Are you seeing
    things now?"
    
    "No." The pain in her head had gone, suddenly, inexpli-
    cably.
    
    There was that moment when the tension between
    them thickened and she thought, How odd, hes going to
    kiss me, and Carter pulled back abruptly, letting go of her.
    He messed about with the pillow again, from this side of
    the bed.
    
    Then he said simply, "Tell me what it is you see."
    
    McKenzie took a deep breath. "Blood. I see blood."
    
    "Where?"
    
    "Sometimes, everywhere. Sometimes, just . . . in certain
    places."
    
    "On me?" His face never changed expression. Kind
    eyes, intent on her.
    
    "Not until just now."
    
    "Where?"
    
    "Your arms. Your wrists. Your hands. Oh, God." And she
    ducked away, unable to look at him any longer.
    
    He took her right hand in his. His skin was warm, but
    dry, slightly callused as if. at one time in hic lifP he'.'
    

    





    284
    
    done a fair amount of hard labor. She heard a rustle of
    fabric and then he was taking her hand in his, guiding her
    fingertips over the inside of his wrist with his other hand.
    Soft hair interrupted the skin, and then she felt welts,
    gnarled tracks.
    
    She looked.
    
    Her fingertips rested across scars that were old enough
    so the pink had gone from them. Carter traced her touch
    the length of one set, and then the other. He dropped her
    hand and rolled up his other sleeve.
    
    "Here, too."
    
    Not as evident or as forceful. McKenzie withdrew her
    hand from his, then looked into his face.
    
    "You saw blood, all right. Mine. All mine."
    
    "WhatÄ"
    
    "I tried to commit suicide. Twice."
    
    "Oh, Carter." McKenzie bit her lip. "Why?"
    
    He fumed, caught a stool with the toe of his shoe, and
    pulled it close so he could sit down. "My writing was re-
    sponsible for getting a convicted man off Death Row."
    
    "Was he guilty?"
    
    "Oh, yes. We all knew it."
    
    She did not know what to ask. "Did you . . . did you lie
    about it to get him freed?"
    
    "No. But I got involved. You see, he'd killed a number
    of people. The closer he got to his death sentence, the
    more he decided to talk. But it was me he talked to. I
    wanted the story. I made the mistake of listening. Then,
    when I'd heard what he had to say, it was too late. His
    sentence got commuted, as long as he kept talking."
    
    "That wasn't your fault."
    
    "No." Carter looked down at his sleeves, rolled them
    back into place, buttoned the cuffs loosely. He'd gotten
    used to wearing long-sleeved shirts, even in L.A.'s some-
    times hellish summer weather. "No. But some idiot de-
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    :~ -
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    285
    
    cided he wanted to study Georg Bauer's brainÄthat was
    his nameÄand Bauer took advantage of the possibilities.
    He escaped and started killing again."
    
    She knew the name. Vaguely knew the cold, calculat-
    ing face from television shots. "Oh, God. Carter, I'm so
    
    sorry."
    
    'Yeah. Me, too. It's been years. The first time or two,
    he," Carter stopped, swallowed. "He sent me a thank you
    note. So, after these healed, I decided I'd find him. I've
    been looking ever since."
    
    Mac put a hand to her scalp, remembering. "My hair.
    "Did you thinkÄ"
    
    "At first."
    
    She put her hand down. It shook a little, so she covered
    it with her other hand.
    
    "I don't know why you saw what you did, McKenzie,
    but that doesn't make you crazy."
    
    "No?"
    
    "No."
    
    "Then what does it make me?"
    
    "Something different, something wonderful."
    
    Carter left, a feeling settling somewhere between the
    pit of his stomach and the damaged part of his heart he
    had thought would never heal. He had left her sleeping
    again, resting lightly, but this time there was a serenity
    over her features he hadn't seen there before. He did not
    think he was fooling himself by thinking he'd put it
    there.
    
    He bumped into a gurney in the hallway The orderly
    bringing it out of a room had oversteered and they col-
    lided. He and the blonde woman following it stepped
    aside. She had a doctor's jacket on over her expensive suit.
    She looked at Carter only slightly more warmly than she
    might look at a cockroach.
    

    





    286
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    He danced aside a step. "Sorry." He looked down at the
    gurney. A young boy was wrapped tightly into the sheets
    and strapped down to the stretcher. His face was slack,
    the eyes closed, drool stringing from his mouth. "I didn't
    
                                      hurt himÄ" -    . - ;
    
    "No," the doctor said coolly. "He's catatonic. You
    wouldn't reach him if you nuked him."
    
    She motioned the orderly to push the gurney down the
    corridor.
    
    Carter's pleasant mood thinned considerably. "Sorry," he
    repeated inadequately.
    
    "It was nothing you did," the doctor said. She turned
    away, following after her patient. She had a crumpled-up
    napkin in her hand, a drawing he thought, for he could
    see the multicolors of crayon decorating it. As she walked,
    she crumpled the napkin up into a tighter and tighter ball
    until Carter could see nothing of it whatsoever.
    
    He signed out at the reception desk, verifying it with
    the attendant, and left, telling himself he would leave
    McKenzie there no longer than necessary. He did not see
    a lean, hard-jawed man back into a room entrance as he
    passed, a man who watched him intently.
    
    Jack watched the other man go by. The receptionist had
    stopped him cold, even in janitorial jumpers, but this jerk
    had waltzed right in like he owned the place. He leaned
    on his mop, waiting until the other's footsteps had faded
    and he could hear elevator doors. Who the hell was this
    Carter Wyndall and what was he doing here with
    McKenzie? He could feel his lips thin as though he were
    sucking out a long-necked bottle of beer without taking a
    breath. Maybe he'd taken the baseball bat to the wrong
    man in Mac's life. She hadn't come running home to
    papa. She'd had another stud waiting for her all along.
    Maybe she'd met him on the college campus. They were
    always bringing in some liberal jerk to lecture. Well, she
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    287
    
    wouldn't get away with it. She might be locked behind
    closed doors, but Carter Wyndall wasn't. Time to get in a
    little more practice, Jack decided. He dropped the mop in
    the alcove. "Batters up!"
    

    





    Chapter 24
    
    John Whiteside woke to a promising Seattle day. The sky
    was a brilliant cerulean blue and the few clouds which
    came through were faint, white tails which drifted by
    quickly. He showered, shaved, and came out to the
    kitchen, looking for coffee since Sarah had already been
    out of bed long enough that her side had been cold when
    he got up. But the kitchen, when he walked in, was even
    cooler. He double-checked the coffeemaker, his face
    twisted in disappointment. The filter unit was clean and
    ready to go, but that was it. Sarah must have had an early
    meeting, planning for the summer school session. He de-
    cided to rummage through his in-laws' cupboards and
    make coffee himself.
    
    It was an experience he didn't relish. He didn't like
    pawing through other people's belongings and damn sure
    didn't like the idea of somebody going through his. While
    the coffee began to brew, he found the morning paper at
    the front door. Sarah didn't read the morning paper, but
    she at least could have tossed it in, he thought as he
    tucked it under his elbow. Good thing it was a clear day.
    
    The whole idea of spending the time at the in-laws was
    not a comfortable one for him, but Sarah had been so em-
    phatic after McKenzie's ordeal that he knew he'd be voted
    down if he objected, so he hadn't. Last night the kids had
    spent the evening with their friends to get off to school
    

    





                                     DEATH WATCH
    
    more easily, so he was able to kick back and read the pa-
    per the way he liked to without the various sections being
    torn out of his hands. He'd call Sarah from the line at
    lunchtime and see what was up. He finished his coffee
    with an English muffin, then left for work.
    
    He called early for lunch and got his mother-in-law.
    "Hey, Betsy. Is Sarah home yet?"
    
    "Oh, John. I'm so glad to hear from you. We were wor-
    ried about Sarah. No, she's not home."
    
    "She's probably tied up in a meeting. She told me the
    book budget was murder for the summer session. Well,
    just tell her I called. I'll be home around five thirty."
    
    Betsy Beckmann hung up and turned to her husband.
    who'd drifted into the kitchen v hen the phone rang. She
    smiled in relief. "That was John. He said Sarah had gone
    to a meeting at school. You see, we were all worried over
    nothing. They'll both be home later."
    
    Chester Beckmann warmed up his coffee, nodding.
    "That's good. I didn't think that could be her I heard leav-
    ing last night. Probably the Collins girl next door. I know
    she's twenty, and all, but they should make her stick to
    reasonable hours coming and going."
    
    His wife put her hand on her shoulder. "I listen to you
    talking, and hear your father. Remember when we were
    dating?"
    
    Chester tilted his head a little. "Do 1!" He laughed, and
    drew his wife closer to him.
    
    At five thirty, John trudged up the sidewalk to his in-
    laws' house, stomping the factory dirt off his shoes. He
    came in the kitchen door to find both of them sitting at
    the table, fixing snap beans for dinner. The family van
    hadn't been in the drive.
    
    "Sarah still not home?"
    
    "No, John. That meeting must have run over."
    
    'You hear from her?" He poured himself a fresh cup of
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    coffee and tasted it. From the strength of it, it was the
    same batch he'd brewed that morning. Well, it was better
    than nothing.
    
    "No, just what you told me, that she'd gone to school."
    
    He blinked, both at the slight bitterness of the drink,
    and at his mother-in-law. "But she never called you? I
    mean, I don't know that she went into work. I just as-
    sumed . . . she wasn't here this morning when I got upÄ"
    Chester Beckmann stood up. "We thought you knew
    where she was."
    
    John was already fishing out his well-worn leather wal-
    let and taking out the number for the English department.
    Without saying anything to his father-in-law, he picked up
    the phone and dialed. ~ = i
    
    He got one of the department secretaries who giggled a
    little at the idea that Sarah would be there, adding, "We
    don't even start work on the summer session until next
    week. Even teachers get some time off!"
    
    He hung up. "No meeting," he said to Betsy's worried
    face. "She hasn't been there."
    
    "Then where could she be?"
    
    John Whiteside stood for a moment. His clothes were
    stiff with metallic dust and dirt from his job as plant man-
    ager, and his feet hurt vaguely, and one knuckle stung
    from when he'd had to take a wrench to a stubborn tool
    and die setup and the sucker had flipped back on him.
    He didn't want his wife to be missing. He didn't want to
    not know where she was or what she was doing.
    
    "I'm going home," he said. "First. I'll call from there."
    
    It made him feel no better to see the van in the drive-
    way, dusk gathering about the house, when he pulled up.
    House lights were on, blazing out the windows. As he ap-
    proached the driveway entrance, flies buzzed angrily in
    and out, a lot of them that sunset hadn't yet driven away,
    and he could smell the reek of death.
    
    : ~
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    291
    
       1 1 _ _1 1 .1 1 .1 1 1 1 .... .
    
    Ilœ: ~Ili:II~=U LIIILJUgII Lll~ uuur ana aamn near ~lleo
    himself tripping over his wife's prone figure. It was the
    grotesque object in the open refrigerator that smelled,
    swollen and crawling with flies. He caught himself on the
    kitchen counter, turned, and looked.
    
    It might have been a dog's head, once, tongue black-
    ened and pushing out of the toothful grimacing mouth.
    He pushed the refrigerator door shut, trapping flies and
    the stink inside, thinking that they'd never use that appli-
    ance again. Sarah groaned and stirred on the floor, her
    glasses lopsided on her face, her sable hair feathered
    about her head.
    
    He wet a kitchen towel and knelt beside her. As he ran
    a hand over the back of her head, helping her to sit, he
    could feel a lump the size of a goose egg. She must have
    fainted and knocked herself cold.
    
    She held onto his hands with hers, chilled. "JohnÄthe
    fridgeÄ"
    
    "I know."
    
    "It was CodY
    
    He hadn't known McKenzie or her dog that well,
    though she'd brought him over to play with the kids a
    couple of times. The carrion object was not recognizable
    to him. But its significance was.
    
    "He's been here."
    
    Sarah shuddered. "He's been all over here." She
    groaned. "What time is it?"
    
    "About seven."
    
    "God. I've been here all night.
    
    "And day. Do you want me to call the paramedics?"
    
    She started to shake her head no, then winced. "Later,"
    she amended. "I've got to call someone first."
    
    "Who?"
    
    "On the machine. Some policeman in Los Angeles.
    

    





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                 Elizabeeh Forrest
    
    McKenzie's in trouble." She groaned again, and licked
    chapped lil?s. "John, I'm so scared. She's in real trouble."
    
    Carter was more than ready for mu shu pork and lo
    mein by the time the knock on the door sounded. He
    yanked it open eagerly and then slammed it shut.
    
    The brief moment had shown Dolan framed by the two
    Feds, Franklin and Sofer, an apologetic look on the spot-
    ted editorial assistant's face.
    
    Carter had not locked the door and had only moved
    away a step or two when it opened on its own and the
    three men edged inside, Dolan whining, "Jeez." A cloud of
    fragrant smells from the carry-out dinner came with them,
    scents of plum sauce and garlic and other wonderful aro-
    mas.
    
    "I'm sorry, Windy."
    
    "Forget it." Carter watched the Feds shut the front door
    carefully.
    
    Franklin wore a hideously purple tie this time, like
    something dyed at the bottom of grape fermentation vats.
    A pink neon golf club graced its widely flared bottom.
    Sofer looked like he'd acquired a sunburn since yester-
    day, and it had already begun to peel down his freckled
    forehead. Carter felt his nose twitch. He rubbed at it to
    hide whatever he was really thinking and said, "How did
    you know?"
    
    Franklin sat down on the edge of the low bookcase
    which ran the length of the living room wall. "I learned
    something last year," he said, settling his tie over his belt
    -and navel. "I got to spend a month in London at New
    Scotland Yard. It's not that they're any better than we are,
    it's just that they're so damn thorough."
    
    Sofer let go of Dolan's arm and the lanky young man
    made a beeline for the dinette table and sat down, bags
    and all, his face creased in sorrow at his failure. One of
    
    ~'
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
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    the bags had begun to leak a little, and smelled of the
    brown sauce used with lo mein. Under Doian's elbow was
    a tightly clenched file folder, but Carter had no doubt
    Franklin or Sofer would take it whenever they wanted.
    
    Sofer said, "We asked around about the pizza delivery.
    Seems you don't get your pizza that way. The neighbors
    say you like to go down to D'amico's two blocks over for
    free pitcher night, that you have a fondness for hot pizza
    and cold beer. The neighbors say last night was the first
    night in their memory you've ever had pizza delivered. So
    we wondered who was delivering, and what."
    
    Franklin finished, "So when the same kid showed up
    tonight with Chinese, we knew you were having some-
    thing else delivered." He pointed with his chin to the
    computer. "A little behind in your technology?"
    
    Dolan sniffed. "Told you guys it's all he can do to just
    turn it on. There's no way I can get him to download a
    GIF, or modem files."
    
    "Dinosaurs," Franklin interrupted. "We're both dino-
    saurs, Carter. If you'd stuck to the computer for transmis-
    sion, we wouldn't be here now. But you had to have
    hand-to-hand delivery. That's the way of things, isn't it?
    You're just enough over forty to be slightly out of step.
    Let's see what you've got in the folder."
    
    Carter came over to the dinette as Dolan, nudged by
    Agent Sofer, opened the folder and spread it out. Two pic-
    tures, one the computer-generated photo he'd had yester-
    day and the other an aged copy, putting the girl into the
    womanhood she'd probably achieve today. The two agents
    looked at the revised photo. Franklin muttered, grudgingly,
    "Not bad work."
    
    "Thanks." Enthusiasm replaced the misery on Dolan's
    spotted face. "We didn't have the artist do much here and
    hereÄthe bone structure suggested she wouldn't age a
    lot. And it's only been. what. ten. twelve vears?"
    

    





    294
    
                 Elizabeth Forrese
    
    Carter looked at the woman. The computer had
    colorized the photo, and the sharp blue eyes glared at him
    from under a fringe of malt-colored hair. Mousy broum, he
    thought. He didn't know the woman. Still, her image nig-
    gled at him as though he ought to. The white lab coat had
    been replaced by updated clothing. They'd even changed
    the hairstyle slightly. He knew the artist the newspaper
    consulted was good at what she did. Her portraits had
    proven themselves time and again. He knew that when
    this woman was found, if she was found, she would prob-
    ably match this rendition. Then, why didn't he recognize
    her as he'd thought he would?"
    
    Franklin said, as though he wasn't, really, "Sorry, Carter,
    but we've got to take this."
    
    Carter sighed. He moved away from the dinette table.
    Dolan looked up, then away quickly. Sofer added, "And
    we'll be by tomorrow morning for the originals at your of-
    
    r. ',
    
    nce.
    
    The tension deflated abruptly from Dolan. He nodded,
    misery again settling on his features. Franklin and Sofer
    swapped looks.
    
    "Look," added Franklin, smoothing his tie again. "If it's
    any consolation, whoever did John Nelson probably had
    nothing to do with the Bauer case. That's the way it's
    shaping up, anyway. Sources are telling us he came in be-
    cause of a quiet, low profile investigation on Federal fund-
    ing of the new subway system, and the problems with the
    methane gas underground and water seepage, and possi-
    ble misuse of the money."
    
    Carter felt his eyebrows go up. "He was hit because of
    the MTA?"
    
    "Subcontractors had some Mafia connections, it ap-
    pears. Anyway, the funding committee John was on had
    asked him to look into it, very subtly, but evidently some-
    one knew he was coming."
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
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    Not that he'd ever really thought it could have been
    Bauer, butÄCarter sat down at the little dinette opposite
    Dolan. Nelson shot because of a corruption probe. John
    always had hated government. He looked up, saw the two
    watching him.
    
    "Thanks," he said.
    
    Sofer shrugged. "No one's positive yet, but things are
    shaking down that way." He headed for the door. He
    looked back over his shoulder. "Don't suppose you could
    swap us any info?"
    
    "I could try."
    
    'What do you know about Mr. Blue?"
    
    "Only that he isn't Bauer. The sheriff's cooperating
    pretty closely with the various police departments on this
    one, and they've kept the lid on. L.A. Basin doesn't even
    know they've got a serial killer yet and he's done six or
    seven women so far."
    
    '~Ten," Franklin corrected flatly. "That we've been able
    to identify."
    
    "Shit. That's more than keeping the lid on. That stinks
    of cover-up." Carter got a hold of himself and continued,
    "He likes blue houses. And I'm told he takes a scalp lock
    souvenir. That's all I've been able to dig up."
    
    "And," put in Sofer, "he starts fires."
    
    Carter swiveled on the chair to look at the red-haired
    man who'd begun to sweat profusely again. "Fires?"
    
    "He gets in and out easily," Sofer told him. "We haven't
    figured that one out yet, but he seems to know the houses
    and their weak points like the palm of his hand. Easy en-
    try. But he likes to start fires and not to burn evidence.
    Drives the victim right into his arms."
    
    "Organized or disorganized?" Carter asked, homing in
    on the Feds' VICAP profile. An organized killer was much
    harder to track. He could think on his feet, function de-
    

    





    :: -: ~
    296
    
    :~ :~ .~-.~ ~
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    spite the fantasies which drove him to violence and mur-
    der.
    
    "I'd say very organized, at this juncture."
    
    "What are my chances of getting your profile?"
    
    Sofer pulled the door open for his partner. "First some-
    one has to admit we have a killer to profile. Then we
    might share it with you. Off the record, of course. As a
    consultant. Only John put more work in on this than you
    have. Of course, there are the givens you should know,
    profile or not. Probably white, male, about twenty-five. A
    history of aggression toward women, unsuccessful rela-
    tionships. The usual with a killer of this sort." He held
    Dolan's file folder in his hands. He looked back, at the
    sacks of Chinese food. "Wouldn't have enough for four?"
    
    Dolan shook his head quickly. "Sorry, guys."
    
    Franklin nodded, and the two men left. There was a
    very long moment of silence, during which Carter got to
    his feet, locked the door, and then stood by the window
    at an angle, watching the street. Finally he said, "They're
    gone.
    
    Dolan put his foot up on the table, slid up his jeans leg
    and pulled a 3Yz inch floppy disk out of the top of his
    white athletic socks.
    
    "What have you got?"
    
    Grinning, Dolan sat down at the computer, sliding the
    disk into its drive. "Mu shu pork, and Three Flavors lo
    mein, and chicken fried rice, just like you ordered." The
    computer beeped faintly as he booted it up.
    
    "I mean, on there."
    
    "Took me all day, but I think I've got a couple of pos-
    sibilities."
    
    The screen began to compose a color picture Carter
    stood, watching intently, as the dots came together, almost
    like a pointillist picture, until he was looking at a
    computer-generated image of a newspaper photo.
    

    





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    He shook his head. "No, I don't see her."
    
    Dolan stabbed a broken nail at the screen. i'See?"
    
    They studied it together.
    
    Carter shook his head again. "Not her."
    
    "Okay. Well, I stuck to stories you've done in the last
    couple of years, hoping Nelson had seen a connection be-
    tween you and her. Try this one."
    
    The screen went blank and then began to compose it-
    self again. Slowly, inexorably. Carter saw the outlines of a
    platform dais, peopled with images as though a ceremony
    were taking place, Century City skyscrapers in the back-
    drop.
    
    Suddenly, there she was. Mousy hair no longer, but a
    striking blonde, figure no longer in grunge undergraduate
    clothing, but a designer suit dress. The slender figure, and
    the avid expression had not aged that much over the
    years. He looked at the caption under the photo.
    
    "Dr. Susan Craig keynotes expansion of the Women's
    Shelter center...."
    
    At her elbow was an outdated hospital, damaged by the
    Northridge quake and closed down, and the whole event
    taking place had been held to purchase and renovate the
    hospital into a woman's center. He remembered the story
    now, with the vague addition that the project had fallen
    through, budget constraints failing it. The urgency of the
    school crisis had driven it out of the political spotlight.
    
    "This is social stuff. What's your byline doing on it?"
    
    Carter tried to ease the stiffness of his neck. "They
    twisted my arm. I'd done a series of pieces on the home-
    less who'd moved into the hospital after it was abandoned.
    When it got bought out and fenced off, I had the most
    background to do the expansion story. The center never
    happened, though." After two years of wrangling, the hos-
    pital was going to be coming down, replaced instead by a
    neighborhood easement and platform for the MTA sub-
    

    





                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    wav line. At one time he'd known the hospital like the
    back of his hand. He sighed. That was a lot of stories ago.
    He concentrated on the photo in front of him.
    
    He put a finger to the screen, touching the platinum
    hair. "That's her, by God."
    
    Dolan beamed. "Now all you've got to do is find her."
    
    A sharp stab of concern replaced the joy of recognition.
    
    He knew where she was all right. He'd practically
    walked right through her at the Mount Mercy psychiatric
    ward. What suspicions had John Nelson had about the
    doctor that he'd never lived to voice?
    
    And she had McKenzie Smith.
    
                        . .
                        .~ .
    
    1~
    

    





                    Chapter 25
    
    Hotchkiss watched the sun dip down over Lake Arrow-
    head. Blue jays whisked past the deck railing, scolding
    him. A squirrel ran along it like a gymnast on the balance
    beam, found the saucer full of peanut hearts he'd set out,
    stuffed a cheek pouch, and left. All while the sky turned
    the color of pink lemonade, illuminating mares' tails of
    clouds. Beautiful. Peaceful.
    
    And if he had any guts at all, he would take this incred-
    ibly serene day and make it his last.
    
    Maybe going down the mountain, he could just miss a
    curve and sail off a cliff into the forest, a glorious, burning
    statement for personal freedom, like Thelma and Louise.
    
    Or he could just crash and burn.
    
    Hotchkiss rubbed his forehead as if he could bury the
    worries that gnawed through his skull. He'd called his
    voice mail and gotten an update on Ibie Walker. The
    councilman had improved, but it would be forty-eight to
    seventy-two hours before his doctors would hazard a guess
    about the extent of his recovery. As it was, he had partial
    paralysis and no speech. The frailty of the mind within
    the body could not even begin to be ascertained.
    
    His party wanted him to be ready. Ready to leap into a
    run for the seat which would almost certainly be up for
    election in September no matter who occupied it now.
    They wanted him to voice support of Ibie and his policies
    299
    

    





    300
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    and indicate that there was a legacy there which needed
    to be car,ried on. In his own inimitable way, of course.
    And they wanted him to come down for a meeting, as
    soon as possible.
    
    And there was a single, terse last message. Call us
    wl~en you're ready to deal. The number was an unfamiliar
    ore, but he knew who'd called. ~ey had.
    
    Even as the pink sky deepened into hues of mauve and
    indigo, gradually feathering into gray and sooty night, he
    contemplated the irony of his life. The length to which
    he'd gone to stay free of entanglements, deals, strings,
    commitments. As a politician, he'd struggled to remain
    unfettered so that he could truly vote his conscience. His
    sexual preferences had nothing to do with his conscience,
    really. Yet now he could no longer avoid them, for they
    had changed his life forever. It was no longer a simple
    matter of gratification.
    
    If he even dared ask what they proposed, they would
    know they had him. Yet, if he did not ask, begin a nego-
    tiation, he would never know if this was something he
    could, after all, live with. There was no one he could turn
    to Even his mother could not be trusted with his confi-
    dences.
    
    Hotchkiss rubbed his brow again. The squirrel cleanedF_?
    out the peanut dish, knocked it rolling to the deck, flicked
    its tail, and ran off, scolding him for the noise and incon-
    venience. He got up from his chair and strolled back into
    his bedroom.
    
    His laptop sat open on the vanity, its modem plugged
    into the local telephone wires. Hotchkiss pulled up his
    stool and booted it up.
    
    He dialed a bulletin board. After a moment, the screen
    showed him on-line. He typed in his password.
    
    The account was billed through a series of screens and
    false identities that would lead all the way to the Cayman
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    301
    
    Islands. It would take, he hoped, a great deal of energy to
    crack.
    
    >>HELLO. YOU'RE DN 1JNE.<<
    
    >>HELLO<<, he typed back. >>J'M ~ UEHY, UEHY lONELY
    BOY.<<
    
    Instantly, it seemed, the screen crowded with responses
    from other, very lonely boys. Stephen's fingers moved over
    the keys faster and faster as he gained confidence in his
    conversation. In a short matter of time, they would pair
    off in private conferences, and begin to exchange intima-
    cies. Perhaps even photos. He had a file just for that, pic-
    turing himself as a tall, unmarked twelve-year-old boy
    with sable hair and sad, turquoise eyes.
    
    A warm glow began in his groin and spread outward,
    comforting him. He could be loved. He was loved. There
    was every kind of intimacy here that could be imagined or
    initiated.
    
    And, if he wished, he could meet the boy at the other
    end of the phone line.
    
    Stephen's fingers flew.
    
    Perhaps in the morning he would call the anonymous
    number and see what they wished of him. Perhaps he
    could deal with it.
    
    Perhaps he would not have to end all of this after all.
    
    >>HELLO, LO~ELY BOY. J'M ~ LO~ELY B~D ~NGHTY
    BOY.<<
    
    Graciela straightened over the last battered cardboard
    box, put a hand to the small of her neck, ay, que dolor,
    what a pain she had there. Donaldo had stopped un-
    packing and sat in the room which would be his, bounc-
    ing a hard blue handball off the white walls. Thud, thud,
    thud. The noise echoed in the emptiness. He had nothing
    but boxes of clothes and a sleeping bag in there. She'd
    change that, maybe not overnight, but he'd have his bed
    
                                      ~ _ __
    

    





                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    like a race car, and a dresser, and a boom box, and posters
    on his wall, just like any other kid. Graciela crossed her-
    self, willing it to be God's will as well as her own.
    
    The handball thudded sullenly again. Thud, thud, thud.
    
    "Donnie! Callate! Shut up with that, okay?"
    
    He caught the ball and got to his feet, scowling with
    the handsome dark looks of his father. 'When are we
    gonna eat?"
    
    She mopped her forehead with the back of her hand.
    The only utility they had on so far was the electricityÄ
    and the stove was gas. The refrigerator hummed, but it
    stood empty. She had a small amount of money the shel-
    ter had advanced her. Tomorrow night the cupboard
    ~hould have rice and cereal and the refrigerator milk, but
    now.... "How about Mickey D's?"
    
    It brought the first smile she'd seen since that morning
    when they'd begun packing to leave the shelter. Graciela
    returned it. "Okay, but you've got to hang up your clothes
    first."
    
    'What for?"
    
    Her anger flared. "What for? Do I got to tell you over
    and over again? This place has to look nice. I've got a
    chance to be the assistant manager here. It's empty now,
    so you can make noise and stomp around, but next week,
    in a couple of weeks, it's going to be full of people. Nine
    apartments like this one. And I'll have a job at the beauty
    parlor, and I'll have a job here. The manager is a nice
    man. This is a big opportunity, our big chance. I want this
    to look nice when Mr. Patel comes back tomorrow."
    
    A sneer flashed across his face. "Some opportunity," he
    said, adding with a wisdom beyond his age, "All you have
    to do is to keep humping him."
    
    "Donaldo!" The anger flashed from her head down her
    arm and into her hand, but she did not swing. She bit her
    lip until she could taste the blood, but she did not hit
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    303
    
    him. He knew, and yet he did not know, what he was say-
    ing by that. Her face grew hot, and she curled her fingers
    into a fist until her nails bit into the skin. "Don't talk like
    that about me, hijo. I'm your mother."
    
    'Yeah." He looked around. "Nobody else lives here be-
    cause the quake ruined it."
    
    "And now it's all fixed," she said firmly. "And it looks
    brand new, jus' like us. Now get in your room and do what
    I told you, or it'll be too late to go get dinner."
    
    He turned slowly, deliberately, as if to show her he was
    still boss. Graciela did not let any more words past her
    teeth. So much like his father, the bastard, the son was.
    Yet she loved him, had loved them both. She could not
    help it.
    
    The apartment manager was not Latino, and he was
    older, but there had been something quiet about him she
    had liked from the first moment they met. He had been
    simpatico about her problems, her need to find a home
    for Donnie.
    
    So what if her son was right, and wrong, about her re-
    lationship with him? It was her life, too.
    
    Graciela squared her shoulders. She had a lot of work
    to do.
    
    It was barely dusk, and he moved through the quiet al-
    leyways, taking heed of those coming home from work
    and searching for parking places. He didn't like doing any-
    'one this early, but she had given him his orders, and he
    did not yet feel like disobeying her. She meant too much
    to him. She'd anchored him when he'd been set adrift,
    and he knew she helped him in all the things that he did.
    
    Even things like this.
    
    The apartment unit did not look right to him, set off by
    an empty lot and across from another, but he could see
    that it had been restructured extensively, retrofitted after
    

    





                         -
    304 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    the Northridge quake. The empty lots had probably been
    other apartment houses which had come down instead of
    being redone. The isolation of the building both helped
    and hindered him. It would be difficult to move in close,
    but there would be less chance any disturbance could be
    clearly heard.
    
    He did not like the aura the building gave off. Under
    the gear, little pools of sweat broke through and ran down
    the cheekbones of his face. He stood in eaves-high olean-
    der bushes, and watched his prey, waiting until the sun
    lowered a bit more.
    
    Ta-rah-rah-BOOM-ti-ay, have you had yours today, I got
    mine yesterday from the girl across the waa-ayÄ
    
    'You get the girl, Dudley, and I get the boy. I want that
    boy brought back. And I don't want any sign that you did
    that. I don't want anybody looking for the boy. Under-
    stand?"
    
    Oh, he understood.
    
    Dudley shifted weight, the industrial strength lawn bag
    across his shoulders like a Santa's pack filled with a
    curled limp body still cooling, a cocky kid from off the
    streets, neck broken like that, car-rack, and no one would
    be looking for the first boy. She had not asked how he in-
    tended to cover his tracks, and he knew it was because
    she had not really cared. She said children were important
    to her, all children, but he always thought of what she
    said like what had been written in Animal Farm. All ani-
    mals were equal, only some animals were a lot more equal
    than others.
    
    She wanted the first boy. She would get him. That was
    all that counted. ~
    
    He watched the windows through the gear. Unless he
    missed his guess, the building was totally empty, as she'd
    told him it would be. Only a battered silver Corolla hun-
    kered down at the curb. The carports in back stood
    
    -
    

    





    empty, the windows stayed blank and dark. He swung his
    head slowly back and forth so that his augmented vision
    could keep up with him.
    
    The final scan took only a few moments. Dudley ana-
    lyzed what he saw, picking out the weak spots in the
    building, the three stories of regular apartments, side by
    side, with a single, bigger apartment on the basement
    level, shared with what would be a laundry room and util-
    ity basement for the furnace, air, and such. He spotted
    the accesses and egresses, the fire escape, everything he
    needed to know. The only thing he could not change was
    the overall feel of the building.
    
    It was not cool enough. As the killing fever seared its
    way through his veins, the sweat poured out of him. It
    pooled under the helmet, plastering his hair to his head
    slickly. Dudley boosted the sack on his back, as it seemed
    to grow heavier, and decided he could wait no longer.
    
    He put a hand to his gear, activating the program he
    needed. He took a long, slow approach to the building,
    making sure he was not seen. The debris- and weed-laden
    lots made it easier. By the time he hugged the shadowed,
    hidden side of the apartment house, the program he
    wanted played on the visor screen, showing him the build-
    ing it had identified through the scan and its most logical
    floor plan. The visor had been designed so that he could
    see through it, with the virtual reality program an overlay
    over his own vision.
    
    She would have nowhere to run that he didn't already
    know about. Nowhere to hide.
    
    Dudley moved into hunting mode.
    
    He stashed the boy's body in the laundry room. He
    could feel the heat rippling off him. He could feel the
    fire's brilliance eating through his skin, like a sun about to
    go nova. He was flame. He was power and destruction let
    loose. He was ...
    

    





    306 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    . . . the sleeping man stirred.
    
    Dudley stumbled in his tracks, caught himself, flexed
    his grip around the heft of his knife. He liked to do things
    differently. Dudley ground his teeth. The abrasion made
    his jaw ache, the cords on his neck stand out.
    
    She had always been disappointed that he was not
    more like the sleeping man. She had never said so directly
    to him, but Dudley knew. It scarcely mattered to him
    now. When the evening was over, he would feel a strange
    emptiness, a draining, a depression that he had somehow
    failed her again. It would matter then, because her ac-
    ceptance of him mattered to Dudley.
    
    He needed it.
    
    It was all he had.
    
    Dudley gritted his teeth again. The movement made
    him ache throughout his skull. He let himself burn. The
    sleeping man liked shadow. He would not stand for the fi-
    ery torch Dudley had become. Dudley drove him out, as
    he had time and time again.
    
    He found himself standing on the back stairs. The
    building, without occupant or appliance, was preternatu-
    rally quiet. Sweat ran off his face, had pooled at his feet.
    His shoulder, braced against the internal wall, had gone
    numb as if he had tried to drive it into the newly painted
    plaster. How long had he stood there, putting demons to
    rest?
    
    Too long.
    
    There was a sound behind him, a choked noise. Dudley
    whirled and struck, without thought, all sinuous move-
    ment from his chin to his fingers. -~: ~:
    
    The boy sank without a whimper, eyes wide, stir~g at
    him, at Dudley's face obscured by the gear, the knife blos-
    soming in the dead center of his childish throat.
    
    Shit!
    
    She wmllrl never forvive him this. never. Dudlev nulled
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    307
    
    the Imife free. There was a gurgling sound as the boy
    died, inhaling his own blood. Dudley scooped up the
    small frame and made his way back to the laundry room,
    where he dropped his burden on top of the other. A litany
    of lies ran like wildfire through his brain. The boy wasn't
    there. The boy was there. The mother had beaten him.
    Nothing he could do. No. The boy wasn't there, he'd run
    away. Or the boy was there. He'd tried to protect his
    mother. Dudley'd had no choice.
    
    Maybe that last would suffice.
    
    He decided it was time to build his fire.
    
    Hands shaking, he searched inside his waistband for
    the homemade accelerator, a chemical which would en-
    sure the results he wanted, without leaving a telltale
    trace. He brought the pouch up and shook it out.
    
    Graciela smelled the faintest tinge of smoke. She
    paused, kitchen cabinet door open, and turned. The smell
    grew stronger as she did, then faded again.
    
    She frowned and wiped her hands on a paper towel.
    Donnie was at that age. She decided to see what he was
    doing so quietly in his new bedroom. Matches were
    strictly off-limits for him, but she'd had trouble with him
    playing with them before. Parenting classes at the shelter
    had taught her it was normal. Not that she should allow
    it to continue, but that he would be curious.
    
    As she passed through the living reern from the
    kitchen, she noticed the front door ever so slightly ajar.
    She stopped.
    
    "Donnie?"
    
    No answer.
    
    Her heart felt as if it had lodged somewhere in her
    throat. She ran to the bedroom. The door flung wide open
    before her. The room was empty.
    
    "Donaldo!" Graciela tore through the tiny apartment
    

    





    308 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    and out the front door. She could smell smoke again, this
    time very. definitely. She hesitated in the hallway. What if
    he'd set a fire? No phone yet. What could she do? Let it
    not be a fire. Her whole future hung before her. Her son,
    her new home. She ran in search of Donnie, praying for
    the best.
    
    She did not know the building well yet. The hallway
    took her downstairs and around a corner, then sank into
    dimness. But she could smell the smoke again, and
    thought perhaps she could even see a wisp of gray puffing
    into the air.
    
    "Oh, shit, hijo," she cried, and plunged down the base-
    ment steps.
    
    She came to a halt as something dark and menacing
    moved at the foot of the stairwell, shadows coming to-
    gether and taking shape. Something glinted in its hand.
    
    Almost a man.
    
    Almost a man, but not quite, a mask obscuring its face,
    a mask staring at her with glittery, shimmering lenses. A
    deathlike visage, ebony carved and grotesque, watching
    her.
    
    And it carried a knife.
    
    "I've been waiting for you," the being said.
    
    Dudley had had all sorts of reactions, but he was not
    quite prepared for what she did. Without a sound, she
    turned and leaped like a gazelle up the stairwell, taking
    the steps, two and even three at a time. He thundered up
    after her, gaining the hall too late to see her slim form dis-
    appear.
    
    But he heard the slamming of a door. He swung his
    head. The VR program overlaid the floor plan. That had to
    be the door to the interior stairs between floors. If she
    were returning to her apartment, she'd become confused.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    309
    
    She was going the wrong way. And he knew exactly which
    way he had to go to CUt her off.
    
    He peeled his lips back off his teeth and sprinted down
    the hallway.
    
    They met nearly face-to-face at the next T-intersection.
    Graciela slid to a stop, scrambling, her sneakered feet
    nearly slipping out from underneath her, her bosomy
    chest heaving under its T-shirt. She cursed, in Spanish,
    then flung herself away as he grabbed for her. He caught
    the worn sleeve of her shirt. It ripped away in his hand.
    
    She would head back to the basement stairs again. The
    smoke would drive her away. This time she would be
    headed in the right direction, toward her apartment.
    
    She would slam and lock the door, hoping to keep him
    out.
    
    She might even try climbing out the window for help.
    
    He would be there first.
    
    Dudley moved swiftly.
    
    She ran blindly, the smoke stinging her eyes, her shirt
    sliding off her shoulder. Her sneakers squeaked on the
    heavily polished floor. There wasn't a thought in her head,
    not for Donaldo, not even for herself, except to flee. She
    careened away from the basement stairwell a second time.
    Thick, black clouds rolled up from below, and she smelled
    the unmistakable odor of the fire. She veered away, found
    a turn in the hallway, remembered it, and ran desperately
    for her apartment.
    
    She slammed the door behind her and slid the two
    dead bolts into place and then the door lock. It would not
    hold the beast behind her for long. Graciela looked des-
    perately around the empty rooms. The first floor was not
    really a ground floor, because of the basement level. She
    was up, maybe half a story. She had a veranda, a balcony
    

    





    310
    
    off the living room, instead of ordinary living room win-
    dows. The jump wasn't far.
    
    She crossed the living room.
    
    It came out of the kitchen.
    
    Graciela sidestepped her attacker and flung herself at
    the sliding glass doors, screaming. He dug his free hand
    into her hair, pulling her back into his hard embrace, and
    said softly, "I don't think anyone can hear you."
    
    She tore at his hand. The glove stripped away, knife
    clattering to the floor, and she sank her teeth into his
    flesh, tearing savagely. Dudley's rage flared white-hot.
    
    The sleeping man roused.
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    

    





    c
    
                                       ~apter
    
    "All right, so that's her doctor. Who's the buff guy stand-
    ing with her, this guy here?"
    
    Carter stood at the phone, staring at the editorial assis-
    tant, but not seeing him, listening to the drill as he left
    another page for Joyce. "She's either out of range, or she's
    got the damn thing turned off." He slammed the phone
    down. "I can't get in this late without her." He scrubbed
    at his face in frustration. 'What did you want?"
    
    "I just wondered if you knew this guy with her."
    
    Carter perched on his chair as Dolan stabbed a finger
    at the screen. The picture was slightly out of focus be-
    yond Susan Craig, but he could see the man Dolan asked
    about. He started to say, "Damniflknow," and stopped. Be-
    cause he did know. "That's a firefighter. I can't remember
    his name, he was some kind of hero or something. Burn-
    ing building dropped a beam on his head, but not before
    he got a baby and couple of kids out. They had to put his
    skull back together. He was working with her on some
    project. Let me think." Carter paused. So many stories.
    He never thought he'd forget any of them when he'd first
    started seeing his byline, but it happened. You couldn't re-
    member them all, no matter how you tried. Memory, like
    a drowning man, struggled to surface.
    
    Dolan said, "I can always call the morgue, see what
    they've got on file."
    
    311
    

    





    312
    
    Elizabeth Forrmt
    
    "He wouldn't be listed. He's not part of tnis story, just
    an escort." Carter took a swig of the Tsing-Tao, which had
    begun to warm slightly. The beer seemed to loosen the old
    synapses. "I've got it. They were working on a virtual real-
    ity program for firefighting. Architectural imaging, hooked
    into high-tech helmet equipment for the firemen. It was
    like medical imagingÄsee the tip of the iceberg, project
    the entire structure."
    
    "I don't get it. I know about the medical programs.
    They track tumors that way, other surgery. But I've never
    heard of architectural imaging."
    
    "Neither had anybody else. She didn't get the funding
    for that, either. They wanted to project an overlay into the
    helmet visors. The image would give them the floor plan
    of the building they were about to enter. That way, even
    with no visibility because of the smoke and flames, the
    firefighters would have a good idea where they were and
    where they wanted to go."
    
    Dolan sat back in his chair. He let out a low whistle.
    "Impressive. It might work."
    
    "Nobody thought so two years ago. Nobody wanted to
    foot the bill to put blueprints into a database. The
    thought was that the programming wouldn't be feasible.
    There was the question of manpower, and also access to
    the blueprints. If it would even work. You've got to admit,"
    and Carter drained the last of the beer. He rocked back
    in his chair, balancing it on the back two feet. "Virtual re-
    ality has come a long way since then."
    
    "Not that anybody could prove it by you." Dolan put his
    hands into the air and wiggled his fingers. "You still type
    by hunt and peck."
    
    "I type a hell of a lot faster than that."
    
    "Sure." Dolan moved back to the screen. "It wasn't a
    bad idea. Scanning technology today could make building
    the database a lot easier...." He Dursed his fins in
    

    





    -DEATH WATCH
    
    313
    
    thought. "They say going into a burning building is like
    going into a black hell. To know where you are, at all
    times, regardlessÄ"
    
    Carter was caught in a swirl of his own thoughts. To pit
    a killer like Mr. Blue, who liked to break into buildings
    and start fires and kill, against a man like that firefighter,
    who rescued lives and put out fires . . . what was a man
    like that doing paired with Susan Craig, who was clearly,
    avidly, attracted by Bauer's type?
    
    What would a human predator do with a program
    which would give him access into any building he
    wanted? How well could he hunt and stalk then?
    
    A cold chill went down Carter's spine. He set his chair
    carefully down on all fours.
    
    The phone rang jarringly. He leaped up from the com-
    puter desk and snatched it up.
    
    Joyce said testily, "You're beginning to bug me."
    
    "I'm sorry, Joyce, but I had to get hold of you. I want to
    get Mac out of Psychiatric."
    
    'Why?" Suspicion tinged her rich voice.
    
    He had no proof to offer her. Even Nelson had had no
    proof of anything, just a nearly intangible lead to a serial
    killer long gone from the public eye. That did not make
    her an accessory to anything Bauer had done. It did not
    make her a suspect in Nelson's killing. He had nothing
    but a spine that felt as though polar bears had decided to
    make a slide out of it.
    
    "You're taking too long to think, Carter. That means
    you're going to tell me a story."
    
    "No. No stories. Honest to God, I can't give you a rea-
    son. I just don't think she belongs in the hospital. Can't
    we get her into protective custody or something?"
    
    "She committed voluntarily for forty-eight hours of ob-
    servation. Even if I could get Moreno to budge, I couldn't
    

    





    314
    
                 Elizaheth Forrest
    
    oet her out before then. And if I could aet her out tomor-
    ~ ~ ~ ~rm ...~..IA eLm ~A~"
    
    Carter cleared his throat, and Joyce interrupted, "Uh-
    huh, boyfriend, no way. Don't even say it." She paused.
    "Come to think of it, I might have a place. New shelter,
    not open yet, but just about ready to go. I'd have. to stay
    with her, but I think I could get the okay to go in for a
    couple of days. That's what it's there for. What's this all
    about, anyway?"
    
    "I don't want anybody messing with her mind."
    
    "Or any other little bit of her, I expect." Joyce chuckled.
    She stopped. "What's up?"
    
    "Nothing I can pinpoint. What do you know about Su-
    san Craig?"
    
    "Doctor Craig? She works there, has her own unit
    within the unit, called Cyberlmago or some such. She
    does a lot with imaging. Self-esteem, biofeedback for ner-
    vousness and pain, virtual reality rehab for stroke victims."
    
    "Sounds diverse."
    
    "It's all part of the computer technology. All of it uses
    virtual reality programming. I've seen her work. She's
    good. No bedside manner, but she gets results."
    
    "I don't like the result she got from Mac today." Carter
    briefly described the emotional state in which he'd found
    McKenzie. "And I don't like the fact that John Nelson
    came to L.A., hoping to find her."
    
    "Congressman Nelson?"
    
    "The one they just shipped home in a box."
    
    "How do you know he was looking for her?"
    
    "Because," he told her, "John was hoping I might help
    him find her. Craig was a graduate assistant, working with
    Georg Bauer when he escaped."
    
    "My, my."
    
    Joyce knew a little of his obsession with Bauer. He said,
    
                                "John never gave up either."    ~ .  ~- ~=
    

    





    2~::
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    31S
    
    "I guess not. Well, that doesn't make Dr. Craig poison,
    either, but I'll see what I can do. Just keep your trigger
    finger off my beeper. I'll call you when I know something."
    Joyce hung up.
    
    The polar bears were still doing bobsled runs down his
    spine, but they'd slowed up some.
    
    Dolan looked at him.
    
    "She said she'd try," Carter repeated.
    
    Dolan nodded morosely.
    
    The only good thing about going home for a late dinner
    was that the food would be chilled and the traffic thinner.
    The day had been hot and smoggy, and the roads con-
    gested, so Moreno guessed that everything evened out.
    The first thing he did when he walked in the door was
    grab the portable phone so he could check his voice mail
    while he stood in the glow of the open refrigerator door,
    enjoying the temperature as he decided what to eat.
    Margo called from the other room, over the television
    noise of her favorite series, "Don't stand there with the
    
    . ..
    
    ce[,ox open.
    
    "Anything to eat?"
    
    "It's all to eat," she called back.
    
    Naturally. He punched in the office number and
    started listening to his mailbox. If he stayed in the office
    to pick up these messages, he'd never leave. Half of them
    were just fellow officers passing along grievances of the
    day or, in some cass, a tip or two. He pulled out a bowl
    of what looked to be tuna salad. On closer inspection, it
    was salmon salad, even better. He could tell it was left-
    overs, because the bowl was less than half full. He
    couldn't get in too much trouble for finishing it. He would
    ask, but he was too fond of salmon salad to risk losing it.
    
    He grabbed a fork, a bottle of chilled iced tea, and sat
    at the kitchen table to eat. The salad must have been din-
    

    





    316
    
                 Elizaheth Forrest
    
    ner because the celery was still crisp. He munched in en-
    joyment as his messages rolled on.
    
    Then he sat up straight, changed the handset to the
    other ear, and pulled his notebook and pen out of his shirt
    pocket. He pushed the bowl aside. Sarah Whiteside of
    Seattle had finally returned his call.
    
    He copied down the number, and repeated the message
    to verify it. He used the office charge card to return the
    call. He went through two or three very worried people
    before he finally got Sarah on the line.
    
    "Officer Moreno?"
    
    "Yes, Mrs. Whiteside. You returned my call earlier to-
    night, and I'm getting back to you."
    
    He could hear a breathy sigh of relief on the line.
    "You're not him. I can hear a faint accent, can't 1?"
    
    "Not who, Mrs. Whiteside?"
    
    "Jack Trebolt." She luade another breathy sound, and
    he thought perhaps she had been crying. "But you
    couldn't really convince me long distance, could you?"
    
    "I don't know how I can try. I can give you my shield
    number and have you call the desk sergeant, if that would
    help."
    
    He heard a whispered conference, then she said, "No
    ... no, that's okay. Please. Is McKenzie all right?"
    
    "Yes and no. Before I get into that, I'd like to verify
    some information I have on Ms. Smith. Would you be
    willing to answer some questions?" He doodled on the
    page while there was a pause of consideration.
    
    "She gave you my number?"
    
    "Yes."
    
    "I'll help if I can."
    
    'We found ID on her that appears to be false. As far as
    you know, what name or names does she go under?"
    
    "Oh, Smith. McKenzie Smith. We call her Mac. Jack
    was always very irritated she didn't take his name, but she
    

    





    rI_~
    
    31 7:
    
    didn't want to. She was a star softball player up here the
    first two years of college before she dropped out, but
    some of us remembered the name. She was proud of it."
    
    "What about Fordham?"
    
    That brought a little laugh. "Oh, God. She kept that?
    She bought that fake license when she first went to
    school. All the kids had 'em. For beer and stuff, y'know.
    She showed it to me once. It was so bad."
    
    "Then," and he spoke as he made a notation in his
    book, "she didn't use it as an alias."
    
    "No. Well, she might have used it when she left. At ho-
    tels and stuff. I know she was scared to death Jack might
    follow her."
    
    "Did you know she was heading to the Los Angeles
    area? Had you told anyone?"
    
    "No. She didn't want me to know. I never would have
    guessed. She hasn't talked to her father but once or twice
    since she left home. Listen, if Jack finds her, she's in se-
    rious danger. He broke into my homeÄhe leftÄoh,
    GodÄhe left their dog's head as a warning."
    
    "He what?"
    
    "She had a dog. Golden retriever. Cody made her so
    happy. That's what pushed her over the edge. Jack had
    beaten her a couple of times, and he was always verbally
    abusive, and sneaky mean, but he just flipped out. Killed
    the dog. She ran. She loved that dog like a child."
    
    Moreno listened, marking that Trebolt had told him the
    opposite, that she had killed the dog. "Is there a police re-
    port that he broke into your house? Someone I could
    call?"
    
    "They just took it tonight. I'll have to get back to you on
    that. Maybe they could fax it down. They told me, there's
    no proof who did it, but I know. He tracked mud all over.
    Little things. Then the . . . the other."
    
    "Mrs. Whiteside, why weren't you at home?"
    

    





    318
    
                 Elizaheth Fo1rest
    
    'We left. Just for a couple of days, you understand, but
    Mac had frightened me. So we moved out for a while. I
    couldn't get any messages off the machine, and I was wor-
    ried about Mac, so I came back."
    
    "And my message was the only one."
    
    '~es." Sarah Whiteside cleared her throat and sniffled
    slightly. "How did you know?"
    
    "Did you leave the machine on?"
    
    "It's always on." She sounded as if the question had
    been ridiculous.
    
    "It wasn't when I called."
    
    "But you left a messageÄ"
    
    "The newer machines will kick on if there are more
    than a dozen rings or so. If you didn't turn the machine
    off, there's a possibility the intruder did, and then my call
    activated it. Call your police in the morning and ask them
    to fingerprint the answering machine, all right?"
    
    "All right." Another low conference. Then Sarah said,
    "It had to have been Jack. He loves the telephone. He
    carries a portable cell phone wherever he goes. He used
    it to haunt Mac. She'd never know if he was in town or
    out on the road like he'd told her. He wouldn't let her
    drive or have her own car. When she finally bought one,
    we kept it for her. Arranged for permanent parking at
    school."
    
    i'You're a teacher, ma'am?"
    
    "Community college. A professor."
    
    "I see." He made a note as to her probable credibility.
    Then he brought the pen point up a line or two and cir-
    cled "cell phone" heavily. Jack Trebolt could have been
    anywhere when Moreno had called him. Cellular calls
    could be forwarded easily enough. Anywhere.
    
    Even L.A.
    
    "Officer Moreno, please tell me what's happened to
    Mac?" - -
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 315
    
    "We're still investigating, but she was involved in a do
    mestic battery. She's been hospitalized for a couple ol
    days, but she'll be all right."
    
    "Oh, God. God," Whiteside repeated. "How bad?"
    
    "Contusions and a mild concussion. Her father had a
    stroke and was pretty badly beaten. We haven't been able
    to corroborate that there was a third party involved. The
    neighbors called us in for a domestic disturbance. You've
    helped a lot."
    
    There was a heavy silence, broken by, "You mean ..
    you think Mac did it? She's a suspect?"
    
    "Yes, ma'am, at the moment. But I have to tell you
    you've changed the picture a lot. Can I reach you at this
    number again if I need to?"
    
    "Yes, this is my parents' home. The Beckmanns. What
    hospital is she in? Can I call her?"
    
    "She's at Mount Mercy. That's in the 818 area code. I'm
    sorry, but I don't have the number handy."
    
    "That's all right. And thank you."
    
    "No," said Moreno. "Thank you." He made an exclama-
    tion point at the bottom of his notebook as he hung up.
    There was a lot of crime happening in the Basin, but he
    made an extra note to call the lab in the morning and hus-
    tle their butts over latent prints on that baseball bat. He
    found himself wanting to prove Jack Trebolt had indeed
    been in the area.
    
    Mac searched the game lounge a second time, heard
    the chimes ring softly, announcing that visiting hours were
    over, and she still had not found Brand. She worried that
    he might have been sulking, and she had not felt well
    enough to get up and about until after dinner. She hoped
    he was still not upset about her working with Dr. Craig.
    
    A teenager, face challenged with acne and the begin-
    ning brushes of a beard, sat in a beanbag chair in front of
    

    





    320
    
                 Elizabeeh Forrese
    
    the television, intent on a science fiction program. He
    looked up, frowning, as she peeked in again.
    
    "What do you want anyway?" he said. His voice had
    matured far beyond the rest of him. It boomed deeply out
    of a thin, wiry body, the effect startling.
    
    "i'm sorry," Mac said. "I'm looking for Brand."
    
    The boy took part of his cheek in hand, pinched it be-
    tween his thumb and forefinger almost absently, popping
    a pimple. He wiped his hand off on his pajamas and told
    her, "Won't find him here. He overdosed. Went into a
    coma. He's in isolation at the other end of the ward. No
    visitors. Not a pretty sight."
    
    "B-Brand? You're sure?"
    
    "I found him. We were supposed to play Nintendo.
    We'd talked about it early. He said his other partner was
    busy kissing up to Dr. Craig, and he bugs me, but not a
    lot, so I said okay. So when the time came and I went to
    find him, there he was frothing at the mouth with his eyes
    rolled back in his head." The boy gave a sharp laugh.
    "Shoulda seen the staff come running."
    
    "I bet." Mac felt sick to her stomach. She took a step
    backward out of the lounge. "Is heÄ"
    
    "They pumped his stomach. Word is, he had a reaction
    to the meds. He's alive, but his mind is in la-la land."
    
    "But will he be . . . will he be all right? Did you hear
    anything?"
    
    The boy shrugged. He brought his thumb and finger up
    to his face again, found a site off his temple, and
    squeezed again. "They said so. But you never know
    around here." He wiped his hand again and beckoned.
    "Want to come in and watch? Pretty cool movie."
    
    She looked at the screen in time to see an alien slurp
    the skull off someone's head and inhale the brains. Her
    stomach roiled aueasilv. "I don't think so."
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    327
    
    He shrugged. "Cool." He scrunched around in the
    chair, gaze fixed avidly on the set.
    
    McKenzie made it back to her room. She closed the
    door against the noises of the nurses' station and the shuf-
    fling footsteps of the ambulatory patients. She sat on the
    bed and drew her knees up to her chin. Brand had made
    such a point out of not taking his meds. Could he have
    been storing them up for a suicide?"
    
    Or had he instinctively known, after the first or second
    time taking them, that his body had been reacting to
    them? Was that why he avoided them?
    
    And if he was avoiding them, how did he get enough
    medication to OD?
    
    Or had someone forcibly given the dosage to him? And
    if someone had, who?
    
    And why had he disliked Susan Craig so much?
    
    Mac stared across her room. The boy was manic-
    depressive. He wasn't doing his maintenance. He could
    have swung low enough to have attempted suicide.
    
    But had he?
    
    She put both her hands to her head as the dull throb-
    bing began again. There were no answers, only questions.
    She felt as if she walked a tightrope in a high wind and
    everyone was watching, waiting, watching for that deadly
    slip. A death watch for McKenzie Smith to finally strike
    out.
    
    Susan Craig stared at her computer screen and licke.
    her lips, tongue flicking hungrily over them. McKenzie
    Smith had fainted while they were trying to compile an
    animated VR tape, but they had a great deal done. That,
    compiled with the spatial and personality disk retaken had
    given Susan enough data to work with. She looked at the
    grids in satisfaction.
    
    All these years of work. She had never thought of trying
    
    :
    

    





    322
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    to match his imprints with those of a victim. All these
    years, she had done her work from the other side, from
    the predator's side. The compatibility had never fully been
    achieved.
    
    Until now.
    
    She bumped the heel of her hand on the desk. The vic-
    tim! She should have thought of it, should have run across
    it sooner, she'd spent so many years among victims. The
    analysis had simply not occurred to her. She had been
    building an onion, imprint over imprint, subliminal sug-
    gestion layer by layer through the appropriate virtual real-
    ity program. Only then could she hope to deconstruct
    Georg Bauer. Only then could she hope to understand,
    control, cure.
    
    Maybe she would have come to it eventually, instead of
    accidentally. She put a hand to the back of her neck, rub-
    bing it. Maybe. Start with the victim to learn as much as
    you can about the perpetrator. That was basic at
    Quantico. Basic, basic, basic.
    
    But she didn't think she would have believed it until
    she'd seen it in front of her. The indices and matrices
    which were McKenzie Smith promised even more. Smith
    had a talent for incorporating minute suggestions into the
    reality programming. Given the proper stimulus, she
    would be able to bridge a communication gap which had
    been frustrating Susan for the last seven years. The girl
    was gold.
    
    Satisfied, the doctor snapped off the monitor and shut
    down the computer. A few days to imprint dependency on
    her, and then it did not matter if McKenzie stayed in the
    psych ward or not. She would seek Susan out wherever
    she was, to get the help she needed.
    
    Just a few days more.
    
    She shrugged off her lab coat and changed into her
    linen jacket. She looked around. Pity about Brandon. He
    

    





    - ~
    
    323
    
    would recover completely, of course, but he would be of
    no further use to her. He was too wary now. It was a good
    thing Susan had been able to separate him from
    McKenzie before he'd spread his paranoia.
    
    As she left the ward, she paused by the reception desk
    as was her habit, to check the sign-in book maintained at
    the desk. She ran her finger swiftly down the signatures,
    then paused. Carter Wyndall. She had thought he looked
    familiar.
    
    She clicked her tongue against her teeth. He would not
    remember her, but she remembered him. He had not
    bothered her all the years they'd been together in L.A.,
    but that was only because he'd never made the connec-
    tion between her and Georg Bauer.
    
    She did not intend that he should. She wondered what
    interest the reporter had in McKenzie Smith.
    
    "Anything wrong, Dr. Craig?"
    
    She smiled at the receptionist. "No. Absolutely nothing
    that I can't handle." She pushed her way on through the
    doors. Carter Wyndall was about to find out what a
    double-edged sword a woman in distress could be.
    
    Yes. That would be appropriate. When the worm
    turned, as McKenzie Smith could be made to do, it could
    strike almost anywhere. Susan could dispose of Carter,
    and bind the Smith girl to her irrevocably, with a single,
    desperate act. It was the burning bed syndrome, the bat-
    tered woman defense.
    
    Susan began to hum as she walked through the hospital
    corridor. Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me .
    
    :Ä~_ ~
    

    





    The phone rang sharply into the darkness. Carter stuck a
    hand out and pounded the nightstand blindly until he
    found the receiver and dragged it to his ear. He propped
    an eyelid open to check the time.
    
    2:22 A.M.
    
    He stifled a groan and managed to get his name out.
    'Wyndall."
    
    "Good morning, Carter. Rise and shine."
    
    It was not the city desk. It was not the night city editor.
    Nor was it Joyce Tompkins, from whom he half-expected
    it. He wiggled a little more upright in bed and, now that
    he knew he could afford to lose his temper, said, "Son of
    a bitch. It's the middle of the night."
    
    "Don't we know it. This is Franklin, Carter. You wanted
    in, you've got it, but you need to get down here before the
    locals get this one all cleaned up."
    
    "What?"
    
    "Mr. Blue has struck again."
    
    A fresh kill. Carter sat up abruptly and swung his feet
    out of bed. He reached for the lamp and started searching
    for paper and pencil. "When?"
    
    "Early this evening."
    
    "They won't let me cross the tape," he told Franklin.
    
    "They will this time. But there are some curious differ-
    ences. We think you might be able to give us some in-
    324
    
    i
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    325
    
    sight." He gave Carter the address and directions. He
    added, "Oh, and bring some hot coffee and doughnuts.
    We'll be here until mid-morning, at least, on this one."
    
    "I'll be there, but don't wait for me."
    
    "Don't worry. We won't."
    
    The line went dead.
    
    Carter hung up. He was half-dressed when he stopped,
    one leg in his trousers and one leg out. What in hell was
    he going to do about McKenzie?
    
    He hopped to the phone and, after a moment's hesita-
    tion, stabbed a finger down and dialed.
    
    A sleepy voice answered after the fifth ring. "Tompkins
    residence."
    
    'You don't use an answering machine?"
    
    "Good Lord. Carter, do you know what time of the
    night this is? Do you have any idea how normal folk
    sleep?"
    
    He cradled the phone under his chin, still hopping, and
    put the other leg in his trousers. "Believe me, I know. I've
    got a story that won't keep. I'm out of here, and I may not
    be back until after noon. I would have paged you and left
    a message on voice mail, but you told me not to do that
    anymore. Something about broken fingers."
    
    "Well, you don't need to worry your pointed little head
    about that. Now it's your neck! I'll take care of McKenzie.
    I tol' you that."
    
    He felt relieved despite Joyce's irritation. "Good. I'll
    hang up now."
    
    "Not until you tell me what's so all fired important."
    
    "Can't." He puffed a little as he tucked in his shirt.
    
    "Carter!"
    
    "Really, I can't. Not even you. Sorry, Joyce."
    
    "So I suppose I'll read all about it in the evening edi-
    tion."
    
    "No."
    

    





     1         : ~         ~ ~ = ~ - ~ ~:=7a~
    
    326 ETizabeth Forrest
    
    'What do you mean, no?"
    
    "I mean that the police have been keeping this one
    under wraps. My hands are tied. But I've got an invitation
    for a front row seat, and I can't turn that down."
    
    She made a sound which he could not possibly dupli-
    cate, a sound which verified her ethnicity. "I'm goin' back
    to bed, and don't you even dare, white bread, bother me
    again tonight."
    
    "I won't. I promise. Honest to GodÄ" She hung up on
    him. Carter grinned to himself and started looking for his
    shoes. He eventually found them under the computer
    desk, and he was out the door.
    
    It hadn't taken him long in L.A. after moving there to
    find a decent doughnut shop, open all hours, which would
    also lend out thermal pots to hold hot coffee. Carter made
    a beeline there, took in two empties he'd tossed into the
    back seat of his car, got two dozen doughnuts and two
    fresh pots. Then he studied his Thomas Brothers Guide
    until he found the address.
    
    Twenty-five minutes later, he pulled into the cul-de-sac,
    notable for its fleet of late model, fully operational police
    cars, all bulbs blinking on their light bars. Two fire trucks
    looked like they were wrapping it up, weary men taking
    off their slickers and folding hoses. There were also sev-
    eral unmarked cars, including a rental car which probably
    belonged to the Feds. The coroner's van had evidently ar-
    rived just before he did. He watched them unload a gur-
    ney, body bags neatly folded on the top and wheel it
    toward the yellow police tape which surrounded an entire
    nine-apartment complex. It reeked of smoke and ashes
    and water. From the looks of it, Mr. Blue had gotten car-
    ried away with his little fires. He did a quick step to catch
    up with the gurney and set the coffee and doughnuts on
    it. The two haulina it never notirer1 ThP rnrn~r r~f (~ort
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    327
    
    er's mouth quirked. You didn't get far in this business
    being unobservant.
    
    Also immediately apparent was the fact that the build-
    ing was not blue. It was a kind of sickly-looking ocher,
    thanks to the amber streetlights and the flashing lights
    from the official vehicles. Empty lots surrounded it and
    he thought he was looking at a building which had under-
    gone restructuring after the Northridge quake, more than
    two years ago. Buildings on either side of it had been torn
    down, beyond repair. This was a common sight the farther
    north and east of downtown L.A. you got, and the closer
    to the epicenter.
    
    Two uniforms looked up as he started to duck under
    the tape after the coroner's gurney. They stepped toward
    him.
    
    Carter held up his press credential and added, "Frank-
    lin and Sofer called me."
    
    The one young cop he recognized from that long night
    three days ago at Mt. Mercy. He said, "They told me you
    might show. You're here as a consultant." To his partner he
    added, "It's okay. The suits called him in." Carter passed
    him a thermal pitcher, a box of doughnuts, and a stack of
    paper cups. "Throw the empty in the back of my car when
    
    , . ..
    
    you re aone.
    
    "Thanks. You're all right."
    
    Carter did not linger to hear more. He followed the
    gurney attendants who followed the steady stream of in-
    vestigators and uniforms moving in and out of the doors
    like ants.
    
    Someone exiting the building took an abrupt right,
    leaned over, and spewed into the pink hawthorn bushes
    ringing the complex. She hugged her rib cage tightly.
    Carter slowed. "That bad, huh?"
    
    The lieutenant nodded and waved him on, her face a
    

    





    328
    
                  EUzabeth Forrest
    
    cadaverous gray under the poor lighting. She vomited
    again, finishing with a moan as he stepped past her.
    
    The complex had to be vacant. There were no sleepy-
    eyed occupants leaning out of the windows or walking the
    lawn trying to figure out what had happened. He'd seen
    only one car at the curb which had probably belonged
    here, and the line of carports to the rear of the complex
    had looked fairly empty as well. Inside the lobby of the
    building, which was fairly small and probably only existed
    for the mailboxes, the gurney attendants were stopped.
    
    Sofer held them up. He wore the same solemn gray suit
    he'd worn earlier to Carter's apartment, only now he and
    the suit seemed rumpled. He said quietly, "Take it down-.
    stairs to the laundry room, right turn at the bottom of the
    stairs. Don't touch anything, we're not done there yet. Got
    a body thermometer?"
    
    They nodded. Sofer grunted. "Good. Get a body temp
    if you can. Make a note of it on both boys, one for me
    and one for the police. Got that?"
    
    They nodded.
    
    "Use gloves. Try not to step in anything, it's a little wet
    down there."
    
    Carter leaned past and into the stairwell. The stink of
    fire reeked worse here, and he knew it had probably been
    started down below. There was another smell, too, one
    that he tentatively identified as burned flesh.
    
    The attendants flashed their hands to show they were
    already gloved. Carter grabbed up the second box of
    doughnuts, the coffeepot, and the cups as they steered
    downward.
    
    Sofer looked at him with gimlet eyes. "You shouldn't
    have."
    
    "Franklin told me to. You'll have to drink it black
    though, I only have two hands. Couldn't carry the cream
    and su~ar."
    
    ~.
    
    l
    

    





    - -:
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    329
    
    "God. Lewis must have a cast-iron stomach." Neverthe-
    less, Sofer reached for a cup and let Carter pour. He took
    a glazed twist from the box as Carter set both on the floor
    
    "I'm here as a consultant?"
    
    "That's right. No story yet. Franklin wants to get your
    take on the scene before it gets cleaned up."
    
    He poured himself a cup and took a strong hit before
    asking, 'What's downstairs?"
    
    "Two juveniles. He started the fire down there, but the
    building was retrofitted for sprinklers. They worked down
    there, not up here. Piping hadn't been connected up here
    yet. The building's just been readied for new tenants. Go
    on down and take a look, but don't touch."
    
    He swallowed slowly. He had no desire. Police photos
    would be bad enough. He shook his head, saying, "I'll wait
    for Franklin." Then, quietly, he added, "Mr. Blue doesn't
    do kids."
    
    "Bingo." Sofer finished his doughnut after stirring it
    around in his coffee. He wiped his wet lips off on the
    back of his hand, then licked a sticky finger. He picked
    up the coffeepot. 'Walk this way."
    
    Carter bent over and retrieved the doughnuts. The
    agent waited for him, as they entered the main floor of
    the building to the left.
    
    He stopped immediately. "Oh, shit."
    
    Sofer paused. He commented, 'We've got photos."
    
    Photos would not do the scene justice. The walls had
    been freshly repaired, freshly painted. There was still a
    faint odor to them of the drying paint. That odor now was
    all but drowned by the sweet iron stink of blood. The
    scent of blood added to the primitive fury of the drawings
    done on the corridors. Pictographs splashed hastily were
    of the most basic, the sun, stars, the symbol for infinity,
    fire, man, woman, the woman prone in death. When
    freshly done on the cream background, they must have
    

    





    330
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    been pulsating with redness. Now, as they dried and the
    wall absorbed them, they had begun to turn a rusty
    brown. Bauer. Bauer had drawn pictures. They hadn't al-
    ways been found at first, because he rarely left the bodies
    where the killing had taken place. When investigators
    were able to backtrack later, crude drawings had been
    found at the murder site. It had never been written up
    publicly, just as many of the actual atrocities done to the
    victims had never been released. One, to protect the in-
    tegrity of the crime scene and evidence, two, to protect
    the families who'd already suffered enough.
    
    Carter felt his heart stutter, thump heavily once or
    twice, and then stagger back into its rhythm. His eyes
    shut involuntarily as he realized what he looked at.
    
    'Wyndall."
    
    He looked out. Franklin had joined Sofer in the framed
    doorway of an apartment the next door down. "In here."
    
    He didn't want to go in. His body knew it, his thump-
    ing heart forbade it, his feet dragged, but as the two
    agents watched him, their stares seemed to draw him
    along inexorably. Past the crude paintings drawn in a vic-
    tim's life stream. Past the speckled droppings on the floor.
    Past the final strokes which showed a woman, her torso
    cavity opened, gutted as if she'd been venison.
    
    '~You told me it was Mr. Blue," he said. He'd gone cold.
    The hot coffee in his hand threatened to burn him
    through the cup.
    
    Franklin still wore the current god-awful purple tie.
    Sofer had splashed a little coffee onto it. It could only be
    an improvement. He smiled thinly in response to Carter.
    "Isn't it? You haven't even been inside the apartment yet."
    
    Carter shoved the cardboard box of doughnuts into
    Franklin's hands and went into the apartment. He stood
    for a moment and then closed his eyes to avoid abrupt
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 331
    
    dizziness. The coffee cup dropped from fingers suddenly
    gone numb.
    
    One of the police lieutenants looking over the scene re-
    acted. "Damnit." He knelt down and marked it off, saying,
    "Get this blotted up and out of the way." He looked up,
    unshaven, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. "Don't mess it
    up or keep out." He gave a hard look at the FBI agents.
    "I don't care who he is. If he can't stay out of the way, I
    want him out of the crime scene."
    
    Carter nodded. Words failed him, words that would is-
    sue from his mouth. His hands began to twitch as they
    imagined the words he would type to describe the scene.
    
    Whoever she was, she had just moved in. Her belong-
    ings were meager almost beyond belief. Almost no furni-
    ture, though they did have a television set, resting on a
    precarious-looking tray stand. Cardboard boxes had been
    neatly unfolded and stacked in a corner. Blood splashed
    across them, all the way from the kitchen, for she had
    surely died in the kitchen, though it was apparent she'd
    first been caught at the other end of the living room, at
    the sliding glass doors.
    
    She'd tried to get out. The first, high spurt of bloodlet-
    ting had splattered there, blood driven by a heart still
    beating furiously, through a severed jugular. She'd been
    dragged, then, into the kitchen. Her heel marks sliced
    blood into the carpeting, tracks that marked how she'd
    been taken.
    
    Several investigators milled around in the kitchen. The
    corpse must be there, just beyond his line of sight. He
    could only see the congealing pool of blood on the floor
    through the narrow doorway.
    
    There was a measuring cup lying on its side a hand's
    span away from the main pool of blood. It held crimson
    as well. The primitive artist had used it to capture his me-
    dium. One of the investigators was stretching into the
    

    





    332
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    kitchen, and powdering its surface for prints. He called
    out, "Somebody go over the corridor closely. The son of a
    bitch might have used a paintbrush or something. Look
    for fibers in the blood." He added, "Any luck finding the
    blade?"
    
    A clammy sweat covered Carter's forehead. "He used a
    knife?" It was to be expected. Murders ef such sexual vi-
    olence almost always involved a knife.
    
    'Yeah. Bite marks are all excised. Head's nearly been
    decapitated. Took two cuts from left to right to do it.
    Seven stab wounds in the frontal area, in the breasts.
    Uterus has been punctured several times as well. That ap-
    pears to be postmortem." The investigator never looked up
    from his careful brushing. "We'U know more after the au-
    topsy."
    
    Carter pivoted around to face Franklin and Sofer.
    Franklin had been eating a powdered sugar doughnut.
    The evidence covered his chin.
    
    "Not Bauer," Carter said. "She died fast and furious.
    This guy was in a real frenzy. Bauer liked to do them
    slowly. Sometimes he took days. He didn't lose much
    blood, either, except for the paintings." Nelson and the
    other caseworkers had never found out what Bauer had
    done with the blood, either.
    
    Sofer remarked, "She's been partially scalped. Mr. Blue
    likes to do that."
    
    Franklin said, "So is he or isn't he?"
    
    "What do the kids look like?"
    
    That stopped the agent. He dropped his half-eaten
    doughnut back into the box. 'You sure you want to go
    down there?"
    
    "I don't want to. But that's the only way to tell if it was
    Bauer or not."
    
    Sofer ticked his head to follow him. Stepping carefully,
    

    





    333
    
    Carter started back out of the apartment. He stopped, as
    a new bloody pattern caught his eye.
    
    Thank you.
    
    It had been splashed extravagantly on the interior living
    room wall.
    
    He felt his throat close. Sofer caught his elbow. 'We
    saw," he told Carter gently. 'We know." He drew him back
    down the hallway toward the basement stairwell.
    
    His surety that it couldn't have been Bauer fled. He
    scarcely noticed where the agents led him.
    
    The stench from the laundry room grew worse step by
    step. He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his back
    pocket and held it over his mouth. Sofer and Franklin had
    left their coffee behind, Sofefs pasty white skin going
    even paler and Franklin gray under his tan.
    
    Franklin stopped him at the entrance to the room. It
    looked like a concrete bunker and smelled like a charnel
    house. Carter knew where the policewoman had come
    from when she'd charged out of the building to vomit. He
    raised his handkerchief from his mouth to his forehead,
    then returned it.
    
    The gurney partially blocked the doorway. Franklin bent
    over it. He straightened.
    
    "They're taking body temps now." He licked his lips as
    he faced Carter. 'You don't have to go in there. Tell me
    what you'd look for, if you were looking for Bauer."
    
    He owed the agent one, and could tell from the expres-
    sion on Franklin's face that the Fed knew it, too. Carter
    took the handkerchief down. "He liked children best.
    What do we have down here?"
    
    "Two juveniles, males, age and race indeterminate at
    this point in time, bodies partially burned. One killed by
    neck slashing, the other uncertain. One body bound with
    duct tape, the uncertain not."
    

    





    334
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Tortured? Genitals mutilated. Bite marks on the neck,
    
                                         just below.the hairline? Possible sexual assault?"   tj
                                         Franklin leaned back in. Then he came out and shook  I!1
    
    his head. "Not as far as I can tell."
     "Not Bauer, then. He wouldn't, he couldn't, change that
    
    . ,,
    
    mucn.
    
    Not Georg Bauer.
    
    No matter what the message read upstairs.
    
    Franklin said to him apologetically, "I'd like to go back
    up with you, and go through the evidence line by line.
    What Bauer might do, what he wouldn't do."
    
    What could he say? "All right." He started back up the
    stairs. "It's going to be a long night."
    
    'We don't have much choice. This was Mr. Blue, until
    he lost control. Mr. Blue doesn't do kids, or pictures. He's
    never done wet work like this before."
    
    "Do you think he's disintegrating, becoming disorgan-
    ized? Or do you think he's trying to mislead us?"
    
    Both agents shook their head in the negative. "No. But
    ask yourself . . . what if he'd learned from Bauer? What if
    he'd been a victim who'd survived? He relieves it, exor-
    cises it, by killing himself and this time lost control . . .
    flashing back."
    
    "I can't answer that until I know what you know about
    the perp. As far as I know, no one ever survived an attack
    by Georg Bauer. We'll have to go back to the victims, to
    see what draws Mr. Blue, what he's looking for and what
    he wants and what he finds." Carter braced himself,
    braced himself for the kind of knowledge that had torn
    him apart before, driven him to suicide twice.
    
    He prayed he was strong enough to handle it this time.
    

    





    Chapter 28
    
    SteD
    
    . en Hotchkiss decided during the dawn of his sec-
    ond morning that he had no way out. It was a rather pit-
    iful life anyway, relegated to a computer screen for sex
    and companionship. He was a voyeur only because he
    knew his needs weren't acceptable. He had no other
    choice. He would prefer to love a warm-skinned being, to
    love and be loved in return. It was the knowledge that he
    did not, and could not, that made him decide it was no
    longer worth living. He had never called the number left
    for him. His nimble mind had come to the inevitable con-
    clusion that it was his own doctor, his own therapist,
    who'd betrayed him. Susan Craig had him by the short
    hairs if that was true. He could never safely hope to im-
    pugn her. No one would believe him.
    
    He wrote out his instructions and laid out his clothing.
    He pulled his dress shoes out of his bag. As was his habit,
    he'd wrapped them in newspaper to keep them clean and
    to keep them from soiling anything else. Stephen spread
    the paper out.
    
    It was the headline section from several days ago. The
    cover story was a feature on the tragic drive-by shooting of
    a child, and the heart donor good which had come out of
    it. He recognized the byline: Carter Wyndall. Carter did
    not cover politics, but he had a good reputation as a well-
    researched and honest writer.
    

    





    336
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Stephen stared down at the newspaper. The more he
    stared, the more he felt as though a coo, were opening, a
    door into the pit. which trapped him, a ray of light into the
    darkness.
    
    He picked up the phone and got information in the Los
    Angeles area, then the main number for the newspaper.
    As he dialed the newspaper, preparing to run the gauntlet
    of the voice mail system, he mentally composed what it
    was he was going to say.
    
    What he could say that would be compelling enough
    for Carter Wyndall to want to investigate and open up a
    can of worms. The phone system cycled him ever closer.
    
    The line clicked. "Hello, you have reached the mailbox
    of Carter Wyndall. Please leave a message and I'll get
    back to you."
    
    Hotchkiss began to speak. The words spilled out of
    him, a dam bursting, and he did not stop until he'd be-
    come absolutely breathless. Then he hung up.
    
    If Wyndall did not return his call in forty-eight hours,
    then he would reconsider his final solution again.
    Hotchkiss carefully rewrapped his good shoes and set
    about dressing for breakfast. The lake lodge had a nice
    restaurant. He felt like comfort food: hash browns and
    eggs, and freshly squeezed orange juice.
    
    Carter's eyes felt like raw scrapes. It was only a little af-
    ter nine, but the crime scene had emptied and there were
    only a scattering of uniforms and two lieutenants left. The
    air inside the rental car smelled of their sweat and Sofer's
    occasional cigarette. He decided he wouldn't be much
    good any longer. He smothered a yawn as he told Franklin
    and Sofer, "I'm heading for bed." He put his fingers on the
    car door handle to let himself out.
    
    Sofer smothered a yawn of his own, muttering, "I
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    337
    
    should be so lucky." His chin rested on top of the steering
    wheel.
    
    Franklin had been searching for crumbs in the dough-
    nut box. He looked up. "Thanks for coming, Carter. Nel-
    son was right. You're a boy scout. We can use some of
    them from time to time."
    
    Carter started to slide out of the rental car. He an-
    swered, "I liked Nelson, too." He hesitated in the open
    door. "Since you showed me yours, I guess I should show
    you mine. Remember that photo you took off me?"
    
    "The one you had updated?"
    
    "That's the one. My assistant ran a search on it. He
    came up with a match. I think we have the same woman
    here in L.A. She's a psychiatrist now, Dr. Susan Craig. I
    put her at the psych ward at Mount Mercy, but she prob-
    ably has a private practice, too. Her company's called
    Cyberlmago."
    
    "Cyber-what?"
    
    "Imago. She uses a lot of virtual reality programming for
    treatment. Very cutting edge. I think there's a good possi-
    bility she's one reason Nelson came here."
    
    Franklin made a noncommittal sound deep in his
    throat, and Sofer said, "Thanks. We'll look into it."
    
    Carter shrugged. "For whatever it's worth." He hooked
    a thumb through the now empty thermal coffeepot and
    headed to his car.
    
    Curious onlookers had already been discouraged away
    from the site. He looked down at his rear right wheel. The
    hubcap was missing. Stolen right out from under a fleet of
    L.A.'s finest. He kicked the blackwall tire in frustration
    before throwing the coffeepot into the back seat. He did
    a circuit around the vehicle. All four hubcaps had been
    ripped off. A crude substitute had been torn out of thin
    cardboardÄa lid to a doughnut box, he noted with
    

    





    ironyÄand put into place on the left front. Somebody had
    markered "Sorry" on it.
    
    Carter ripped the cardboard off the wheel and sailed it
    vigorously into the air. It Frisbeed off across the weed and
    debris-ridden empty lot before disappearing. He got into
    his car. He started to laugh as he drove off, weaving in
    and out between patrol cars. ~ -
    
    't
    
    Pete Moreno came back from an early, early unofficial
    break to find his phone ringing off the hook. He grabbed
    it up before the system could rotate it to voice mail.
    "Moreno here."
    
    "Off-i-cer." The voice, richly and most definitely female,
    hailed him. "I'm so glad to be talking to you in person.
    This is Joyce Tompkins."
    
    That confirmed his identification of the caller. Moreno
    hooked his foot around his chair and drew it to him so he
    could sit down. "Mz. Tompkins. I'm glad to be talking to
    you, too. We've been playing phone tag. How may I be of
    service?" He'd been avoiding her for the last two days, but
    now he had no need to.
    
    "I'm working as an advocate for McKenzie Smith. Are
    you familiar withÄ"
    
    "Most definitely."
    
    "Good." Joyce took a deep breath. "Do I have to read
    you the riot act on œhis one, Officer Moreno? You've had
    this young lady practically under house arrest when you
    should be out looking for the proverbial estranged
    spouse."
    
    "I'm aware of that, Mz. Tompkins. Or rather, officially,
    I should say that we've been able to develop some new in-
    formation on her case that corroborates past abuse by her
    husband. I still haven't been able to find witnesses who
    can confirm that he's here in the area stalking her, but at
    least we have new leads to follow up."
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 339
    
    ~I,d like to make arrangements to take her out of Mount
    Mercy and to a safe house."
    
    "What kind of safe house?"
    
    "Now, Pete. What kind do you think? I have a shelter
    which has room for her temporarily."
    
    His starched shirt pulled on his armpit and he
    scratched it uneasily. "Mz. Tompkins, I don't think we'd
    have a problem with that. Of course, we'd have to know
    that you were supervising, and we'd like to know where
    she is if we have to reach her. And I'd have to stipulate
    that she's still a suspect until we can get a statement from
    her father. She'd have to stay in the area."
    
    "Back at you, no problem here. Could I impose on you
    to call Mount Mercy and let them know you've no objec-
    tion to releasing her to me?"
    
    "Will do."
    
    "Thank you, Offlcer Moreno. You are, as always, a de-
    light to talk to. How's that diet?"
    
    He puffed. "It could be better."
    
    "It's going on summer. You'll be a lot better off forgettin'
    red meat and just stoking up on fresh fruit. Why don't you
    try it and see if that doesn't jump-start your day?"
    
    "I might just do that."
    
    They exchanged one or two more pleasantries and then
    hung up.
    
    Joyce sat back in her chair and let out a big sigh of re-
    lief. The biggest hurdle to getting McKenzie Smith out of
    harm's way had just been passed. In a few hours she'd be
    a free woman. She'd barely finished her exhalation when
    her beeper sounded. She pulled it off her purse. She
    knew the number immediately when it flashed.
    
    The shelter supervisor answered, voice shot with near
    hysteria.
    
    Joyce said, "Honey, calm down. I can't understand a
    word you're saying. What is it?"
    

    





    340
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "The police just called. It's Graciela. SheÄshe's been
    murdered. Donnie, too. It's awful, justÄ" the woman
    hiccuped. "I can't leave the girls alone. They want some-
    body to come down and identify the body. I pulled her
    dental records from the work she had done while she
    was here. SheÄoh, God, Joyce. Who would want to kill
    her?"
    
    Joyce answered calmly, far more calmly than she felt
    "What do you need me to do?"
    
    The woman began to sob. Joyce paused a moment and
    then said, "Listen, something has to be done here. Tell me
    what you want from me."
    
    "Could you ... could you go to the coroner's? I just
    can't do it again. You know her by sight almost as well as
    I do."
    
    This was the hard part of running a shelter. The girls
    left, oftentimes before they were ready, and the vindictive
    ax-boyfriends, spouses, had a habit of catching up. Usu-
    ally they just saw them come back, just as battered as be-
    fore. But every now and then, more frequently of late, the
    next encounter would be the last, fatal one. Joyce did not
    answer for a moment. She had heard Graciela was leav-
    ing. She had never thought disaster would overtake her so
    quickly. Her and bright-eyed, independent Donaldo. She
    felt her eyes quicken with tears she didn't have time to
    shed.
    
    She heard the woman on the other end of the line take
    a deep, tremulous breath.
    
    Well, shit, Joyce thought briskly, gathering herself to-
    gether. This just goes to prove you wtn some and you lose
    some. She'd gotten McKenzie out of hot water, only to
    lose Graciela. "Leave those charts out where I can pick
    them up. What time did the coroner's office want some-
    nn~ rh~r - ~"
    

    





    DEATH WATCh
    
    341
    
    "By two o'clock. They told me there was a rush to do
    the autopsy. Thank you, loyce. Thank you, thank you."
    
    "Don't thank me. This is what it's all about, girl, and
    you and I both work damn hard doing it. I'll be by as soon
    as I can."
    
    Joyce pulled out her appointment book. She wouldn't
    have time to make her next meeting, free McKenzie, and
    then get to the morgue. McKenzie would just have to wait
    a little more. The girl shouldn't mind. At least she was
    among the living.
    
    He staggered in, thought of coffee, decided against it,
    because the cups of last night felt like shoe polish against
    his teeth. The answering machine looked dim and empty
    and was. With a vague feeling of disappointment, he
    dropped on the couch, portable in hand, and called the
    office.
    
    His assignment board was still empty, though Carter
    knew he was free to pick up a story if anything interested
    him. What interested him now, he was not free to write
    about. Bored, he pushed buttons on the handset and went
    into his voice mail system.
    
    The voice was low, breathy, and slightly feminine,
    though it was definitely a man's voice. He listened once
    without hearing everything that was said, then sat up
    straight and thumbed in the instructions to replay the
    message.
    
    He listened again, carefully. He forwarded a copy to the
    city desk, and coded the mail system to make a perma-
    nent record of the message. Then he set the phone down
    and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. He could feel
    the bags under his eyes, the crust at the corners of them.
    He could feel a vague pain in his chest, a sympathy pain
    for the damage the woman had taken. As he shifted,
    thinkin~, he saw a tiny smear of rust on his sleeve. He'd
    

    





    342
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    touched the walls somewhere, he thought, where the
    blood hadn't quite dried.
    
    He was too old and experienced, wasn't he, to chase
    wild geese?
    
    But what if it could make the connection with Susan
    Craig that he needed? What if suspicion could be count-
    ered with proof.
    
    He rubbed his eyes. "Aw, shit."
    
    Carter went to his computer-rather than to bed. He
    booted it up and dialed the office.
    
    >>Ol)l LJME. GOOD MOHMJMG, GRHTEH WYMDBLL.<<
    
    >>DOLAM.<<
    
    >>SEAHGnJUG.<<
    
    Then the screen went quiet and Carter waited. He
    waited so long that he went to sleep in the tilt back chair.
    The computer began to beep querulously like a watch
    alarm and brought him bleary-eyed back to the screen.
    
    >>GARTEA GRRTER, GPHTE~ GRRTER, G~RTER.<<
    
    >>I'M HEHE.<<
    
    >>HEY, YOU GHLLED ME. WHAT'S UP7<<
    
    >>SPEMT THE MJGHT flT ~ GRJME SCEME.<<
    
    >>I BMYTHJMG WE GAM USE7<<
    
    >>MOT YET. ARE YOU STJLL HRGKJMG?<<
    
    >>THAT'S LJKE BSKJMG A SEMATOH J~ HE'S STILL BEAT-
    JMG HJS WJIE. WHflT HFUE YOU GOT JM MJM07<<
    
    >>J WflMT TO KMOW WHflT GYBERJMflGO JS UP TO. J BLSO
    WRMT TO ChEGK A~D SEE J~ GRRJG'S OHGAMJZETJO~JB STJLL
    HOLDJMG ONTO THE (EHMAMDJMB HOSPJTHL.<<
    
    >>WnY i~lOT JUST ASK7<<
    
    >>J DOM'T FRMT TO RRTTLE HER CRGE YET.<<
    
    >>OKAY. J'M GOJMG TO MAKE JT A THHEEdWRY HOOKUP.
    YOU ddST nlT ~PRIMT SGHEEM" dF YOU LIKE AMYTHJMG
    
    SEE.<<
    
    It had taken Dolan much diligence to make the print
    screen button an easy one for Carter to find and use. He
    
    :: :.- .
    

    





                 -        DEATH WATCh 343
    
    typed back, >>I4JLL DO<< and sat back to let Dolan do his
    :~ ~ ~_It.
    
    ~he first was a simple trust deed search. It only took
    a few minutes to find out that Cyberlmago still held the
    paper on the Fernandina Hospital. Carter sat up and
    stared at the screen closely, though, when Dolan pulled
    up the fact that the Senate Appropriations Committee
    had just made a similar search four weeks ago. The user
    posted was John Nelson. He hit the screen print button
    and listened as his laser printer awoke into abrupt ac-
    tion.
    
    Dolan broke off the trust deed search. >> - U'D YOU
    LJKE THAT OINE7 OJO I DO GOOD7<<
    
    >>OOId'T KCIOlil YET. LET'S TPeY THE GYBEPeJMAGO DF-
    FJGES.<<
    
    >>J'LL GET BAGK TO YOU.<<
    
    Carter laid his head back and stared at the ceiling.
    
    :~ ~.
    
    Cyberlmago was an anonymous office in a modest
    complex building. If anyone were to care to walk in, they
    would find a receptionist in a lobby, her desk blocking the
    door to the back, walls paneled in fake walnut, with a fi-
    cus growing out of its planter in the corner, steel and plas-
    tic desks, beige carpet, and little, if anything, to note what
    it was they did.
    
    The receptionist, her moon-round Asian face of Korean
    ancestry, sat there, intently interested in the textbooks at
    hand. She moved only to do her job, which was basically,
    simply, to answer the phones and keep anyone from enter-
    ing the restricted workshops in the back. One belonged to
    her employer and led to her offlce and a small lab. The
    other was labeled "Research and Development" and was
    generally full of the most pathetic-looking dweebs she'd
    ever seen.
    
    Her hand moved to the receiver. "Cyberlmago."
    

    





    344
    
                 ElizAbeth Forrest
    
    "Phone company. We're doing some work on the major
    trunk lines into your building today, and I have a work
    notice that says you have computers which have to stay
    on-line, modems operational."
    
    She snapped to attention, flipping a strand of blue-
    black hair behind one ear. Losing phone lines could be
    disastrous. "That's right. You can't shut them down."
    
    "Well, I might be able to reroute the lines. Can you give
    me the phone numbers they're on and their access
    codes?"
    
    Jennifer Lee quickly rattled off the information. The
    pleasant voice thanked her and disconnected. She blinked
    once or twice, then ducked her chin down and returned
    her attention to the international business textbook in
    front of her.
    
    Dolan came back to the computer. >>J'UE GOT JT.<<
    
    Carter had taken another short nap, then gotten up,
    fixed himself a cold drink and sat with it held to his fore-
    head. >>130141 WHAT?<<
    
    >>lET'S SEE l~hAT J Gfll~l OO.<<
    
    In the rear offices of Cyberlmago, movable walls di-
    vided open space into two areas. The spartan business
    atmosphere of the front lobby gave way to chaotic disar-
    ray. Computers and bits of computers dominated one half,
    printers and cables and chair pushed every which way.
    The other side of the room held huge cork bulletin
    boards, their surfaces filled with computer art of every
    size and persuasion. The clutter here was of an entirely
    different variety, diskettes and light pens, sketching paper,
    scanners, CAD equipment.
    
    The room looked as if a line had been drawn down the
    middle. Programmers on one side, animators on the other.
    Both sides were empty now, and voices could be heard
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 345
    
    from the small room off the side which doubled as a
    lunch and storage room.
    
    On the technical side of the office, a computer which
    had gone into screen saver rest mode, suddenly came to
    life. One of the programmers came out of the lunchroom,
    laughing, his dark hair rumpled as if he'd just run his fin-
    gers through it, glasses sliding down his nose, bright red
    apple in his hand. He sauntered across the work space to-
    ward a huge drink vending machine, popped in a token,
    and punched in his choice of cola. As the dewy-sided can
    dropped into the retrieval bin, the programmer paused
    and looked toward his area.
    
    He saw the computer was active. He snatched up the
    can, yelling, "Hey, guys, I think we got a hacker trying to
    break in."
    
    The lunchroom emptied immediately. The first pro-
    grammer already had his chair pulled up and was trying to
    keep the system secure. He snapped, "See if you can find
    out who's logged on."
    
    The second programmer sat and began to work his key-
    board. The animators, who could also do this sort of work,
    but whose talent was that of rendering art out of the
    medium, watched with interest.
    
    The first man sat back in satisfaction. Whatever down-
    loading had begun had been shut off. "Got 'em," he an-
    nounced.
    
    "Me, too."
    
    "Who is it?"
    
    "It looks like the newspaper's ID. Let me verify
    that...." He dialed out a number on his own, the modem
    responded with its atonal sounds, and the newspaper
    flashed its on-line symbol.
    
    "Verrry interesting. Dr. Craig will want to know this."
    He checked his watch. "Hey. Ten more minutes for
    

    





    346
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    lunch." He picked up his apple and his cola and saun-
    tered back to the lunchroom.
    
    The other three fellows joined him where they sat and
    speculated if the break-in had been deliberate or acciden-
    tal and, if deliberate, what the paper could have been try-
    ing to do.
    
    Dolan came back on-line. >>THEY'RE GOOD. THEY SHUT
    ME DOW~ ALMOST iMMED~ATELY.<<
    
    >>GET A~YTHJ~G7<<
    
    >>i THi~K i GOT A DOW~LOAD O~ O~E OF THE PHOGHAMS
    THEY'HE DEUELOPJ~G. LET ME TAKE A LOOK AT JT A~D J'1L
    GET BAGK TO YOU 1ATEH.<<
    
    >>YOU KI~OlU WHEHE TO FJI~ID ME.<< Carter signed off.
    He rubbed the cold water glass over his forehead again,
    thinking, hurry up and wait. The bedroom looked inviting.
    He got up and lumbered in that direction.
    
    After lunch, the head programmer opened the door to
    the lobby and stuck his head through, startling Jennifer
    Lee, who rarely saw any of them once they passed
    through the portal.
    
    "Hey, Jen. Give the boss a call and tell her we had
    someone try to break into the system."
    
    "A hacker?"
    
    "Maybe. Could just have been a wrong number, too."
    
    She was already reaching for the phone. "Do you know
    who it was?"
    
    '~eah, we picked up a user number. It was the newspa-
    per."
    
    "The newspaper?"
    
    '~eah. Probably thought we were AP or something. But
    Dr. Craig might want to know. She always says there are
    no coincidences."
    
    "Right," lennifer answered dryly, familiar with her
    
    .
    

    





      ~ -     i
    
    EATH WATCH
    
    347
    
    employer's perfectionism. The programmer popped his
    head back into the workshop, rather like a chipmunk go-
    ing back into its hole. She telephoned the hospital, going
    directly into Susan Craig's private mailbox to leave word,
    knowing that the doctor rarely liked to be interrupted at
    the lab during work hours. That done, her attention once
    again returned to her study.
    

    





                             Chapter 29     ~
    
    In the wee small hours of the morning, Jack discovered
    that the hospital stirred with a life all its own. He had
    found shelter more or less in the fourth floor chapel, leav-
    ing it only when other people came in, which happened
    rarely and only for moments. Even the chaplain had yet to
    stop by. Jack put his feet up on the richly-grained oak
    pew, finished the cafeteria turpentine that passed for cof-
    fee, and decided on his plans for the day. The wardens at
    the reception desk for the Psych ward changed often. Of-
    ten enough that the old cow with the, pleasant expression
    on her face who sat there now wouldn't recognize him.
    Couldn't tell him from Carter Wyndall from a hole in the
    ground.
    
    He picked a coffee ground from between his teeth. A
    little too early to visit Mac. Even on a good day, McKenzie
    was hardly what one would call a morning person, and
    she'd scarcely had a lot of what Jack would call good days
    lately. No. Later in the day would suit him just fine. After
    lunch, maybe, when visitors flowed in and out of the hos-
    pital like trash carried on a gol-darn flood tide. That way
    if anyone was looking for him, if anyone gave chase, he
    could disappear a little easier.
    
    Not that the police knew a damn thing yet. He slurped
    the last of his bitter coffee from the paper cup and then
    crumpled it viciously in his hand. The police might as
    

    





    WATCH
    
    349
    
_h have their [cads up their asses. They weren't even
    making a good game out of this.
    
    Jack swung his feet down. He hiked up his jeans. Get-
    ting a little ripe there, buddy boy. His pants felt stiff
    enough to stand on their own. Maybe it was time to get
    a motel room, shower, change.
    
    Of course, if he did that, if he left the hospital, he'd
    have no way to watch her, to know what she was doing.
    She might even walk out this evening when her forty-eight
    hours were up. Voluntary commitment. They couldn't
    keep her if she didn't want to stay.
    
    He had no intention of letting her sashay right out of
    Mt. Mercy without him.
    
    Jack's thoughts motivated him to leave the chapel. He
    took the back stairs which had the carpeting stripped off
    them now, showing the cement surface, rough with old
    carpet and tile glue, black with dust. He caught the ele-
    vator door just as it was closing and stepped in to the
    empty conveyance. He punched in the floor number and
    waited for it to jolt into movement.
    
    He stepped out and took a cautious look around the In-
    tensive Care section. The old black fellow who'd been
    sharing Walt Smith's room had been moved clear across
    the unit. With the move had gone the security guard. The
    ailing councilman now took up a large theater-sized room,
    filled with machinery other than hospital equipment.
    Faxes. A computer station. An extra phone line.
    
    Jack wiped the back of his mouth. Shit. Even when the
    old guy was sick, dying, they couldn't leave him alone.
    They just kept shoving business in his face. Business,
    business, business. He put a thumb through a belt loop
    and casually sauntered over to the room of the man he'd
    tried to beat to a pulp.
    
    He looked at a sheet of paper taped to the door. It
    noted that the patient had wakened during the night.
    

    





    350
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "No shit," Jack murmured. He put his fingers on the
    handle an, d eased himself inside.
    
    Walton Smith's eyes looked baggy and bruised, but they
    flew up when Jack kneed the end of the hospital bed,
    rocking it sharply.
    
    He grinned. "Hi, Dad."
    
    ~, ~ ~ ._ ~:
    
    Susan Craig looked critically at her face in the mirror.
    The last night had smeared purple shadows under her
    eyes, deepened the tiny lines at the corners. Her icy fury
    at Dudley's mistake had thinned her upper lip to mere ex-
    istence. She outlined it carefully with a lip pencil, then
    took her brush and filled it in, making it fuller, softer, than
    it really was. She added a light cover-up under the eyes
    and reapplied her foundation.
    
    She turned her face from side to side, examining the
    results. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered about her face,
    a face which did not show the ravages of its forty-some
    years. Still young. The best of genetics and the best of
    care. She was still beautiful, sexual, fertile. She would
    have the child she wanted, and the husband, and the suc-
    cess. A warm genuine smile answered her for the briefest
    of moments.
    
    She passed the bank of television sets, leaving them on
    for Dudley to turn off when he woke. She'd kept him up
    late, debriefing him, making sure she understood the trag-
    edy which had taken Donnie from her plans. Then she
    had punished Dudley, medicating him with new imprints,
    hoping to keep him in line. He was the only one of her
    subjects still active. For now, he was the only hope for her
    to keep her project viable.
    
    The drive to work occupied her mind only briefly.
    
    A new receptionist greeted her at the ward, a pleasant-
    looking older woman, silver-blue hair coiffed into gentle
    waves. a dewlan of a second chin ruinina her neckline.
    

    





    . F_, ~'~ .~. ::
    
    ~_~IEATH WATCH
    
    .,
    
    ;_Her pin proclaimed her to
    
    351
    
    be Donna and a "Silver
    Striper." She wore glasses on a cord about her neck and
    quickly slipped them on to read Susan's name tag.
    
    "Oh, Dr. Craig! Good morning. I'm so pleased to meet
    you. I've never worked up here before, but I've heard a lot
    of good things about you."
    
    Susan had no time for small talk. She shifted her brief-
    case impatiently, murmuring, "Thank you. How's every-
    thing this morning?" It was late enough so it scarcely
    qualified as morrung.
    
    "Just wonderful. The nurses said to tell you that
    Brandon is blinking his eyes and showing some stimulus
    response. Oh! I have a message for you. It's from the
    speech department. The therapist called and said she's
    terribly backed up all day today and wondered if you'd
    mind doing another session with Mr. Walker?"
    
    Opportunity had come quicker than she'd anticipated.
    She took the phone slip from the receptionist. "Of course
    not. Would you call them back and tell them it's fineÄ
    just what the doctor ordered?"
    
    Donna, the Silver Striper, giggled. Craig hesitated, then
    added, "I know Carter Wyndall is on the authorized list of
    visitors, but if he comes in today, I'd like to know. He's a
    reporter and I'm not so certain my patient is going to have
    the privacy she needs."
    
    "Oh, certainly." Donna jotted down the instruction.
    "Anything else?"
    
    "Just enjoy yourself covering the desk. Have a nice day."
    Susan left her behind as the buzzer freed the second set
    of doors.
    
    Working with Ibie Walker again gave her options she
    needed time to consider. She had checked with her office
    already. Hotchkiss had not yet called. He could have gone
    ahead with the suicide Dudley had aborted. Or he could
    be waiting stubbornly, like the anal retentive ass he was.
    

    





    352
    
    Or he could be on the precipice, just waiting for another
    push like Ibie Walker's death.
    
    As for Carter Wyndall, she would have to deal with him
    expeditiously. Graciela's tragic murder had already made
    the morning news, but to her surprise, it had not been
    linked with any of Dudley's previous kills. Either the po-
    lice did not know they had a serial killer or they had put
    out a news blackout. A blackout did not mean Carter was
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    unaware of Dudley's presence. Eventually, his obsession
    with Bauer would be rekindled and could lead to her. She
    had to wrap up her dealings now and prepare to move on.
    She almost had enough data to license her therapy soft-
    ware programs through Cyberlmago that would give her
    funding to live anywhere she pleased. Someplace where
    she wouldn't be second-guessed or questioned.
    
    Miller was not in the lab on Wednesdays. She put her
    briefcase down and put on a fresh lab coat, then reposi-
    tioned her name tag. Her intercom light went on.
    
    "This is the nurses' station. Ibie Walker is on his way
    over."
    
    "Good." She liked promptness. She could deal with him
    and move on.
    
    She stopped at the isolation room where Brandon had
    been moved and shut the door quietly behind her as she
    entered, so as not to attract attention.
    
    He lay so still that she considered removing his re-
    straints, his spare form hidden under ghostly white sheets
    and a paper-thin thermal blanket. Blue veins ran through
    his eyelids tremoring with the dream movement of the
    eyes they curtained. His chest rose and fell with shallow
    breaths. He looked like an alabaster carving of a child,
    pure and untouched, innocent and full of latent potential,
    as every child is a seed unplanted, a bud unfurled.
    
    He was not much younger than her own child would
    have been, if she had kept him. But she had had her res-
    

    





    ii
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    353
    
    idency in medical school to consider and although she
    was often mistaken then for an undergrad, she was within
    a few months of finishing when she had joined the project
    involving Georg Bauer. The pregnancy had been un-
    planned, unexpected, but not unwanted.
    
    Until her supervisor had discovered it. Dr. Morrissey
    had been none too pleased with her assignment to the
    Bauer survey anyway, stating that it was madness and folly
    to have a female anywhere near the killer, but when she
    had begun to struggle with morning sickness that lasted
    day and night, the good doctor decided he had real reason
    to put her off the project. Susan had struggled with
    Morrissey from the first day, finding the doctor unfamiliar
    with the computer technology they were using to map
    Bauer's personality, unfamiliar and hostile. Oddly enough,
    the subject himself had never been anything but courte-
    ous and soft-spoken around her.
    
    He had power, reined in. She recognized that in him,
    though he was relegated to a subservient position, and he
    seemed to know she recognized it. That power ran
    through him like a raw sexual core, masked but omnipres-
    ent.
    
    Morrissey, for all his years of experience and learning,
    seemed oblivious. He ran mazes and designed new ones
    for Bauer, noting the results, and the killer would sit qui-
    etly on a stool in his prison oranges, hands and feet lightly
    shackled, and his flat hazel eyes would meet hers across
    the room, shining with humor.
    
    He was a lock to which Morrissey could discover no
    key.
    
    The doctor decided to vent his frustrations on her As
    her pregnancy became more difficult, and his ineptitude
    with the study more apparent, I\lorrissey finally gave her
    an ultimatum. Have an abortion or resign from the proj-
    

    





    354
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Resigning would not only take her back months in fin-
    ishing her program, it would mean that she would have to
    give up the work she'd done on Bauer, all the computer
    studies and stored information. She would have to deliver
    them to Morrissey's hands and see them destroyed, lost
    invalidated.
    
    She'd done what she had to and accepted Morrissey's
    ultimatum.
    
    And found an ally in Bauer, who seemed to understand
    instinctively what she'd gone through and what she strug-
    gled with. They formed a bond.
    
    The more she studied him, the more complex a Geor-
    gian knot his mind proposed. Violence and power and sex
    were braided and tied together in layers that would take
    years to chart, years to unravel. He reminded her some-
    times of a caged animal, a light deep in the back of his
    eyes warning that whenever that lock was left unturned,
    the bars ineffective, the door unlatched, all hell would
    break loose.
    
    The more unfathomable Bauer became to Morrissey's
    methods, the unhappier the doctor was about Susan's
    continued presence on the project. And the more incom-
    petent Morrissey became, the closer Bauer came to being
    delivered back to Death Row. A failure in the project
    would result in Georg Bauer's execution. The FBI was not
    happy with Bauer's cooperation as he began to drag his
    feet in the interviews, sensing that only his knowledge
    now kept him out of the execution chamber.
    
    Susan was let go, being flatly told by Morrissey that the
    project was being wrapped up. He would handle the final
    four weeks of interviews on his own. Her sacrifice, her
    love, her understanding, all for naught.
    
    Except that Bauer understood, and they spoke softly to
    one another as she prepared to leave, and he told her
    what he wanted her to do. Not that week or even the
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    355
    
    next, but soon~ before the FBI took him back. He would
    avenge her abortion and humiliation by Morrissey. He
    knew what she wanted of him. He told her what
    he wanted of her.
    
    So she did it. She made a copy of the key for the
    shackles and left it for him several weeks later in the lab.
    
    She was never a suspect in the breakout. Even the FBI
    interviews had been shallow, cursory. Only John Nelson
    had even bothered to take notes. Her involvement in the
    project had ended.
    
    She finished her residency and waited.
    
    He would come back to her. He had promised. Only,
    like the beast he was, he needed to be sated. He needed
    to run free before coming back.
    
    She understood that. A year passed. Then two. Three.
    
    And then, one day, coming home late from the hospital
    where she'd begun her professional career, she found him
    waiting.
    
    He was much more dangerous than he had been in the
    lab.
    
    So was she. Her training, her knowledge, her work had
    become weapons. If he had come seeking her out, hoping
    to find yet another victim, he did not. She looked Georg
    Bauer in the eyes and never looked away.
    
    He let her live. She let him live. Until the realization
    that he had begun a downward spiral of self-destruction
    which would ultimately drag her under as well. She'd
    taken steps then.
    
    Susan Craig put a hand to her face. Her fingers were
    chill, the tears brimming in the corners of her eyes warm.
    She carefully patted them away, watching Brandon sleep.
    
    She hoped the medication hadn't damaged him too
    much. It was a pity she was going to have to leave him
    behind.
    

    





    356
    
                  Eli~abeth Fomst
    
    Susan opened her briefcase at her desk. Three-and-a-
    half-inch diskettes gleamed back at her from their various
    pockets. She considered her choices, then made a selec-
    tion. Ibie Walker's demise ought to be short and sweet.
    
    She plucked out a second program, made up especially
    for McKenzie Smith, and slipped that into her trouser
    pocket. Then she locked the briefcase, sliding it under her
    desk. She had come too far, done too much, to change
    her mind now.
    
    Ibie Walker was wheeled in, minus his IV and moni-
    tors, and aides. His granddaughter followed a few mo-
    ments later, after a loud aside to the nurse in the hallway
    outside. Her color was high when she came in, taking up
    a position by her grandfather's wheelchair.
    
    "I thought the speech therapist would be here today."
    
    "They called and asked if I could spend an additional
    day acquainting Mr. Walker with the soundboard equip-
    ment. My schedule was free, so I agreed." Susan put her
    hand on the back of Ibie's. "How are you today, Mr.
    Walker?"
    
    He rolled an eye at her unhappily. She smiled. "Making
    progress, I see. You've left most of your equipment be-
    hind."
    
    A pager went off. Both women checked their beltlines.
    The handsome young African-American said, "It's mine."
    She checked the message, then leaned over her grandfa-
    ther. "Pops, it's the office. I've got to go call. You'll be all
    right here. I'll be back for you."
    
    She turned briskly and was gone before Ibie could re-
    spond. He managed to lift a hand after her, beseechingly,
    but only Susan Craig was there to see it.
    
    He turned his gaze back to her and they stared at one
    another. "Don't trust me, Mr. Walker?" She shook her
    

    





_~Äry. Well, let's just get through this session as
    quickly as possible, and see what happens."
    
    She whirled the wheelchair about and pushed it into
    place at a computer station The elderly man reached for
    the headset, placed it to his cheek and the soundboard
    began to cry. "Nuh. Nuh. Nuh."
    
    Susan looked up with delight. "Why, Ibie. That's very
    good. 'No.' Now what is it you don't want?"
    
    His hand was shaking. His eyes teared from the effort
    of holding the handset. The soundboard stopped making
    recognizable tones and retreated into melodic garbage.
    Susan reached out and gently took the headset from her
    patient.
    
    "I think we'll practice with this later. I've got something
    special for you."
    
    With quick, skillful movements, she strapped the VR
    helmet on and slipped his hands into the gloves. Then she
    took the software disk out of her trouser pocket and
    slipped it into the computer's drive. She patted Walker on
    his shoulder. "This shouldn't take long."
    
    She stepped back to watch.
    
    After a few moments, his body began to twitch and
    shake, doing a Saint Vitus' dance. He moaned softly, help-
    lessly. Spittle dripped out of a jaw dropped slackly His
    gloved hands shook wildly upon his lap. His feet kicked
    out and drummed upon the wheelchair supports. His
    movements became more and more grotesque and violent
    as if he sat in an electric chair, current pouring into him.
    
    Susan licked her lips.
    
    Ibie Walker fought, oh, she could see him fighting the
    "reality" which gripped him. She could see him in hand-
    to-hand combat with the unthinkable. His narrow chest
    heaved with the effort, breaths coming faster and faster,
    gaspingÄ
    
    And then it all stopped.
    

    





    358
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Susan waited for a long count, then stepped forward to
    the slumped figure in the wheelchair. She had all the time
    in the world. Moving slowly, deliberately, she took off the
    helmet and saw his face, eyes rolled back in their sockets,
    mahogany skin gone ash-gray. She put her fingers to his
    throat, searching for a pulse.
    
    "Dr. Craig, I've just got to know about BrandÄ"
    McKenzie stopped in the lab doorway. "Dr. Craig!"
    
    Susan reacted instinctively. She took Ibie's still form
    out of the wheelchair and laid it on the floor, ordering,
    "Don't just stand there. Get on the intercom. Call a Code
    Blue. He's gone into cardiac arrest." She balled up a fist
    and thumped him heavily on the chest and began to ad-
    minister CPR.
    
    McKenzie lunged for the nearest phone. From the cor-
    ner of her eye, she saw Craig reach up to the computer,
    eject the software from the drive, and slip it into her
    pocket, even as she pumped the dying man's chest and
    counted.
    
    Mac could hear the defib cart being rolled down the
    corridor toward the lab even before she got off the com
    line. Mac stepped back, staring at the doctor bending over
    the elderly councilman, watching her pump and breathe,
    as the cardiac team raced toward them.
    
    As they came in, Craig got up off her knees and
    stepped back, giving them room to work. She looked
    across the lab at Mac.
    
    If looks could kill, Mac would be lying on the floor next
    to Ibrahim Walker.
    

    





    ~_ ~ -!- ~ :~ -- Chapter 30
    
    The proud young woman who was both Ibie's granddaugh-
    ter and his aide paused by the lab door. The turban scarf
    which bound her ebony hair and matched her tailor-made
    skirt had started to come undone as she bent over her
    grandfather's still form just before the nurses prepared to
    wheel Walker back to his cubicle in ICU. She reached up
    now as she faced Susan Craig and McKenzie, unwrapping
    it, letting down her fall of stylish hair. She tossed it back
    to keep it from her face, twisting the scarf about one
    hand.
    
    "Thank you," she said quietly. "I'm told you kept him
    
    |. ,,
    
    alive.
    
    "It's my job," Craig answered. "I could do nothing less."
    
    She bent her head in a slight nod, then passed through
    the doorway, hurrying after the gurney.
    
    She did not seem to have even noticed McKenzie, who
    stood as still and quiet as she could in the corner behind
    Craig. Silently observing. Closing and unclosing her
    hands. Watching.
    
    Let sleeping dogs lie. Don't question, don't stir the pot.
    
    But, oh my God, what she thought she'd seen Susan
    Craig doing.
    
    As if hearing McKenzie's raging thoughts, the doctor
    pivoted and looked her way. There was chilly considera-
    

    





    360
    
                  Elizabeth Fomst
    
    tion on her face. The piercing blue eyes held none of the
    warmth of the parting smile she'd given Ms. Walker.
    
    McKenzie involuntarily took a step backward, then
    froze, knowing she had betrayed herself, ever so slightly.
    
    Susan paused in holding out her hand, then reextended
    it. "Ready for your session?"
    
    She did not answer the doctor.
    
    Susan put her hand in her trouser pocket. Her lips
    pursed a little as though she began to speak, then paused.
    Finally, she said, "What you've just seen must be very up-
    setting to you. Why don't you come with me a moment?
    Let the- lab get cleaned up. Talk a walk with me."
    
    McKenzie could not control her hesitation. Had she
    even seen anything? Had she seen the doctor deliberately
    let a patient lapse into trauma? What would have hap-
    pened if Mac had never entered the lab?
    
    Ibie Walker would have died. She was almost certain in
    her heart that Susan Craig never intended CPR or any
    other lifesaving method. Had been waiting, like a vulture,
    over Walker's body to ascertain the exact moment of his
    death, when Mac had interfered.
    
    If the doctor noticed the tension in her body as she
    took Mac by the elbow and escorted her down the corri-
    dor, Craig never said anything. She walked lightly beside
    McKenzie, guiding her through the hall to the locking
    double doors and beyond, into the main body of the hos-
    pital.
    
    Neither woman said anything as they got onto the ele-
    vator and it carried them upstairs. McKenzie recognized
    the Intensive Care Unit as soon as they stepped out. The
    activity over Ibrahim Walker quietly took over part of the
    U-shaped unit, doctors and nurses in attendance, with
    Walker's granddaughter vigilantly observing. No one no-
    ticed them come onto the floor. Susan Craig looked
    

    





      'Z31 b  t'
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    361
    
    briefly in that direction, then put her hand on McKenzie's
    elbow again, and steered her the opposite way.
    
    Toward the cubicle which her father had shared with
    Ibie and in which Walt Smith now lay alone. The number
    of tubes and cables connected to him had diminished
    greatly. Susan Craig pulled the chart posted on the door,
    running her long nail down the cryptic jottings. "Brain
    swelling has gone down considerably. It says here he's had
    moments of consciousness."
    
    "He's waking?"
    
    "Yes. Though," and Susan tapped her nail on an immac-
    ulate white tooth now, "his condition stabilized, and then
    regressed sometime during the night. He may have many,
    many weeks of recuperation ahead of him." She leaned
    into Mac's face intently and said, "He's not out of the
    woods yet."
    
    McKenzie turned her face away. She had just been
    threatened silently, subtly, like the hard look a pitcher
    gives a batter who's just come up to the plate. Second
    warning, the brush-back pitch.
    
    Third warning, a straight shot to the head, a duster.
    
    Mac didn't think Susan Craig gave second wamings.
    She turned back to face her.
    
    "I have a study," the woman prompted. "I would like to
    see it finished. That's all." McKenzie had not seen what
    she'd thought she'd seen happen with Ibie Walker. Doubts
    would never be voiced.
    
    Mac had no proof of anything else and who in the hos-
    pital would believe her otherwise? "May I see him?" she
    asked softly.
    
    Craig opened the door. McKenzie slipped in. The mon-
    itors made their soft machine sounds. One of them
    beeped every six seconds or so. She noticed that it kept
    time with the IV drip. She approached and took his hand.
    

    





    362
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    The flesh felt warm and firm. Life, somewhere, somehow,
    was banked and kept kindled inside of him.
    
    "Daddy. It's me, Mac. I hope you can hear me. Please,
    be all right." She squeezed his hand tightly, brought it up
    to her chin, rubbed it.
    
    A finger moved, knuckling her jaw. Mac started, looked
    down into her father's face, saw his eyes open and focus
    weakly on her.
    
    His voice broke into a croak. "Mac-kenzie."
    
    "Daddy!" She swallowed back a lump which made
    words difficult. "You're going to be okay. You hear me?"
    His right eye bleared. It watered ferociously and she took
    the corner of a sheet and wiped it for him.
    
    "Mac-kenzie," he got out again. "I tried...."
    
    She knew that. She'd thought of little else the past few
    days. How he had tried to keep her safe. The father she
    had always wanted, at last, then struck down. "I know. I'm
    
    . ,,
    
    nere.
    
    "Trouble. Jack."
    
    "I'm okay. You just . . . you just . . ." McKenzie pulled at
    the sheets and blankets ineffectually as a shudder ran
    through his form. "You just get well."
    
    "Mac-kenzie." He squeezed her hand tightly. "Circled
    ... bases."
    
    Icy blue eyes looked at her from the other side of the
    hospital room. "Incoherent," Susan Craig said softly.
    
    McKenzie shook her head. No, it meant something to
    her. Everything to her. She'd circled the bases, she'd come
    in a winner. He was telling her that in the only language
    that the two of them shared easily. She leaned close to
    him. "Home," she confirmed. "I came home. You waited
    for me, and I came back."
    
    The monitor jumped and began beeping erratically. Her
    father tried to squeeze her hand again. "MacÄ" His voice
    broke off.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH 363
    
    "Cardiac arrest." Susan Craig shouldered her away from
    the bed abruptly. She hit the intercom and for the second
    time shouted for a Code Blue team.
    
    Mac stepped back, trembling. She had felt the
    strength, the warmth, ebb from his hand even as she'd
    held it. She could not take her eyes from the bed as her
    father died despite all they tried to do for him. Jack
    Trebolt, in one way or another, had taken nearly every-
    thing from her. Her blood went cold.
    
    Susan Craig stepped away from the bed, pushing past
    the Blue team wearily, brushing her white-blonde hair
    away from her forehead. She focused on McKenzie as
    though surprised to see her standing in the corner of the
    room. "You shouldn't have stayed."
    
    "You have a project to finish."
    
    The doctor nodded.
    
    McKenzie said numbly, 'Then let's get it over with."
    
    The visor helmet fit snugly. Craig instructed, her voice
    muffled, "I'm going to be showing you some relaxation
    programs first. You don't need to react in any way, just sit
    back and watch."
    
    Her body felt brittle, as though she might snap in
    two. Let the doctor have whatever brain wave data she
    needed, let the hours drift by, and then Joyce would come
    and get her. Carter would be by. The jackal was at the
    gates, she could not pass without the help of friends, but
    they had said they were friends. She was alone now with-
    out them.
    
    They'd said they would come back to get her.
    
    Mac found herself gritting her jaw until it made her fill-
    ings ache. She jumped as Susan slipped a cold hand down
    her neck and began rubbing her shoulder muscles. The
    fingers were like iron, the doctor's nails scraping her skin
    

    





    364
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    every once in a while. She was so tense, the massaPe only
    sickened her.
    
    Mac sensed, rather than felt, the doctor move away.
    The virtual reality visor lit up, and she looked into a world
    of water, running water, rocky mountain slopes with tum-
    bling brooks, pink-sanded beaches with foaming tides,
    bridal veil falls cascading from the heavens....
    
    The knot in her back began to ease. The doctor had
    said she did not need to do anything, but who could resist
    the puddling stream that she could almost put her feet
    into, the tiny fingerling trout darting away as her hand
    broke the still waters, the dragonfly that knifed through
    the air past her faceÄ
    
    Mac jerked back. She blinked inside the helmet, the
    tranquil scene around her interrupted as well, as if the vir-
    tual reality sunlight had suddenly become a strobe light.
    
    Flash. A knife blade, dripping red, in midair. Stark in its
    stainless steel sharpness, black and white background.
    Flash. The image as quickly gone.
    
    Mac breathed through her mouth rapidly. In, out. Had
    she seen it? Or had its image already been there in her
    mind, painted in Cody's blood? Was she seeing the pro-
    gram the doctor was feeding her, or had the images she'd
    begun to see on her own taken over?
    
    What was real and what was not?
    
    And if this was not real, then what was happening to
    her was what she had always feared. She carried her fa-
    thefs rage inside her, an unwanted gift, a legacy which
    had always terrified her. Don't let it wake.
    
    That rage was a river and in its torrents, she could see
    the potential consequences of acting on it. Blood. De-
    struction. Mutilation. Death.
    
    Her mother had known. Had sensed it in her. Had al-
    ways removed her quickly from her father's tantrums as if
    fearing Mac would i~nite as well.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    365
    
    Her head throbbed. Stinging pangs jabbed her eyes.
    
    Flash. Dead children, strewn upon wild grass and bram-
    bles, their faces twisted in agony. Rage had killed them.
    She could not begin to guess whether it had come from
    within them or from another.
    
    She did not recognize them. But she would not be one
    of them. She would not be a victim anymore!
    
    Moss-covered boulders led her down to the brookside,
    and across. The sound of the river pouring over its bed
    filled her ears. Trees dipped down to the banks, lushly
    green and heavy-boughed. Their roots cracked the rock
    beds, sinking deep into the earth, determined to drink
    freelyÄ
    
    Flash. A woman's breast, the nipple dimpled erect, the
    mound full and round, bursting open with the slash of a
    knifeÄ
    
    Mac jerked in the chair. She felt its frame around her,
    though her senses told her she walked, no, ran, through
    the woods. Branches slapped at her. Fog rose in white cot-
    tony banks, obscuring the pathway to safety. Her footfalls
    pelted the ground.
    
    The hunter woke. Leaped to its feet, running. The rage
    came to a life of its own, outside of her skin, yet inside,
    knowing where she ran. Tracking her. Intent on destroying
    her.
    
    She could hear the sound of other breathing, other racing
    steps, other branches cracking and whipping behind her.
    
    Dont stop.
    
    She the prey, the other the hunter, the chase was on,
    was all, blood-pounding, heart-bursting. She darted to her
    right. Fog exploded from the tangle of her legs as she hit
    it. She expected the mist, the coolness of it on her face,
    but all she felt was the fiery stream of her blood pumping
    through her body. Run.
    
    Susan Craig's voice, hotly whispering in her ear. "What
    

    





    366
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    is it, McKenzie? What do you see? What are you afraid
    of?"
    
    Keep running. Don't look back.
    
    Joyce checked her watch. The limp salad she'd picked
    up from the fast food joint down the block had picked a
    corner of her stomach and was filling it like a lead can-
    nonball. That was what she got for being good, uh-huh,
    and didn't that make her madder than a wet hen, that and
    being stood up here at the morgue. She clicked a heel on
    the marble floor. She clutched a brown envelope with
    Graciela's and Donnie's records between her thumb and
    her purse. She had other places to go and then Mount
    Mercy. God help me, but I've got appointments untie the liv-
    ing. I cant do any good here. She was about to leave when
    someone plucked at her sleeve.
    
    "Miss Tompkins?"
    
    She whirled, surprising both herself and the attendant,
    a young college-type, glasses, narrow face, his black hair
    thatched on top of his head like some scruffy little bird.
    He blinked. "I'm sorry I'm late. We've been busy." He
    paused. He wore a lab coat over his jeans and shirt, and
    sturdy jogging shoes, with the aquamarine paper protec-
    tors still over them. The lab coat was clean though spot-
    ted with old stains. "We're not the murder capital yet, but
    we're close. Very close." He rubbed his palms on the coat
    nervously. "I'm Grady."
    
    Joyce briskly handed him the envelope. 'You asked for
    records."
    
    "Oh, good." He blinked again. "This will make it a little
    easier." He turned. "Ah. Could you follow me?"
    
    Joyce did so, wondering if it was his first viewing. It
    certainly wasn't hers. Her ax-husband had been first. Over
    the years, two or three of the women she'd been an advo-
    cate for. Her staccato steps echoed in the building as they
    
    .
    



                  lJr~ A I H WA r r ~ H

    approached the elevator. He cleared his throat several times
    as he held the door for her.

    Misinterpreting her look, he said, "This door is a killer. It
    closes fast, and it hurts. There's supposed to be a safety on
    it so that if it closes on anything, after so many pounds of
    pressure, it pops back open. Don't you believe it. It's like a
    boa constrictor. We call it Crusher."
    
    She entered the elevator. "Grady, I'm not a novice at this,
    but I'd like to know what I'm expecting."
    
    The watery hazel eyes fluttered rapidly. "Oh. Ah, well, it's
    not going to be pretty. 1, ah, tried to arrange some
    sheetsÄand Vicks. I've got some Vicks you can put on your
    upper lip. The juvenile is a burn victim. It's, ah, pretty
    gross."
    
    She looked at him, hoping for his sake that he would never
    face Attorney Robert Shapiro in an L.A. courtroom. "I don't
    think I'll need the Vicks, thank you. I'll be quick."
    
    "Well, ah, with the dental records, we'll know for sure,
    anyway."
    
    The elevator glided to a halt.
    
    ù`r1 1 ,,
    
    wrauy.
    
                        `.v , ,,
    
    1es, maam.
    
    "Have you been doing this long?"
    
    "Ah, no. Two weeks."
    
    She nodded. And pointed. "It's this way."
    
    He flushed. The stand-up ends of his dark hair seemed to
    reach even higher. "Um. Right."
    
    The viewing room felt good, momentarily, after the heat
    outside which was pushing 90, but it carried a smell with it
    that even the chill and the antiseptic cleaner couldn't scrub
    away.
    
    He said, "The young woman first. We're pretty sure who
    she is, because of the fingerprints and the ID in the
    apartment the police gave us."
    
    "AII ri~ht." lovce braced herself.
    
    
    
    

    


    368
    
                  Elizabeth Forrest
    
    rle carerully peelea DacK a corn~r ol Sne~Llfl~ Llltit _ _
    realized he must have arranged just as meticulously. She
    found herself staring into dull eyes, widened into a terri-
    fied expression. No one had even taken the time to close
    her eyes yet. She wondered if they were going to be able
    to later. ~ - ~ E~:'
    
    Blood stiffened and matted her hair, her beautiful h~
    the hair that she had such skill with and which had led
    her into what Joyce had hoped would be a successful ca-
    reer for her. There were smears upon her face, and though
    she could not see her mouth or throat, Joyce could tell
    from the draping of the sheet that both yawned open in
    agony. She looked away.
    
    "That is Graciela."
    
    "Thank you," Grady murmured. He quickly reclosed the
    drawer.
    
    She took a deep breath, telling herself that shedding
    tears for the dead did nobody any good. Her lungs seemed
    to fill with the odor of death in the viewing room. The
    smell worsened considerably as Grady pulled open a sec-
    ond drawer.
    
    From the shape, she knew it had to be Donnie's re-
    mains. She had a moment in which to regret not taking
    the Vicks when the young assistant pulled a corner of the
    sheet down. There was another second in which she rec-
    ognized the boy despite the stench of burned flesh, and
    the hair torched from the scalp, for the upper face was al-
    most clear.
    
    She choked. Tried again. Faintly, "Yes, that's him." Joyce
    put a hand out to Grady, meaning to ask for the Vicks
    when a roaring in her ears took away her hearing, and
    then her vision narrowed down to pinpricks. Everything
    went dark.
    
    She heard Grady squeak, "I'll catch you." Then the
    
    >
    

    





                    Chapter 31
    
    Susan Craig watched her patient. Virtual reality did not
    hold its dreamers in the near-catatonic stasis of real sleep.
    With every flinch McKenzie Smith made, every gasping
    breath she took, Susan followed her through the world
    she'd programmed especially for Mac. She could only
    guess what scenario she might be in at any given moment,
    but there were actions which tipped her off, things
    MacKenzie did, like warding her face unconsciously
    which placed her within the VR theater.
    
    Craig had put a blood pressure cuff lightly around
    McKenzie's left arm. Every fifteen minutes or so, she took
    a reading. The girl's heart rate fluctuated wildly as she re-
    acted to the programming, but nothing had reached dan-
    gerous levels. After the Ibrahim Walker incident, Craig
    could not risk another. She needed the sponsorship of the
    hospital, for however long she could obtain it. The dosage
    of drugs had been so light, the girl had not even felt the
    needle prick when Craig had massaged her neck muscles
    to ready them. Their hallucinogenic dose even now raced
    through her body The faster McKenzie's heart beat, the
    quicker they spread, bringing her to the state Craig
    wanted. Vulnerable. Pliable.
    
    The minutes came and went. Susan worked with other
    patients being brought in, for large segments of
    McKenzie's software kept her quiet and passive. It was
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    late afternoon before she hit the segment in which Craig
    had the most invested.
    
    McKenzie's hands shook, even as her fingers curled,
    and she said in an audible voice. "No. No. I can't. I
    can't. Let sleeping dogs lie. Don't wake. Don't awaken
    them. Please."
    
    Susan pumped up the blood pressure cuff to take a
    reading. The pulse had jumped, though it surged strongly.
    The doctor smiled with satisfaction.
    
    The moment when McKenzie stopped fighting the im-
    age, bent, and took up the basketball bat, came out crystal
    clear on the tape. She tossed her head from side to side
    and fought the impulse.
    
    Then the hand curled as if it grasped something firmly.
    Hefted it. Swung it lightly.
    
    Susan Craig patted her on the knee. "Good. Good girl."
    
    There was no response to her, but the monitor needles
    began to jump. The doctor watched everything, smiling.
    "Good girl."
    
    No more beaches, no more sunny glens or shadowy,
    dew-tipped woods. Pine needles no longer cushioned her
    burning feet. She walked in an urban jungle now, dilapi-
    dated houses, walls layered with graffiti, and the fog
    which roiled up was a dirty, stinking condensation.
    
    And I am the hunter, Mac thought, and wrapped her
    fingers tightly around the handle of her bat. She searched
    the deserted streets for shadows. She listened for foot-
    steps before or after her, chest tight with apprehension,
    shoulders hunched with anxiety.
    
    She'd known ever since she'd picked up the bat that
    the tide was turning. That things were changing. All the
    running, all the throat-lancing panic, changed. Now she
    had a choice.
    
    A choice to keep running or be a victim no more. There
    

    





    i.ib
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    37
    
    was power m the bat, m the old weathered wood whose
    feel her hands knew so well. McKenzie had lost her way,
    but now she was back. The power ran through her fingers,
    lightninged up her wrists and into her arms, rested in her
    shoulders, dormant. Dormant but there, reserved, power.
    
    Something went skittering away from her. She half-
    turned to see it go, scaly tail dragging behind it, a moth-
    eaten rat running from her. She knew that it was she
    who'd scared it. No one else.
    
    She turned the corner. The neighborhood looked
    vaguely familiar, in that way that she sometimes dreamed
    of her home and it would be her home yet not be her
    home, not really. This was her neighborhood. Mac knew
    that instinctively. Her neighborhood and she was stepping
    onto its streets for the first times in years, unafraid.
    
    Flash. Running and hiding in the neighbor's hedge.
    
    She took a step past the oleander boundaries.
    Grapestake fences sagged, weathered and termite-ridden.
    
    Flash. Her father screaming in her face.
    
    She curled her fingers so tightly around the bat handle
    that she could feel a knuckle pop. She could feel an an-
    swering surge of power.
    
    Never again.
    
    Don't let it wake up. Don't. Smother it. Let sleeping dogs
    lie. Walk away
    
    Her chest felt tight. The breath seemed to be squeezing
    in and out of her through a narrow, constricted passage-
    way. Walk softly, but carry a big stick.
    
    The biggest. She looked down at the piece of wood. So
    faint against the grain: Louisville Slugger. An antique, an
    icon, among bats.
    
    She saw her house, vaguely recognized it. She turned
    down the driveway to come in the back, the way she al-
    ways had when she was growing up. In the back, to the
    kitchen, to the heartbeat of the house. Before she stepped
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    up, she could see lights going on, as twilight fell, and
    shadowy figures moving behind the curtains.
    
    Mac watched, torn by the need to run, to hide, and the
    need to .. . what? She didn't know, couldn't identify it.
    Not the need to be safe, for it was not a haven she was
    entering. Confrontation faced her once she crossed the
    threshold.
    
    She walked into the house.
    
       ~=.         :
       ,~,~ ~.     ~
    
    "Who's there?" Shouted at her from rooms beyond,
    shadowy rooms, unlit rooms, beyond the bright pulsating
    heart of the kitchen.
    
    Who do you want it to be7 She tapped the bat once
    lightly against the side of her shoe as if she were knocking
    off dirt from baseball cleats. Who am 1?
    
    Flash. Blood dropping in runners along the floor,
    golden-red dog's body Iying in disarray.
    
    McKenzie blinked. She put up her free hand and
    waved it through the air, searching, as if cobwebs ob-
    scured her vision. The quicker than the eye vision of mur-
    dered Cody did not flicker away. He stayed there, in the
    corner of the kitchen, her kitchenÄnoÄnoÄwhich
    kitchen? She could not remember. An icy emotion seized
    her. She walked past the dog's body and kept on going.
    
    "Who the hell is there?" she answered back.
    
    As she passed into the hallway, listening for the familiar
    creak of the hardwood floors, shadows grew longer, darker,
    deeper. She turned her face slightly toward them. She
    would be aware. Alert. Empowered.
    
    Darkness leaped at her, grunting with a man's voice;
    she swung about. McKenzie planted her feet. Ready. The
    man charged at her and she swung, swung with all her
    might, swung from her shoulders and her hips, toeing the
    
    , - ~
    
    plate.
    
    Home run!
    The man slumped down to the floor, soundlessly, his
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    373
    
    face a red ruin. Breathing hard, arms tingling with the re-
    lease of the power, McKenzie leaned down. She clubbed
    him one more time to make sure he stayed down. She
    stared at the features.
    
    Jack? No. It couldn't be ... her father? Mac leaned
    closer.
    
    Carter Wyndail.
    
    She straightened. "You killed my dog, you son of a
    bitch."
    
    He wouldn't do it again.
    
    She would never have to run again.
    
    McKenzie panted. Her head felt heavy, so heavy her
    neck couldn't hold it up any longer. Heavy and weighted,
    encompassed.
    
    Flash. Susan Craig's soft voice. "Who do you want to
    kill?"
    
    A man stood behind her. He reached around and took
    the bat from her.
    
    "Very good," he said.
    
    "Did I do all right, Georg?"
    
    "You did fine." The man smiled, with a warmth that
    never reached his hard eyes.
    
    McKenzie's hands felt strange, empty.
    
    "Wake up and smell the blood,'! he said. "Taste it. Enjoy
    it. He'll never bother you again. Serves the son of a bitch
    right." He dipped a finger in the blood and traced a sun,
    a crescent moon, and stars on the wall behind the body.
    "Immortality," he said. "Neverness. Pain."
    
    Never again.
    
    McKenzie fought to breathe.
    
    "Oh. My. God."
    
    Sweet Jesus, Joyce thought. I've died and gone to the Val-
    ley. There must be some mistake.
    
    She couldn't be dead. The promise was that all wounds
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    would heal, all spirits would be made whole, all aches and
    pains and discomforts of the physical world would be
    gone. She ached as if she'd been dropped from a ten-story
    building, was as cold as hell, and her stomach burned like
    it needed a raft of antacids.
    
    She couldn't be dead.
    
    No. She was probably laid out on one of the tables in
    the morgue since she remembered going down as if Grady
    had yelled timberÄ
    
    Joyce let out a shout and got up almost without open-
    ing her eyes. The two attendants who'd been leaning over
    her screamed in panic.
    
    The three of them faced each other, weak-kneed. Gra-
    dy's face paled to the color of ashes. His companion, a
    young woman in her late twenties, panted until she
    swayed from hyperventilation and Joyce braced herself on
    the pathology table. She felt like Rochester in an old Jack
    Benny movie.
    
    "You didn't think I was dead, did you?" she asked wildly,
    looking at them closely.
    
    "Oh. My. God," the girl repeated. She wrapped a
    blonde tress around one finger and tried to breathe nor-
    mally.
    
    "Ah, no, we knew you weren't dead. But," and Grady
    put up a hand. "I couldn't catch you. You're, um, heavier
    than you look and swept me right off my, ah, feet."
    
    "l fainted."
    
    'You fainted."
    
    Joyce straightened up. She pulled her blouse and suit
    jacket around slightly, untwisting them. "How long have I
    been out?"
    
    "Um. About ... a little over an hour. I'd say so,
    wouldn't you?" Grady looked desperately at the Valley Girl
    attendant, who must have been his supervisor.
    
    "Like that." she a~reed.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    375
    
    "I didn't want to get in any trouble," Grady said. He
    gulped. "So we just put you in the empty viewing room to
    let you rest."
    
    "Your pupils weren't all dilated or like that or anything,"
    the girl added.
    
    Joyce could only thank her stars that they dealt with
    the already deceased. She checked her watch. Their little
    over an hour was closer to two hours. Like the White
    Rabbit, she was late, late, late. "Do you have an office? A
    phone?"
    
    "Well." They swapped looks. "We're not supposed to let
    anybody use it. Not the public or anything. There are pay
    phones upstairs in the lobby...."
    
    "Forget that. You owe me. While you had me laid out
    here like Sleeping Beauty, I missed a court appearance. I
    need to make a call." She flashed her eyes at them like
    she would have one of her kids who was having trouble
    getting to the homework.
    
    They moved like they'd been jump-started. "Follow me
    Miss Tompkins."
    
    Joyce passed him in the hallway.
    
    Carter slept. He knew he was sleeping, which made it
    easier to bear the dream, the dream of passing through
    endless corridors painted with the rusty-red pictographs of
    a madman's visions. His head began to pound with every
    footstep he took, every footfall of his shoes a thundering
    boom upon the hall floors. Boom, boom, boom! His tem-
    ples throbbed and his neck cramped. He put a hand up
    to ease it and woke himself up, half-falling from his chair
    in front of the computer.
    
    Bam, team, team! The front door shook with every blow.
    Sleepily, exhausted, Carter hauled himself to his feet and
    fumbled at the lock. Dolan, leaning on it, fell over the
    threshold. Carter blinked. He looked back at the com-
    

    





    376
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    puter. "You were there. Now you're here." He stifled a
    massive yawn.
    
    "No shit, Sherlock." Dolan's face was flushed from the
    warm sun, bringing the last two or three pimples, rem-
    nants of his expired teenhood, to volcanic proportions. "I
    thought you might want to see this in person. I didn't
    know I'd have to raise the dead to do it."
    
    "See what?"
    
    "What we, 1, downloaded off Cyberlmago."
    
    Carter sat back down. "That was hours ago."
    
    "I've been fooling with it off and on all day. I'm not ex-
    actly getting paid for this."
    
    "You're not?"
    
    Dolan gave him an exasperated tilt of the head. "Shall
    we pump caffeine into you, or do you think you can stay
    awake for this?"
    
    Caffeine sounded good. He sent Dolan to the kitchen
    for some bottled iced tea. Dolan came back with a couple
    of long neck bottles and tossed him one. He drained the
    bottle in three long gulps. Feeling revived, he dragged a
    second chair over next to his. "Anything in the fax?"
    
    Dolan looked before he came and sat. "No. Expecting
    something?"
    
    "Yeah. It's FYI, so keep your hands off it."
    
    Dolan held both hands in the air. "I don't touch or read
    anything I'm not supposed to."
    
    "Right." He sucked the last few drops out of the bottle
    and tossed it across the room. The Bureau would send
    him material when they could. He'd grown to trust Frank-
    lin and Sofer. "Okay. What have you got?"
    
    'I've never seen anything like it. I've heard about it, ru-
    mors, y'know, stuff like that. From the '50s and again in
    the '70s. Buy popcorn, drink Coke. You know."
    
    Carter looked at Dolan. Words were coming out of his
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    mouth, and Carter was listening, but he hadn't heard any-
    thing that made any sense. 'What are you talking about?"
    
    "This." Dolan stabbed a finger at the computer monitor
    as the color screen filled with generated images that were
    as sharp as any cinematography he'd ever seen.
    
    Carter sat back in his chair, watching a seascape from
    the rugged but scenic coastline of Northern California, or
    perhaps it was Oregon. The spray of the incoming tide
    flumed off the rocks like white feathers, before raining
    down onto the sand and foaming away. Driftwood logs
    rocked under the assault. Yet it was peaceful.
    
    "Dolan."
    
    The other's eyes fairly shone. "Great, isn't it? Really
    good. And then there's this." He stopped the frame with
    a click of the mouse and the editing file he had brought
    up from another program.
    
    Carter jumped. "Jesus!"
    
    He looked into the sadistic face of Georg Bauer. Smil-
    ing at him. Eyes watching him. "Where did that come
    from?"
    
    "From the program. It's subliminal, Carter. That frame
    would float by so quickly you'd never consciously realize
    you saw it. Software isn't regulated yet like the movies are.
    And who would even think to look?" Dolan advanced an-
    other few frames.
    
    A double-bladed knife, dripping with blood.
    
    Carter gripped the edge of the computer desk. "You
    would, Dolan. You would. How much are we looking at?"
    
    "Not much more, unfortunately. They shut us down
    pretty quickly."
    
    "Can we prove it's them?"
    
    "It's Cyberlmago?" Dolan shook his head. "Not with
    this. We'd have to get our hands on the original software
    . . . something packaged with the logo, maybe even copy-
    righted." He shot a look at Carter. "Worried about legal?"
    

    





    378
    
    "Only if I have to make the evening edition." But he
    didn't. Not this time. He stared at the screen. He had the
    connection he wanted, between Bauer and Susan Craig,
    but he had no idea why or what it meant or what it could
    ultimately lead to.
    
    He only knew he had to get Mac out of there. He
    pulled back his sleeve cuff. "Almighty. It's after four."
    
    Dolan slapped a hand on his shoulder. "You've been
    asleep, bro."
    
    He swiveled in his chair. Dolan had no idea how right
    he was. Carter felt as though he'd been asleep for the last
    decade. Now this had jolted him awake.
    
    "What is it, Carter?"
    
    He shook his head. "I don't know what she's doing and
    I'm damn well sure she isn't going to tell me if I walk up
    and ask."
    
    He might even get killed for his effort, like John Nel-
    son. His fingers twitched. "I've got nothing but a shitload
    of bad feelings."
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    -
    
    .
    

    





                                  Chapter 32
    
    "Incoming," informed Dolan. He stood by the fax ma-
    chine, his hand wrapped around a slice of pizza. "I hope
    you've got a lot of paper or a big memory. This looks to be
    a whale of a transmission. And it looks official, too."
    
    Carter came in from the kitchen, two more bottles of
    tea between the fingers of his left hand, and a similar
    piece of pizza folded in his right hand. He'd showered and
    changed, and his hair was slicked wetly back from his
    forehead. Barefoot, he walked over to the dinette table
    and sat, listening to the fax feeding up pages.
    
    "That's got to be the Bureau."
    
    "Franklin and Sofer?"
    
    "The same."
    
    "What did you do to deserve this? These look like cop-
    ies of an investigation." Dolan joined him. Having emptied
    his hand, he refilled it with another slice.
    
    "That would be telling."
    
    Dolan pulled a long string of hot cheese from his lips.
    "As long as you didn't go to bed with 'em."
    
    "Not my type."
    
    "Really? I thought the redhead was kind of cute. In a
    crawled out from under a rock sort of way."
    
    "They all look like that. Everyone's got a tan, out here."
    Carter looked over a second piece of pizza critically. '~ou
    

    





    380
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    didn't get anchovies, did you? I thought I told you no an-
    chovies."
    
    "Would I do that to you'"
    
    "A man who would rewrite another man's copy without
    permission would do anything."
    
    Dolan squirmed. "That was a long time ago. I was just
    a green intern then."
    
    "You're still green."
    
    "Yeah, but now I'm earning money."
    
    The fax machine made a noise and a red light came on.
    Dolan jumped.
    
    "It's out of paper. Go put in a new roll. It'll hold every-
    thing in memory and start fresh on a new page, then back
    up when the transmission's ended and print out the mem-
    ory."
    
    "No kidding." Dolan got up and did what he was told.
    "I guess all the excuses you're always making about the
    fax machine screwing up don't hold water."
    
    Carter said, "I may have to kill you, after all." He tossed
    the crust back into the pizza box.
    
    "I'll keep your secret if you let me help you finish the
    story."
    
    Carter grew silent. Dolan, busy with the machine,
    didn't notice at first. Then he became aware and turned
    around slowly.
    
    "I'm not looking for a byline or anything," he added
    awkwardly. "I just want to do the gofering and watch you
    work. Like an apprentice or something."
    
    "Indentured servant."
    
    "Right. Like that."
    
    Carter looked at the spotty young man. Had such ear-
    nestness ever oozed from his pores? Such eagerness shone
    in his eyes? Had he ever been that young and itching to
    work on a paper?
    
    He vaguely remembered that he had.
    
    &'
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    381
    
    In a strange way, Dolan was doing for his career what
    McKenzie Smith had been doing to his libido. Like the
    Phoenix, he was risingÄbeing pulledÄfrom the ashes.
    He hid his emotion behind the tea bottle and muttered.
    "Just don't get in the way."
    
    "No, sir!"
    
    Carter got up and left the room, the fax machine still
    humming away. He did not return until he heard it stop,
    then begin again to transmit those pages in its memory.
    Dolan looked up expectantly.
    
    "Collate the pages," Carter told him. "We've got some
    work to do."
    
    "What are we doing?"
    
    "We're looking at Mr. Blue."
    
    "It's going to take a while," Dolan responded. "We've got
    over thirty-two legal-sized pages."
    
    Carter checked his watch. Still no word from Joyce. He
    didn't want to go to Mount Mercy until he knew he could
    bring Mac back with him. To go in without Joyce would
    tip his hand to Susan Craig that he suspected her. Of
    what, exactly, he couldn't prove yet, but if she were doing
    anything, anything at all, she could spook. He didn't want
    that. Better to stay here, cool, and work the files until he
    heard from Joyce. Besides, Franklin and Sofer were wait-
    ing to hear from him. "I've got time," he said to Dolan.
    
    Even if every instinct he'd ever honed as a reporter told
    him otherwise.
    
    The traffic on the freeway crawled. Joyce watched her
    dashboard clock. Finally, she got out her cell phone to dial
    Carter to have him meet her at the hospital, but the
    phone did nothing. No lights, nothing. Dead as a used
    firecracker after the Fourth of July. "Da-amn," she said
    and tossed the useless phone onto the passenger seat.
    There was an adapter somewhereÄmavLe even in the
    

    





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                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    glove compartmentÄand wouldn't she look like somethin'
    weaving in and out of traffic while she tried to fish it out
    and hook it up? That would be too foolish to even begin
    to think about.
    
    She wrapped her hands about the steering wheel, trying
    not to think about what she'd seen in the morgue. Her
    court appearance had been, thankfully, postponed, so
    there was no harm, no foul thereÄbut that fool of an at-
    torney could have called her earlier and told her that. She
    would have marched into that courtroom and found her-
    self in the middle of a whole other problem if she hadn't
    dropped in the viewing room. Come to think of it, she
    owed that attorney an earful, yes, she did. Her time was
    just as valuable as his.
    
    "Lawyers," Joyce snorted to herself, and changed lanes
    to avoid one who was talking on a car phone which
    worked. "See that, uh-huh," she said to the dead instru-
    ment on her car seat. "That one works."
    
    She looked out over the crawling traffic. If she was
    lucky, she'd be at Mount Mercy by six and before her hair
    turned gray.
    
    Joyce Tompkins believed she made her own luck.
    "Girl," she told herself. "Get to it." She put the accelerator
    
    'Y.' .7b ..~;
    
         _ , . .~. .    :
    
    There was a young man at the reception desk of the
    psych ward. He looked unhappy to be there, and kept
    jumping every time someone bumped the locked doors
    from the other side, which happened two or three times
    while Joyce signed in. He wore expensive, trendy clothes
    and had his hair designer cut, and she guessed that he
    was at the desk because he owed some community ser-
    vice work to one of the judges Joyce appeared before reg-
    ularly. He'd probably been caught using some designer
    ~Irll~s or flvin' the silver hi~hwav recreationally.
    
    down and the turn signal on.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    383
    
    She smiled widely at him as she pushed the guest reg-
    ister back. "Relax, son," she said. "They're just pulling
    your chain."
    
    He flinched again and stretched a sensitive hand over
    the release buzzer. "You won't let anyone come through."
    
    "Honey, I was married to a Raiders fullback. Do I look
    like anyone can get by me if I don't want them to?"
    
    He opened his mouth to say something, shut it, and
    then pushed the door buzzer.
    
    Joyce swept through before anyone could do anything
    else. She looked back at him through the screen-
    reinforced view window. He looked just as nervous as the
    doors swung into position and locked shut. That boy was
    going to think a bit before he got himself into any more
    trouble.
    
    A young woman and an older woman, both in the half-
    pajama, half-hospital outfit that was standard issue on the
    ward, looked at her and laughed.
    
    The young one said, "He's kinda cute."
    
    Joyce laughed gently, answering, "Yes, he is, but he's
    awful nervous."
    
    They both giggled as she walked by them. She went
    straight to the nurses' station and told them what
    paperwork to pull, found no problems, and went on to
    McKenzie Smith's room. It was almost dinnertime, and
    she could hear the rattling of the food tray carts and smell
    the odor of somethingÄmeat loaf and potatoesÄfrom
    down the hallway.
    
    She stuck her head in the room. A still, silent form lay
    under the sheets, food tray untouched, TV on, but silent,
    flickering forms mouthing news that could not be heard.
    Joyce hesitated, sensing something not quite right, un-
    aware of what it might be. Had Mac given up hope? She
    gathered her energy and bustled in.
    

    





    384
    
                Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Your forty-eight hours are up. It's time to go home, and
    let me tell you, I've got the meter running."
    
    Mac turned her head. Joyce smiled genuinely. "Oh,
    honey, you clean up nice." She'd obviously showered,
    changed pajamas, and had her hair shampooed and
    brushed. There was no response. Joyce wasn't even sure
    whether the young woman had recognized her.
    
    She sat on the edge of the bed. She reached out and
    took Mac's hand, the one which had been so bruised, and
    traced it lightly, the colors faded into yellows and greens
    instead of the deep purples and reds. Joyce thought of her
    dead ax-husband, the one who'd played pro ball. What he
    would have given to have been such a quick healer!
    
    McKenzie had obviously been given medication that
    would calm and quiet her. Joyce could leave instructions,
    as an advocate, that she was not to be medicated any-
    more, that she was no longer a patient, and would be re-
    leased as soon as she was able. But she hated to leave
    without her tonight. Mac had depended on her. Carter,
    too. If only she could have made it here earlier....
    
    She threaded her fingers through McKenzie's. "Things
    will be all right."
    
    The fingers wiggled within her grasp, the tiniest of
    movements, but the first sign that McKenzie had even no-
    ticed she was there.
    
    McKenzie closed her eyes slowly and opened them
    again, like shuttering a window and then releasing it. "I'm
    lost," she murmured, licked chapped lips, and added, "I've
    lost my way. Joyce . . . my father died. I was there, and he
    ... he died."
    
    Joyce patted the hand she held. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry.
    But that means you've got to come with me. Jack Trebolt
    won't leave you as a witness. Can you get on your feet? I
    can't take you with me if I can't get you on your feet."
    
    .
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    385
    
    "Where's ... Carter?"
    
    "Waiting for us to call. But the best thing to do is get
    you out of here first."
    
    McKenzie seemed to wince at the mention of his
    name. Joyce caught hold of Mac's chin. "If you want to go
    with me, you've got to get serious. Motivate that butt, girl,
    or I'll have to leave you here to sleep it off."
    
    Mac's attention wandered in spite of Joyce's firm grip
    on her chin. Joyce looked too, to see what held her atten-
    tion.
    
    The six o'clock news appeared to be trying to cover
    Graciela's and Donnie's murders. She'd heard it on the ra-
    dio. There wasn't much known. Joyce could barely hear
    the whispering voices at the volume Mac had the set.
    Mac didn't seem to need to hear the words, though.
    
    There was a blurry, ill-lit few feet of film of which the
    news team seemed awfully proud. The video camera wa-
    vered, showing what appeared to be cave drawings fromÄ
    Joyce gagged suddenly These were drawn on the walls
    from the murder scene, and she could see, even with the
    poor lighting, that they must have been drawn in blood.
    
    Mac said, "Sun, moon, stars...." She broke down and
    began to sob. She cried as if her heart had been shattered.
    Joyce gathered her in, felt the slim shoulders shake within
    her embrace, listened to her voice grow raw.
    
    She knew. How could she know? Joyce couldn't ask the
    question, but something uneasy burned in her chest. Fi-
    nally, she pulled Mac away from her.
    
    "Mac, we have to go."
    
    McKenzie nodded jerkily. "I have toÄgo." She tried to
    sit up in the bed. She swung her feet over with all the co-
    ordination of a sleep-drunk toddler, and looked up
    through a veil of golden hair. "Can you help me get
    dressed?"
    
    Joyce sighed. "I don't think I have much choice." She
    

    





    386
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    stood up, thinking that Carter would have paid to be in
    her place at the moment.
    
    Susan picked at a Cobb salad from the cafeteria,
    speakerphone on, retrieving her messages. Nothing
    seemed of much importance until Jennifer Lee from the
    office came on the line.
    
    Susan listened and quickly flicked off the speaker-
    phone. Why had the newspaper been trying to access
    Cyberlmago R & D? How had they even known there was
    an R & D to turn a hacker loose on?
    
    Was Carter Wyndall involved? He did not seem to have
    remembered her, from past or present, the last few times
    they'd been face-to-face. But the coincidence was too
    convenient. If he was bird-dogging a story on either John
    Nelson or McKenzie Smith, he was too close to her.
    
    She slammed a fist on the desk. She would be naive
    and unprepared if she thought he wasn't. Jennifer had dis-
    missed it as a quirk, surmising that the newspaper had
    probably been trying to send a fax to the wrong modem,
    or download a file from a wrong number. She reported
    that nothing appeared to have gotten through.
    
    Susan felt her forehead grow tight and narrow. She
    doubted that they would tell her much of anything differ-
    ent, knowing how strict she was with secrecy and control.
    
    Jennifer didn't know what kind of software they made
    in the back room and, to their credit, only two others did.
    A programmer and an animator. The others were blissfully
    unaware that their efforts were spliced, diced, and edited
    to obtain the end result Susan desired. She uncurled her
    fist and checked her hand carefully to ensure that she had
    not damaged her nails.
    
    She waved them in front of her face, long, slender, el-
    egant artificial nails to replace the ones she always kept
    
    a
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    387
    
    bitten to the quick. Perfectionists did that. But they didn't
    have ,o suflcel the consequences of their actions.
    
    Susan stood up. Another session or two with McKenzie
    Smith and not only would the girl be ready to interface
    the master imprint, but she would handle whatever Carter
    Wyndall dished out.
    
    She decided to check on Mac one last time.
    
    Joyce had gotten the better part of a hot cup of coffee
    down McKenzie's gullet. The effects were . . . well, it had
    always been said that if you gave a drunk enough coffee,
    what you had was a wide-awake drunk. McKenzie held
    her eyes open in exaggeration and focused on Joyce.
    
    "I think I can stand now."
    
    "Sweet Jesus, I hope so, because I can't waltz you out
    of here. They'll stop us before we get out those double
    doors." Joyce stood up and backed away.
    
    McKenzie got to her feet, holding onto the swing-out tray
    table. It wobbled, she wobbled. She wore jeans, a size too
    big for her slender hips, and a short-sleeved blouse which
    hugged her sculpted torso. Joyce eyed her slippered feet.
    
    "One step at a time," she muttered.
    
    "I'm trying. I can't .. . I can't feel them."
    
    The analogy to a drunk was more appropriate than
    Joyce would have liked. "Sure you can," she coaxed. "Just
    slide 'em a little bit. Like skating."
    
    McKenzie had been resting her bottom on the bed's
    edge. She now stood fully erect and took a deep breath.
    "Okay."
    
    She shuffled halfway across the room, Joyce backing up
    like a mother urging her toddler to take her first steps. As
    they crossed, Mac began to smile.
    
    It was a beautiful expression. Joyce dusted her hands off.
    
    "Girl, we're gettin' out of here." She hooked the door
    open. "Let's go."
    

    





    388
    
                   Elizabeth Forrest
    
    There was no traffic in the ward. Everyone was eating.
    At the nurses' station, the charge nurse handed her the
    forms and nodded absently. Joyce ran her eyes over the
    forms as she kept a hand hooked around McKenzie's el-
    bow, guiding her down the hall. Everything was in order,
    
                                         including Officer Pete Moreno's call to release her. {i
    
    Joyce felt a glow of satisfaction.
    
    McKenzie halted at the locked doors. "What do I do?"
    "Knock on the window. He's supposed to look up and
    identify me." Joyce moved to the window, still looking at
    the release forms.
    
    McKenzie rapped gently.
    
    "He's not looking."
    
    "He will. He's new at this." Joyce folded back the sheet.
    Everyone's signature was in place. There was no way Mac
    was coming back if she didn't want to.
    
    Now all they had to do was keep her out of harm's way
    from Jack Trebolt.
    
    "Joyce, he's not going to look. And my knees . . . I think
    my knees are folding up...."
    
    Joyce hit the doors with the flat of her hand. They rat-
    tled against the dead bolt.
    
    "What do you think you're doing?"
    
    Joyce swung around. McKenzie made a small sound,
    and leaned against her. Dr. Susan Craig, mouth shrunken
    and angry, faced them in the corridor.
    
    'Where do you think you're going with my patient?"
    
    That small noise came from Mac again. It sounded like
    a whimper.
    
    Joyce smoothed out the forms in her hand. '\oluntary
    confinement is lifted, and everything else is in order." She
    gave the doctor a warm smile. "There's nothing wrong
    with Mac, and I can situate her better elsewhere."
    
    The doctor's jaw worked. 'What about the assault?"
    
    ,,
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    389
    
    "Moreno agrees that Trebolt is in the area and should
    be apprehended."
    
    "Well, then." Craig's icy blue eyes looked to McKenzie.
    "Everything appears to be working out." She looked at the
    forms again. "Good luck to you. Joyce, I'll see you later
    this week, undoubtedly." She turned and left.
    
    Joyce felt as though she had passed by an iceberg. She
    turned around. McKenzie's face looked chalk white. Joyce
    pulled her foot back and booted the door.
    
    Angry words from the psych ward reception desk could
    be heard all the way down the corridor to the hallowed
    confines of the chapel. Jack lifted his head from his copy
    of Penthouse and listened. The air thundered with atti-
    tude. He heard a black woman give someone sarcasm that
    could blister the skin, and then a soft, hesitant voice he
    thought he knew. He dropped the magazine.
    
    He crept to the niche which allowed him to see the
    corridor without being seen.
    
    The black woman stalked by, McKenzie leaning heavily
    on her arm. She looked pale, but good. His chest tight-
    ened immediately and he bit down hard to keep quiet.
    What were they doing with his wife now?
    
    "First, we'll get you all settled in that shelter I told you
    about, and then we'll call Carter. After that, we'll sit down
    and figure out what to do, you and 1."
    
    He knew that Carter well. He'd checked up on him.
    Jack didn't like the sound of what he heard at all. Babe,
    you didn't run near hard and fast enough if you thought you
    were gonna outrun me.
    
    "Sounds like you're good at making plans," McKenzie
    whispered.
    
    "Oh, I am. Don't you doubt it."
    
    Eyes hard, Jack watched them pass. Trailing after, not
    too close, he followed. He was good at plannin~, too.
    

    





    Chapter 33
    
               Ä == ~ '~F~:-~! '-~';,-;,~,,~=- s ,_ w~,> _; ,~,=,,f,~,,,
    
    .'
    
    U
    
    . ~
    
    ~ ::~
    
    They barreled out of the hospital and dashed across the
    parking lot until they reached Joyce's car, and then they
    collapsed upon it, laughing like maniacs. McKenzie
    hugged the hood of the car, her face flushed.
    
    "God," Joyce said when she'd caught her breath. "I feel
    like we just got caught toilet papering someone's house."
    
    McKenzie turned her head, putting her cheek to the
    cool metal of the car. "Caffeine and adrenaline. What a
    rush." She laughed again, shakily. "I feel like I'm on Cops."
    
    '~ou look like it, girl." Joyce rattled through her purse
    for her car keys.
    
    "Hurry up. I think I'm going back to sleep."
    
    "Oh, you won't sleep in this car. My son has the radio
    station button preset to boom box." Joyce found what she
    was looking for and fished them out. She opened the pas-
    senger side door, leaned in to search the glove compart-
    ment for a few seconds, and made a sound of triumph.
    When she stood back to let McKenzie in, her hand was
    full of black wire and adapters. "Once we get settled, I
    can give Carter a call to let him know we're there."
    
    McKenzie slid onto the passenger seat. She picked up
    the cell phone and held it as Joyce entered the car. 'Why
    not now?" ~
    
    "Because that baby is as dead as a turnip, that's why.
    But I can use the adapter when we get to Calico House."
    390
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    391
    
    Joyce snapped her seat belt into place and turned her
    head to watch herself back the car out. True to her word,
    the radio had come on, full blast, but she turned the vol-
    ume down. Still, the music pulsated throughout the car.
    
    McKenzie watched the street slide by. The rush was
    dissipating. The oddly artificial feeling of tranquillity had
    begun to catch up with her again, but she did not let it
    overwhelm her. She had the uneasy feeling she wore it
    like a mask. Hidden underneath it was what had tran-
    spired during the day and in Susan Craig's lab. She had
    only hazy memories and none she wished to bring back.
    To distract herself, she asked "Why Calico House?"
    
    "Why not? It's a shelter. It'll be open officially in about
    two more weeks- - "
    
    "No. No, I mean . . . the name. Whv Calico?"
    
    "Ah. Well, it's because of the sponsor. She's a retired
    home ec teacher. She sews quilts. They're authentic and
    prize-winning. Anyway, when her husband died, she took
    part of the estate and set up funds for a shelter. But that's
    not the best part." Joyce steered expertly around a corner.
    "She bought some equipment from the high school when
    it was being renovated, and she's donating that: six sewing
    machines. She'll teach anybody there who wants to learn.
    Quilt-making to baby clothes, you name it. She uses a lot
    of calico fabric when she works, hence the name. Ano-
    nymity, but not."
    
    "She didn't do it to see her name on the building."
    
    "No. Most of us don't. We do it to see you walk out,
    and hope you never have to come back." Joyce's mouth
    tightened abruptly, but her passenger didn't see it.
    
    McKenzie watched the houses, buildings, other cars
    blur past her window. "Never be a victim again."
    
    "That's right. You've got it, girl. We don't ever want to
    see your bruised and bleeding body again. And we partic-
    ularlv don't want to see it down at the morsJue." Iovce
    

    





    392
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    laDsed into silence. a silence which McKenzie let stretch
    out,
    
    Susan made the call from a pay phone to avoid the
    trace. It rang nearly half a dozen times before Dudley an-
    swered it.
    
    "Where were you?"
    
    "In the shower."
    
    She could hear the resentment in his voice. She had
    pushed him hard last night and this morning. She soft-
    ened her tone. "I was worried."
    
                                       "Don't be. I'm here."    ~1
    
    "I need you to do something for me. I have a situation
    developing. I have faith in you. This is your chance to re-
    deem yourself for last night."
    
    "Tell me what you want me to do."
    
    "We're going to have to pull out. We've discussed this
    before."
    
    "There's trouble."
    
    "Yes, but nothing you can't handle."
    
    A lengthy pause followed her statement. Then, "They're
    looking for me. You know that."
    
    "Not tonight. Even with the Bureau's help, they
    couldn't get their act together by tonight. It will take
    weeks before they've developed their profile."
    
    Sulkily, he said, "It should have burned."
    
    "But it didn't, and so now we have to take steps, to pro-
    tect you, to protect me."
    
    "All right. I understand. I'll get ready for a pullout."
    
    "Good. And then, you need to go to these addresses.
    She has to be at one of them. Take the gear." Susan
    dropped to a whisper as someone passed by the phone
    booth. She turned her back to them to avoid being seen
    and told Dudley what it was she wanted.
    
    I,1
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    393
    
    Joyce flicked on the lights. 'We have water and electrie-
    ity. No phones yet, they're to be installed the end of this
    week. No gas, either, but you didn't feel like cooking to-
    night, right?"
    
    McKenzie rubbed the bridge of her nose, somewhat
    dazzled by the sudden light. "Right," she agreed sleepily.
    
    "First, I call home. Then, we order pizza. Then, we take
    care of that friend of yours. Okay?"
    
    McKenzie drifted farther into the house, freshly
    painted, carpeting still with tufts and clippings from the
    installation, only odds and ends of furniture in place.
    "Sure."
    
    "The bedrooms are upstairs. Six in all. Small but they'll
    do. There're some boxes of donated clothing up there, too.
    Why don't you see if you can find something?"
    
    McKenzie started upstairs. On the landing, a quilt had
    been hung, the double wedding ring pattern. It was in-
    deed a work of art. She trailed her fingers over it as she
    passed it on the stairs.
    
    Flash. The quilt, bloodstained and crumpled, Iying at
    the bottom below her. McKenzie froze on the step.
    
    "What is it?"
    
    What could she say? Thanks for rescuing me from the
    psycho ward, but I'm still seeing things? She screwed her
    head slowly around, lips parting, to tell Joyce, but the
    words that came out were, "I don't like mushrooms on my
    plzza.
    
    Joyce smiled. "Gotcha."
    
    McKenzie gripped the railing tightly and continued on
    
    up.
    
    In the quiet lobby of Cyberlmago, flames began to
    flicker, to burn orange and then yellow-white as the accel-
    erant fed them. The plastic plant in the corner melted al-
    most immediately. The receptionist's desk caught fire,
    

    





    394
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Jennifer Lee's textbooks burning like solid lumps of char-
    coal in the, center of the cheap plastic and chrome.
    Smoke bulged the doors to the office and R & D, pinched
    its way through the narrow cracks. No alarms or sprinklers
    went off in the office.
    
    The fire would have burned very brightly and gutted
    nearly the entire structure before alarms began in the rest
    of the complex. The accelerant used would leave no trace,
    except for the nature of the fire itselfÄunstoppable, in-
    credibly hot and swift and destructive.
    
    "Tums," Dolan pleaded. "Rolaids. Maalox. Anything."
    
    "Take your pizza like a man," Carter returned. "Give me
    that grid." He reached for the chart they'd been working
    on the last few hours. The first thing they'd "ridded was
    that Mr. Blue did not always hit blue houses. That
    seemed to be his preference, but it wasn't a given. What
    they had found was that his victims were always single
    women. Until last night, when he'd added two male chil-
    dren.
    
    Dolan belched, a resounding rumble that perfumed the
    air, and pushed the chart within reach. Nose wrinkled,
    Carter sat back in his chair to look it over once more. He
    took a highlighter and marked through two lines carefully.
    
    "What are you doing?"
    
    "These two. They just don't fit. I don't think they're Mr.
    Blue. For one thing, the fires that were started were much
    bigger, more ambitious. They were meant to consume the
    evidence, not drive the victim into the killer's arms."
    
    Dolan belched again, then got up and leaned over. "I
    can see this one," he agreed and tapped a finger on the
    grid. "She wasn't even stabbed, though it appeared she'd
    been beaten. The suspect they pulled in on this one was
    all wron~."
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    395
    
    Carter rubbed the corner of his eye. "Who was that
    one?"
    
    "The ax-boyfriend. They'd had some problems before."
    Fax paper made crinkling noises as he shuffled through
    them. "He's some kind of hero. They let him go finally, ad-
    mitting their evidence was screwed."
    
    Carter had put his elbows on the tabletop, chin
    propped in his hands, half listening to Dolan and half
    thinking that Joyce had yet to call. He put his head up
    and rolled his shoulders slightly. "Okay, that one stays out.
    What else?"
    
    "Not a whole lot." Fax paper rustled some more and
    Dolan belched again. The odor wafted Carter's way.
    
    The reporter got to his feet. "I surrender." He sauntered
    to the bathroom to search the counter for antacids.
    
    Dolan stayed hunched over the file copies. He wished
    he had them on disk. He could rearrange them, collate
    them any way he wanted. This hand-grid method Carter
    used was beginning to bugÄ
    
    "Hey, Carter."
    
    'What?" He tossed a crusty roll of chewables at Dolan
    who ducked and snagged them out of midair.
    
    Dolan quickly emptied half the roll into his mouth,
    talking around them. "This is interesting. If you include
    the one done last night, four out of the ten were battered
    women."
    
    "What do you mean?"
    
    'Well, Graciela had just left a shelter. According to the
    gridÄlookÄ" Dolan's broken fingernail skidded down a
    column. "This one was waitressing, but I remember the
    file. She'd gotten chef's training from the shelter she was
    in, and she was waiting for an opening. And this one,
    right out of the home. Court had her listed as a runaway.
    The primary suspect on both were the ax-husbands at
    first, until the agencies realized they fit the Blue profile."
    

    





    396
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    ~ C.arter sr~hhed for the files. "What about Denise
    Faherge, the one done last week? Wasn't she just out of a
    shelter, too?"
    
    Dolan scanned the sheets he held. "Yeah, yeah, here
    she is. Been out a couple of months. Just took out a tem-
    porary restraining order on her ex, though."
    
    Carter was grabbing for everything Dolan wasn't hold-
    ing. "That makes four. And if you include that one we just
    eliminated, that makes five. Five out of the ten victims
    were battered women."
    
    "Sometimes I think the world is a sewer."
    
    "No. No, you're missing the point."
    
    Dolan looked up, still sucking on the multitude of ant-
    acid tablets he had stuffed in his cheek. "What point?"
    
    "Mr. Blue does victims. He makes them the ultimate
    victim. And, conveniently, he's not the suspect. The bat-
    terer is the first and automatic suspect." Carter began to
    lay the files down in order. "But how does he know?"
    
    "Know what?"
    
    "Know their past. What they are? Where to find them?
    How the hell does he know? Shelters are safe houses. I
    don't even know the addresses of the places Joyce works
    with, and I've done stories with her." He sat down. "I've
    missed something. What is it? Give 'em to me again."
    
    Dolan watched him warily, as if some insanity had just
    reared its head. "Again? What about the one we elimi-
    nated?"
    
    "Throw her back in, too. We've got to go through it
    again." Carter popped two chewables into the palm of his
    hand and took them. His teeth ground on the chalky,
    vaguely pepperminty objects. Dolan's voice droned.
    
    "Shit!" Carter bolted upright.
    
    "What? What?"
    
    "The hero. What kind of hero?"
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    397
    
    Dolan's eyes dipped. "A fireman. He's a fireman by the
    name of Herbert Dudley."
    
    "That's him. That's him." Carter went to the computer
    and booted up the GIF image of Susan Craig at the wom-
    en's benefit. "Shit. That's him. That's him standing right
    behind her."
    
    "And that's a benefit for battered women," Dolan
    echoed. "Are we looking at Mr. Blue?"
    
    Carter stared closer, at Susan Craig. He wondered if he
    was staring at someone who'd created Mr. Blue. A fire-
    fighter, who could go almost anywhere, anywhere he
    wanted, and with architectural imaging, any building
    would be laid open to him, like a surgeon lays open a
    chest cavity before doing delicate work on the heart. A
    man who, for one reason or another, kept killing his wife
    again and again and again.
    
    Had Craig given him those reasons? The software
    they'd downloaded earlier said she could have tried.
    
    The phone rang sharply.
    
    Dolan watched him as he answered it, said, "That's
    great," and, "I'll be right there," and jotted down an ad-
    dress.
    
    Carter pulled on loafers. 'Write everything down we've
    just talked about. This is not an article. Just list the grid
    and the pattern. Give 'em the name. Fax it back to Sofer
    and Franklin. Tell them I think we've got a prime suspect
    for Mr. Blue and that it's likely he's taken lessons from
    Georg Bauer. That'll make 'em jump."
    
    "Where are you going?"
    
    "Mac's out. Joyce has her bedded down in a shelter that
    hasn't been opened yet."
    
    "Do you think she's a target?"
    
    "She's been around Susan Craig. That's enough to worry
    me."
    
    "What about Dudley?"
    

    





    398
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    "Let the Bureau pick him up."
    
    Dolan seemed reluctant. "Then what do I do;"
    
    Carter stopped halfway out the door. '~ou go home," he
    said, "And take care of your heartburn."
    
    Dolan nodded in disappointment. "Right."
    
    Carter shut the door.
    
    The cloudless CaLfornia skies finally deepened into
    night. Jack took his boots off the dashboard of the car,
    dropping his feet with a thud that rocked the vehicle.
    He'd been staring at the house so long he was damn near
    cross-eyed. For amusement, he'd watched a nearby palm
    tree where the rats skittered in and out of the fronds.
    Damn things were everywhere. Palm trees and rats. He
    wished he'd brought his .22. Pop! Pop! One less Mickey
    and Minnie Mouse.
    
    Mac had been in there with her newfound friend long
    enough for the leftover pizza to get cold. Long enough to
    hang blankets at the windows, shutting out his view of
    them walking back and forth upstairs. Long enough that
    darkness cloaked the neighborhood. Silently, he got out of
    his car. He reached in the back for his dark, hooded
    sweatshirt. No sense in letting the whole world know who
    the hell he was.
    
    The air, when he tried to take a deep breath to steady
    his nerves, stank. Dirt and smog drifted in the unrain-
    washed atmosphere. He and Mac would be better off
    home in Seattle, the quicker he could arrange it. She was
    probably ready to listen to him now. He'd given his itchy
    mean streak a long scratch, and now he was ready to talk
    nice to McKenzie. He'd promise her another dogÄhell,
    he had the name of a breeder with a litter of puppies all
    ready to go that he'd ripped out of the paper that morning
    in the hospital and stuck in his pocket. He'd let her go
    hark tn crhr,r~l filil timf~ if ch.o wanted F.ven have a career.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    399
    
    He could use another breadwinner in the house. No
    sense to the bill-paying burden being all on his shoulders.
    No wonder the stress drove him crazy sometimes. Things
    could be worked out. All he had to do was make sure her
    newfound friends wouldn't change her mind or get in the
    way.
    
    A bit unsure, Jack wiped the palms of his hands on his
    hip pockets. He looked into the darkness and stepped out.
    
    It didn't come as a flash. McKenzie paused, as she and
    Joyce sorted through the boxes of clothes. There were
    neat piles of items that were in her size range, and neat
    piles of all the other size ranges, on the floor around
    them. She stopped folding and paused. The feeling came
    as a tingle down her spine as though someone had
    stepped on her grave. At least, that's what her mother
    used to call it. She scrubbed her arms briskly.
    
    Joyce looked up. "Cold?" It was the first decent weather
    of the week. The evening had cooled and there were
    hopeful weather reports of coastal fog and inland low
    clouds in the morning, shaving maybe ten degrees off the
    previous forecast. It was getting cooler, but it was a long
    way from cold.
    
    "No." McKenzie hesitated. "Twitchy." If she were a dog,
    if Cody were here with her, their hackles would be up.
    
    "Can't blame you." Joyce smoothed down a blouse.
    "Carter should be here soon. Then I'll head on home."
    
    McKenzie wanted to say, Do you have to? But she
    knew the advocate did. She had a family, a home life of
    her own. "Maybe that's Carter now."
    
    "Where? What makes you think so?"
    
    "Well, I ... I thought I heard a car door. Or some-
    thing."
    
    Joyce rolled an eye at her. "Don't go trying to spook
    

    





    400
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
                                       Msu Is~llohPrl "T'm cf~rrv T WS75. wasn't 1? You know. this
                                       is a big place with just the two of us here."
                                       "It won't be long until it's full." Joyce beckoned.
                                       "Women and children and mentors. I don't think it's
                                       empty. I think it's full of promise."
                                       A thud sounded on the roof above them. McKenzie
                                       jerked nervously, staring upward.
                                       "Roof rats," Joyce said. "In the palms all around us. I'll
                                       tell the house leader to get a cat." All the same, she
                                       stopped drawing out and inspecting clothes.
                                       Another thud, and with it, the house shook. The
                                       wooden framed windows, and sliding door closets jumped
                                       in their tracks ever so sligrtly. The overhead swag lamp
                                       swayed from its chain. They sat stock-still until the room
                                       stopped moving and groaning.
                                       Then Joyce blinked and let out a derisive bark. "4.0, if
                                       it was anything. Here we sit like dummies. That was an
                                       aftershock. Probably from the Northridge quake. It's still
                                       dancing."
                                       McKenzie felt her face warm in embarrassment. Of
                                       course, she knew what it had been. She'd grown up here,
                                       hadn't she? Four point oh was a pretty good shock this t@
                                       long after the primary quake. "Maybe it was on a new
                                       fault line."
                                       "As long as it's not my fault," Joyce told her. She tossed
                                       Mac a pair of acid-washed blue jeans. "That looks like
                                       your size."
                                       The label and the size had been sliced off the waist-
                                       band. McKenzie stood up to measure it to her hips. She
                                       modeled it for Joyce. "Looks like they could."
                                       "Kick off your shoes and pull 'em on."
                                       Mac had already found practically new running shoes.
                                       She wiggled her toes in them, and opened her mouth to
                                       sayÄ
                                       THUD.
    
    ~-7
    
    ,,
    

    





     - -  -        ~.   ~
    
    DEATH WATCH 401
    
    She snapped her mouth shut. Joyce got to her feet and
    charged across the room, grabbing her by the wrist. Big-
    gest roof rat I've ever heard. Get away from the window."
    
    They heard the glass breaking on the other side of the
    blanket they'd hung for a curtain, but they took to their
    heels, not about to stay to see who or what was coming
    through. Joyce slammed the bedroom door shut and keyed
    the dead bolt. She looked at Mac. "It works from both
    sides, but only if you have the key."
    
    Mac wet her lips. "The other rooms!"
    
    They went from door to door, keying the dead bolts.
    Joyce had kicked off her heels. She made practically no
    noise on the carpeting. "Phone," she said softly.
    
    She looked downstairs. A loud banging shook the up-
    stairs. Mac nodded and started down.
    
    The upper half of the house grew very quiet.
    
    Joyce came down with her, step by step, eyeing the
    house. 'Whoever they are, they don't seem to care what
    kind of noise they're making."
    
    Mac became aware of just how much glass was in the
    front and other rooms as she paused downstairs. She
    looked back at Joyce, who was framed by the quilt.
    
    The lights flickered and then went out.
    
    "Shit." Joyce's voice, out of the twilight.
    
    The blanket curtains let in only slivers of light from
    the outside, weak yellow beacons from the streetlights.
    Not enough to see by.
    
    "Whoever it is, he's still outside."
    
    "I left the cell phone on the kitchen counter."
    
    "I'll get it," said McKenzie. She put a hand out,
    touched the wall, and, trailing her fingers, went in search
    of the instrument. It had to be Jack, terrorizing her, but
    how did he find her? How did he know?
    
    How did he always know where to hurt her?
    
    Never again.
    

    





    402 Elizabcth Porrest
    
                         .
            _ ~ rr ~A~ ~ ~ ~V ùl~l ~Il~.
    
~er heart railed there like a wild bird beating itself
    against a cage. Besides the cell phone on the tiled kitchen
    counter, there had been a can opener and a flashlight, one
    of those heavy-duty torches.
    
    Mac stubbed a toe turning too soon. She stopped and
    could feel her own heat being reflected back at her by the
    wall. If she squinted, she could almost see the darker wall
    against the midnight of the house's interior. She put her
    hands out and felt to her right.
    
    Toward the corner. She wasn't close enough. She took
    a side step, cautiously, quietly. Stretched out her arm. Slid
    her palm against the wall's surface again. Reaching out.
    
    She hit air.
    
    McKenzie took a deep breath, knowing she'd found the
    turn to the kitchen.
    
    Then warm flesh grazed her hand. Someone tried to
    grab her fingers.
    
    "Christ!" McKenzie jumped and lunged the other way.
    She ran, unthinking. Words tore out of her mouth. "Joyce!
    He's inside!"
    
    She sprinted. He came after. She could hear his breath-
    ing. She collided with Joyce at the stairwell. Her eyes had
    adjusted to the dark well enough to almost see the hazy
    lines of the banister. The keys went flying, up the steps.
    
    "Come on!" She charged after them, pulling Joyce up
    with her.
    
    He leaped and caught them mid-stair. The tackle drove
    them to their knees. Mac grunted under the weight and
    put a hand out to the wall, anything, clawing, to get back
    on her feet.
    
    The quilt met her hand. She wrapped her fist in it and
    pulled herself out from under Joyce and Jack as they
    fought. She could hear flesh and bones hitting, the sick
    

    





    silent.
    
    Hanging from the quilt as if it were a strap, McKenzie
    swiveled round and kicked with all her might.
    
    She struck home. A masculine cry answered her. Jack
    staggered back, a shapeless shadow among all the other
    shadows.
    
    McKenzie let go of the quilt and grabbed at Joyce.
    "Come on!"
    
    She kicked the keys on the step, bent over to grasp at
    them. The chill metal answered her search. Her position
    saved her.
    
    Joyce screamed as Jack leaped again. Something
    flashed in his hand.
    
    There was a monumental struggle. Joyce's voice, raw
    and urgent. "Run, McKenzie! Run!"
    
    She hesitated.
    
    She could see the two grappling, not well enough to
    know which was which, as they teetered in the stairwell.
    Then Joyce let out a sharp cry, and fell back, against the
    quilt. The wall hanging came down on her. Caught in its
    folds, she fell. Her weight took the other shadow with her
    as her body bumped heavily down the steps.
    
    Flash.
    
    McKenzie did not wait for the vision. She turned and
    ran, gobbling the remaining steps. She hit door frames,
    counting them, found the one she wanted and tried to
    plunge the key into the dead bolt lock.
    
    She couldn't find the slot!
    
    She fumbled her fingertips across the metal.
    
    "McKenzie."
    
    A low, somewhat breathless masculine voice from the
    stairs. She did not turn to see what Jack wanted.
    
    She inserted the key. The lock turned stiffly and then
    

    





    404
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    she fell insi~le thP onen d~r Wrenehlng areund, she
    pulled the key out and kicked the door out of her way.
    
    With her entire body, she slammed it shut and locked
    it from the inside. The key cut into the palm of her hand
    as she leaned against the door.
    
    What about Joyce?
    
    She didn't know.
    
    Carter was on the way. How long could she hold out?
    
    McKenzie fumed to face the window. Saw the skyline,
    the silhouette of palm trees that framed the houses next
    door, the window glass like scattered diamonds on the
    rug.
    
    She'd locked herself in the wrong room.
    
    She couldn't stay. He'd been up this way once before.
    He'd try it again.
    
    If he could get in, she could get out. Run to the neigh-
    bors. No one would let her in, but maybe somebody
    would get scared enough to let their dogs out. Call 911.
    
    It was better than being cornered.
    
    Mac shoved the keys down into her jeans pocket and
    crossed the room. Glass slivers ground into the floor
    under her feet.
    
    No one pounded at the door. She could hear nothing.
    
    He'd already guessed. Was already back outside, bak-
    ing up.
    
    He had to be.
    
    Mac carefully leaned out. The tiniest of ledges led from
    one window to the next. And then the roof tiling eaves led
    to the garage.
    
    She could jump that.
    
    Adrenaline gave her wings.
    
    She picked up something, the blanket, and laid it over
    the windowsill where jagged glass fragments threatened
    like teeth. She swung one foot out. Secured it on the
    ledge. Then the other.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    405
    
    !~hP hPIA nntn thP onrnPr nf thP winAnw ~c Inno ~c chP
    could, scooting along the ledge, until she could not help
    but let go.
    
    She pressed her face against the stucco wall of the
    house. Hugged with her whole body as intimately as if she
    were locked in lovemaking. Inched her way along until
    her searching hand found the next window frame.
    
    Below her, Jack called softly, "McKenzie!"
    
    She did not answer. His voice did not sound close. Mac
    thought of looking down but did not.
    
    She inched along the minuscule ledge until her sneak-
    ers touched the tile roofing she sought.
    
    She jumped off the ledge and slipped, going to her
    knees.
    
    The noise had to bring him running. McKenzie straight-
    ened and fled, her night sight guiding her over the roof-
    ing. A black abyss yawned in front of her. Then the flat
    roof of the garage. From there she could see the neigh-
    bor's yard.
    
    Already lights were going on. Dogs began to bark fran-
    tically. McKenzie took a deep breath and ran. She took off
    like a deer over the abyss, hit the garage, and kept going
    until she reached the other side.
    
    "Mac!"
    
    A slender figure at the edge of the yard, in the lantanas
    and shrubbery. "Carter!" Hope surged in her. She would
    be all right. He would save her. She leaped downward.
    
    He moved toward her as she hit awkwardly and top-
    pled. A stab of pain that she knew well from softball went
    through her right knee. She keeled over, sucking her lip in
    agony.
    
    There was the solid thud of a collision. She looked up
    to see two dark figures grappling. Jack and Carter danced
    with obscene violence. Grass flattened under their feet.
    Shrubbery branches whipped about. They wrestled with
    

    





    406
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    _ ~ [, . .. . .
    
    with thick guttural sounds.
    
    She wanted to scream, but the sound choked in her
    throat. Doors banged. Dogs kept barking furiously.
    
    Carter let out a low cry of pain. He twisted in his
    portent's hold. She still could not see his face as
    rage shadowed them.
    
    For a second he broke away. McKenzie took a deep
    breath. She saw the other coil, like a snake ready to
    strike. She pushed her warming out, birthing a faintly au-
    dible "Carter!"
    
    Then she saw a gleaming streak, a swath of silver cut
    through the night.
    
    "Noooo!"
    
    Carter doubled over. He went to his knees, then onto
    his face.
    
    His shadowy attacker turned toward her, hesitated. A
    beam of light sliced across the driveway and backyard. It
    outlined him. Her assailant fumed and bolted.
    
    McKenzie got to her feet. Her knee tweaked her once,
    and then she was steady. She could do this. She had to.
    She approached Carter's still figure. "Oh, God. Oh, God."
    
    Flash. She was to kill Carter.
    
    Flash. She saw love in his kind, gentle eyes.
    
    McKenzie stopped and put the heel of her hands to her
    sight. When would it stop;
    
    People poured out of surrounding homes. The sudden
    flood of porch lights and flashlights dazzled her. She put
    up an arm to shade her face.
    
    "Call 911," she said. Begged. Over and over. Somebody
    call 911." Carter couldn't be dead.
    
    Could. Not.
    
    The son of a bitch would never hurt her again.
    
    Confused, McKenzie stared numbly
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    407
    
    body as if she'd struck Carter Wyndall herself. She leaned
    over, hand trembling, to turn him.
    
    "Mac."
    
    She looked up. Carter forced his way through the grow-
    ing crowd. "What's happening?"
    
    Her senses whirled. "Carter?"
    
    He caught her by the arms, then enfolded her in his
    arms. Could he hear the wild beating of her heart?
    
    "Carter?" she repeated breathlessly, disbelieving.
    
    "I got here as quickly as I could." His breath smelled
    oddly of pepperoni and peppermints. It was real. She
    touched his face. He tightened his arm about her. "What's
    wrong?"
    
    "I thought it was you."
    
    'What happened?"
    
    "Jack broke-in. He came after us, all through the
    houseÄthe lights, he took the lights out. Oh, God,
    Carter, I think he might have killed Joyce. She fell on the
    stairs. I got out over the rooftops. You called to meÄ
    
    "Not me," Carter interrupted softly.
    
    "They fought after I jumped." She looked down. "Then
    who saved me?"
    
    Strangers ringed them, flashlight beams cutting the air
    wildly, excited voices babbling. One of the neighbors put
    out a foot and nudged the fallen man over. The body
    flopped about, arms akimbo.
    
    Jack Trebolt stared up at the stars with death-clouded
    eyes.
    

    





      ::~:= ~:
     :-+      ': ::~- ~:
    
    Chapter 34
    
    "Knocked cold twice in one day, this girl can take a hint
    I'm punching in my time card and goin' home." Joyce
    stood in the front yard of the Calico House, porch light
    glowing behind her. Red and blue lights from squad cars
    cast deeper bruises on her face. She held the quilt
    wrapped in her front arms, bloodstained from the split lip
    and battered nose she'd suffered going down the stairs.
    
    She leveled a look at Carter. "Take my advice and take
    this one home for the evening."
    
    Mac shivered, though the spring evening was still far
    from cold. The shock of seeing Jack's body had iced
    through her and she seemed far from thawing.
    
    Carter put an arm over Mac's shoulders and drew her
    close to his flank for comfort. "I'm considering it."
    
    "I told Moreno what he needs to know. Everything else
    can be handled in the morning." Joyce took a step away.
    
    "But," said McKenzie. She scrubbed a hand wearily
    over her face. "What happened here?"
    
    "Jack Trebolt got killed here, and you didn't do it,"
    Carter answered. "We've got an eyewitness next door who
    heard the commotion and saw the fight. That's all we
    need to kriow right now."
    
    "And it wasn't you, because I thought you were the one
    who ... the one who...." Her voice failed her. McKenzie
    put her face to Carter's shoulder and just stood.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    409
    
    J~ r~ v~ ~- "~.~ vvC ~ ~v~I CV~lyllllll~ UUL
    in the morning." She looked at Carter over McKenzie's
    head. "I'll page you when I'm ready to get together."
    
    The corner of his mouth quirked slightly. "Fair enough,"
    he agreed.
    
    Joyce kept her hand on McKenzie's back. "The man is
    a gentleman," she said. "Go home with him. You can't stay
    here alone tonight, anyway. They'll be crawling all over
    doing fingerprints and such."
    
    Mac looked up. "All right."
    
    Joyce looked at the quilt. "I sure hope I can cold-water-
    soak these stains out." She turned and left, walking slowly,
    obviously in pain.
    
    Moreno came up as Joyce got into her car.
    
    'Well, Mz. Smith. You're keeping me on my toes."
    
    "I'm sorry."
    
    She looked as though she genuinely was. Moreno
    slipped his notebook into his pocket. "I'll let you know to-
    morrow what else has to be done. I'll have to talk to you
    again, go over your story once more."
    
    "I know."
    
    "At least," he said, and his mustache fluffed out a little.
    "It's in better circumstances this time. I know this is prob-
    ably not the time to say this, but sometimes this is the
    only way to deal with a stalker."
    
    "He was my husband." Her mouth worked a moment
    then she added, "I ought to have some feelings for him.
    But I don't." God help her, she didn't. What kind of a
    monster was she, unless numbness were a feeling all its
    own.
    
    Carter stirred as if he could buffer her from the reality
    of the whole ordeal. "I'd like to take her home."
    
    "Fine. Just the usual, don't leave the area. I'll contact
    her there."
    
    Carter steered her toward his car. She walked steadily
    

    





    410
    
    Elizabeth For~est
    
    u.n:th him, as though her mind were a million miles away.
    and her body on automatic.
    
    He unlocked the apartment door a little apprehensively,
    but the place was dark and Dolan had gone. The assistant
    hadn't picked up any before he'd left and the dinette table
    was strewn with the faxes and the pizza box.
    
    McKenzie smiled faintly. "The universal dinner," she
    said, as he strode around the small room gathering
    up the mess. The faxes he did not want her to see, not
    only because the Bureau's information was confidential,
    but because there were photos and drawings which were
    grisly enough even in their reptoduced form. She'd had
    enough bloodletting for one night. Joyce had traded words
    with him, short and sweet, telling him all that McKenzie
    had been through. Jack's death would be no balance for
    her father's. Not now. Not yet.
    
    McKenzie dropped into his recliner, putting the back
    down and the footrest up.
    
    Carter paused near the kitchen door, hands full of
    trash. "Can I get you anything?"
    
    "Ice," she replied softly.
    
    "Just ice?"
    
    "For my knee. Put it in a baggie, if you have one. Or a
    towel. Please."
    
    She spoke as if the effort of putting words together in
    a sentence were almost too much. He knew the feeling.
    He went into the kitchen, mashed up the pizza box to 'yet
    it in the trash and went about making her an ice pack. He
    twisted off the cap of a lite beer and brought it out as
    well.
    
    She took both, tossed back a swig from the beer, and
    handed it back to him, foam swirled inside the neck. She
    laid the baggie across her jeans. The denim was scuffed
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    411
    
    and dirty where she'd gone down. After a moment, she
    said, "This is no good."
    
    She flipped the recliner upright, got out of it, and
    reached for her zipper.
    
    Carter watched, baffled.
    
    Mac paused. "Turn around."
    
    'What?"
    
    "I'm taking my pants off so I can put the pack on my
    knee. So turn around and go get me a robe or bath towel
    or something."
    
    "Right." He nodded and headed in the general direction
    of the bedroom and bathroom. While he was in there, he
    straightened that up, as well. Seat down, lid up, sink
    cleared.
    
    He came back, tossing her a bath towel from across the
    room. She settled it across her lap, but not before he got
    a glimpse of her long legs and slender, firm thighs. Mac
    leaned the recliner back again, ice pack in place.
    
    She laid her forearm over her eyes. He pulled up a di-
    nette chair and nursed his beer.
    
    After long moments of silence, she peeked an eye at
    him. "Aren't you supposed to ask me if I want to talk?"
    
    He flexed his lips a little as if he would, then shook his
    head.
    
    She turned her face toward him. The bruising had re-
    treated to shadows which looked as if perhaps she'd been
    playing with her mother's makeup and had smeared it
    about. She had been attractive. She would be more so
    when those shadows disappeared completely '"You're a re-
    porter. You have to talk."
    
    He shrugged. "This is not an interview."
    
    "Oh." She lifted her arm from her brow. She sighed. "I
    can't believe it's over."
    
    "Believe it."
    
    "But IÄ" McKenzie stopped. Her eves alistened. "I
    

    





    412
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    !A. Al ~; IAI A~= R.'t t~ri c n.^thino h - r ~ AnA ch~
    
    thumped her chest. "Nothing. I cry for my damn dog and
    I can't cry for him. Or Jack." - --
    
    "But you are."
    
    She sniffled. "No."
    
    "I've been around a lot of stories in the last twenty
    years." He picked up the beer bottle, rolled the chilled
    glass between his palms. "I've seen people mourn in every
    conceivable way. Some yell. Some scream. Some tear their
    sleeves from their clothes. I've seen them smear ashes on
    their faces. Heard the women in the Middle East wail."
    He took a drink. "I've seen them stand with blank faces,
    immobile, voiceless to express the grief inside of them."
    He thought of Georg Bauer. "I've even seen them laugh."
    
    "And where does that put me?"
    
    He brought his chair a little closer. "I'd say you're right
    up there with those who've been through too much to cry
    
                                         right away. Like someone in a war zone." He put his hand  ~t
    
    out, gently smoothed a fringe of hair from her forehead.
    '~ou can't get tears from a stone."
    
    "A stone," she repeated. She took the beer from him
    and drank again. "Do you think I'll cry later?"
    
    "Probably. When it's nght for you. Because, McKenzie,
    when you came home, you must have been thinking of
    the life you'd have together. You'll cry for that lost hope.
    As far as Jack goes, the good and the bad, he stole that
    from you. When you're ready, you'll weep for everyone."
    
    The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. "Now you
    sound like a reporter."
    
    "Can't help it. I'm a sentimentalist." He did not take his
    hand away from her face. She turned to his palm, as if
    seeking the warmth, and cradled her face into it, molding
    his hand to her shape.
    
    "I don't remember when I lost my way," she murmured.
    
    "Most of us don't. But you're found now."
    
     -. -
    
    .:
      ~1
      ..
      

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    413
    
    "Am 1?"
    
    "Oh, yes. Never doubt it. I've got you." The tears be-
    gan, soft and warrn, on his hand. She started to cry in ear-
    nest, the tears spilling from her as if flood gates had
    opened.
    
    "This is no good," he said. He stood up and lifted her
    from the chair, then sat down and pulled her into his lap,
    and held her as he would a child, pillowing her face on
    his shoulder.
    
    She sobbed until she could sob no more.
    
    He found a couple of paper napkins from the pizza
    company stuffed down the side of the chair. They looked
    relatively clean and unused, so he gave them to her so she
    could dry her face and nose. Then she sagged back onto
    his chest and he listened to, felt, the slow steady beat of
    her heart. The faint perfume of her skin tantalized him.
    He studied the arch of her eyebrows, the color of dark
    honey like her hair. There were light and dark hairs, and
    even one or two of reddish cast. No one is ever just one
    thing, one color. We are all mixtures, he thought.
    
    She blew her nose a last time and then gave a shaky
    laugh. 'What would we ever do without pizza?"
    
    "Darned if I know."
    
    One or two last tears sparkled as they dropped onto her
    cheeks. Mac said, "Kiss them away."
    
    He had long since felt himself stirring, but she startled
    him. "What?"
    
    "Like this," and she pulled his face closer and her lips,
    like gentle butterflies, journeyed across his cheekbones.
    Then she let him go.
    
    He looked into her eyes. 'Why?"
    
    "I don't want to be stone," she answered. UAnymore."
    
    He did as she asked him. He kissed her lips last, felt
    her mouth swell and open to him, their kiss long and hard
    and passionate. When he leaned back for air, he said,
    

    





    4i4
    
    'There are some situations in which being as hard as rock
    is preferable."
    
    McKenzie laughed. She ran a hand through her hair,
    combing it and letting it cascade down onto her shoul-
    ders. "Tell me."
    
    "I think," he replied, bringing her face back down to
    his. "This can be considered one of them."
    
    She laughed again and when their lips met a second
    time, it was with a shock, a tingling, an acknowledgment
    of something happening or going to happen between the
    two of them. Her mouth tasted faintly of the beer they
    had shared, and sweet and warm. She tasted him as ea-
    gerly as he did her and when they finished that kiss, deep
    and dark and wet, she leaned her head against his shoul-
    der.
    
    Although he did not feel that way, he knew events
    could still be stopped. "I didn't bring you here for this."
    
    "I know." Her voice buzzed against his skin. "I'd lost my
    way, and you came and called for me. Listened to me.
    Brought Joyce to me. Treated meÄ"
    
    "No different than I treat anybody else," he interrupted.
    
    "No? Well, then, I understand why people spill their
    guts to you. Why you're a good reporter."
    
    "This is going beyond research and an interview."
    
    '\ou're damn straight." McKenzie turned in the chair,
    laying herself atop him, full length. He could feel the heat
    of her bare legs as they entwined his. She reached both
    hands behind his neck, capturing him and when they
    kissed a third time, it was with every square inch of their
    bodies, nerves afire.
    
    He came up gasping. " . . . too old. Too old for this kind
    of activity."
    
    McKenzie looked at him in astonishment. '~You?"
    
    "No. The chair, the chair." Even as he protested, the re-
    cliner opened up another notch and they were practically
    
                 Eiizanern Furrest
                          

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    415
    
    prone. W.hAen she'd f~nished !sughing, he 3as able to cor-
    vince her to move to the bedroom.
    
    He didn't remember undressing. Lying close, she kissed
    his scars and he kissed hers, incredibly tenderly, knowing
    she must still be aching and bruised. She whispered soft
    words in his ear that he almost, but didn't quite hear, but
    it was enough to catch the tone of her voice. He discov-
    ered caressing the backs of her thighs brought her nipples
    to hard, firm points and that she liked it when he cupped
    both breasts at the same time and trailed kisses down the
    curve of her throat.
    
    She ran her fingers over his flanks. He winced out of
    habit when she hit his lower ribs on the left side.
    
    'What is it?"
    
    "Nothing. It doesn't hurt."
    
    She rolled him over slightly and kneaded the tender
    area. 'What happened?"
    
    "I broke a couple of ribs playing football in high school.
    I didn't even notice it for weeks, it happened at the end
    of the season. By the time I had it x-rayed, the ribs had
    healed crooked."
    
    "Poor ribs," Mac sympathiied. She kissed them. "Poor
    Carter." She trailed her lips downward and across the flat
    of his stomach.
    
    She moaned when he slipped his hand down to the soft
    bush of her pubes and massaged her gently, stirring the
    moist heat of her body. He did not think he could last
    when she grasped his cock, giving him light, feathery
    strokes, his skin becoming fiery sensitive with each and
    every touch.
    
    And when she finally began kissing him again, each kiss
    a stroke of lovemaking on its own, and they touched chest
    to chest, he found himself unable to hold back any longer.
    "McKenzie," he began softly
    

    





    416
    
    "MI^~X," c1~~ rpcn~nAPA nnf~nino her 1f?PR and Puidina
    
    him inside her.
    
    She was tight and warm and moist. Every stroke sent a
    thrill through him and he tried to pace himself, but she
    grabbed his buttocks, kneading her fingers into him, pull-
    ing him close, answering by arching her back. Heat ran
    along their silken skin. Sweat pooled in the small of his
    back, kissed their stomachs lightly, added fuel to their
    heat.
    
    The strokes came faster and faster. He couldn't hold
    back, she didn't want him to, and she came first. He
    could feel her go rigid as she cried, barely audibly, "Oh!"
    And she stopped his thrusting for a moment, but it did
    not matter. He was already deep and answered her orgasm
    with his own.
    
                                       She moved her hands back to his shoulders and     [i
    
    crushed him to her breasts, and began crying again, softly,
    ever so softly.
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Before they drifted off to sleep, hlcRenzie smiled into
    his eyes. She turned on her side, spooning, and wrapped
    his left arm about her shoulder as if he were the blanket.
    She was asleep almost before he realized it. He lay very
    still, not wanting to disturb her, thinking.
    
    Then he, too, drifted off.
    
    McKenzie started awake. "What's that?"
    
    Her jolting movement woke him. The room had
    plunged into the total darkness of evening and he rubbed
    his eyes against the blindness. He listened.
    
    "It's the computer."
    
    He took the top sheet with him, wrapped it about his
    waist, and went in the other room. McKenzie trailed after
    him. She wore his shirt which almost, but not quite, came
    down to the tops of her thighs.
    
    ~.
    
    l
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    4:7
    
    "What is it?"
    
    He looked at the machine. It had come alive, though
    the monitor was offÄit was possible Dolan had left it on.
    But the hard drive was working, chattering to itself, and it
    shouldn't have been. He flipped the monitor switch and
    the screen came to life.
    
    He stared for a moment, trying to comprehend what
    was happening. Then, he answered her. "Someone's trying
    to access my computer."
    
    Like Dolan had done to Cyberlmago.
    
    The machine was displaying its directory of its hard
    disk files and software. The lines scrolled by so quickly,
    he could scarcely read them.
    
    'What do you mean?"
    
    "Someone's accessing my computer by modem." He
    could hear the faint atonal whine of that accessory, as
    well. If Dolan were here, he would know exactly what was
    happening.
    
    The hard disk whirled, then whirled again. It stopped,
    then started a third time. As though someone were trying
    to get something from it, could not, and kept trying in
    frustration.
    
    Someone trying to read his files.
    
    But he kept nothing other than operational software on
    the hard disk. His files were on floppies, and there was
    nothing in the disk drive. Whoever was searching did so
    in vain.
    
    He stabbed a finger down at the escape button, tempo-
    rarily freezing the screen.
    
    SEARCH FILE: SUSAN CRAIG.
    
    The good doctor certainly knew more about computers
    then he did. Carter stood in hesitation another second as
    the screen wiped clean, then the directory tree began to
    scroll by rapidly once more.
    
    "It's Dr. Craig, isn't it?"
    

    





    418
    
    Elizabeth Forrcst
    
    "I think so."
    
    Mac rubbed her temple wearily. i'What does she want
    from me?.
    
    '~You?"
    
    "She's never going to let me go." Mac slipped her arms
    around his waist, an intimate gesture, but there was more
    the need for solace in it than passion like that which they
    had just cooled. "I can't remember it all. . . '
    
    "Joyce told me she found you sedated."
    
    "Before that. I saw her with Ibrahim Walker. He looked
    so . . . he was frightened of her. The stroke changed him,
    I know, but . . . I saw his eyes."
    
    Did she know Ibie Walker had suffered a second stroke
    and even now lay on the brink of death? He turned round
    in her embrace. "Mac, when was that?"
    
    "Yesterday. Today ..." she frowned heavily. "Today he
    was in the lab with Dr. Craig. I saw him." She stopped as
    a sorrowful expression replaced one of concentration.
    "She was running a program. He . . . I saw him ... he
    tried to fight it. I saw him reacting, and she just stood
    there, watching. So quiet."
    
    "Are you sure? Ibie Walker was fairly severely incapac-
    itated."
    
    Mac blinked slowly. "He moaned. He jerked as if trying
    to get away and thenÄhe slumped over."
    
    "And what did Dr. Craig do?"
    
    "Nothing. For the longest time. I don't think she in-
    tended to do anything. So I blurted out that I was there,
    and then she started CPR and told me to call a Code
    Blue for the lab and . . ." Mac put her hand to her mouth.
    "Oh, God, Cartet Did I see her try to kill him? And why
    didn't I do anything?"
    
    "You did do something." And so had Craig. Why Ibie?
    Was it because he carried most of the votes against her
    Fernandina project? Would she have eliminated him if
    

    





    D EATH WATC H
    
    419
    
    Mac hadn't been there? Or had she been running an ille-
    gal program on him, and had the elderly man just col-
    lapsed on her? What had he and Mac stumbled into?
    
    "Get dressed," he ordered Mac. She looked over his
    shoulder.
    
    'Why?"
    
    ''lust do it. We've got to get out of here."
    
    He'd been too complacent after the death of Mac's hus-
    band. He'd sent faxes and pointed fingers, but he had no
    way of knowing when or if the Bureau would act on them.
    If Susan Craig or someone on her behalf was breaking
    into his system, they were still active.
    
    They were still trouble. Perhaps far more trouble than
    he had guessed.
    
    He left the computer running, knowing that the hacker
    would not find anything, and dressed rapidly. McKenzie
    met him at the closed front door.
    
    'Where do we go?"
    
    "Anywhere," he answered, "but here." He pulled the
    door open.
    
    Something quick and massive hit him in the chest with
    bone-cracking strength. A great dark roaring opened in his
    mind as he fell forward. His attacker put a shoulder in
    his gut, hoisting him off the floor in a fireman's hold and
    then throwing him across the threshold. He knew he hit
    the floor, and that was all for a moment or two, and he
    lay there blinking.
    
    He got to the door handle of the open door and used
    it to pull himself up, to get on his feet. He palmed the
    light switch, hand shaking, aching with every breath he at-
    tempted to take.
    
    "Mac! Mac!"
    
    He looked around the apartment in desperation.
    
    She was gone.
    

    





    (?hant~r 3.~;
    
    A heavy, sweet, and sticky smell hung on the air. It sick-
    ened him as he staggered to the phone. He intended to
    call in the cavalryÄMoreno, Sofer, FranklinÄwhoever it
    took to get McKenzie back. But the phone vibrated in his
    hand as he reached for it, the ring sharp and clear until
    he snatched it up.
    
    Dolan said, "Our friends just went up in smoke."
    
    The smell on the air made his ears pound. Carter an-
    swered dully, "What?" `~ -
    
    "I'm watching the late newsÄ"
    
    Carter checked the clock readout across the room.
    "Very late news," he got out.
    
    "Whatever. Cyberlmago went up earlier tonight, and
    about an hour ago, Susan Craig's private residence burst
    into flames. The fire department is calling it a total loss,
    and of suspicious origin."
    
    "What?"
    
    "Interested?"
    
    "What's the buzz?"
    
    "A former psychiatric patient came back for revenge
    and torched both addresses. Some schizo."
    
    "Name?"
    
    "Not being released. Word is it's Stephen Hotchkiss.
    Craig's been treating him for depression and something la-
    beled as 'sexual perversion.' Hotchkiss isn't just any poor
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    421
    
    schmooÄhe's a political up and comer on the school
    board. He's been out of town since Ibie keeled over, trying
    to avoid speculation he might run to replace old Walker.
    Sounds like a setup to me. It smells. I haven't been able
    to trace back where the buzz started. Anyway, it's our man
    who starts fires." Dolan paused. "Do you think it's Mr.
    Blue?"
    
    Carter took a deep breath. His rib cage answered with
    stabbing pains and he threw a forearm across his dia-
    phragm, hugging himself for comfort. He remembered the
    fireman's hoist, the carry which had boosted him up and
    then thrown him halfway across the room. The assailant
    had to have been Herbert Dudley. "If it was, he's been aw-
    fully busy tonight. He has McKenzie."
    
    "Jesus. When?"
    
    "Just now." Carter told him a little about the assault at
    the shelter and why he had Mac at his place. "He broke
    in, trashed me, and took her. I was just getting ready to
    send the county mounties to Craig's place." He took an-
    other experimental breath, sucked in the pain.
    
    "What do you want me to do?"
    
    "Help me to think. If Dudley has her...." Carter
    stopped in mid-sentence. Mac had said that Susan Craig
    would never let her go. If Dudley was out and operating,
    it was likely on the doctor's behest. Dudley took her for
    Craig.
    
    "Carter?" Concern was in Dolan's usually breezy tone.
    
    '~eah. I'm here. Listen, if Dudley's on a rampage, it's
    because the doctor set it up. Find the doctor, and we'll
    find McKenzie." But where? His thoughts felt as scram-
    bled as his insides.
    
    "She won't go back to Mount Mercy. And there's noth-
    ing left but ashes at the other two locations."
    
    He couldn't focus. "I can't think. Listen, Dolan, before
    I forget, there's a good chance she tried to waste Ibie
    

    





    422
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    Walker I want vo.. to eall whoever is in eharoe of that ùn_
    vestigation, and make sure they know he's still a target.
    She might send somebody."
    
    'What's the connection? That's pretty far out-in left:
    field.:'
    
    "McKenzie saw the good doctor more than hesitate to
    revive Walker after he collapsed in her lab. As far as mo-
    tive, it could be payback for Walker's interference on the
    Fernandina projectÄ"
    
    Fernandina, a hospital, dormant and still. Quiet. Layers
    of floors, above and below the surface. It wouldn't be a
    refuge too long, but if all Craig wanted to do was to
    gather her resources and beat an organized retreat..
    
    "Shit," blurted Carter.
    
    "What?"
    
    "I think that's where she might be."
    
    "The old hospital."
    
    "That's the one. Call Moreno. Call or fax Sofer and
    Franklin. If Susan Craig is there, Dudley may not be far
    behind. I don't want any loose cannons barging in there."
    
    Dolan said worriedly, "You're going to need some serious
    
                       .. ..
    
    nrepower.
    
    '~ou just make sure the troops aren't far behind me."
    He hung up before Dolan could answer.
    
    Carter retraced his steps across the room to the bed-
    room closet. There, from the back of the top shelf, he re-
    trieved his .38. He hadn't bothered getting a permit for it
    here. Georg Bauefs trail had grown cold long before. He
    slipped it from its holster. The gun smelled faintly of the
    last oiling he'd given it. He loaded it, and dropped extra
    ammo in his pocket.
    
    Programmed to kill or not, he'd bet the .38 could drop
    Dudley in his tracks.
    
    If Carter could see him coming.
    
    If Susan Craig had ever developed her program on ar-
    
     '.Ä.' i  '3 . -         ~ - ~:
     , . fi        ~,   4, ~
    
        _:    A
    
           : *''''      ~,~-~'- ~
    

    





    !
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    423
    
    ehiteetural ima~ina, and if Dudlev carried that around in
    his head, he might be facing a killing machine who knew
    all the loopholes. All the ins and outs of the mazelike
    building. All Carter had were his hazy memories of years
    gone by when he'd written a series of stories there.
    
    He could hope they'd underestimated him, and he'd
    overestimated them.
    
    He could hope McKenzie was still alive.
    
    Dolan put his TV on mute and dialed Moreno's
    number. He got the voice mail for the department. He al-
    most hung up, knowing Moreno probably would not
    check the mailbox before morning, but he stayed on the
    line and left the officer a detailed message that made as
    much sense as he could collect out of what Garter had
    told him. He put an urgent flag on it. He also put in a call
    to Moreno's pager and left the department's own voice
    mail number on the beeper's message system. Maybe that
    would do some good.
    
    Then he went to his computer and booted up his fax-
    modem program and composed a like message for the Bu-
    reau. When it came time to transmit, the software hung
    up, signaling him the transmission couldn't go through.
    
    FBI traffic, coming in at night. Dolan bit his lip. He in-
    structed the program to keep trying transmission, re-
    cycling automatically. It was all he could do. When he
    called, he got a polite recorded message informing him of
    Bureau hours.
    
    He had only one other person he could try. He pulled
    up Joyce Tompkins' pager number and dialed it. She
    would be madder than a wet hen, but Dolan didn't think
    he had much choice. He sat back in his chair, folded his
    arms, and waited for callbacks.
    
    Otherwise, Carter was going in alone.
    

    





    424
    
                  Eliza~eth Fomst
    
    All the coffee in the world couldn't help Sofer combat
    
    rlls Jet lag. nls way seemeu ae[ermmea tO mammary
    E. S. T. even though his mind had to work three hours
    later. It was hell in the early mornings and late evenings.
    So was the heat and smog. He trailed after Franklin, his
    suit smelling faintly of smoke and char. The call for the
    Cyberlmago fire had taken him out of a late dinner and
    the greasy super taco he held in one hand did not promise
    a satisfactory substitute.
    
    Franklin sat down at his desk and eyed the clutter as
    Sofer wearily lowered himself into a chair. Franklin said,
    for about the twelfth time that week, "You know, if you
    like Mexican food, this is the town to get it in, not that
    fast food crapÄ"
    
    "I know, I know," Sofer muttered around the taco. His
    teeth chomped down, squirting hot sauce and melted
    cheese into his mouth.
    
    Franklin picked a slip off his desk. He looked up, Cal-
    itornia crow s-teet deepening around his eyes. "Better
    hurry. We've got another call to make."
    
    Sofer's free hand went automatically to his tie. "I smell
    like Smoky the Bear. Should I change jackets?"
    
    "Don't think so. This time Susan Craigs home address
    burned down. Arson investigators are doing some prelim-
    
    . ...
    
    mary work.
    
    "It's after midniaht!"
    
           ~r -    r
    
    Franklin put up an eyebrow. "No rest for the wicked."
    "Only because the very, very wicked won't let them."
    Sofer stuffed the rest of his taco into his mouth, mopped
    up the overflowing juices with a napkin, and followed
    Franklin back out of the office.
    
    Behind them, as the door closed, a single phone began
    to ring. The automatic phone system cycled it quickly into
    the phone mail, and Agent Franklin's mailbox got ready to
    
                             record a message.   -- i~ ~ ~- - -
    

    





    ~5 s L] - ~ (~
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
        `611~11_       T T J__~. 1 ___ r T'                     ~.   .'
    
         .  . .
    
    425
    
    agent or not, so I'm trusting that this gets passed along
    properly. I can't leave my name, but I will leave a pager
    numberÄ702-5555Äand someone needs to call me
    back. I need to talk to an agent about Dr. Susan Craig. I
    have reason to believe she may have ordered a hit on Los
    Angeles Councilman Ibie Walker, and she's trying to
    blackmail me, as well. Please contact me as soon as pos-
    sible."
    
    The line went dead after a last, quavering word from
    Stephen Hotchkiss.
    
    Carter turned off the car lights and pulled in quietly,
    gliding to a stop. He ached and put his hand to his rib
    cage again. That sweet, coppery smell was thick in the
    car. He pulled his hand back wet and warm.
    
    "What theÄ" He cracked the car door, letting the light
    come on, and looked at his fingers.
    
    Blood.
    
    He'd been stabbed and hadn't even known it. He
    skewed around on the seat, swinging his feet outside to
    the ground, leaned back and pulled up his shirt. Nothing
    too gory, though the sight of the entry wound made him
    queasy for a moment. He reached up to his left shoulder
    and ripped the sleeve down after three or four very vigor-
    ous tugs, made a compress, and tucked it inside his shirt.
    
    Dudley had been going for a fatal wound. He'd
    missed~od knew whyÄthen Carter smiled grimly. God
    bless those crooked ribs. The knife blade must have slid
    off them. He was losing blood, but not too rapidly. The
    compress would have to do.
    
    He retucked his shirt tightly and gathered his thoughts
    again. Chain-link fencing ran all around the hospital site,
    though he could see it had been breached in several
    _~c~es. Wild thistles pushed their way up through asphalt,
    

    





    ~ _,,?~ ~ ~ ~,?~_ ~ ;- - f i i= 5?~ '!~;~, ~\ -
    
                 El~zzibeth Forrest
    
    rIz~rk m~rnle in the late evenina. Li~hts cleamed from the
    hospital building, though anyone could tell the building
    was abandoned. Power had been maintained to keep it
    from becoming a ghost town, a shooting gallery. At one
    time, a janitor had even lived in Fernandina, though
    Carter had no idea if anyone did now. The lights were
    sporadic and insufficient. Inside, the building would be
    creaking, dirty, aged, disrupted by the earthquake and
    abandonment. Still, there were four floors up and two, no,
    three, Carter corrected himself, three floors down. The
    surgical theaters arid the morgue made for two. File stor-
    age and utilities the other one. The floors below were
    basements in the foundation, basically, not the full size of
    the stories above although Fernandina was a small facility
    by anyone's standards.
    
    Mac could be anywhere.
    
    He wanted to wait for reinforcements. Every painful
    breath told him he should.
    
    But he didn't dare.
    
    He got out of the car and shut the door quietly. He
    slipped a hand to the small of his back, checking his belt
    holster and the .38. He was no Lone Ranger, but he could
    not wait.
    
    l
    

    





    ~: = - ~ ~ - - '~ ~ .~ ~. ~! ,,. _ ~,j,~_
            Chapter 36
    
    Flash. Looking into a face in which nothing was human
    except the general outlines, a death mask with eyes that
    watched her avidly.
    
    Mac came awake with a jolting dread. Her head
    pounded with a sickly sweet smell and her tongue felt like
    cotton. Where was Carter? Where was she? She remem-
    bered being caught up, of trying to kick free. A man had
    burst into the apartment, throwing Carter aside like a bro-
    ken toy, and snatched her up. She had fought, uselessly.
    Then a rag was pressed to her face, and she had tried not
    to breathe, but she had to, sending her into a dizzying
    drop, a downward spiral which seemed never to end, a
    dreamless unconsciousness.
    
    Her lips tasted horrible. She choked as she tried to lick
    them clean. Gagging, she nearly fell over, slipping against
    soft cloth bonds which held her to a chair. The chair
    scrapped against the linoleum flooring as she managed to
    right herself. Alone. No sign, human or inhuman, of her
    captor.
    
    The long, thin roomÄno, she told herself. A corridor.
    The corridor was lit in a golden, sepia manner, almost ad-
    equate to see, but not quite. The linoleum under her feet
    was an anonymous brown speckle, heavily waxed over the
    years, until it had a patina almost as golden as the illumi-
    

    





    428
    
    Elizabeth Forrese
    
    head up, so she stared at the flooring.
    
    Remembered it. She'd seen flooring like it before. Was
    she somewhere she knew?
    
    Mac lifted her chin. Beige baseboards ran a foot or
    more up the walls, like splash guards or chair rails, then
    the walls were an indifferent ivory color. The hallway was
    not totally empty. Here and there an old wooden desk
    might be pushed against the side, a chair or two sitting
    beside it. It reminded her for a moment of an old school
    when the janitors used to push the furniture into the cor-
    ridors so they could clean the classrooms. But it had been
    a long time since any student had been here, if this had
    been a school.
    
    At the joints where one intersection met another, the
    plaster was heavily cracked, crevices zigzagging their way
    from ceiling to bottom. Lights overhead were caged in
    thick, wire covers. Desiccated insect forms dotted the in-
    side of the lights. Had she been left to die, alone and
    caged as they had been?
    
     ~s  ~
    
                       j ~ :
    
    O ,
    
    Mac twisted her wrists, felt the soft cloths which helil-~:
    her give. She pulled more vigorously, then stoPped as she
    heard a heavy door open. ;~~ ~ ~- _Ä
    
    Susan Cralg and a man came into the corr~or.
    walked with an easy athletic grace, his shoulders wide in-
    side the dark sweat suit. His head seemed malformed,
    and it wasn't until- he turned to look at her that she could
    see he wore one of the virtual reality helmets, modified,
    its visor covering his face. The shiny ebony surface
    gleamed, reflecting her shocked face back at her, but she
    could still see through its translucent shield to his hard
    eyes that watched her back. Hungry eyes. Eyes without a
    shred of sanity or compassion.
    
    A tiny sound escaped her as he reached up and pulled
    the garish-looking mask off. Behind it, the face was hard
    

    





         ~ ~i~::
    
    :~]
    
    DEATH WATCH
    
    429
    
    A A A~__ A_l .~ 1 ~A :~^ :. L~l L _ _ _ AA:_ L___1 ~ r
    
    someone had taken his face between the palms of gigantic
    hands and squeezed it under tremendous pressure, offset-
    ting it. A delicate, fine-lined scar ran along the brow,
    across the temple, and disappeared into the hairline. He
    had been a handsome man once. It was the eyes which
    made her look away. Mac could not meet the terrible ex-
    pression in their depths.
    
    Even as she took a shuddering breath to steel herself,
    she felt something more. She could hear the sleepinng nzan
    stirring.
    
    As much as she feared Susan Craig and the man with
    her, Mac was more afraid of what she sensed but could
    not see.
    
    7~e sleeping man. He did not stand before her, but his
    presence filled the air as powerfully as if he did. What
    was he, what could he be, that she feared him more than
    she did the two in front of her, the two she could see, the
    two she knew existed?
    
    The unmasked man plucked at the doctor's elbow to
    gain her attention. "She's awake," he said flatly.
    
    Susan turned around. "Good. We've no time to waste."
    She pushed her light blonde hair away from her face in a
    strangely feminine gesture, smiling, though her blue eyes
    stayed as chill as always. She drew near.
    
    'Who is he?" Mac asked.
    
    Susan looked over her shoulder. "Not that it will matter,
    but this is Herbert Dudley. The papers have been specu-
    lating about him lately. They sometimes call him Mr.
    Blue."
    
    That would have scared her enough, but she knew that
    what she dreaded meeting was even more terrible. This
    was flesh and blood. The other defied her comprehension.
    
    "No," Mac returned. "Not him. The sleeping man."
    
    = ,:~udley went incredibly pale and stepped back against
    

    





    430
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    ~ 11 ir~ ~tr-<`.' ~11f_~n f~ ~_hrff~fwc HÄW lin a
    genuine expression of surprise on her face, and then she
    composed herself.
    
    "You have depths," she answered, "I hadn't suspected."
    
    "She can't know." His mouth worked a moment before
    Dudley got the words out.
    
    "Of course she can. That's why I kept her alive." Susan
    pushed her sleeves up. "Aren't you going to ask how
    you got here, McKenzie? Or what we did with Carter
    Wyndall?"
    
    At the newsman's name, the big man let out a short
    laugh. Her chest tightened, but she would not let them
    see her respond. She could still smell his scent on her
    skin, feel his warm hand on her shape, share the look in
    his gentle eyes.
    
    Nothing like the eyes watching her now.
    
    Mac stared back levelly.
    
    "No? Well, we haven't time for small talk anyway." She
    said to Dudley, "Boot up the computer. Load the main
    program. I want the master matrix brought up."
    
    He had not yet fully regained his color, and it seemed
    to McKenzie that the big man paled even more. He hes-
    itated.
    
    "Do it."
    
    Dudley, holding his helmet by a strap, went back inside
    the doorway they'd just come out.
    
    She walked around behind Mac and unlocked the
    chair's casters with a kick of her toe. "You asked about the
    sleeping man," Craig told her, as she wheeled the chair
    down the corridor. "You share Dudley's nickname for him.
    Did he tell or did you sense it? Dudley has a special re-
    lationship with him, but nothing, I suspect, like yours will
    be. You have a gift, McKenzie, of being able to interface
    reality with virtual reality. I found it when I was going over
    the empirical data of your spatial scans."
    
   ~f
    ;
    

    





     P     ~       ~DD ~ .: ~ ~ ffD,
    
    ~o be sure, the animation and graphic imagery has im-
    proved by leaps and bounds. With certain hallucinogenic
    drugs and subliminal cues, you'll even swear you can
    smell and touch and taste what your eyes are watching,
    what your ears are hearing. But you can't. No matter how
    much you might wish to, because it isn't real. It is a
    dream world which we can train you, to a certain extent,
    to manipulate. We can use it for therapy and diagnosis,
    for recreation, for mind expansion, behavior modifica-
    tionÄfff Susan Craig broke off. She turned the chair
    sharply into a doorway. 'fThe applications are almost end-
    less."
    
    "But we cannot blend it into reality. One leaves this
    world to enter the other. Sometimes knowinfgly, sometimes
    not, but there is a threshold which exists."
    
    "But I can do something you can't."
    
    "Indeed." Susan leaned down. The room they entered
    was, or had been, an office. It was empty now. Old, brit-
    tle, yellowed paper drifted across the floor like autumn
    leaves, skittering away from Dudleyfs steps as he came
    back toward them. Battered and rusting old file cabinets
    sagged against the wall. In its midst, several newer chairs
    and a computer setup seemed jarringly out of place. A
    second, spartan monitor and phone line ruled a smaller
    desk.
    
    But it was the major setup which drew Mac's attention
    like a magnet. The monitor was alive, and a face filled the
    screen. His dark brown hair had been neatly combed
    back' and the hazel eyes glowed with life, the flecks of
    gold and green in those caramel depths gleaming like
    flames of fire. She knew that face, those eyes. Fingers
    that dipped in blood and drew. She wanted to turn away
    from that stare, that watcher, a predator waiting for the
    prey to make the tiniest of moves, like a cat or a raptor.
    

    





    432
    
                 Elizabeth Forrese
    
    One small motion and the chase would begin. The eyes
    were unblinking, eternal.
    
    Mac stopped breathing as Susan wheeled her around to
    look at it.
    
    "Meet the sleeping man. McKenzie Smith, this is, or
    was, Georg Bauer."
    
    She managed to take a breath as the screen did not re-
    spond. She looked into a photo, a still picture, as lifelike
    as any reproduction.
    
    But it was not alive.
    
    `~ -".~0 -
     i ~,~ ~ . Ä? r ~
    
    Susan Craig touched the monitor screen gently with
    her fingertips. 'Put her in the chair, nllAlp~ ch" caiA ah
    sentry.
    
    Scowling, Dudley untied Mac's
    
    {,, _ _ _ , _ _ _ _
    
    in his. He dumped her in the contour chair in front of ~
    the computer.
    
    Without looking around, Susan ordered, "Secure th~
    feet and left arm only."
    
    "She could get loose."
    
    "Once she's in the program, she won't even try. She
    needs to wear the glove."
    
    Don't let him waken.
    
    .,~ ~.
    
    She must have spoke aloud, for the other woman
    looked back over her shoulder, and her mouth stretched
    with irony.
    
    "That's what I kept you alive for, McKenzie. You've met
    with him before. Now you're going to join him, for me.
    We'll work together, you and 1." Susan broke off, hum-
    ming a few bars of "Beautiful Dreamer."
    
    Dudley carefully secured her to the new chair. The only
    good thing about him was that his muscular body broke
    her field of vision, and the deadly stare of the man on the
    computer screen. When he had finished, she found her
    voice.
    
    "He's a monster."
    
    L
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    433
    
    The cold blue eyes looked into hers. "You don't know
    him the way I do. But you will."
    
    "He's dead."
    
    "He's dormant," agreed Susan. She tapped the com-
    puter. "But not in here. I have him broken down, frag-
    mentized, everything that he was and could be. The force
    of his personalityÄI've been studying the effects of his
    imprints for years." ~ -
    
    "You killed him."
    
    Her mouth tightened a moment. "No," Craig answered.
    "But Georg and I both knew that he was . . . socially un-
    acceptable. That we could never have a life within the
    norms. So we did what we had to, and this is what I was
    left with. His essence. His psychological soul, if you will.
    Digitized into virtual reality."
    
    "You keep trying to recreate him."
    
    "Yes."
    
    Dudley came toward her with the VR helmet.
    McKenzie Jerked wildly away. "Brand," she said.
    
    "Yes. Only partially successful. He had his own wild
    personality traits. Dudley here is a far better copy, but
    then, I had excellent raw material to work with. But
    again, he has his own life. He does not wish to live as a
    copy of another man, and I would not wish him to."
    
    Dudley grabbed Mac harshly by the chin as she tried to
    snap at him.
    
    He began to pull the helmet over her head.
    
    "Why me?" cried McKenzie.
    
    "Because- you bring reality into virtual reality. You create
    and manipulate what is not in the software, the program.
    I don't want to create a legion of serial killers. I don't
    know how you interface, I only know that you do. You can
    meet him face-to-face without my imprinting him over
    your own matrix. You'll bring him out. You the victim, he
    the hunter. Two halves of the same equation."
    

    





    434
    
                 ENzabetl' Forrest
    
    ~'nv?" sC7e~m~ M~r aPain ctr773vPIina aeainst Dudlev
    and the chair, afraid as she had never been in her life. All
    the pashes she had ever seen began to careen through her
    mind.
    
    "To cure Georg Bauer, naturally." Susan's face lit with
    the first genuine, warm smile Mac had seen from her. "I
    hope you enjoy meeting him."
    
    Dudley thumped the helmet down, shutting her into
    twilight.
    
    Flash. Her father placing the bat in her hands. The
    wood, new and shiny. The weight, heavy. Walton Smith
    smiling, his eyes bloodshot from a hangover the day be-
    fore, but his love fresh as the new day. "Just swing when
    you're comfortable, Mac," he said. "Don't try to hit a
    home run. Just get on base."
    
    She seemed to hold the bat firmly in her hands. Had
    she done this before? She moved hesitantly forward into
    the neighborhood of California tract homes.
    
    Something sharp pinched the inside of her arm. What
    are you afraid of, McKenzie? Susan Craig's voice echoed in
    
             her head. It must be Carter Wyndall. He knows what's in-     E~
    
    side of you. He wants to free it. You mustn't let him.
    
    Rage.
    
    The sleeping man.
    
                         Don't. Wake. Mustn't. Rouse. ~:
    
    She tightened her hands around the handle of the bat.
    
    A whine at her ankles.
    
    "Cody!"
    
    His tail waved for her, golden silky hide rippling, his
    chocolate eyes sparkling with doggish spirit and love. But
    as she tried to take another step forward, he hugged his
    body against her legs and lowered his head. He growled in
    warning.
    
    He nressed heavily aQainst her. forcine her back. ' -~'=
    

    





    : :~ :~:: : ~
    DE~ WATCH
    
    435
    
    ~ 1 A ~ _ ~ A l. A ~ ~ _ _ I . _ ~ L _ _ L _: _ ~ _ _ I I ~ I r . .
    
    around her knocked her from the program momentarily,
    her senses reeling.
    
    An alarm sounded.
    
    Mac put her gloved hand to the visor, was able to tip i
    up and partially off.
    
    The small black and white monitor showed a tipped
    view of a double-door entry in one of its cubed shots.
    Someone walked through warily.
    
    Susan said to Dudley, "It's Carter. I thought you took
    care of him."
    
    "He went down."
    
    "He didn't remain down. Handle it. I've got to stay
    here. I need her if this works, she's expendable if it
    doesn't."
    
    He hesitated.
    
    "Go on! I just gave you the imprint for the building.
    You'll be one step ahead of him the whole way."
    
    Dudley leaped into motion like a deadly cat. Craig
    leaned back over the security monitor.
    
    McKenzie drew one foot out of her cloth shackles and
    kicked the other free. She slid her right hand out of the
    VR glove and picked her left hand free. The helmet she
    drew off her head as she got stealthily out of the contour
    chair.
    
    Susan must have heard her coming, for she straight-
    ened and turned halfway around when Mac faced her
    "Don't try anything, McKenzie."
    
    "My father isn't here now."
    
    "I know you better than you know yourself. I've started
    a process you can't stop this time. There are stnngs I've
    pulled. Thoughts that can explode like land mines inside
    your headÄ"
    
    "I will not be a victim!" Mac backhanded her with the
    VR helmet. The doctor's head shot h~rk :'nr1 ~hP fPII urith
    

    





    436
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    charn c^~'nA aOrl siv vPrv ctill rln thP floor An ~mntv cv-
    ~ - r ~ ~
    
    ringe rolled beside her.
    
    In the corridor, McKenzie paused for a moment. Her
    guts reeled as if she were going to be very, very ill. When
    she looked up, it was as though she were in two worlds.
    She had brought the program with her, a waking dream,
    one that she could not leave.
    
    She looked down at her left forearm and saw the angry
    spot, the puncture mark, on the inside curve.
    
    With certain hallucinogenic drugs...."
    
    Susan Craig had tried to ensure her meshing with the
    artificial world of her murdering lover.
    
    Mac took another staggering step. The double vision
    was excruciatingly painful to endure.
    
    She looked up. Cody stood at the intersection. He
    lifted his head, and gave her a grin, red tongue lolling
    from between sharp, clean teeth. His ears pricked with
    happiness.
    
    If not real, then at least Cody came from her, formed
    by her experiences.
    
    She ran after him.
    
    She sprinted up a story and skidded around a corner.
    Cody faded, his golden shimmering body growing fainter
    and fainter until he disappeared. Mac stopped. She held-
    her breath, listening.
    
    A faint scuffle. The corridors here were dark, illumi-
    nated only by the faraway glow of fixtures mounted along
    other pathways. She put her back to the wall and eased
    toward the intersection.
    
    The darkness seemed to help the war within her
    senses. She looked with one vision momentarily, heard
    with one set of ears. Touched with one pair of hands. She
    came to the right angle corner and stopped.
    
    ChP rrPnt :~rf1l!ncl thP i'Inf~tI]rp
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    437
    
    He turned as she did, and they stared face-to-face.
    
    "McKenzie!"
    
    Seeing him jolted her. She flung up a hand to stop him
    as he drew close.
    
    She could not bear to have him within arm's reach.
    Within harm's way. She warred with herself and did not
    want to add casualties.
    
    Flash. The bat, in her hand, standing over Carter's body,
    a crimson wetness splashed around. Her vision or Craig's?
    
    The son of a bitch will never hurt anyone again. Her
    voice, in her head, low and snarling.
    
    But it was Jack she thought of. Not Carter. Why did
    she see Carter's body?
    
    It couldn't happen to him.
    
    Not her.
    
    She closed her eyes as visions crowded.
    
    What did she see from within? What did she sense that
    Susan Craig had implanted there?
    
    "Mac?"
    
    She swallowed it down as if that was all it took to sup-
    press it, and looked at him. The lines in his face deep-
    ened with concern as she answered, "I'll be all right."
    
    "Let's get out of here
    
    "No."
    
    He had her by the hand, but her flesh was so chill and
    numb she could scarcely feel his touch.
    
    "She has a program," Mac got out. '~ou have to do
    something. She has him on disk."
    
    'Who?"
    
    "Georg Bauer."
    

    





                                        He took a step back as if she'd physically hit him. Then
                                        he inhaled deeply, though it seemed to pain him. He put
                                        a hand to his ribs, bracing himself. "Where?"
                                        "Back this way." She turned to lead him.
                                        He stopped her. "Tell me which way to go. And you stay
                                        here."
                                        "Dudley is looking for you. He thought-he'd killed you."
                                        "I know who he is." He stared back the way he'd come,
                                        then met her eyes again. "She has a program . . . do you
                                        knowÄ"
                                        "She said she'd imprinted him with the hospital's lay-
                                        out.     F
                                        Carter looked gnm. '1hen he'll find us wherever we
                                        are." He put a hand to the small of his back. She gathered
                                        he carried a gun there.
                                        Flash. She saw Bauer's face.
                                        The death watch blinked.
                                        The prey had given itself away. The stalker leaped.
                                        The realization set off a flood of adrenaline, a rush. He
                                        was in her mind, but she stood, fighting the impulse to at-
                                        tack, that idea that Carter was the enemy.
                                        She had done this to McKenzie. She who loved a com-
                                        puter image, a printout, a personality matrix was trying to
                                        come between Mac and Carter.
                                        Mac shaded her eyes from Carter. Its not real, she told
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    439
    
    herself. They had lain together. She had felt the love
    pooled between them. That was real. She knew what it
    was now. She'd never had it from Jack, but Carter had
    touched her, embraced her with it, and she knew what it
    was. She didn't want to let it go. She didn't want to let
    him go.
    
    But Susan Craig had taken her father's legacy of rage
    and fumed it back on her. She could feel it mounting in-
    side her, like a volcano ready to blow.
    
    He took her hand. "Mac, what is it?"
    
    She heard a noise beyond the intersection and slipped
    her hand away quickly. "Hurry."
    
    They ran.
    
    Carter could not catch his breath. Even if they could
    stay ahead of Dudley, whenever they paused, he sounded
    like a bellows. His left side grew wetter and slicker.
    McKenzie seemed to know the way, yet she paused and
    doubled back once or twice.
    
    He knew he could not go much farther. He caught her
    sleeve. "Mac!"
    
    She froze in place. He bent over and tried to breathe
    deep. Had Dudley sliced into a lung? He lost his bearings
    for a moment and slapped his hand onto the wall to keep
    himself upright.
    
    He left a bloody palmprint.
    
    Mac grabbed up the edge of her shirt and tried to scrub
    it away. "He'll know. He'll see it and he'll know."
    
    Carter stared at it dully, trying to think, to remember.
    Then it came to him. The horrible drawings in the apart-
    ment building, like and unlike Georg Bauer.
    
    "Let's give him something to think about," he said. He
    pushed Mac away. He wiggled his right fingers inside his
    shirt, dampened them on the compress. Oddly enough, he
    wondered if he'd bled enouQh to do anvthinQ.
    

    





    440
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    He managed a sun, a sun with corona flames. The orig-
    inal was emblaz.oned in his memory from the very first
    murder site he'd stumbled across, a Georg Bauer original.
    
    Mac shuddered. 'Why?"
    
    "Because part of him is Bauer, and part of him isn't.
    Even when he kills, this guy is torn apart. He's going to
    kill us when he meets us. This is going to stop him in his
    tracks." Carter wet his lips. He turned around, unable to
    face the pictograph himself.
    
    "He's afraid of the sleeping man," Mac murmured in
    agreement. She brushed her hair from her forehead. She
    seemed to wake. "Come on."
    
    He shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere." He
    pointed at a shadowy doorway ten yards down. "I'm sitting
    here, and I'm waiting."
    
    "CarterÄ"
    
    He looked into her face. "Where does Craig have the
    computer set up?"
    
    "One more turn and then downstairs."
    
    "The old offices and storage rooms. I know them. You
    go on. I'll catch up."
    
    She started to argue, but then Carter grabbed her by
    the arm and dragged her down the corridor to the re-
    cessed doorway. She heard then the whisper of running
    shoes on linoleum. They crouched side by side, and
    Carter put his hand in his pocket, reaching for his gun.
    They waited.
    
    He charged them out of the shadows, from in front of
    them and not behind. He had circled them. A warning
    scream tore out of Mac's throat. Carter did not even have
    a chance to pull the gun out or get to his feet in response.
    
    Dudley put his shoulder down, driving a tackle into
    Carter that threw him across the corridor. Carter hit the
    wall and slid down limply.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    441
    
    The gun. What had Carter do~ze with the gun? She did
    not see it in Carter's hand or on the ground.
    
    Dudley picked Carter up by a fistful of shirt. Carter
    blocked the first blow, then came a crunch of meat and
    bone. Carter went to his knees and spewed helplessly,
    painfully.
    
    He rolled aside, scrambling out of Dudley's reach, lung-
    ing at the other's ankles. His weight brought Dudley down
    with a surprise grunt. They grappled while Mac watched
    in horror. Dudley got to his feet by sheer brute effort and
    drew Carter with him. He turned, holding Carter at arm's
    length, and threw him across the corridor again, slamming
    him into the wall.
    
    Carter's breathing rasped in and out of broken lungs.
    His nose was a crimson smear. But he stayed on his feet
    and when Dudley pivoted around to finish him off, the
    stalker froze in horror.
    
    He stared into the bloody sun signature of Georg Bauer.
    
    Garter reached into his trouser pocket and brought his
    hand out filled with the .38. He hesitated.
    
    Dudley let out an inhuman roar and charged.
    
    The .38 answered back, knocking him halfway down
    the corridor. He landed on his back and jerked once.
    Then he lay sprawled in a gory pool.
    
    Carter swayed. He returned the gun to his pocket. He
    looked up, met Mac's eyes. She said nothing. She came
    over and placed herself under his arm, and braced herself
    as he leaned on her. They moved crablike into the dark-
    ness.
    
    "I think this is it," Mac whispered into his ear. They
    came to a painful stop.
    
    Carter put his hand behind him, then shook his head.
    "You stay away from Susan Craig. I'll do what I have to."
    
    Mac nodded. She turned the doorknob slowly, waiting
    

    





    442
    
    Elizabeth Forrest
    
    for the click, and pushed it open as soundlessly as she
    could.
    
    They had entered the wrong room. As they stepped in,
    the soft beep and chime of monitors filled the air. Hospi-
    tal equipment of every imaginable kind ringed the room.
    Old filing cabinets and desks had been shoved aside to
    accommodate the medical equipment. They stared in dis-
    belief.
    
    Carter said, "Holy shit," softly and limped toward the
    massive coffin that stood in the center. "It's a hyperbaric
    chamber."
    
    It looked like an Egyptian sarcophagus. Mac tripped
    over a heavy cable, one of several crisscrossing the floor.
    The room hummed with the power and the working of
    the machines. She looked at a monitor which she recog-
    nized from ICU. A slim paper fed in and out. She
    touched it, read it. The heart rate had been holding steady
    at 55. Then it had begun to increase and was now ap-
    proaching 75. She dropped the paper, uncomprehending.
    
    Carter reached the side of the chamber and looked
    down through the glass lid. "Oh, my God. She's got him
    
    . ,,
    
    on Ice.
    
    The sleep~ng man.
    
    Mac turned toward him. "In suspension. Waiting for a
    cure."
    
    "There's no cure for what he has." Carter stepped back,
    his face creased with disbelief and horror. "Find the plug
    and pull it." He whipped around, started to retrace the ca-
    bles. "This is why she didn't get out. This is why she hes-
    itated, even when everything started to fall apart."
    
    The chamber drew Mac. She went to it, one shaky step
    at a time. She reached it just as Carter yelled at her.
    
    "Don't fool with this, Mac. You don't know what you're
    getting into."
    
    She leaned over the glass lid. Pale in death, yet appear-
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    443
    
    ing merely asleep, tucked into loose overalls, he lay, eyes
    closed, hands palm up, a beatific pose. His dark brown
    hair waved over a satin pillow. The Father of All Violence.
    A Bringer of Destruction.
    
    With a grunt of agony and triumph, Carter found a con-
    nection and pulled it apart. A bank of machinery went
    blank and quiet.
    
    The chamber stayed lit. She could see an intricate net-
    work of fine lines and wires that crisscrossed his body, as
    well as tubes. Fluids dripped in and out. The body was re-
    markably well preserved and she wondered what Susan
    Craig had done to it.
    
    The door crashed open. Susan screamed, "Get away
    from him!" She hurled herself at Carter, clawing at his
    eyes. He fell back into a stand, taking the machine with
    him.
    
    Sparks flew in blue and orange arcs. They snapped and
    crackled and Carter, locked in mortal combat with Susan
    Craig, could only swing around and barge into another
    bank of equipment. He managed to topple that as well.
    
    The smell of electrical fire filled the room. A thin veil
    of smoke rose.
    
    Mac froze. The machinery still on at her elbow began
    to chatter. The stylus danced and drew intense, increasing
    lines. She looked down into the chamber.
    
    The eyes opened. Hazel orbs with yellow fire licking
    deep inside them stared into hers.
    
    He was alive and awake.
    
    Mac bolted. As she dashed into the corridor, she heard
    a massive crash, a thunderous clanging. Its echo filled the
    hallway and gripped her, freezing her in place. The cham-
    ber had overturned. Had to have. She couldn't leave
    Carter behindÄ
    
    Flash. Bauer was behind her, awakening, coming. She
    had to run.
    

    





    444
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    A woman screamed. It was truncated, cut short. Mac's
    heart pumped faster and faster until she thought it would
    burst, but she could not move. Could not turn around.
    Could not scream. Her eyes watered as the stinging
    smoke of an expanding electrical fire surrounded her.
    
    Cody appeared at the end of the corridor. He barked
    once, urgently.
    
    She knew this nightmare. Mac leaned forward and her
    feet followed. She broke into a shambling run. Something
    metallic crashed behind her and she could hear hoarse
    breathing. Blind panic drove her.
    
    The dog led her through the maze. They went up and
    up and around and around. She could feel him coming af-
    ter her. The heat of his body was like a smothering cloud,
    drawing closer and closer.
    
    Mac slipped and went down, sprawling. She sobbed in
    exhaustion, hugging the floor. Cody's apparition disap-
    peared. She got to her feet.
    
    A thin wailing sounded. Smoke alarms, going off
    throughout the building. She turned.
    
    She'd left Carter behind.
    
    She could not.
    
    She went back.
    
    Carter crawled painfully across the floor. He caught Su-
    san Craig up as he would a drowning swimmer and
    crawled back across the room, dragging her limp body
    with him. She began to kick and fight feebly. Blood mat-
    ted her wheat-blonde hair. The side of her face had swol-
    len purple-red and only one eye could open to look at
    him. He pulled her over the threshold and into the corri-
    dor. There was no sign of either Bauer or McKenzie.
    Carter and Craig coughed and choked until the fresher air
    of the corridor revived them. Carter managed to pull him-
    self to his feet. He hauled the doctor up with him.
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    445
    
    "What was that thing that came out of the chamber?"
    
    She glared balefully at him. The bruised and swollen
    shut eye teared blood. "Georg Bauer."
    
    "How do you stop him?"
    
    She coughed again and said hoarsely, "You don't."
    
    'What the hell did you have him in?"
    
    "A medically induced coma. It was the only way to
    keep him safe while I worked. I gave him everythingÄ"
    Susan looked in distress down the empty corridor as
    smoke snaked out across their feet and began to rise, a le-
    thal fog.
    
    He started to limp, pulling her with him.
    
    "My workÄ"
    
    "Fuck your work. You know him so bloody well.
    Where's he gone? What's he doing?"
    
    Her chin trembled slightly as she squinted down the
    abandoned hallway. "He's hunting," she said simply.
    
    Carefully, Mac traced her steps backward. Whenever
    she halted, could not find her way, she searched for the
    sign Cody had left. Pools of thin urine upon the floor.
    Once or twice, the sign had been disturbed. Fading wet
    footprints led the other way. The pursuer had been out-
    run.
    
    She began to speed up as the alarms got-louder, noisier.
    The building might smolder for a while, but once it
    caught, it would go like tinder.
    
    She went downstairs. Her footsteps drummed in the
    stairwell, echoed up around her and gradually faded away,
    saying to anyone who listened, Here I am. Come get me.
    
    She stood in the lobby. Another stairwell faced her and
    as she hesitated, she heard them come up out of the
    depths of the building.
    
    Carter was dragging Susan Craig. Halfway across the
    lobby he let her drop to the ~round and bent over. cou~h-
    

    





    446
    
                 Elizabeth Forrest
    
    ing, retching miserably Blood dripped from his side as he
    did so.
    
    He raised his head and spotted her. His jaw worked.
    "MacÄ"
    
    Too late.
    
    A hand dropped on her shoulder. Fingers gripped her
    like iron.
    
    Susan Craig got to her feet with a sob. Staggered for-
    ward, entreating. "Georg," she said in a lover's pleading
    tone. "Please. "
    
    Mac swung free as the hand moved. Bauer came from
    behind her, crossed the floor in three swift strides, to
    catch Susan Craig up in his arms. The woman smiled and
    tilted her battered face upward.
    
    "GeorgÄ"
    
    He bent her backward in his embrace. "For what you
    did to me." His voice was dry and rusty. Without another
    word, he put a knee up and cracked her back across it.
    Then he dropped her on the floor. He looked at
    Mc Kenzie.
    
    And smiled.
    
    McKenzie's hell burst in her mind. She took a step for-
    
                                       ward.     ~
                                       Wires trailed from his jumpsuit. He looked as if he had     ~J
    
    stepped out of an ebony spiderweb. As she looked at him,
    his image seemed to waver and fade, like a bad television
    transmission.
    
    Carter begged. "Run, Mac. Get out of here." He
    squirmed on the flooring and brought his gun out, held it
    up, tried to keep a steady bead.
    
    Georg Bauer glanced at him. And laughed. He dr~w
    closer to McKenzie.
    
    She watched him with vision both real and virtually
    real. She knew him, and he knew her. Susan Craig had
    brought them together, tried to meld them.
    
    _ ~
    8,
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    447
    
    What are you afraid of7
    
    This was her dark half. This was the rage she had in-
    herited from her father, doubled, trebled, quadrupled by a
    warping society.
    
    She could let it swallow her or break free.
    
    Bauer held out his hand.
    
    Curling smoke began to pour out of the downstairs
    well. Carter's hand shook. The barrel of the gun wavered
    uncontrollably.
    
    "Mac," he said hoarsely. "Run. Get out of the way.
    Please."
    
    Bauer pivoted and kicked out in one deadly move. The
    gun flew from Carter's hand as he gave a shocked cry. The
    .38 disappeared down the stairwell into the fire. Bauer
    moved to stand over Carter.
    
    "Leave him," she said. "It's me you want."
    
    The killer looked over his shoulder at her. "Actually,"
    and his smile grew wider. '~You're a little old for my taste."
    
    Mac took three sharp breaths, closed her eyes, and
    loosed her rage into the virtual reality plane. Bauer stag-
    gered back.
    
    No more.
    
    She stuck her right hand out. A baseball bat immedi-
    ately filled it. What are you afraid of?
    
    She ran her hand over the weathered wood. Her touch
    renewed it into gleaming freshness. She could feel her fa-
    ther's hands over hers, guiding her into the correct grip.
    This was their bridge, the span which crossed the gulf be-
    tween their ages and their genders, his rage and her inno-
    cence. It was all he'd had to give her, and McKenzie knew
    now that Walton Smith had prayed daily that it would be
    enough. She could feel the puff of a breath across her
    temple, the warmth of a presence standing behind her to
    embrace her, as he wrapped his arms around her, enfolded
    her hands in his. Circle the bases. McKenzie.
    

    





    448
    
                 Elizabeth Forr~st
    
    This was her heritage. Not the rage. The love of a sport.
    The enthusiasm. The goodwill in playing, and playing
    well. The fairness and drive of the competition. The les-
    son and future that athletic success could give her, that
    he could not. She could feel his hands engulfing hers still,
    molding her fingers about the wood.
    
    l~hat are you afraid of?
    Not this. Not anymore.
    
    Her weapon. Her tool. She gripped it tightly with all
    her senses and all her heart. Virtually real. She advanced.
    
    Bauer seemed frozen in hesitation; she could see the
    overlapping realities. Carter gasped at his feet. There was
    a serious pool of blood growing around the reporter. He
    couldn't last much longer.
    
    And she could see others as well. Children. Shades of
    Bauer's victims. Watching her. Their tortured flesh hang-
    ing from their bodies. The souls shining through like bea-
    cons of angelic light. The suffering. The violence.
    
    Bauer put his hand out. 'You're part of me," he said.
    
    "No. Never."
    
    "I know what you feel."
    
    "No. Never!"
    
    Carter felt the heat from the two of them, hotter and
    more searing than the flames at his back, as his own body
    grew icier by the second. So this is what itieels like to die,
    he thought. Like Iying d~ n to sleep in the snow. He ought
    to get up to help McKenzie, but his legs had stopped
    obeying him.
    
    Only his heart still responded. Bauer and Mac faced
    each other like wrestlers waiting for an opening. She de-
    nied him, but fear for her resided in Carter's guts like a
    ball of ice. He leaned over and dug his fingers into the
    tile, dragging himself across the floor. It was slippery and
    tried to cling to him, tried to glue him down.
    
    . ..
    

    





    DEATH WATCH
    
    449
    
    "Mac, don't listen to him. Whatever he wants in you,
    she put in there. It's not you! Don't let him take you!"
    
    There was no sign she heard him as the killer leaned
    close and placed his hands on her shoulders. She gave a
    mighty shudder and her face paled to a silvery unearthli-
    ness.
    
    She faced Georg Bauer across the planese He began to
    draw on her. She could feel herself grow thin, insubstan-
    tial. In his way, he was murdering her here.
    
    Just as he planned to do in reality.
    
    "No. Never!" She stepped into the swing with all her
    might, the bat following through.
    
    Carter saw her take a step into Bauer's embrace. It
    wrenched an incoherent cry from him and he pulled him-
    self up, grasping, hand outstretched, fingers curled at her
    ankle as if he had strength enough left to yank her away.
    He felt a shock through his hand, a levin bolt, a jolt of
    electricity charged enough to stand his hair on end.
    
    He heard her shout, "No. Never!"
    
    Bauer grunted with the impact and rocked back on his
    heels. His arms flung into the air, wires trailing, black lic-
    orice whips about his body. His lips peeled back from his
    teeth in a rictus grin. Then he brought his hands in,
    clutching his chest. Tottering back, the killer went down
    and did not move again.
    
    Headlights streamed through the night. The wailing of
    fire engines still pulling into the Fernandina lot was deaf-
    ening. Behind them, the flames rose hungrily, licking
    white-orange into the heavens. There was no way the fire-
    fighters were going to save the building or anything that
    might be left in it. Police and Bureau agents busied them-
    selves in the flickering light, pulling yellow crime scene
    tape into place. Helicopters beat overhead, adding their
    beams to the effort to light the scene.
    

    





    450
    
    ElJzabe~h Forresf
    
    Mac walked beside the gurney, holding tightly onto
    Carter's hand. Dolan trotted on the opposite side, sus-
    pending a plastic bag in the air. His other hand held a
    tape recorder and he was trying to catch all of what
    Carter was saying.
    
    Sofer and Franklin sat on the bumper of the ambu-
    lance, watching as the attendants and paramedics steered
    the gurney near.
    
    Moreno helped collapse the gurney legs and hoist it
    into the ambulance. Dolan clicked off the recorder.
    
    Carter coughed once, wetly. He made an effort to keep
    his eyes open. He said, weakly, 'When you call out the
    cavalryÄ"
    
    Dolan grinned. "Better late than never, right!"
    
    "Right," softly answered Mac. She climbed into the am-
    bulance next to Carter. She smoothed his tousled hair
    from his forehead.
    
    He coughed again and winced in pain. Then he told
    her, 'We've got to stop meeting like this."
    
    She only smiled.
    
    Joyce Tompkins leaned into the back of the van before
    they closed it up. "Carter, just tell me you got that son of
    a bitch who killed Graciela and Donnie."
    
    Carter lifted his head. He looked back at the outline of
    the building as the fire consumed it. A corner caved in as
    they watched, sparks like shooting stars aimed to the sky-
    line.
    
    'We got 'em," he answered. Then he put his head down
    and closed his eyes peacefully. Mac leaned over and put
    her face to his chest, listening to his strong, steady heart-
    beat.
    
    l
    
    .~,
    
    In the depths of the night shift, Brand awoke suddenly
    from a dream. The lamp in the backboard was on, and in
    

    





    4~
    
    D EATH WATC H
    
    451
    
    its halo, he could see his mother, drowsing in a chair
    pulled close to the hospital bed.
    
    Delight burst in him. "Mom!" He reached for her, ban-
    dages trailing from his wrists and sheets falling from the
    bed.

    She woke with a smile and reached back. Her face
    came closer and closerÄ

    and he looked into Susan Craig's ice blue eyes.

    Brand screamed.

    He bolted upright in his bed, sweating, the sheets fall-
    ing from him, his room shrouded in night. Steps came
    swiftly down the hall, the door to his room bursting open.

    He sat, panting. "Bad dream, bad dream."

    The light came on.

    "Brandon. You're awake."

    He looked up.

    His mother stood in the doorway. Tears began to stream
    down her face. "Brandon!" she cried joyfully. "My baby."
    She opened her arms to embrace him.

    He was afraid to reach for her.