"BEHOLD THE CHILD"

By Harry Shannon

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“Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law

Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.”

Alexander Pope 1688-1744

1.

“Please, man, let me go!”

The terrified girl with the runny nose could have been any age between twenty and forty. Her name was Pearl, or so she claimed. She was skeletal; with badly pocked skin and stringy brown hair. Pearl wore a man’s blue work shirt, filthy jeans and tennis shoes with no socks. She kept scratching at the scabs on her arms. Years of junk and physical abuse had rendered her features generic, although at some point she might have been pretty.

“Is that Oso’s house?” Kenzie drawled, softly. “The blue one yonder, with an old Ford up on blocks in the front yard?”

Pearl nodded her head furiously, her breath steaming in the cold air. She tried to shrink down in the passenger seat and disappear. Her voice was thick with fear. “If he comes out and sees I brought you here he’ll fucking kill me, mister, no shit he will just flat fucking blow us both away.”

As if on cue, the front door opened and an impossibly large, busily tattooed Hispanic man in stained boxers wandered out onto the front porch. He stood there in the yellow light, scratching his balls and watching the sunset. Between the patterns of snakes, gargoyles and prison gang insignia lay a random series of dark, rectangular burn scars. He had a quart of malt liquor in his left hand and a 357 Magnum in his right. Detective Sam Kenzie felt his heart thump and his gut tighten in anticipation.

“That’s him, right Pearl? That’s the man with the scars, that sold you the speed, the one you said was holding a little girl hostage. That’s Manuel Ortega, also known as Oso?”

Pearl had her face so far down it looked like she was kissing her ass goodbye. She was whimpering into her cupped palms. Kenzie grabbed her greasy hair and yanked her head back against the seat.

“I need you to look,” he said. “And tell me if that’s Ortega.”

Incongruously, Pearl began to rock and whispered the Lord’s Prayer at breakneck speed. Then she nodded. Said: “That’s him. And there’s one other biker in there with him, a prick called Gato.” Kenzie reached across and unlocked her side of the car. He pushed her head back down.

“Ease on out of here and stay low,” he said, not unkindly. “I do believe this old boy is likely to throw down on me.”

“You’re fucking crazy, mister.”

Kenzie smiled. “That’s probably true, Pearl. But if I shoot him it just means you won’t have to testify at a trial.”

“I already told you I couldn’t do that,” Pearl wailed. “I’d be good as dead.”

Detective Sam Kenzie watched the scarred, tattooed Ortega pace the porch and drink beer. He looked down at Pearl, twisted her hair again. “Listen to me,” he said. “If we need you, you’re going to be in rehab in Pomona, just like we agreed. You’re anywhere else, I’ll find you and make you sorry. Now get.”

Pearl slipped out of the car, sank to all fours and crab-walked backwards into some brush. Sam Kenzie watched her ease behind a row of overflowing trash cans and then beat feet down the alley like a track star. He felt his adrenaline kicking in. He slipped his Glock 9 out into his palm, popped the safety and reached for the radio. He paused for a minute; thinking things over, playing out various scenarios in his mind. How many others in the house? Had to be guns all over the fucking place, the prick was running a crank lab.

The rap sheet on Manuel “Oso” Ortega, also known as The Bear, was longer than the Florida recount. It stated that he had been badly abused by his crack-addicted, prostitute mother and her customers. She had burned him with a hot iron when he misbehaved. So now Oso was psychotic, drug addicted, armed and dangerous. He was also wanted in three states besides California, on charges ranging from assault and battery to grand theft auto; drug trafficking to homicide.

And he had started kidnapping children; this latest a young girl, apparently for sexual purposes.

Kenzie knew he was acting like a cowboy, but the capture of Ortega or a righteous shoot-- not to mention the rescue of one of the kidnapped children--would be quite a feather in his cap. He also knew he had an obligation to call for back-up. After all, he was out of his jurisdiction and operating without a partner or even a proper warrant.

But the car in the driveway, a battered Chevy truck with flames painted on the side, had broken tail lights; an old excuse for probable cause. Also, a man known to Kenzie to be on parole was both drinking and packing a fire arm. A witness had now identified Oso and indicated that he had sold her some drugs, not to mention that a kidnapping would be Ortega’s third and final felony strike under California law.

Yeah, and your wife is pregnant…

Kenzie sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He listened to the crickets sorrowing in the weeds and examined the peculiar truth that fatherhood scared him more than a pitched gun battle. His world was a sick and violent place.

Oso’s mother burned him with a hot iron when he misbehaved…

Sam Kenzie also wanted to believe Laura’s pregnancy was an accident, but he didn’t. He didn’t want the mere existence of a fetus to have changed his attitude towards his career and his life…But it had. What was that sound?

“Fuck!”

The squeal of tires: Bright headlights lit up the car before Kenzie could react and duck out of sight. He had a very brief glimpse of a much older man with a thin face whose eyes went wide at the sight of him. Kenzie had lost the precious advantage of surprise.

At that same moment Manuel Ortega grinned and started down off the porch towards the vehicle approaching the driveway; now revealed to be a Nissan without plates. But the startled man driving the car honked three times. He gunned the engine and roared away. Ortega, reacting to what was obviously a pre-arranged signal, dropped the quart of beer. He moved back towards the dilapidated blue house, gun up and eyes searching the street. Time began to slow down. Ortega’s mouth narrowed and his face registered rage.

Kenzie yanked open the driver’s door and rolled out into the street just as a shot splintered the windshield. The sound followed a split-second later; a thumping boom that started dogs barking all over the crime-infested neighborhood. Kenzie felt the lining in his jacket tear and he swore as the sharp gravel sandpapered the skin from his palms. He considered clambering back into the vehicle to use the radio, but a second shot flattened the front left tire, missing him by less than a foot. He rolled, rolled again.

BLAAAAAM! Oso was down on one knee, trying to track Kenzie under the car and then flat on the dying grass, squinting and squeezing off another round. Kenzie used the engine block for cover, threw his long body over the hood and let fly. Shells flew into the air and tinkled to the ground all around him. Oso watched divots travel up his lawn and decided discretion was the better part of valor. He zigzagged back onto the porch, shrieking something in Spanish to whoever was inside. The situation was becoming seriously messy.

“The hell is going on?” Somebody was coming down the alley. He saw Kenzie with the gun and ducked back into the encroaching darkness. Kenzie managed to free one hand and dragged out his shield, waved it in the air.

“Call 911, asshole!”

Bitter laughter: “Call ‘em yourself, pig!”

Oso on the porch, Oso in the doorway: Kenzie fired again, and the porch light exploded into fragments. Once more time and blood spurted from Oso’s forearm just as the door slammed shut. Got you, motherfucker…

Now, what?

Kenzie wiped sweat from his brow and weighed his shitty options. He heard a siren somewhere to the west; saw the flashing, twirling lights of a black-and-white as it ripped through rush hour traffic. He jumped back into the car and used the radio to introduce himself and explain the situation. To their credit, the San Bernardino cops didn’t demand much of an explanation beyond a clear Sit-Rep and his exact location. Kenzie swallowed bile, then lied and told them he was at the foot of the front porch.

Kenzie stared firing at the house and then sprinted away from the safe cover of his car. The kid, I’ve got to get the kid away from them. He ran across the yellowing lawn and threw himself flat at the foot of the steps. His heart was hammering, now. Kenzie realized that he had never been so afraid in his entire life. He thought: God damn, Laura as he huddled there in the dark and changed clips, you made me hesitate.

A squad car raged down the street. It slammed into a pot hole in the asphalt and bounced, then shrieked itself sideways to block the driveway. Now the air stank of cordite, trash and burning rubber. The two cops placed themselves behind the black-and-white and threw down on the weathered blue house. One looked a little past veteran; the other was a rookie with a huge nose and wide, panicked brown eyes. The partners searched the yard and the porch, found Kenzie’s position and the older one shouted: “Stay down!”

‘Fuck that!” Kenzie bellowed. “Cover me.”

He took a deep breath, gathered his legs and scrambled up the front steps on his elbows and knees. The front door was still open a few inches. Time expanded and then contracted again, everything slowed to a crawl. Kenzie saw a ratty green sofa and chair, a fat joint burning uselessly in an overflowing ashtray; magazines in piles next to an incongruously new wide-screen television set with surround-sound speakers. He crawled, moving a little closer; the 9 mm Glock clenched in his sweaty hands, then peered through the foot of the door into the hallway.

Motorcycle boots, fat legs in blue jeans. Kenzie fired even as his eyes traveled up the body to take in the long beard, wild “tweaker” eyes and pierced brows. The legs exploded into gore and bare bones. The biker wailed and went down. Another shot blew his jaw away. then he went silent. The shotgun he’d been holding fell uselessly to the wooden floor. Hey, Gato, nice to meet you.

Bear, from down the hall, probably in one of the back bedrooms: “Gato? Ese, are you okay, man?”

Kenzie went into the living room, gun up and searching every corner; heart in his throat and pulse throbbing painfully. He eyed the body, kicked the shotgun away and shifted to the left of the hall just as Oso fired two shots at the front of the house. Part of the door disappeared, and the living room was bathed in an eerie, shifting light as the cop cars arrived from all angles and focused their floods.

“Manuel Ortega? This is Detective Sam Kenzie, LAPD. Let’s cool it for a minute and talk things over.”

After a long pause, Oso answered, which Kenzie knew to be a good sign. He was panting, breathing heavily; high as a weather balloon on meth. “Talk what over, man? I ain’t going back inside, ese, I promise you that.”

“So let’s talk.”

“Talk about what, cop? Huh?”

“Hey, who cares,” Kenzie said. He forced his voice to stay casual. “First, about how I’m getting too old for this shit. I’m nearly fifty, Oso. Don’t make me chase you, okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, how about it’s not too late to help yourself, here.”

“The fuck you mean? Huh? Help myself how, cop? I can’t take it any more, man. I can’t stand the pain.”

“What pain, Oso?”

“The pain. I can’t stand it, man. And no more of this I poke death bullshit, either! You know what I mean?”

Kenzie didn’t, but played along. “Yeah. Sure. The I poke death thing.”

He willed himself to stay calm, sound confident. He edged closer to the doorway. “I know something you can do about it,” he said.

“Yeah, right. And what’s that, ese?”

“You can let the kid go,” Kenzie said. “That would sure make you look good. Then you get a bad-ass lawyer and you never know, right?”

“What kid you talking about?” Oso taunted. “You see some kids around here, or something? Huh?” But his response had taken a few seconds too long. Oso was thinking it over.

“Oso?”

“What kids, cop? Huh? Fuck off, man. I can’t stand the pain.”

He had the girl right there in the room with him. Kenzie just knew that somehow. He had always trusted his instincts.

And he also knew that Oso had just decided to kill her.

“Cop?”

Kenzie took a deep breath. He slid around the corner, gun up and at the ready, and started inching down the hall. The deep voice had come from the right and towards the back of the house. The junkie had said there were only two men inside. Kenzie knew he had to take his chances, or the little girl was dead. He approached the first bedroom, risked a peek. No one there.

“Come here,” Oso growled softly. Someone whimpered; someone with a very high and fragile voice. They were in the back bedroom. A floorboard squeaked beneath his foot and Kenzie winced.

“Cop? You out there?”

“I’m coming in now,” Kenzie said. “Let’s not shoot each other, okay?”

He spun around the corner and stepped into the bedroom, the 9 mm cocked and ready. His hands were shaking, but he still managed to draw a bead on Oso’s perspiring forehead. The huge man held a girl in a death grip, despite his wounded arm. She was a horrified, small-boned teen with her hair in a pony tail. She seemed astonishingly tall. The 357 was aimed right at the back of her skull. Time swirled into a black hole as the two men stared, unblinkingly, into each other’s eyes. Oh, shit, oh shit…

Kenzie finally registered that the girl was standing on a chair. Oso was using her body as a shield. She wore a white blouse with cut-off blue jeans, and her thin legs were trembling. She reminded him of his sister.

Kenzie took a long moment, then said: “Oso, I think we have us a difficult situation, here.”

Oso was wild-eyed, amped, soaring on methamphetamines and nearly psychotic. His jailhouse tattoos pulsed with blood and twitched from adrenaline. He cackled and held the girl closer, his snarling face next to hers so that Kenzie couldn’t shoot. “Fucking difficult? No shit! Give me your fucking gun.”

Sweat burned in Sam Kenzie’s left eye. He blinked it away without once closing his right. “You know I can’t do that,” he said.

“I poke death, man. Now give me your fucking gun, or I do the girl!”

Kenzie didn’t move. “And then I shoot you,” he said. “What good is that?”

“I don’t even fucking care, cop!”

The girl who looked like his sister Jenny whimpered and Kenzie forced a smile. “Take it easy, honey,” he said. “I think we can still work something out.”

Kenzie felt his vision telescope. He fixated on the smallest of details; the miniscule distance between Oso’s head and the girl’s face, the tremble in Oso’s hairy trigger finger, the cars arriving outside to surround the house. He sniffed and took in the odor of some kind of gas. The crystal meth lab! Suddenly Kenzie realized Oso only wanted to stall until the inevitable spark from gunfire would immolate them all. He was running out of time.

Oso’s eyes widened slightly, as if he were reading Kenzie’s mind. “Don’t even think about it asshole. I’ll kill her first.” Talking made his head move half an inch further away from his captive’s.

Kenzie took the shot. He stole a deep breath, released it part way and squeezed the trigger; unfortunately just a split second after someone outside tried to use the bullhorn. The resulting screech caused Oso to turn slightly towards the window. The 9 mm slug neatly removed his left eye, his wide nose and part of his sinus cavity. A fine mist of crimson and grey sailed high in the air behind him. Then the bullet ricocheted out of Oso’s skull and traveled down into the trembling neck of the young girl, who looked startled and mildly upset, as though someone else had rudely passed gas in an elevator. A crimson fount shot out of her carotid artery. She immediately went pale and began to sink to the floor.

Kenzie cried: “No!”

Meanwhile, what was left of Oso’s mind finally directed his fat, hairy finger to pull the trigger of the 357 Magnum. Kenzie, horrified by the death of the girl, had already fired once more, hitting Oso in the chest. Then he managed to cover his balls in a useless defensive maneuver before the hollow-point bullet went right through his splayed fingers, tore the thin webbing of skin between two of them and viciously penetrated his lower intestines. There it spun, end over end, creating tremendous internal injury and releasing fecal matter into his bloodstream. What was left of Oso dropped like a sack of bricks.

Sam Kenzie fell to his knees, then sideways onto the floor. He felt thirsty and hot and his groin felt like it was on fire. He heard the cops storming the house, someone screaming for an ambulance, and he wondered if they would be too late to save him. Suddenly he was cold and shivering and the pain was unbearable. He watched the young girl bleed out onto a cheap, coffee-stained throw rug.

2.

Sam Kenzie dreams: He is a boy again, back in Twin Forks, suffering the blistering heat of the Nevada desert; walking aimlessly in search of water. He tries to force open a cactus to get a drink, but has no knife. The angry green needles puncture his hands. He shades his little eyes and looks around.

There is a shack of some kind, an inner tube on a rope that hangs from a weathered barn door. He sees some pale, badly deformed children playing nearby. They are taunting an aroused scorpion with a sharp, wooden stick. They pause to watch Kenzie and then laugh at him, shouting cruel-sounding words he cannot quite comprehend. One has the haunted face of his sister Jenny, who died in childhood. He wants to speak to her…But just then a sandstorm kicks up, stinging his eyes.

Kenzie walks away from the sullen children until they are swallowed up by the dust. He discovers some large rocks, then a cool cave. He goes down deep in the earth, trying to hide himself from the wind and dirt. He is desperate to escape from his agony, but before too long it finds him again. I can’t stand the pain, ese! Kenzie tries to scream, but discovers that he has no face and can not make a sound.

Someone speaks. An old black man in a bleached pine rocking chair is trying to tell him something important. Young Sam Kenzie does his best to listen…

That’s when he woke up.

The world was a white blur. As his eyes came into focus, Kenzie realized he was in a hospital bed. The pain was incredible, but somehow he had survived. He wiggled his fingers and toes and discovered that he wasn’t paralyzed, searched and found the expected IV needle in his arm.

His balls.

He tried to move his hands low enough to explore his genitalia, but one was fastened to a board with the IV and the other buckled to the metal frame of the bed. Kenzie gasped in horror. They didn’t want him to touch himself down there. The bullet had struck him low, and torn up his guts. He remembered that much. Jesus, he had lost his cock and balls.

“Hello?”

No one answered.

He had to know.

Kenzie struggled to free the hand they had fastened to the bed. He tried clenching the muscles in his pelvis, but everything seemed fuzzy and moved in slow motion. He felt a sharp pain in the groin area, but logic told him that this might just be a catheter inserted into his penis. It didn’t prove anything.

“Nurse? Hello?”

He found the nurses call button with his trembling fingers and pushed, then pushed again.

Darkness began to overtake him.

Suddenly Kenzie felt terrified of going under. He was panicked that he might die while he was sleeping; never get to explain what had happened in Oso’s house, why he’d had to take that shot, to clarify what had gone so horribly wrong. The world seemed to slide into thin, colored slats that moved further away. He was sinking fast; heart thudding, breathing rapid and shallow. Footsteps entered the room, someone spoke, but it was too late. He was unconscious.

Someone said something, and Kenzie woke up. It seemed he’d slept only a matter of a few minutes, but the itch on his face told him he badly needed a shave. At least a few days had gone by.

“How long?”

It sounded like the voice of a man with the harsh, raspy voice of a chronic smoker. For a long moment Kenzie didn’t realize that it was his own voice, that he’d spoken his thoughts.

“Honey?”

A woman’s voice. Laura was in the room with him. Kenzie tried to speak again, but the effort exhausted him. The room began to spin, and he was abruptly terrified that he would vomit; that then his belly wound would pop open and his stinking guts spill out. The pain increased. He remembered the blood spurting from the girl’s neck and the bullet striking his stomach. Kenzie, half delirious, wailed his darkest thoughts. He said: “Damn it, you and the baby made me hesitate.”

“What?”

“I hesitated, Laura. I lost my fucking edge.”

“Oh, Sam, forgive me…”

And then he wanted to tell Laura that he was sorry, that he didn’t really mean what he’d just said, but by then it was already too late. The ‘pain train’ was back. Agony tore through his insides and stole all reason. I can’t stand the pain any more ese, I can’t stand the pain…Moments, hours, days flew by. Kenzie moaned and grunted and writhed on the bed, generally drugged out of his mind. The world had no sharp edges, everything was blurred and distorted. He had a surgery, and then got cut another time or two; maybe too many operations to count.

In fact, Kenzie, at first humiliated, almost got used to watching his own shit flow into a plastic bag.

Almost.

One morning something felt different. Perhaps his medications had been changed, or it was merely that enough time had gone by for the healing to begin in earnest, but the world seemed almost back to normal. Kenzie found he was able to crack a joke and to smile. More time passed; sunny and then cloudy days. Several cops he knew came to visit, and quietly congratulate him on having “blown the assholes away.” No one mentioned the dead girl, and Kenzie was grateful for that.

And finally the plastic bag of excrement was missing. Kenzie could see the furniture, the flowers, and the trees outside the hospital window even more clearly than before; the thin veil of cellophane, probably created by the pain medication, was finally gone.

“Honey?”

Sam Kenzie turned his head and saw Laura. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she had lost a great deal of weight, but Kenzie figured he didn’t look so good himself. He thought his wife was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Hi.”

Laura began to cry. “You’re going to be okay,” she gasped. “The surgeon says you’re going to be fine.”

“I know. He told me.”

“How do you feel now, Sam?”

He searched himself. “Weak,” he said. “Really weak.” And then he looked more closely at Laura, at how thin she was, and something deep inside began to shrivel and die. He struggled to speak again. “What’s bothering you, honey?”

“I don’t know how to say it, Sam.”

A chill ran down his spine. What, was she having an affair too? IAD was going to put him up on charges, what the hell was she so upset about?

“For Chrissakes,” he sighed, “just say it.”

“I’m not…carrying, any more.”

“The baby?”

Her eyes told him before she shook her head. “I realized that you were right, Sam,” she whispered. “This just wasn’t a good time for us to have a child. I…took care of it, honey.”

“You what?”

“The baby. It’s gone.”

Kenzie searched himself, for he was uncertain how he should respond. What he discovered in his mending guts was an odd mixture of shock and relief. He looked up at Laura and was surprised to find tears running down her cheeks. He made his features more severe and covered up as rapidly as possible.

“Oh, Laura, I didn’t mean you had to do that…I was blaming myself, not you.”

“Hush,” she said. “You rest, now.”

She touched a finger to his lips. Kenzie smelled her hand cream, and a bit of lush perfume. His groin stirred. He smiled. All of his senses seemed to be returning to normal, at long last.

He fell asleep again.

3.

“Internal Affairs was all over you about this damned mess, Sam. Like ugly on a herd of apes.”

Kenzie nodded. He knew that this was the part where he was supposed to express his gratitude. So he did. “Captain Kramer, I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done on my behalf.”

“The Hispanic community was up in arms about Oso and the girl getting wasted. It wasn’t easy to convince them that this was a righteous shoot.”

“It was, Cap. He was going to kill her.”

Kramer slapped a file down on his desk. Storm clouds gathered on his reddened, alcoholic features. He leaned down like Zeus. “But you went in there alone, without a warrant, and for Christ’s sake you were on somebody else’s turf, Sam! Parker Center is pissed off. They want me to give them your head.”

“Then maybe you should consider doing that.”

“You’re damn right!”

Kramer was the theatrical sort. After a long, drawn-out pause he relented a bit and straightened up. He reached into his back pocket, produced a rolled up newspaper. He opened it with a flourish, pointed. “I particularly love this part. ‘Kenzie, a cowboy cop from the tiny town of Twin Forks, Nevada, brings a wild-west attitude to his job with the LAPD.’ That’s just great. Wild west, my sagging ass.”

Kenzie cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Kramer seethed. “The only thing that saved you is all the positive publicity you got for getting yourself shot while in the process of fucking up. What the hell am I supposed to do with you, Sam?”

Kenzie remained silent, face expressionless and eyes mild. He looked down at his still-healing belly. In truth, he had no answer to that question. Part of him, he realized, hoped he’d have the decision taken away; get early retirement and a pension. The other part of him was petrified by the idea of leaving the job. Even though he’d just been shot.

“Sam?”

Kenzie winced. His stomach clenched involuntarily every time he thought of his wound, the surgeries, that omnipresent bag of feces beside the bed. It hit him that it had been a very long time since Kramer had spoken. He looked up.

“I’m sorry, Cap,” he said. “I guess I’m still a little weak. What did you say?”

Kramer shook his head sadly. “I asked what the hell I should do with you.”

Kenzie shrugged. “I’m a team player, Cap. Whatever you think is best.”

Kramer chewed his lower lip absently. Kenzie studied the broken veins in his nose and the bloodshot eyes. At one time Captain Judd Kramer had been one of the finest men the LAPD had to offer. A few errors in judgment and a couple of political mistakes had reduced him to an overweight bureaucrat; just waiting for a diagnosis of cirrhosis and a ticket to a liver transplant.

Kramer sighed heavily. “Maybe you ought to take it easy for a while, Sam. I didn’t want to do this, but I think you’d better a ride a desk for the next few months. Get a little therapy, okay?” He opened his desk drawer and removed something small. He handed Kenzie a business card. “Call this shrink, a Dr. Sidney Greenburg.”

Kenzie felt queasy. “You’re kidding, right?”

Kramer shook his head. “I am most certainly not kidding, Sam. And all this comes down from God, okay? Right from Assistant Chief Daniels. He says you take it easy and shuffle auto-theft reports, maybe get yourself some psychotherapy, and then we can review your situation again in a few months.”

“When the publicity dies down?”

Kramer shrugged. “You think whatever you want.”

“Thanks, Cap,” Kenzie said. He stood up and put out his right hand. “I know you really went to bat for me on this one.”

Captain Kramer took his hand. “You nearly blew yourself right out of a career, Sam. Listen, I know you’re a hot dog, always chomping at the bit to be out there on the street. I realize that this desk thing is going to be hell on you. But everybody needs a break now and then, and believe me, this will be for the best. Just grin and bear it, okay?”

Sam Kenzie nodded and turned to go. He worked hard to hide that he was not at all upset. In fact, he felt relieved. But fuck that shrink business. No way.

4.

“Do you really love your wife, Detective Kenzie?”

Kenzie squirmed on the uncomfortably soft couch and manufactured an exasperated sigh. “Of course I fucking love her. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Dr. Greenburg was an almost absurdly mild-looking man who reminded Kenzie of a younger Woody Allen. His thinning hair was in disarray, and his thick glasses caused his eyes to mushroom. A small rectangle of sunlight reflected directly off Greenburg’s balding pate; it looked like a doorway to another world.

“You fucking love her?” Greenburg rolled the word around on his tongue, almost tasted it. “I wonder why you would choose to phrase it that way.”

Kenzie felt his palms moisten. This nerd Greenburg scared him a little. That fact, in turn, made him angry. “Look, I came in here to waste time and money because my boss asked me to. He thought it might help my…flashbacks. So far, all you’ve done is act like some caricature of a therapist.”

Dr. Greenburg pursed his lips like a woman applying lipstick. He nodded “Point taken,” he said. “You are being direct with me, and I can appreciate that. So let us cut to the chase, as they say.”

Kenzie leaned back on the couch cushions. It felt like falling into cotton candy. “Yeah. Please get to the point, okay? I’m not here to play games.”

“I asked about your love for your wife for one particular reason, Detective Kenzie. You have admitted to occasional affairs, as well as a fondness for strip bars and lap dancers. I was simply trying to explore your reasoning and justifications for such…extracurricular behavior.”

“What, because I love my wife I can’t touch any other pussy, is that it?”

“That,” Greenburg said with a touch of sarcasm, “is what is generally meant by the term ‘till death do you part.’” Kenzie noticed that the psychiatrist’s cheeks had gone a bit pink.

Kenzie sat up. “I was under the impression therapists were not supposed to render moral judgments. Did I miss something somewhere?”

Greenburg blushed more deeply. “Frankly, it is difficult for me to not have some sympathy for your wife, under the circumstances. You have indicated that she wishes to have children and that she had an abortion for your sake. One would think…”

Kenzie sighed. “Okay, Greenburg, look. Whatever you may think of me, I do love Laura deeply and I would never want to hurt her in any way. Cops have stressful lives, as you well know. Sometimes I blow off a little steam, that’s all. But Laura has never known about it, and she never will.”

Greenburg started to respond and Kenzie could read the thought: How can you be sure? But Greenburg held himself in check. He merely shrugged. “Was your father unfaithful, Sam?”

For some reason the use of his first name made Kenzie relax. He nodded absently. “I guess that probably figures, huh?”

“At the risk of sounding like ‘a caricature of a therapist,’ what was your childhood like, Sam? Where did you grow up?”

“In Twin Forks, Nevada,” Kenzie said. “And it was okay, I guess. My aunts and uncles all lived together on a small ranch. They had a tough time making it.”

Greenburg wrote something down on his notepad and Kenzie cringed a bit. “What about your mother and father?”

“I’d rather not talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s not go there, okay”

Greenburg made another note. He leaned back in his chair. “I was just wondering if your avoidance of starting a family might have something to do with your own experiences as a child.”

Kenzie found himself half way to his feet before he could halt or disguise the intensity of his reaction. He blushed and sat down. “Touché,” he muttered. “A hit, a palpable hit.”

“Shakespeare?” Greenburg said, one eyebrow arched. “I thought you were something of a cowboy.”

“Good teachers. In high school, and a year or two of college. We moved to California when I was a teenager.” Kenzie leaned back into the annoying cushions. After a long moment, said: “We were rednecks. My father used to beat the shit out of me and my mother was a drunk. Are you satisfied, now?”

Greenburg seemed only mildly interested, although he did make another note. “Do you have any siblings, Sam?”

Kenzie said nothing. Greenburg scribbled a bit more then looked up with an arched eyebrow. “Sam?”

Kenzie was surprised to find his voice small and weak. “A sister, Jenny.”

“And where does your sister live?”

“She doesn’t.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jenny is dead.”

Suddenly the clock on the wall seemed to tick forward more slowly and with greater volume. Greenburg could have, perhaps should have spoken but he did not. He waited, masterfully increasing the pressure until Kenzie felt his emotions rising like sewage in a tank; choking off his breathing and moistening his eyes. He felt himself drift through a wrinkle in time.

“Jenny was always skinny,” Kenzie said softly. “My aunt used to say she could turn sideways and stick out her tongue and she’d look like a zipper. We we’re pretty close for brother and sister, maybe because we had to be to survive. Went swimming together down at the creek, swung out over it in an old used tire Grandpa hooked up to a piece of rope, stuff like that, you know?”

Greenburg remained silent.

“I reckon I was maybe ten, so Jenny would have been eleven then. It was just before we moved from Twin Forks to California. A half-breed name of Red came by, offering to break horses. We had two we couldn’t handle, so my uncle hired the man. Red, he was a big, pony-tailed bastard who walked bow-legged. Had a happy smile, like a kid at Disneyland, but he was pure evil.”

Kenzie looked up at Greenburg with a worried frown. “I’ve never talked about this before,” he said. “I don’t like how it feels.”

“No,” Greenburg said. His eyes were kind. “Go on. I think it will help you to talk this out, Sam.”

“She told me she was afraid of Red,” Kenzie said. “But I didn’t believe her.” A clumsy, stiff moment passed. What Kenzie thought he saw in Greenburg’s placid eyes forced him to look down and away. The flesh around his lips turned white. “That’s bullshit, I guess,” he said. His voice was thick with emotion, now. “I believed her. But I was afraid of Red, too. Afraid to back her up with the grownups for fear he’d whip me. I had nightmares about him.”

Greenburg interrupted only to prompt him. “What happened in those dreams?”

“I’d be somewhere, stark naked and trying to cover myself. I’d see Red laughing at me like he knew what a coward I was, but also like he…wanted me. And in that dream I’d know something had happened to Jenny, something bad…”

“Sam?”

Greenburg’s voice startled Kenzie into realizing he’d been silent again. He tried to meet the therapist’s eyes, to defiantly stare him down and stop the flood of repressed emotion. He failed.

“Sam, what happened to Jenny?”

Kenzie looked down. “My sister hung herself in the barn,” he said. His voice broke on the last word. “She left a note. Turns out old Red had held her down and had his way with her more than a few times, and she didn’t think she could tell anybody.”

“But you think she tried to tell you?”

“Yes.”

Greenberg leaned forward with sympathy in his eyes. “Sam, you were just a ten year old boy. What were you supposed to do? She should have told an adult.”

“No,” Kenzie sighed, “she was probably right not to bother. Dad would have blamed her, and Mom would have figured out a way to make it something to get drunk over.”

“What happened next, Sam?”

“My uncle Buck, he was a mean bastard. I suspect he took care of it.”

Greenburg cleared his throat nervously. “Excuse me?”

Kenzie looked up again, and his eyes were cold. “We didn’t call cops in my family,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I decided to become one, who knows.”

Dr. Greenburg was perspiring. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “Uh, what happened?”

Kenzie smiled thinly. “Red just up and disappeared, that’s what. My guess is he’s buried near Twin Forks, where the family used to plant dead livestock. Stinks up there anyway, you know? They probably beat the bastard senseless, then tossed him in the ground and covered him up while he was still breathing. Would have been the righteous thing to do.”

Greenburg looked uncomfortable. Kenzie grinned. “Don’t worry Doc,” he said. “You don’t have to report anything. Everyone involved has been dead for years, and besides, it was in another state. It’s all over and done.”

“Not if you have still not forgiven yourself, Sam.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t let myself off the hook,” Kenzie said. “Maybe it’s best I go on owing Jenny something for letting her down.”

Greenburg sat back. “I have a fantasy I’d like to share with you,” he said. Kenzie was annoyed by the psychobabble in the phrase, but Greenburg failed to notice. “I think the incident with your sister may have contributed to both of your problems, your ambivalence toward women and the reluctance to have a child.”

“I don’t follow,” Kenzie said. He was starting to feel irritated at having been so skillfully exposed.

“First, you divide women into Whores and Madonna’s,” Greenburg mused. “That’s classic. And yet you seem to have a strong and otherwise healthy relationship with your wife. Your love for your sister was probably the basis for that.”

“I think it’s just that Laura understands me.”

“Fair enough, and I suspect she does, but now answer me this,” Greenburg said. “Are you--perhaps unconsciously--loving a child by not bringing him or her into this world to suffer?

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Doesn’t that strike you as a bit perverse?”

Kenzie smiled slowly. “There are endless perversions of love in this world, Doctor Greenburg. No one knows that better than a cop and a psychiatrist.”

For some reason Greenburg started pedaling backwards. He coughed into his fist and tried to regain control of the conversation. “So your childhood was…miserable.”

“In a word, yes.”

“And you feel the death of your sister is why you became a peace officer?”

Kenzie got to his feet. He had already composed himself; his eyes were bright and his expression guarded. “Could be,” he said. “Maybe yes, maybe no. But I do know one thing for sure.”

Greenburg rose as well. Kenzie offered his hand, and Greenburg shook it from reflex. “I have done what my boss asked me to do,” Kenzie said. “And this is the last conversation you’ll ever have with me, unless we run into each other in a restaurant. Have a good day, Dr. Greenburg.”

“Detective Kenzie? Sam? I really think we should meet again to discuss the impact of…”

Kenzie shook his head. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “This is not for me. Just be sure to put down that I’m cured.”

5.

Kenzie wore a new suit to the funeral of the murdered girl’s father.

The distraught man’s wife had come home from her night job cleaning offices for a large media conglomerate to discover her husband hanging from a belt in the shower stall. He had apparently been very determined, for his legs were touching the floor. That meant he had strangled slowly and probably had to bounce a few times before he finally succeeded in crushing his windpipe.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Laura’s face now carried a perpetual frown, and she had become as protective as a mother hen. For some unaccountable reason, that pissed Kenzie off something fierce. He took to drinking a bit too much and far too often. Laura’s response was to withdraw even further into her depression.

The day before the funeral, Kenzie tried on every suit he owned, but suddenly they all seemed out-of-date or threadbare and worn. He started throwing them all on the floor and kicking them into a pile. Laura, with the wisdom of the female, understood his mood. She had stayed out of the room until he was over his rage, and then suggested a visit to a men’s shop. Kenzie dropped entirely too much money on a suit made in some obscure corner of Italy and a pair of shoes that pinched the shit out of his feet. The collar choked his neck, and all the way down the jammed, malodorous 101 Freeway he kept flashing on the father, wheezing as he strangled. How badly would you want to have to die to go through a thing like that?

As they neared Griffith Park, some kid in a green Ford Mustang hatchback cut in front of them. He was greasy-haired, shirtless and probably half stoned. His baseball cap was turned backwards, a trend Kenzie found infuriating for reasons he could never quite explain. The kid flipped him off after their bumpers tapped. Kenzie felt his face turn purple with rage. He was instantly consumed by a vivid fantasy: He would pepper the trunk with 9 mm shells, roll up alongside the little prick to blow the top of his head off. Then he’d plant a “throw-down” 22 automatic and claim the kid had pulled it on him. The scenario made him smile. Meanwhile, Laura slowly released a pent-up breath and wiped her brow.

The cemetery was large, verdant and colorful. Tall lawn sprinklers were hissing mist over the flat, white gravestones. They drove down the circular driveway and located the chapel. They timed it to arrive late and stayed in the back of the crowd to avoid attracting attention. Kenzie had expected members of the media to be in attendance, but the people there were all Latino and he saw no cameras. He and Laura stood out like white grains of rice in a bowl full of wheat cereal.

The service was quiet and primarily in Spanish. Kenzie understood very little of what was said, but didn’t really care. An impossibly young-looking minister named Ernesto Alvarez spoke for a few moments and performed some calming rituals. Kenzie knew that many Hispanics were Catholic, and that Catholics considered suicide to be a mortal sin. But Alvarez appeared not to judge or condemn the dead man. Kenzie was pleased the family had been spared that much. As the service came to a close, several people saw Kenzie and Laura. They began to whisper among themselves, as if debating what to do. Kenzie felt his face grow hot. Laura tugged at his arm, but he found himself unable to look away.

After a long moment, the young minister excused himself and walked across the moist grass to where Kenzie and his wife were standing. Close up, Alvarez was a mild-looking young man, balding prematurely, and his brown suit was shiny at the elbows and knees.

“Good day,” he said. “You knew Senor Ruiz?”

Kenzie swallowed. “Not really. I hope I haven’t created a disruption,” he managed. “I just wanted to pay my respects.”

Alvarez squinted in the sunshine. “You are that policeman,” he said, finally, in a voice without rancor. “The one who accidentally shot his poor little Carmelita.”

Kenzie nodded. “Yes.”

“My husband feels terrible about what happened,” Laura interjected gently. “He still doesn’t sleep well at night.”

Having Laura explain his weakness to a stranger made Kenzie cringe. He tried to gather his thoughts. “Look, I wanted to…I don’t know. To be here. Maybe because I was still in the hospital when the girl was buried.” He forced himself to say her name aloud. “Carmelita.”

Alvarez nodded. “I can understand that, but I must tell you that the family has mixed feelings about your being here. They do not wish to be impolite, but…”

“We’ll leave right now,” Kenzie said. “I understand.”

“Thank you,” Alvarez said. “God be with you.”

“And with you,” Kenzie replied.

They turned their backs and crossed the wet grass again. Their shoes made tiny sucking sounds. As they walked towards the cars in the parking lot, a shard of reflected sunlight glanced off a tinted windshield and momentarily blinded Kenzie. He was stunned to feel his eyes tear up and his shoulders begin to shake. Laura gripped his forearm and helped him remain upright.

“Sam, this was not your fault,” she said. “None of it.”

Kenzie did not answer. His mind was elsewhere. He was debating if he should have taken that shot, or waited a second longer. But then who would have lived and who would still have died? He pondered twists of fate and destiny, thought about the very fabric of the known universe. Spiritual matters had never concerned him before, but now he felt consumed by a hunger to know the unknowable: How one child could be driven mad by torture while another is raised in a loving home; a third aborted and still another consigned to an early grave by the split-second decision of an exhausted police officer.

But no answers came. All he did was grow angrier at God and His relentlessly violent universe.

Not that it did him any good.

6.

Kenzie was drunk.

Months had gone by and the boredom was becoming relentless. Shuffling papers had done little to improve his disposition. He missed being out on the streets and in the thick of it. So he found himself hanging around O’Halloran’s, even at lunchtime, listening to end-of-shift anecdotes with a lustful heart. He also started smoking again.

Patrick O’Halloran had worked Homicide. He’d put in his twenty years before dropping nine large to take over a small pool hall near the station. Now it was a cop bar, and a good one; by far the most popular in the area. Kenzie was seated alone in a corner booth, his weary ass squeaking on the red plastic; ash tray overflowing and third beer just pissed out, when Kelly Robbins strolled in. She had some cub with her, probably a morgue guy at the newspaper.

“Hey, Paddy.”

O’Halloran looked up, eyed her taunting breasts, then nodded curtly and returned to wiping down the wooden bar. He didn’t care much for reporters. Kelly had cut her hair short and put on a few pounds. The effect was not flattering. She caught Sam Kenzie’s eye and he winked. He saw a quick flicker run behind her eyeballs, probably the night of that LA Tribune Christmas party, four or five years ago, when he’d banged her silly in the broom closet. He’d never called her after that. She took the arm of the geeky, freckled kid, who was maybe half her age, and tugged him a bit closer. Her features melted into a cool smile.

“Hey, Kenzie. They keeping you busy these days?”

“Hello, Kelly,” Kenzie drawled. “I think you know better than that.” You look like shit, he thought, and you know what? You weren’t that good a lay, either.

Kelly and her geek sat at the bar and started talking. Kenzie pulled out his cell phone and checked for messages. Just two bored cops following up on warrants and an ancient Chinese man named Ting, who had been calling on a daily basis to see if LAPD had finally found his stolen bicycle. Kenzie started to dial home, but stopped and closed the cell phone instead. He realized, one more time, that he had nothing new to say.

He looked up and noticed the bartender following Kelly’s conversation. He focused and decided he’d had enough beer. Kelly was entertaining the kid with horror stories.

“It all started with some spooky phone calls to the neighbors, kiddy shit like panting and heavy breathing. So a couple of calls are traced back to the same block, but nothing much comes of it. But then it hits the fan.”

The men were hooked. Kelly sat forward. “This poor rookie goes in to check out the complaint,” she said, “and the house in Van Nuys he goes to just stinks. This was last weekend, so it was fucking hot, you know? Nobody answers the bell, but the side gate is open. He goes back there. The back yard was a mess, man. Dead and dying pets everywhere, some of them looked tortured, real creepy shit.”

“I read about this,” the kid said. “It was Peterson’s story.”

Kelly nodded. “He broke it. It was like a Satanist lived there or something. So the rook figures he’s got enough with animal cruelty, neighbor complaints and an open gate to start peeking in windows and trying the locks. He makes the rounds.”

Kenzie walked the scene in his imagination. His pulse began to race with the old, familiar excitement. He lit a cigarette and leaned forward. He tried to be quiet. He wanted to hear the rest.

The kid cracked. “What was it he saw again?”

Kelly let a dramatic pause hang in the air like smog. Then she made her eyes bulge out like a teen telling campfire stories. “He saw body parts, the chopped-up legs and arms and trunks and heads of little children. Some really sick stuff.”

O’Halloran nodded. “And the fucking perp, he wrote on the walls.”

The kid swallowed. “In human shit.”

“Among other things.” Kelly grinned wickedly, her overly made-up eyes prancing. “Something in Latin, and Peterson told me what it was. The cops held it back so they’d be able to weed out all the crazies who call up to confess.”

“What was it?” The kid asked, although his stricken face said he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

Kelly fumbled the ball. “I don’t remember,” she said. “Probably shouldn’t tell you anyway, right?”

O’Halloran shrugged, his thick eyebrows mating like caterpillars. “Right. Best forget you ever heard it.”

Kenzie pondered, then decided to have one last beer. Kelly finished hers, belched in a dainty fashion and got up to go to the ladies room. Almost as an afterthought, she said: “I think it translates to something like ‘I revoke death,’ according to Peterson. But he’s always fucking something up.” She went into the john and slammed the door. The kid stayed at the bar, twirling his coaster with one finger.

Kenzie felt a chill sink deep into his bones. He flashed on Oso, eyes rolling like a maddened beast, crying: “I can’t stand the pain, ese.” He stood up, dropped some money on the table and forced himself to sound casual.

“Paddy, just out of curiosity, who was it caught that case?”

7.

“Pretty thin, Kenzie.” Jack Talbot was a large, dyspeptic man with a broken nose and deep-set, porcine eyes. He clasped hands across his ample belly and leaned back. The hinges of his chair complained. “We run a link all the way from San Bernardino, where Ortega dies, to Van Nuys? Even if we do that, we don’t have any evidence suggesting these two knew each other. Hell, we don’t even know who the other clown is, for Chrissakes.”

“Jack, hear me out. Oso was tweaked out of his mind, but he was also fed up about something. He kept saying he couldn’t stand the pain, and one other thing.”

“What?”

Kenzie lowered his voice, so the cops near the water cooler wouldn’t overhear. “He said ‘no more of this I poke death’ shit.”

It took a moment to register, and then Talbot sat up and plopped his elbows down, rattling the metal desk. He looked pissed. “Who the hell told you about that?”

Kenzie shrugged. “That doesn’t matter, Jack. Now just walk through this with me, okay? We get word off the street that our boy Ortega has suddenly started kidnapping children. We don’t know why, so we assume it’s because he was abused and he’s getting off on doing the abusing now.”

“That was logical, knowing these freaks.”

“Sure. But when I track Oso and his buddy down and pop them, there’s only the one kid. And she is still alive. Not one mutilated corpse, not a single trace of any of the others.”

“And?”

“Maybe that’s because he never kept them for very long.”

Talbot frowned. “You’re thinking that’s because he just passed them along to some cult back here in the San Fernando Valley?”

“Cult, group, person. Whoever.”

“Kenzie, give me a break,” Talbot said. He sighed theatrically, wearily. “Somebody writes Latin phrases in human shit on the walls and hacks up little kids, you got to figure he’s on the wrong side of the God business, okay? It was a cult.”

Kenzie decided to butter him up a bit. He nodded. “You’re probably right. Makes sense to approach it that way.”

“Damn straight,” Talbot said. He seemed somewhat mollified. Kenzie let him bask in it for a while, and then winked.

“But it also makes sense to check into my theory and see if you can find some way to connect the dots.”

“You win, Sam,” Talbot said. “I’ll look into it, okay?” He started fussing with his file folders, as if to signal that the interview was over. Kenzie sat quietly. Talbot looked up, frustrated. “Sam, I give you my word. I’ll look into it.”

Kenzie got up and turned to leave. He paused in the doorway. “If there’s any way I can get back on duty, I’d like to work on this one with you. Would you have any problem with that?”

Talbot considered. Finally he just shrugged. “You can pull it off,” he said, “then be my guest.”

Kenzie smiled brightly. “Talbot?”

“Uh oh. No. No way, Sam.”

“Oh, come on. What would it hurt?”

“Sam, Kramer would have my sorry ass, you know that.”

“Just run me one copy, Jack.”

Talbot got to his feet. He indicated the huge pile of folders on his metal desk. Then he said: “Fuck off, Kenzie. Let me put it to you this way, I am officially telling you to keep your hands off my case. I am officially refusing to let you have a copy of the murder book on those kids.”

Kenzie sagged. “I understand, Jack. Sorry I asked.”

Talbot tapped the third file from the top. “This one, for example, which Popeye Kasper did from scratch as a reference summary for everybody looking into this thing, like those FBI assholes, is only thirty-odd pages long, plus some black-and-white photos reduced to thumbnail size. You are not to touch this folder, or use my cheap little fax machine to copy it.”

Kramer nodded soberly. “Okay.”

“And especially not right now when I’m on my way to take a shit and expect to be gone for maybe ten minutes. Do we understand each other, here? Are you receiving me, Detective?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good. Now get out of my way.”

Kenzie was done in five. He paused by administration to file a request for full reinstatement. Then he drove to an overpriced Seattle coffee store and sat alone at a back table, reading the contents of the file.

On Memorial Day, Marco Hernandez, aged eight, ran into a cluster of trees in the public park at Whitsett and Moorpark in Studio City, wearing a striped tee shirt and blue-jean shorts. He never came back. Six days later, Consuelo Alonzo of Van Nuys, a pert little girl in a yellow dress and a ribbon in her hair, vanished while wandering through the toy section of a K-Mart store with her mother. She was five years old. Margaret Williams, six, from the school parking lot. Bobby Jackson, eight, from a playground. Tommy Jacobson, eight, from his own front yard. Different parts of the Valley, different ages and races and times of day. No discernable pattern, no demands for ransom; not one child ever heard from again.

Until now.

Kenzie looked around self-consciously, but no one was close enough to see what he was reading. He looked like any harried businessman going over some boring sales reports while stealing a coffee break.

The crime scene and autopsy photographs were ghastly. Kenzie had rarely seen such butchery. There were also photographs of the various designs and letters scrawled on the walls in human excrement, but they made no sense. One of his questions was answered immediately. The DNA tests done on the tissue samples and pieces of excrement had shown them to be from several different people, probably the children themselves. Kenzie squinted, because the photographs had been reduced in size, but was able to make out what appeared to be a figure eight on its side and a few capital letters from the English alphabet. Something tickled his brain, but Kenzie couldn’t bring the instinct into focus.

He hid the folder under the front seat of his car and drove home, whistling along with the radio. For the first time in months, he felt happy; glad to be sober and ready to go back to work. Laura’s black Ford wagon was in the driveway; she was already home from her doctor’s appointment. Kenzie locked his car and trotted up the steps, still whistling.

“Laura?”

He found her in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet with the lid down. She was frowning in concentration, as if painting her toenails were the most important task ever assigned a human being. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her makeup had run, giving her a smeared raccoon visage. Kenzie felt his stomach scar throb and writhe. He knelt down next to the bowl.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

Laura poked her tongue out to one side, like a small child who is unconcerned about how she may appear to others. “I’m busy right now,” she said.

Kenzie touched her leg with his fingertips. The human contact broke down her walls. Laura’s eyes brimmed and spilled over and she trembled and shook.

“Laura, what is it? Are you sick?”

“He said I can’t,” she whispered. “Not now, not ever.”

“Can’t what?”

And then it hit him. Laura had been dropping hints for weeks, hoping he’d pick up the thread and run with it. The Andersons are expecting, she’d say. And they’re as old as we are. Can you believe that?

“We can’t have children.” He said it calmly, as a statement of fact, and was surprised to find a parallel sadness growing deep inside. “It’s too late?”

“Oh, Sam, it’s not just that we waited so long. It was the abortion I had when you got shot. Somebody fouled up somehow, and now I can’t have a child. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to, but now that I don’t even have a choice, it hurts!”

She melted into his arms and he rocked her. After a time, Sam Kenzie cried a few tears of his own. Out of sympathy for Laura, for his own lost opportunities, even for the lonely old man he was certain to become.

8.

The house had been painted, and quite recently; it was now gray with white trim. Someone had pulled the weeds and replaced them with strips of grass straight from Home Depot. Lines of dirt still separated one new planting from the next. A few perennials dotted the flowerbed and a FOR RENT sign stood next to the dented mailbox. Kenzie pulled his car to the curb, next to the trashcans. The neighborhood was still, yet in his mind the windshield exploded and the whole nightmare started all over again, with Oso’s voice chanting: I can’ stand the pain, ese and then I poke death, man.

Sam Kenzie closed his eyes and willed his breathing to slow. Now that he was actually here again, he found the anxiety almost overwhelming. He resisted the urge to take out his gun. He got his flashlight, stepped out, stood by the car and looked around the neighborhood. A light was on in the house across the alley. A small boy with large brown eyes peered at him through a bedroom window until someone yanked the child away and closed the blinds.

Kenzie approached the house. His footsteps crunched through the gravel and scooted along the newly planted grass. When he got to the foot of the steps and stood where he had first decided to enter the house, his nerve deserted him. He had to fight the urge to run away. After a long moment, he ran the beam through the window and looked around. His breath fogged the brand new pane of glass.

As he’d expected, the inside had been cleaned up, painted and then painted again. The carpets were cheap, but new. Kenzie debated picking the lock, but elected to walk around to the back yard instead. Somewhere to the south a dog began to bark and growl. Another joined in, then another, all in syncopated rhythm.

Kenzie wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. He knew the house would be different, now, and that the San Bernardino police would have picked it clean of evidence. He just needed to be here, just in case they had missed something. He wandered through the back yard, playing the beam of light around, until he was satisfied that virtually everything that could have been of use to him had already been sold, straightened up, painted over or removed. He had an absurd urge to break in to the house and stand right where he’d been shot, as if that would cure something; perhaps make him feel a little less afraid I can’t stand the pain, ese, but he decided to leave well enough alone and started back towards the car.

A large dog snarled and ran into a chain link fence, less than fifteen feet away, and Kenzie jumped. He dropped the flashlight in alarm and reached for his automatic. But the sounds told him the animal was on a choke chain and on the other side of both a wooden slat and chain link barrier. His body trembled from adrenaline. Kenzie sighed and reached down for the flashlight, which had fallen on the cement near the crawlspace beneath the home.

His skin crawled and the short hairs at the back of his neck came to attention. He reached into his pocket for the small, disposable flash camera. Scratched into one tiny cement square was a small figure eight, resting on its side; just like the one he’d seen, scrawled in human excrement, in those police photographs from the crime scene in Van Nuys.

9.

“Is this a Mobius strip?” They were sitting in Laura’s home office. She had reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she studied the enlarged image on her computer screen. She had scanned and magnified it.

“A Mobius strip? Sure, you could say that. It is also called Ourabouris, or the snake that eats its tail. This is recognized the world over as a sign signifying eternity.”

“So it has spiritual significance?”

“In some cultures, certainly it does,” Laura said. She went online, typed a command into her computer and the design popped up. She pointed. “See? Here it is in Aztec mythology. But this is also a sign used in various kinds of advanced mathematics, also in science. Hell, even some Buddhist worshipers form their beads that way. I’m afraid this is not the direct clue you seem to have been hoping for.”

Kenzie nodded. He had expected as much. He kissed her cheek. “Thanks anyway, honey,” he said.

“What’s this all about, Sam?”

Kenzie kept his voice casual. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Some kids who vandalized a Beemer they stole left it sprayed on the window. I was hoping the sign meant something we could trace back to them, that’s all.”

Laura shrugged. “Maybe it is some kind of new gang thing.”

“Maybe.”

Laura smiled up at him, her eyes seductive. “Feel like fooling around tonight?”

Kenzie didn’t, but forced a grin. “Sure thing.”

“By the way, did you see the mail?” She handed him three letters. The look on her face said she was pleased. “You got two out three, honey. And someone sent an offer all on their own. That’s pretty damned good.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

“You don’t seem very happy.”

“I guess I’d better look them over. Are we going out?”

“We’ve got meat loaf left over. Should I heat it up?”

“Okay.”

The first offer was from National City, California. The salary and benefits were decent, but Laura had already written “no” in the margins. She had done some research online and found that the local housing prices were out of reach. Kenzie felt relieved. He grinned when he saw that the second offer was from his hometown of Twin Forks, Nevada. It was signed by a Sheriff Harris, who was retiring, and a rancher who was a member of the city council, one Klaus Wachner. And incredibly, Wachner was offering to contribute a three-bedroom home he owned on the outskirts of Twin Forks, free of charge, providing Kenzie promised to pay for utilities. His letter was akin to a Valentine; Wachner had read about their home town boy, the great Detective Kenzie, and his fine work with the LAPD. He said they simply had to have him in town, serving the fine citizens of Twin Forks, blah blah blah.

A ticket home, where he was still apparently a hero? And free housing, decent money along with the title of Sheriff? Not bad. Not bad at all.

Too bad Kenzie had absolutely no intention of retiring.

10.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

Captain Kramer was clearly frustrated, and perhaps feeling a bit guilty. He threw the Los Angeles magazine down on the desk and jabbed a nicotine-stained finger at the photograph of Kenzie gracing its front cover. The garish log-line read: COWBOY COP CRACKS CHILD CASE, KILLER OR HERO?

“Have you seen this?”

Kenzie shrugged, went for a cheap laugh. “I’ve looked better.”

“Sam, this isn’t funny,” Kramer said. “And it has just enough truth in it to have pissed off every politician in town. The chief isn’t happy. The article makes the department look like a bunch of circus clowns, and you the next Dirty Harry. It’s a PR disaster.”

“I’m sorry, boss. I didn’t call them back or cooperate in any way. I don’t know where they got their information.”

“It’s a little late to apologize.” The statement was heavily weighted, and Kramer did not meet his eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“You got too much heat on you, Sam. That’s all there is too it.”

“I’m out?”

“You’re out.”

Kenzie shook his head slowly. “I’m one of the best cops you’ve got and you know it, Captain. Hell, I just took a dead investigation and kicked it alive again. I deserve better than this.”

“Yeah, you probably do. And I’m grateful for the stuff you dug up on how those two cases tie together.”

“You damn well ought to be. Those dope-dealing bastards were funneling kidnapped children to a serial killer.”

“Look, I know it, Sam. With what you gave us we tied together nearly thirty child murders in four western states and we’ll put some of those gang members away for life. More importantly, whatever this mysterious child killer was up to, you have now most assuredly dropped a turd in his swimming pool. We may not know who he is yet, but he’s got to be feeling the heat.”

“I did my job.”

“And probably saved some lives.”

“And now you’re firing me for it.”

Kramer reddened. “That’s because you did it when you were supposed to be following up on stolen cars. The chief doesn’t like cowboy shit like that and neither does IAD.”

“Fuck them.”

“No, Sam, this time it’s fuck you.”

Kenzie kicked the chair. He knew he was being juvenile, but he was unable to stop himself. “You know something, Cap? IAD can kiss my Irish ass.”

“You want to tell them that?”

“I ought to. Cops shouldn’t mess with cops.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” Kramer snarled. “Welcome to the real world, Kenzie. You know the score. Parker Center doesn’t give a damn about what you’ve done for the department in the past. Right now, you’re just a liability.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“You’re on an extended rest leave, with reduced pay.”

Kenzie was stunned all over again. “Even after what I just contributed to that case, Cap?”

“That’s it.”

“I can’t come back to work.”

“Nope. Now sit down.”

Kramer sat down heavily, his face grim. Cap Kramer grimaced and rubbed his temples, like a man growing a brutal headache. “Off the record, Sam. You want to hear it straight up?”

Kenzie nodded. “Sure.”

“Greenburg, the shrink?”

“Oh, shit.”

“No, he liked you Sam. He thinks you’re a damned good cop and said so in his report. But he also said that you might become a ‘loose cannon,’ because of your abusive childhood, and that the department should keep a close watch on you. He probably meant well, but that was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“And so?”

“So I think it would be best if you put in for an early retirement. The Chief is willing to pull a few strings, maybe get some disability thrown in along with the lowered pension and benefits package, but only if you retire.”

“Shit.”

“Oh, come on Sam. You can’t be all that surprised. Two suspects dead, a little girl got killed and you got your guts shot out. Then you embarrass the department by doing something else off duty that opens a new file on a big case. That’s a publicity disaster of the first order. What did you think would happen?”

“I don’t know, Cap,” Kenzie answered, honestly. “I just wanted to come back to work again, that’s all.”

Kramer lowered his voice a bit. “Did you follow my advice? Send a few copies of your resume out of state?”

“Yeah,” Kenzie said, absently. “And I put you down as my reference.” He sat back in the metal folding chair, surprised and close to tears. He felt like he’d just been given a death sentence. “I already got an offer from my one-horse home town in Nevada. They think I’ve made them famous.”

Captain Kramer smiled reassuringly. “Sounds nice and quiet.”

“Don’t do this, Cap.” Kenzie pleaded with his eyes. “Help me out here.”

“Can’t do it, Sam. We all have to hang it up sometime, right? If these Nevada people call me, I won’t mention a word about IAD or the downside of that shoot. I’ll just give you a rave review.”

“Thanks.”

“Hell, Sam, it’s not so bad.”

“Oh, it’s not, huh?”

Kramer grinned. “Hey, look at it this way. You are going to go back to the desert and be near the mountains. You can go fishing and hunting all you want, screw the old lady all night while you collect a nice pension with benefits, and just to keep from getting bored you can sit by some highway handing out parking tickets.”

“And nobody shoots at me any more, either.”

“Exactly.”

Kenzie shrugged. “Sounds terrible, you ask me. Now I know why so many retired guys just open a bar or eat a fucking piece.”

“God damn it, Kenzie, don’t even joke about that.” Kramer was feeling touchy about the subject of suicide. Lou Fields, an old friend of his from Vice, had just checked out that way. He’d tied a string to his foot, placed a shotgun by the bowl and shot himself in a motel bathroom.

“Sorry, Cap,” Kenzie said. He wasn’t.

O’Halloran’s was mobbed when Kenzie got there. The cops he knew took one look at the expression on his face and gave him a wide berth. Kenzie’s face burned with shame. They knew. In fact, they had all probably known for weeks, if not months, that he was toast. Kenzie couldn’t blame them; he’d been part of the gossip mill too, in his time. He was going down for the count, career over and lights out. Nobody wanted his bad luck to rub off on them.

He started with a ‘depth charge,’ a shot of Jack Daniels whiskey dropped into a tall mug of draught beer. The booze lit a pilot light in his diaphragm, poof an instant dot of warmth. Kenzie ordered another shot and a mug, and the world started to get rosier still. But as the soothing chemicals flooded his brain, Bob Young walked by and slapped him on the back as he left; a macho sign of unspoken respect. Moments later, Paul Little and Rich Martinson did the same thing. Time passed, and one after another the active duty guys shook his hand or slapped him on the back as they went home. Kenzie began to seethe; in fact, the injustice of his situation soon became almost unbearable, but he knew there wasn’t one damned thing he could do about it.

Things became a blur after that. Someone challenged Kenzie to a chugging match. He won, but by then he could barely walk, so he started building a bar sculpture made of lightly burned swizzle sticks. Later, Kenzie threw up in the alley. He called home to tell Laura not to wait up. He promised her that he wouldn’t drink and drive. After that, things got really sketchy. Somehow the remaining cops took it upon themselves to throw Kenzie an impromptu going-away party. O’Halloran locked the bar at 2:00 AM so they could keep on drinking. The bartender called some of the single guys, woke them up and ordered them to come back and join the free-for-all.

Around three in the morning, a couple of guys from Vice picked up some working girls they knew and drove them over. Kenzie was now passed out, face-down on the floor. The boys decided he deserved a farewell blowjob. They took up a collection and dragged Kenzie and the youngest girl into the back room. They closed the door to give them a little privacy. Someone put on a collection of 1980’s rock music and cranked the volume to the max.

Kenzie woke up to discover his pants down around his ankles. His head was pounding and his guts were rolling. He fought to focus his eyes. The lights were dimmed low, and the girl fondling his penis wore way too much makeup. Kenzie drunkenly wondered if she were underage.

“What’s going on?”

The little Latino girl looked up from his lap, and even through the alcoholic fog Kenzie felt his gut tighten with alarm and his pulse jump. His penis went limp. Her face was familiar; she looked exactly like the girl in Oso’s house. She grinned at him. The way the shadows crossed her features and ran down her neck it looked like her throat was punctured and pulsing blood…

“No!”

The girl jumped back and fell on her ass. Kenzie grabbed his trousers and stumbled to the door. He could not turn the knob. Outside the room, the pounding of the rock beat drowned out his rising screams. He looked back at the girl. She had edged back into the darkness near the broom closet, and now her features were almost completely hidden. She seemed to be laughing at him. He saw the flash of her crooked teeth and then a fountain of blood spurting straight up into the air. Then the door opened and he lurched out into the room with his pants down.

The bar was full of cops and hookers kissing and screwing and brawling like kids at a frat party. Kenzie, feeling along the wall with his palms, made his way out into the alley. He threw up again.

And that’s the last thing he remembered.

11.

“Jesus, it’s cold out here. That’s everything, right?”

Laura didn’t answer. She threw her straw purse onto the passenger seat and got into the station wagon. She never once looked back at their house.

She slammed the door.

Kenzie had cut down on the drinking. It hadn’t helped. Coming home with lipstick on his dick had been the last straw for Laura. She had not spoken to him for days, really spoken to him. Oh, she said whatever was necessary, but not a syllable more. Therefore the mandatory garage sale, the trips to Goodwill, packing the house up; those things became more than just difficult, they were completely depressing.

Kenzie sped down the highway, trying to beat the morning traffic. He went through the downtown loop and caught the San Bernardino Freeway. He decided to occasionally offer the olive branch via small talk and wait her out. There were starting their lives over, after all. Laura would eventually forgive him.

“You have the map you printed out, right?”

She nodded, reached for the stereo and popped in a classical cassette. No country music, just Mozart. Kenzie sighed. This was going to be a long drive.

They stopped three times, to pee and grab a fast bite to eat. The computer had been programmed to show them the most direct route possible, so they often found themselves on back roads or alone on the highway for long stretches of time. Bored, Kenzie imagined their vehicle from above, speeding through the deserted wasteland like a shiny bug across the water.

Kenzie had always loved the pungent odor of the sage flowers and the wide open expanse of rock and sand. As a boy, he had often ridden alone for hours, bareback and alone, just enjoying the absolute silence of the high desert. He found himself becoming obsessive about checking their water supply; re-filling the two large plastic containers at every stop, just to be on the safe side. His childhood in Nevada had also prepared him for how harsh and unforgiving nature can be. He knew that a few coincidences could put them in a morgue, dead of heatstroke and thirst. One wrong turn, one dead cell-phone battery, one blown water pump and they could be cooked and rotting before anyone found them.

On the outskirts of a little town called Jackpot, Laura began to speak to him again. It was a small thing, just a quick joke that made reference to his clumsiness and their first anniversary, but it let him know that the war was over. Her Highness had forgiven him at last. Two beers and two bags of pretzels later they were talking about keeping some chickens on their property in Twin Forks. Relieved, Kenzie took another look at the map. The next leg of the journey, one of the longest, took them several miles out into the empty desert, away from the main highway.

“I haven’t been this way since I was a kid, Laura, but this seems weird to me. Are you sure about this map quest thing?”

Laura, with mock seriousness: “Computers never lie, human!”

Kenzie frowned. Something about the route seemed bizarre, but he did not want to risk starting another argument. When Laura leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes to rest, he quietly asked the pimply kid pumping gas. The kid shrugged and said to show the map to his boss.

“Beats the shit out of me,” the gas station manager said. He was a sunburned, bellicose hick in stained overalls, and Kenzie doubted he’d ever been as far away as Elko. “Hardly anyone ever goes north on that road, I can tell you that much.”

Kenzie rolled his eyes and gave up. He bought an extra bottle of water from the small store, had the attendant look over the engine hoses and the water pump, then filled the tank and started going north on the obscure, bumpy back road. After a few miles, the world behind them vanished into seemingly endless clouds of beige dust. The vast desert ahead seemed bleak as lunar landscape. The far mountains, where they were supposed to rejoin the main highway, never seemed to get any closer; they just shimmered, changed color and danced away like a mirage.

Laura fell asleep. Kenzie nervously eyed the odometer, trying to keep track of the passing miles. If they were lost, he wanted to know about it as soon as possible. The car radio turned to static and rather than play a cassette or CD, Kenzie just shut it off. He found himself gripping the wheel tightly. Soon his fingers ached. The only sound was the bumping and rumbling of their four wheels on the hard, pocked ground.

Ten miles, fifteen, twenty. No highway. First two and then three miles further than they were supposed to have needed to go. And still the far mountains receded and teased like a chimera. Kenzie considered waking Laura, but decided to let her sleep. There was nothing for her to do except panic.

They were lost.

When several dust devils appeared, swirling up from the road ahead like tiny, pale twisters, Kenzie felt the first real flash of alarm. Within a matter of minutes the horizon blurred and then completely vanished. The sandstorm whipped the car to the left and right and spun it like a top. Kenzie brought the vehicle to a halt, closed all the air vents He pulled up the emergency brake. Laura woke up and rubbed her eyes.

“What’s happening? Where are we?”

Kenzie forced himself to remain calm. “Just a sandstorm,” he said pleasantly. “No big deal, but I can’t see a damned thing. I just thought it would be smart to pull over and wait it out.”

“Okay,” Laura said. “I’m sleepy.”

“May as well take a nap, then,” Kenzie said. “I’ll start again as soon as this all blows over.”

She curled up like a kitten and sighed. Kenzie watched her for a moment, as if seeing her for the very first time. She was a pretty woman in a homespun sort of way. Her crows-feet seemed precious to him, rather than unattractive. He decided that he was a very lucky man.

The wind wept and keened. Sand scratched at the windows like the fingernails of someone buried alive. Kenzie slipped his cell phone out of its case. He turned it on, pressed the auto-dial for 911 and waited. His stomach dropped thirteen floors to the basement. No reception, just static. He swallowed, closed it again. Relax for Chrissakes, he told himself. We have enough water for a few days. The storm will blow over. The car is fine. We’re not going to die out here. He closed his eyes and slept for a few moments. When he woke up, the moaning wind had begun to fall way. The harsh, scraping noises stopped.

And just like that, it was quiet.

The windshield was coated with grime. Kenzie started the car and flipped on the water for the wipers. The rubber wands carved twin funnels of light to see by, and he drove forward, back out onto the dirty road. He traveled perhaps one hundred feet and then stopped again.

& GULP

Kenzie blinked. That sign hadn’t been there all along, had it? He cocked his head and read it again. It was some kind of diner called JOE’S GAS & GULP. He shook his head in amazement and relief: An old white building, long like a train car; weather beaten yet resilient, standing defiantly in the middle of hell on earth. He glanced at Laura, and was relieved to see that she continued to slumber. She had missed the entire experience. Kenzie drove up and parked near an old pump and a black car up on cinder blocks. He got out, stretched and looked around. A second sign read BRIMSTONE TURNPIKE. Kenzie looked down at the map again. No town called Brimstone, no turnpike indicated on the highway. Strange, but then this was one Godforsaken area. Then Kenzie heard someone whistling tunelessly. He whirled around.

“Howdy, son,” a man said. The voice was silky and resonant; something about it made raised bumps on the skin of his arms.

Kenzie shaded his eyes and peered back at the front porch of the diner. He saw nothing there but shadows. He walked closer, barely noticing that for a moment he felt chilly in 110 degree heat. A shape gradually emerged from the gloom, someone sitting on the porch. Kenzie forced a smile. He saw an old, smiling black man incongruously dressed in a worn gray suit and an off-white fedora. He sat rocking on the splintering porch. Kenzie walked closer.

“Good afternoon. Mind telling me where the hell I am?”

The old man smiled as if comprehending something of great import. “Oh, ‘dat could be what ya call a highly subjective question. See, it all depends upon whose askin’ and then who answerin’. Now, geographically speaking, this here is Brimstone Turnpike.”

“You’re not on the map.”

“Not ‘zactly a surprise,” the old man said. His voice was now oddly seductive, the odd accent even more pronounced than before. “I don’ particularly want most peoples to find me.”

Kenzie walked a bit closer. The door to the building was missing, and the inside appeared to be empty, except for piles of litter and bleached weeds. It seemed unlikely anyone lived in there; in fact, the old man had a cane and a little red suitcase at his side; as if he, too, were just passing through. As Kenzie got closer he noted that there was something odd about the old man’s eyes; they were opaque, almost silver in color. He appeared to be blind.

“Mind if I take it easy for a minute?”

“You already on my property. May as well set ‘n stay a while.”

Kenzie sat down on the porch. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

The old man yawned. He was missing a few teeth. “Truth is, planned it out this way,” he said. “I prefers my own company to the maddenin’ crowd.”

Kenzie cracked his neck and stretched. “I follow you.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” the man said briskly. “Never you mind. The name is Johnny. Johnny Divine.” He put his hand out in Kenzie’s general direction. They shook. “Sure ‘nuff pleased to meet you, Mr. Kenzie.”

Kenzie flinched. “How do you know my name?”

Johnny Divine pursed his lips. “Reckon you told me a minute ago, there. You said, ‘good afternoon ol’ man, my name is Kenzie,’ jes’ like that, clear as a bell.”

“No,” Kenzie said. His skin rippled again. “No, I didn’t.”

Johnny giggled. “Hells bells, boy--you sure ‘bout that? Well, what you know! Me, I guess I’m some kind of closet psychic! With a bit o’ money, I could set up mah own 800 number and rake in cash.”

Kenzie relaxed a bit. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. He’s just an old man in the middle of nowhere. You’re just wired from the storm and freaked about getting lost.

“Lord, it seems like y’all goin’ somewhere in a hurry. Where you bound for, Kenzie?”

“A town called Twin Forks,” Kenzie said, after a long moment. What could possibly be wrong with answering such a simple question? “I spent my childhood there, but I’ve been a long time gone.”

Johnny Divine shook his head slowly. “Oh, my,” he said, softly. “That would surely be a bad thing. Naw, that’s jus’ not a good idea. I don’t think I’d go back there at all, if I was you.”

Kenzie decided to indulge him. “Is that so. Why not?”

The old man looked directly at Kenzie, as if he could actually see him. “Folks tell stories ‘bout that place. I hear legends. Used to be a tribe in those parts called themselves the Sand People. Now, these Sand People, they bowed down to real nasty old demon known as Sahute.”

Kenzie fought down a smile. “Give me a break.”

Johnny Divine shook his head. “You hear me out, boy. So Sahute, he wants him a yearly meal of blood, guts and brains. Some bad stuff and I knows you know what I mean.”

“Human sacrifice.” Kenzie had heard the stories too. He smiled.

“’zactly, Kenzie. But them piles of bleached-out bones didn’t do the deed good enough for that ol’ demon. Fact is, they were just for show. This Sahute, what he really wanted was to hear the screams of the dying and the sobbing of those got left behind.”

Kenzie indulged him. “I see.”

“Naw, don’t ‘spect you do,” Johnny said mildly. “But be good and lets me finish. Sahute, he ate up all of ‘dat fear and the pain he made folks feel. Thas’ what kept him fat and happy. So the evil he done back then, it was so bad it left a stench still hangs over Twin Forks.”

Kenzie nodded patiently. “I appreciate your concern.”

“The townsfolk, they seems nice enough, but that town has a curse on it, sure as I’m settin’ here.” Johnny tapped the arm of his white pine rocking chair. For some reason, Kenzie abruptly pictured it as having been carved from bleached human bones. He shuddered at the thought and forced a laugh. “People scared me with that Sahute stuff when I was a kid, Mr. Divine. I doubt there’s anything to it.”

“Damn, you that sure? Lemme promise you this, evil things do happen in this world, Mr. Kenzie. ‘Cause they part of the fabric of the universe.”

“Yeah,” Kenzie said. “That I know.”

Johnny grimaced. “Yeah, I do believe you, son. You also know you’d best watchful and quick as a cat when the time come.”

Kenzie was growing uncomfortable. “Yes. Sure. I suppose so.”

“If you insist on goin’ where you’re goin’, Mr. Kenzie, you be especially cautious down there in Twin Forks.”

“Because of that Indian spirit.”

Johnny leaned back and rocked for a moment. He shrugged. “Just because.”

“Well, anyone wants to do evil there now has to answer to me,” Kenzie said. “I’m the new law there, as of tomorrow.”

“Ah.”

Johnny Divine now seemed to stare through Kenzie, as if he could sense something dark looming on the far horizon. He shook his head, almost regretfully. “I ‘spose that your destiny, then, isn’t it.” It was not a question. “Likely you’d best be on your way.”

“I would, but I’m flat lost. You mind telling me how to get there from here?”

Johnny nodded, pointed as if he could see. “Go out onto that road there, the Brimstone Turnpike. You yourself away from the sun, hear? You head west maybe an hour and then north to chase the dark. You be settin’ in Twin Forks by midnight.” His blind eyes stayed fixed on something miles beyond Kenzie. He reached down between his legs and opened the beat up red suitcase. Kenzie watched as Johnny removed a small object wrapped in a handkerchief. “Me, I’m an old man, so maybe you indulges me. I’d like to give ya’ll a little good luck charm, ‘cause I reckon you gonna need one.”

He held out his hand. It was steady as a black, iron bar. Kenzie’s hand, however, trembled. He took the gift and opened it. Inside the cloth was some kind of an antique toy; a dried gourd that was attached to a small stick by a faded leather thong. It made a small, hissing sound when Kenzie shook it.

“A rattle?”

Johnny Divine seemed pleased by the sound. He grinned broadly, but there was something feral in that smile. “Mebbe yes, mebbe no,” he said. “This here is a genuine artifact from that lost tribe, the Sand People. Now, you listen good.” His southern accent melted away, but for some reason Kenzie barely noticed. “Like all other things in this world, you must look at this toy two different ways whenever you shake it, Mr. Kenzie. You may have forgotten one simple truth. Out here, a rattle can mean a couple of very different things. It can be harmless on a toy…or dangerous as all get out when it’s on the tail of an angry snake.”

“I can’t accept this,” Kenzie said. “If it’s real, it’s probably worth a lot of money.”

Johnny Divine waved him away and used the cane to struggle to his feet. Not wishing to be rude, Kenzie reluctantly put the rattle in his pants pocket. For the first time, he noticed an ornate wolf’s head, carved from what appeared to be sterling silver, right at the top of the old man’s cane. He also noted that Johnny wore a pair of ancient-looking moccasins on his dirty, bare feet. What a character.

Johnny Divine walked slowly towards the doorway to the battered diner. He paused with his back to Kenzie. “I think it was Thomas Huxley who wrote that ‘If a little knowledge is dangerous, where is the man who has so much as to be out of danger?’ It may behoove you to learn why you do what you do, sir.”

Kenzie rolled his eyes in annoyance. “I don’t understand.”

“If’n you don’t, you don’t,” Divine said. His accent flowed back, thick as honey. He spoke one final time: “Ya’ll keep a careful watch on that pretty little wife you got. Your own self, too. ‘Bye now.”

Wife? Kenzie tried to find words to respond, but couldn’t. He just shook his head in amazement. The old bastard isn’t even blind. He saw Laura in the car. The black man vanished into the shadows of the empty building. Johnny Divine my ass, Kenzie thought. He walked back to his car and opened the driver’s door. Laura was awake and yawning.

“What the hell were you doing over there, Sam?”

“Talking to the old man.” Kenzie started the car. He looked both ways from reflex, although there were no other cars in sight. He drove out onto the highway, rear wheels spraying dust.

“What old man?” Laura asked.

“The old black guy on the porch,” Kenzie said. “I should write him up for Reader’s Digest as a most unforgettable character. He might have been putting me on the whole time. He was a real eccentric.”

Laura closed her eyes again. “I didn’t see anybody. Was he inside the ruins, or something?”

“He was on the fucking porch, Laura. In the rocking chair. He gave me something kind of interesting.” Kenzie groped through his pants pocket, took out the rattle and shook it. This time it sounded like miniature, cartoon castanets.

“Is this a Native American thing?”

“It’s some kind of a kid’s toy.”

“It’s nice,” Laura said. ‘Do we have far to go?” She didn’t seem intrigued, so Kenzie put the antique rattle in the ash tray. Laura stretched and moaned in a way that stirred his loins. Kenzie patted her leg and squeezed.

“Not too far,” he said. “You go back to sleep.” Then, under his breath: “I guess I’m almost home.”

12.

“Sam?”

Kenzie, startled, banged his head on the upper drawer of the filing cabinet. His vision darkened and then filled with bright dots. He dropped the rag and cleaner and rubbed his skull.

“Jesus,” he said.

The overweight man in the doorway nodded. He spat tobacco juice out into the street. “Sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Christ. I was just looking to meet the new lawman.”

Kenzie looked, shook his head. “Doc Preston? Is that you?”

“Last time I looked, it was.”

Kenzie forgot his pain and laughed heartily. “It’s good to see you again. Come on in and have a cup of coffee.” He got to his feet, eyeballed the visitor. Doc was now past seventy years old, with silver hair and a huge paunch that sagged out over the belt of his jeans, but his eyes were as merry as ever. He wore a blue work shirt with a cowboy tie and brown, scuffed boots with two-inch heels.

“Townsfolk will be stopping by,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the first.”

“Good to see you again, Doc.”

“I’m surprised you remember me, kid. What’s it been, thirty-odd years?”

Kenzie laughed. “At least, Doc. I’d imagine things have changed around here.”

“Lot of folks died off,” Doc said, sadly. “You likely won’t remember anyone but me at this point.”

“What about the grocer, old Calhoun?”

“Heart attack back in ’94.”

Kenzie sighed. “I’m sorry to hear that. He was always good to me when I was a kid. But you stuck it out, and you’re still the local medico?”

“I’m still the guy you come and see for small stitches, aspirin or a broke bone. Anything more serious and we ship your ass down to Elko.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

Doc leaned against the wall. “I take it you already went over things with Jack Harris?”

Kenzie sat down at his new, and still unfamiliar desk. “Sure did.”

“He’s gone then?”

Kenzie nodded. “He seemed in a big hurry to go fishing.”

Doc chuckled. “That sumbitch probably had a couple of poles in the squad car first time he gave you the keys.”

Kenzie smiled back. “Actually, you’re right. He did.”

“Well that’s bound to be the best thing about living around here again, Kenzie. Nothing much ever happens.”

“That,” Kenzie replied, “sounds just fine to me.”

A knock. Doc stepped further to the side. Another man, much taller, entered the office. He was graying, yet muscular; slender and bony in a way that reminded Kenzie of a praying mantis. He spoke with a very faint trace of a German accent.

“I am Klaus Wachner, Sheriff Kenzie. I have read so much about you in newspapers. It is very good to make your acquaintance.”

“Mr. Wachner,” Kenzie nodded. “I think you’re the man who first wrote to offer me the job, correct?”

“Yes,” Wachner replied. The “s” was only a bit too sibilant. “Your resume was most impressive, and when I saw you are from our little town, I could not help but favor your candidacy.”

“Thank you.”

“Bitte. I researched your work on the last case most carefully. You might say I became a fan of yours.”

“That’s nice to hear.” Kenzie was wondering why Wachner seemed familiar. Maybe it was because he looked a bit like an old guy who played the Nazi in all the black and white war movies.

“We are glad you have settled here again. I came by only to wish you well.”

“Thank you,” Kenzie said. “And thank you for the use of the house.” He noticed that Wachner seldom made eye contact. “You’re a rancher?”

“I have a ranch,” Wachner said. “And in truth, I must immediately be going there at once. I’m certain we will be speaking again soon. Enjoy the house. Welcome home to Twin Forks.”

“Thanks.”

Days passed; one by one the locals came to say hello. And although Doc was right, he knew almost no one from the old days, Kenzie felt his years in the city fall away like an extra skin. He loved the low-key, taciturn sense of humor and the casual acceptance of conversational silences. He felt at home for the first time in many years. When one of his old partners sent him a copy of the Sunday Los Angeles Times, half in jest, Kenzie never bothered to open it.

He never did bother to visit his family’s old property in the flats.

The small house Wachner provided was comfortable, and because it was free Kenzie and Laura immediately began to save money. He had expected her to have some difficulty adjusting to such a disparate lifestyle, but Laura surprised him. Almost from the beginning Laura withdrew into herself, read more; tended the garden and cleaned house without complaint. He supposed it made her happy to see him so happy. At least he hoped as much.

13.

A dump called Margie’s Diner re-opened shortly thereafter. It featured fried eggs dripping with butter, monstrous flapjacks, coffee strong enough to steam the chrome off a fender, and a large-breasted blonde waitress named Daisy. It also had the distinct advantage of being the only restaurant in Twin Forks. The first time Kenzie strolled through the door, Daisy, her dark blue eyes hooded with curiosity and lust, looked him over for a moment before approaching the counter. She put a little extra swing into her hips, leaned forward, mashed her breasts against his raised menu and grinned.

“Oh, my,” she said, “there’s a new sheriff in town.”

Kenzie was vaguely aware of someone giggling in the kitchen; probably old Margie, the owner. He was amazed to find himself blushing. He studied the menu, but saw nothing. Made a show of putting it down.

“Coffee and a doughnut,” he said. “And my name is Sam. Sam Kenzie.”

Daisy moved her head to one side like a bird admiring a newly discovered worm. She chuckled throatily. “How nice for you.”

Kenzie argued with himself and lost. Soon he was there when the diner closed down, just to walk Daisy safely to her truck. On the third night, she turned and grabbed his penis through his uniform pants. Kenzie took her dog-style, over the hood of her truck, and found the risk of imminent discovery intoxicating. That one furtive experience led to brisk, emotionless sex in his squad car, four or five nights a week.

Daisy was as basic and simple as a breed cow, and for a time Kenzie was satiated. But as the weeks passed, he noticed that the small-town gossip had begun. Some of the more conservative folks had started to whisper about his behavior. Kenzie worried something might get back to Laura, and his constant erection began to deflate. Worse, he found himself haunted by Dr. Greenburg’s observations about his ambivalence towards women, the guilt over his dead sister Jenny and his indifference to the possibility of causing Laura such devastating pain.

Kenzie was soon trying to break things off, although he was not sure how to do it gracefully.

Eventually, Daisy made it easy on him by deciding to leave for Elko and a better life as a cocktail waitress in a casino. Kenzie did his very best to seem disappointed. Once she’d left town, he discovered a growing determination to remain faithful. He’d finally had it with sneaking around. The realization brought him a new kind of peace.

He found himself dividing his days into two four or five-hour shifts; he would drive through the town and surrounding countryside in the morning, just to make sure everyone got to work okay, and to let himself be seen. Around lunchtime he would return home to eat with Laura and take a short siesta; rarely, they would use the opportunity to make love. One day, as they sat on the porch enjoying the shade and a glass of iced tea, the telephone rang. Kenzie started to get up.

“I’ve got it,” Laura said cheerfully. “You just rest.”

Kenzie felt a strange déjà vu pass through his consciousness; for a moment he was woefully preoccupied with the fantasy that someone had decided to tell on him. The thought made his stomach roll. And when Laura returned to the porch, her face was red with what might have been irritation, or embarrassment.

“I hate that,” she said.

Kenzie tried to remain calm. “Hate what?”

Laura plopped back down into her wooden chair and grabbed her glass of tea. She took a deep swallow. Ice cubes rattled, and Kenzie had a subliminal flash of the child’s toy he’d been given on the Brimstone Turnpike. “Laura, what’s wrong?”

“Whoever it was hung up on me,” Laura said. “I just hate that.”

Kenzie nodded sympathetically. “Me too.”

Every night, before sunset, Kenzie got back in the squad car and made the rounds a second time. He would cruise the surrounding highways first, pulling off onto small dirt roads to approach a ranch house at random. It made him feel good to observe people through their kitchen windows as they shared an evening meal. When satisfied, Kenzie returned to Twin Forks. He parked on Main and walked the small row of businesses, checking the locks and satisfying himself that everyone had gone home.

The night he made his first arrest, Kenzie was already back at his vehicle and preparing to leave. The sound was almost inaudible; a sharp noise, like glass breaking. Kenzie whirled around, hand on his weapon. He took his flashlight and stepped lightly up onto the sidewalk. He listened again, and thought he heard footsteps coming from the grocery store. Kenzie slid down the wall towards the side window. He knew the liquor cabinet was towards the back of the store and might account for the sound of glass shattering. Probably just somebody stealing some booze.

Kenzie looked in the window. The burglar was short, wore a denim jacket and jeans; he was bent over, putting quart beer bottles into a large cardboard box. Kenzie approached the back door and saw that the lock had been pried open. He opened it and stepped in, using the flashlight to blind the thief.

“Hold it right there, Timmy.”

Timmy Black froze and swore under his breath. He was a bright kid, just a young teen. Kenzie did not know him intimately, but liked him well enough.

“You’re in some deep shit here, kid.”

Timmy made a soft crying sound, and Kenzie felt his heart soften. He went on with his speech anyway: “Breaking and entering, for one. Underage drinking for another. Maybe we can toss vandalism in there, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Timmy Black said. “I had to.”

Kenzie turned on the lights. Timmy Black covered his eyes for a second. He blinked, looked around, saw the mess he had made on the floor and groaned. “Shit.”

“Shit indeed,” Kenzie said. He holstered his weapon. “What did you mean when you said you had to?”

“Nothing,” Timmy said. He was a redhead with a freckled face and large, brown eyes. He put his hands up to be cuffed. “Go ahead and take me in.”

Kenzie frowned. “I just might do that,” he said. He looked around. “But as of now I’d estimate the total damage to be a ten dollar lock and a quart of panther piss beer. So lets you and me talk about this for a second. What did you mean when you said you had to do this, Timmy? And don’t bullshit me, or a will run you in.”

Timmy muttered something. Kenzie said: “What was that?”

“My stepfather told me to,” Timmy said. “Jesus, now he’s really going to beat the shit out of me.”

“Why, because you stole?”

“No, you moron! Because I got caught and told on him.” Various emotions flowed across Timmy’s bucolic features as he realized he’d just called the sheriff a moron. Kenzie fought back a smile.

“Maybe we need to go have a talk with him, then.”

The boy cringed. “Jesus, no, mister. Sheriff. He’ll kill me.”

Kenzie looked around the store and located a mop. He used his flashlight to point to it. “Go get that mop and clean up this mess, Timmy,” he said, firmly. “I’ll decide where it goes from there, not you.”

Pat Black’s run-down chicken ranch lay less than one mile south of Twin Forks proper. Kenzie drove there with no siren, but left the lights flashing. The closer he got to the ranch, the lower Timmy Black crouched. The squad car rolled up beside a dented old Chevy truck that sat parked near a small weather-beaten home. The boy was whimpering. When Kenzie parked he saw someone open and then close a curtain. He got out, ordered Timmy to do the same.

Pat Black, red-eyed and pissed off, came blowing out of the front door on an evil wind. He was a big, balding man who currently wore a torn, black wife-beater Tee shirt and white boxer underwear that gave an unwelcome view of his balls. Kenzie was so shocked by the entrance he froze. Black went around him like a linebacker running back an interception and started slapping his stepson around. The boy dropped to his knees and covered his head with his forearms. He was obviously used to abuse.

“What did you do now, you little fucker? Huh? You in trouble?”

Kenzie came to his senses. He didn’t like the look of Black’s massive arms, so he went for the legs. He kicked sideways, aiming for the back of the knee. Black collapsed into the dirt. For a moment, he lay stunned, but then sprang to his feet. “The fuck you doing, Sheriff?”

Kenzie smiled warmly. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, Black.”

“I’m disciplining my boy, is that a crime now?”

“Child abuse is a crime,” Kenzie said.

Black snorted defiantly. “Bullshit. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Timmy, get the fuck into the house. Now!”

The boy looked at Kenzie, who nodded and jerked his head towards the front door. Timmy bolted like a racehorse out of the gate. The door slammed shut.

Kenzie and Black stood in the oppressive night before the illumination from the headlights, dry dust settling all around them. Black sneered. He was a man used to getting his way, a man with contempt for the law, a man who dominated others whenever he could get away with it.

Kenzie hit him. Hard. The blow sank deep into the flab and muscle of the taller man’s stomach. Black’s eyes ballooned and he made a pathetic, whining sound. He bent over, dropped to his knees, vomited into the dirt. Kenzie wrinkled his nose and stepped back from the steaming puddle.

“The fuck you do that for?”

“Get up,” Kenzie said mildly.

“Why?”

“Because I want to do it again.”

Terrified, Black crab-walked back until he was pressed against the squad car. “I know my rights,” he whimpered. “This is police brutality.”

Kenzie glanced at the house. The blinds were drawn. He pulled his 9mm and jammed it into Black’s face. The man’s eyes bulged and he started to pant, rapidly. Soon he would be hyperventilating.

“Lay off him,” Kenzie said.

“Huh?” Black’s eyes were now comically crossed as he stared down the barrel of the weapon. “Who?”

“If I see one mark on that boy,” Kenzie said, “I’m coming back here.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll bust you hard, Black. And you know what? You’ll resist arrest. I’ll have no choice but to fucking blow your nuts clean off.”

“I get you. I understand.”

Kenzie holstered the weapon and backed away. “Get up.”

Black dragged himself up and leaned on the car.

Kenzie eyed the stars. “You know,” he said pleasantly, “I’m really glad we had this little talk, aren’t you?”

Black nodded feverishly. “Sure. Yeah.”

“Step away from the car, Black.”

The big man followed orders. He had a small piece of vomit on his underwear. Kenzie got into the patrol car, slammed the door and lowered the window. He started the engine and gunned it.

“Remember, Black,” he said. “You lay a finger on that kid and you’re toast.” Kenzie smiled brightly. “Oh, and thank you for your cooperation.”

14.

Summer.

The heat was oppressive. The seemingly endless sunshine boiled into steam on the glass and steel and slammed down into the black tar shingles like a huge, white fist. Kenzie took water and beef jerky everywhere he went. He eventually trained Laura to do the same. They slathered on the sunscreen lotion, joked about ordering SPF 2,000 and somehow endured. The anonymous telephone calls stopped, and somehow that only strengthened their marriage. June and July faded, as did August and most of September.

The scorching, mean season whimpered to a close. As the fall months crawled by, the ground began to crackle with frost and the winds whistling down through the low gullies blew colder. Kenzie eventually befriended the rest of the locals; farmer Hi Patterson, whose troubled teenaged son Jake was always raising hell, just like Timmy, but for no apparent reason; cattle rancher John Blake and his wife Katherine, two geriatrics he actually remembered from childhood; bitter widower Paul Wilson. The ineffective Mayor, who seldom came to town at all, was a likeable drunk named Del Howison. But people liked their privacy in Twin Forks, and generally kept their distance.

His closest friend continued to be Doc Preston. Kenzie and Doc took to playing chess, making one move each and every Friday evening. They had yet to finish their first game. The antique rattle seemed to move about of its own accord, and rambled from mantle to desk to window sill. Kenzie finally opted to leave it on his office bookshelf, near the telephone. He then forgot all about it.

Some light rain signaled the final change of the year. The faint of heart packed for lower ground and went south to Reno for a couple of months. Only the die-hard high desert denizens lasted through a long winter in Twin Forks.

And winter was coming on soon. Up in the high desert the weather can be severe. Kenzie made sure to stock enough wood and to check the insulation on all of the power lines. He was looking forward to the snow. Laura, on the other hand, had become increasingly more withdrawn, drawn deeper into herself. She claimed not to relate to folks in Twin Forks. She preferred reading her books, fooling with her computer or watching satellite television. She spent hours keeping track of the events on a number of silly daytime “soap operas,” and cried at the ones involving pregnancy and childbirth. At those times, Kenzie pitied Laura and wished there were some magic words he could offer; some healing touch he could provide, that would take away her pain.

One afternoon, as they sat on the porch, Laura whispered: “You don’t hang around the diner so much any more.”

Kenzie blinked. Icy sweat flowed down his spine. “Excuse me, honey. Did you say something?”

She looked directly at him, and her eyes burned with emotion. “That’s a good thing,” she said. “Because I would have killed her.”

His eyes brimmed over. He finally managed to speak. “Honey, it will never happen again.”

“I know.”

There was nothing else to say. They made love.

Kenzie knew that if it weren’t for Laura’s commitment to their marriage, she’d have left for the city months ago. He loved her for that quiet strength, and her enduring friendship. He also loved Twin Forks, and for a lot of the same reasons.

The sunsets were spectacular, night after night, and always followed by crisp and cool evenings. Wide, watercolor rainbows arched through the hot rocks after sudden bursts of rain. The daily heat pounded a man’s shoulders and fried his skin, but it also warmed his bones in an irreplaceable way. The stillness comforted Kenzie; he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the simple gift of silence.

True to Captain Kramer’s prediction, his job consisted primarily of napping, stopping the occasional drunk driver and handing out speeding tickets. For a burn out, it was a dream job.

Most evenings, the men in Twin Forks gathered on the porch of McCabe’s General Store to drink a little, swap crude jokes and talk about the weather. Meanwhile, most of the aging women, except for Laura, gathered at the chapel to knit and talk about the men. Doc and Kenzie eyeballed their ongoing chess match, or smoked smelly Mexican cigars and argued about the composition of the twinkling constellations. For a while, things in Twin Forks were more than peaceful…For a while.

The frost was on the prickly succulents. Halloween was coming. Doc Preston and Kenzie were seated in the Sheriffs office, just finishing their nearly immortal chess game, as well as two fat cigars and a tall bottle of chilled red wine.

That’s when the telephone calls started again.

It was nothing much at first, just what appeared to be a wrong number; or perhaps someone too embarrassed to go through with speaking to the Sheriff. Kenzie thought nothing of it until the calls began to come to his home. Laura got the first several, and one unnerved her completely. They always came right around dusk.

“At first it seems like there’s no one on the line,” she told him, after the third call. “But then I can hear some voices, way in the background, maybe children giggling.”

“Well then, relax,” Kenzie told her. “It’s just some kids screwing around. I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

“No,” Laura said. She shook her head vehemently. “Then I hear him breathing. It’s really sick breathing, too, like some dirty old man.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Kenzie said, but the hair on his arms rippled. There were only a few children in the entire Valley. He counted them up: Timmy Reynolds and Paula Webster, the Barker kids, the Peterson twins. Only seven and there were none that lived within Twin Forks itself. So who were the youngsters that kept calling? Kenzie told himself it was kids from some other town, playing with a cell phone perhaps, trying to stir up trouble.

He told himself to forget about the calls, and for a while, he did.

Until they started up yet again.

Some came to his home, some to his office. As time went on, Laura stopped receiving them. They came to Kenzie, wherever he happened to be as the world went dark.

Then one night, while working late, a new thought occurred to him: His windows were generally uncovered, and someone could see in. At about sunset, Kenzie walked away from the telephone to the gun case, and started to open it. The telephone rang. He swallowed, then took his time and walked back to the phone. He picked it up and listened carefully. He heard a vague rattling sound, like a small maraca.

Then he distinctly heard the giggles of children and the harsh breathing of someone near the phone. I was right; it is a bunch of kids. But where the hell are they from?

“Listen, children. You’d better knock this off before I decide to trace the calls and tell your parents.”

Giggling. One of them must be doing the ‘dirty old man’ breathing. He faced the wall, but glanced out the window out of the corner of his eye, thinking: They knew when he’d walked away from the desk. Were they right outside at the pay phone?

Kenzie whirled around. He could see the pay phone because it sat directly beneath the street light. The telephone was off the hook with the instrument swaying gently in the evening breeze. Kenzie grabbed his jacket and club and raced outside. He jogged across the street, his boots loud on the icy pavement. When he got to the pay phone and looked down each of the connecting streets, he was disappointed. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. He started to replace the phone in its cradle; and then, purely on impulse, he listened instead. The odd, rattling sound came again.

And then a grown man’s scratchy voice.

“Bora Bora,” he said, or words to that effect. The connection was terrible. Kenzie clenched the receiver tight. “What? What did you say?” He thought he might know the voice and wanted to hear it again.

But the man had already disconnected.

15.

“Talbot, is that you?”

A low, throaty chuckle. “All the way from Hollyweird. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you, man. I’ve been meaning to check up on your sorry ass for months, but you called me first. How’s life in the wild west?”

Jesus, Kenzie thought sadly, he’s drunk at eight o’clock in the morning. Talbot likely hadn’t even been to bed. Maybe he was back to working vice crimes. And that meant he’d probably gotten Kramer pissed or was about to be up on charges.

“Like you guys got nothing else to do, right? Thanks for calling me back.”

“No problemo, cowboy. What do you need?”

“Before I get to that, why are you at Hollywood station? What happened, Jack, did they kick you downstairs?”

“Ah, Sam, you know how it goes. You’re solid for a while then you’re just some asshole off the street.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“So what is it you wanted, Sam?”

“Hang on a second.”

Laura had slept in. Kenzie was already dressed and wearing his official jacket. He switched to the portable phone, grabbed his coffee mug and strolled out onto the wooden porch. It had snowed heavily during the night and there was a rolling, glittering blanket of white on the frozen ground. The coffee steam puffed sideways after a moaning gust of wind. Kenzie shivered, although he wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the bleak despair in his old friend’s tone.

“Look, you remember those child killings that went down before I left?”

“Sure. The local papers still recycle that one every chance they get.”

“Wasn’t there something in that case file about some weird telephone calls to the neighbors? This was probably back when it all got started.”

“Maybe. I’d have to look it up get back to you.” Talbot sounded flat somehow, hollowed out.

“Would you do that? It might be important.”

“Sure.” Kenzie could hear him writing it down.

“Thanks. Now, what’s wrong, Jack? What happened?”

“Sam, I really was meaning to call you anyway because I want to ask you something,” Talbot said, ignoring the question. “Is it true they got no state tax in Nevada?”

Kenzie leaned on the railing. The wood was cold against his buttocks. He sipped some coffee before answering. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“That’s a good thing, Sam. I like that. I’m thinking maybe I’ll leave the job early and buy myself a bar. Could be I’ll check out Nevada, you like it so much.”

“Leave the job, Talbot? Why?”

Talbot cut him off. “Did you know you’re still kind of famous in the department, Kenzie? Sam Kenzie the cowboy cop. Did a fucking amazing job, they say. Set an example for everybody and Parker Center shafted him.”

“That’s really how they see it?” Kenzie felt guilty but couldn’t help himself. He really wanted to know.

“Damn straight, partner,” Talbot mumbled. He was beginning to fade. “So what do you do all day out there in the boonies, pop rabbits?”

“Jack, listen to me, okay? Jack?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I want you to do something for me, man. I want you to call a guy.”

“Okay, Sam. Lemme get a pencil.” A few seconds went by. “Shoot.”

“His name is Greenberg. He has an office in Sherman Oaks. He’s a shrink. I want you to make an appointment to see him.”

Silence. “This is a joke, right?”

“Jack, you’re drunk in the morning and while you’re still on duty. Your career is in trouble, you’re obviously depressed. And I don’t want to read about my friend eating his gun in some hotel room, you read me?”

“I gotta go now,” Talbot said. He seemed deeply offended. “I’ll look into that obscene phone call stuff and get back to you when I have time.”

“Jack, don’t be pissed.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Kenzie went back into the house and returned the phone to its cradle. He stood in silence, feelings decidedly mixed, remembering the good old days. Then he returned the coffee mug to the kitchen and went out the door to work. He did not lock the door behind him. He saw no reason.

The State Police had faxed him a warrant for one Gilbert Henry Harrison of Newark, New Jersey. Gilbert (also known as Gills, Rhino and HH in certain circles) was a member of the Road Hogs, a nomadic biker gang believed to be traveling through northern Nevada on its way down from Utah. The gang was probably bound for the warmer climes of Nevada. It seemed Gilbert had broken the jaw of a garage mechanic who had scratched the paint on his Harley. He’d pled not guilty and then skipped out on a ten thousand dollar bail bond.

Kenzie wiped the windshield and sped away. He whistled as he drove, and listened to some country music; the tiny station was broadcasting live from Elko. The announcer said there was more snow on the way, and that the temperature was already falling.

The State Police didn’t think it likely that Gilbert and the Road Hogs were still in the area, but they had faxed Kenzie on the basis of a telephone tip the gang might be holed up in a deserted trailer park that was located almost exactly between Twin Forks and Dry Wells, about thirty miles south down 91. Kenzie drove slowly and carefully, clinging tightly to the wheel. The round trip was bound to take a couple of hours. He knew he’d soon have to put chains on his vehicle, but didn’t want to be bothered just yet.

When he got to the trailer park it seemed empty, with nothing out of the ordinary. Kenzie loosened the flap on his Glock 9 and drove slowly down the long, cracked stretch of pavement. A few trailers were standing empty; the windows were shattered and the metal doors kept flapping open in the moaning wind.

One trailer at the back of the property seemed buttoned up tight. Someone had decided to escape the bitter weather. Kenzie paused, thought: Could the strange phone calls have come from here?

Kenzie parked the cruiser. He took a long, slow breath and tried to sense what was ahead. His instincts told him not to panic. After all, there was no sign of the biker gang, or any vehicles. Nonetheless, he kept the side arm handy as he stepped out of the car and approached the blue trailer.

“Hello?”

No one answered, but something moved.

Alarmed, Kenzie flattened against the outside paneling and slid down the front wall of the trailer. He stopped at the door, knocked and then moved a few feet away before someone within could open fire.

“Police, open up.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t shoot me.”

The door creaked. Kenzie barked: “Let me see your empty hands, both your hands, come out of that door. Do it now!”

The hands that emerged were trembling and festooned with tufts of white hair. Kenzie relaxed a bit. “You’re doing fine, sir. Now come down the steps, please. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

“I just needed a place to crash. I’m sorry.” It was a hoarse voice that made Kenzie momentarily uneasy. But could this have been the caller? But the man that emerged from the trailer was easily seventy years old. He wore several layers of filthy clothing. His face was spider-webbed with blue and red veins and he had the wild, red-veined eyes of a hardcore wino. He was trembling. “I’ll leave now.”

“Move out into the snow for a minute.” The man obeyed. Kenzie backed away and peered into the trailer. It was empty, except for a small motor scooter, a battered suitcase, a sack of fruit and some bottles of booze. No telephone or connection.

“You been here long, old timer?”

“Maybe two days, sir.”

Kenzie holstered his weapon. “You see any sign of some bikers?”

The old man shook his head. He was shaking with fear. Kenzie softened. “Go back inside, then. But this is private property. I’m going to come back here in a couple of days, and I’d better find you gone by then. You hear me?”

“I do, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Kenzie returned to the cruiser. He didn’t like dead ends. He was already on edge from before, and now his adrenaline was sky high…so what the hell. He was really feeling pissed off, so why not run one more errand before lunch?

The chicken ranch two miles south of Twin Forks seemed as deserted as the trailer park. The old blue pickup was now up on blocks; parts were scattered in the snow, as if someone had half-heartedly started to work on it before losing interest. Kenzie stepped out of the cruiser, leaned over the wheel and honked the horn.

“The fuck?”

He honked again. Pat Black emerged from the trailer a few moments later, stamping himself into his snow boots. He seemed larger than ever. He wore a bulky gray sweatshirt and overalls. His bald pate was pink with rage.

“What’s the boy done now?” Black demanded. Black’s voice had the rasp of a smoker. It had to have been him making those calls. Kenzie saw Timmy peer out through the bathroom window then shut the blinds.

“Your boy hasn’t done a thing,” Kenzie said, cheerfully. He made certain his answer was loud enough to comfort Timmy. “Actually, I’m here to talk to you, Mr. Black.”

Black cocked his head, baffled. “Yeah? Well then I want a lawyer.”

Kenzie stepped closer. “As of right now, you don’t really need one,” he said. His lowered voice was trembling with rage. “You don’t need a doctor yet, either. But you go on making telephone calls and I guarantee you’ll need both.”

Black laughed. His breath smelled terrible. “Big man,” he sneered. “Got his badge and his gun and they make him a big man.”

Kenzie knew he was being foolishly macho, but he couldn’t help himself. He opened the door to the cruiser and threw his gun on the seat. He took the badge off his heavy coat and dropped it next to the Glock.

“There you go,” he said brightly. “Now we’re even.”

Black’s smile slipped a bit. “What?”

“Go ahead, bad ass. Take your best shot.”

Black tensed up and then dropped his shoulders again. “Yeah, sure. And you’ll just say I attacked a police officer. No way.”

The back door of the house opened and slammed shut. From the corner of his eye, Kenzie saw a fully clothed Timmy, afraid of what was to come, heading for the tree line. The teenager was running swiftly, away from the certain wrath of his abusive father. For some reason the boy’s long, lithe stride reminded Kenzie of his sister, Jenny. He figured the kid knew how to take care of himself in the snow.

“Get lost, cop. I ain’t going for it.”

Kenzie felt the heat in his chest and the world got hazy. He stomped across the icy ground, nearly losing his balance. He got in close to Black, peered up at him. His voice was clenched like a fist. “Stop making those calls, asshole, or I’ll make you wish you’d run down your mommy’s leg instead of being born.”

“Blow it out your ass.”

Kenzie was caught by surprise when Black hit him with a hard right cross. His mind went blank. He flew back and slid on his ass across the frozen ground. When he came to his senses again, Black was drawing back one booted foot to kick at his face.

Kenzie grabbed the leg, twisted hard and brought the bigger man down. He crawled up Black’s pants, all thought of being a professional behind him now, and began to punch. Black grabbed at his eyes. Kenzie curled his right hand into knuckles and slammed it into Black’s exposed throat.

Black turned purple and began to writhe. Kenzie, feeling a little embarrassed now, sat up in the snow. “It feels like you can’t breath,” he said. “But you’ll live.” He pulled at the back of his belt, rolled Black over and cuffed him. He got low, yanked on the cuffs and used leverage to force his prisoner into the cruiser. “And you called it, partner. You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

Most of the afternoon went to paperwork. Kenzie found a small, red mouse near his right eye and iced it. He called Laura and lied to her. He told her the day had been boring as hell, but that he had to work late pushing papers. Meanwhile, Black lay flat on his cot in the drab, grey cell; motionless and sullen, as if furious with himself for having fallen into such an obvious trap. He refused to talk to Kenzie and demanded to see a lawyer. Meanwhile, Kenzie was already annoyed with himself. He decided to release Black in the morning without filing charges. He’d made his point. The calls would stop.

Towards nightfall, Doc came over to resume their chess game. He produced some ointment for the shiner, but asked no questions.

The telephone rang again. Kenzie felt a wave of bumps wash over him, like the return of some childish superstition. He almost allowed Doc to answer the phone, but forced himself at the last moment. The sounds were there, just as he’d somehow known they would be; the kids, the rattling and the hissing of air.

But this time there were words, and they chilled his blood.

16.

They smelled the boy long before they found him.

The night was bitter cold, the ground crackled with frost. A full worm moon burned white in the evening sky and their breathing spewed tiny, twisting dragons of fog. Kenzie left the police cruiser’s lights on bright and walked over to the icy stream, one hand clenching the handle of his Glock. He paused at the edge of the woods to locate and turn on his heavy flashlight. He sprayed the beam from left to right, his nostrils twitching.

“Man, something stinks. I could barely understand the guy, but I think he said he’d left Timmy somewhere around here.”

Heavy footsteps crunching along behind him; Doc grunting from exertion. Kenzie kept his eyes focused forward, following the narrow beam of light, and searched the woods.

“Too bad he didn’t tell you who he was while he was at it.”

“Hang on a bit,” Kenzie said. “Could be he did.”

They worked their way along the path, concentrating carefully. The flashlight caressed some brittle sage, paused for a second and moved on. Kenzie blinked. His breath caught in his throat. He moved the light back to find what he’d nearly missed.

“There, Doc. Look.”

A child’s black tennis shoe was jammed into a clump of brush like a ridged exclamation point.

“Wait here,” Kenzie said.

Doc sighed and hugged himself against the cold. He seemed to briefly consider standing alone in the darkness. Then he said: “Fuck that. I’m coming with you.”

Kenzie lost his footing on the bank, slipped onto his ass and slid down until his boots sank into the freezing water. He barely noticed. He was far more concerned about the amount of noise made by his handcuffs, mace and keys as they went jangling through the mud and sharp stones. The crazy bastard might still be nearby, watching them with amusement. He heard Doc stepping carefully, and the sucking sounds his large boots made in the muck. They approached the body.

The stench was like a force field, and it drove them back. Doc shook his head and gagged. “Sweet Jesus, is that from a human?”

My God, this poor kid suffered…

Although Kenzie had been to his share of crime scenes as a homicide detective, he thought he’d left such things far behind. He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed some menthol chest rub. He dabbed a bit under his nostrils; offered some to Doc. The veterinarian took it gratefully and followed Kenzie’s example. The menthol almost overpowered the stench of entrails and rot.

Kenzie examined the ground around the body carefully. He took some plastic bags out of his pocket and picked up a few things with tweezers; a nail, some threads and a dried-out wad of chewing gum.

Doc was obviously terrified. “Shouldn’t you wait and let the State Police do that, Sheriff?”

Kenzie shook his head absently. “The number of predators we got around here, this place will be covered in coyote and badger prints come morning, and Timmy would be half eaten. Can’t risk that. I’ll pick up what I can. See, you never know. If this chewing gum belongs to our perp, he just left us some DNA to work with.” But in his heart of hearts, Kenzie knew it belonged to the Black boy. Whoever had brought him here had struck him hard across the face, and the gum had gone flying. He took some photographs. The flash made the scene appear washed out, even more ghoulish.

Kenzie ran the beam up the body and flinched. A long plume of frigid air blew past his shoulder as Doc, leaning in close, gasped in horror. Kenzie sighed and took more pictures.

“Who could do such a thing? Gut him like that?”

Kenzie put the camera down and swallowed. The carnage to the boy’s belly was hideous to behold, but he’d seen worse with LAPD. He kept reminding himself of that fact, almost as a litany: I’ve seen worse, I’ve seen worse, I’ve seen worse. Another flash photo: Timmy’s eyes were rolled back in his head and several blood vessels had burst, spider-webbing the whites. As for the evisceration, it was ghastly, but hadn’t killed him right away. No, Timmy had been strangled while he lay suffering.

“Do you think it was his stepfather, Sam? Is that why you busted him?”

“Good guess, but not likely, Doc. When I took the son of a bitch into custody this afternoon, Timmy was still alive.”

“It could be Black got someone else to do it, then.”

“Do this? I doubt it.”

“What the hell happened here, Sam?”

“I think the boy fought back,” Kenzie said. He wanted a cigarette. Badly. Even though it had now been a long time since he had smoked. He covered the boy’s hands with plastic bags. “Look at his fingernails, Doc. He scratched and kicked, maybe thumbed the perp in the eye. Something that really hurt. I’d say the bastard lost his temper and sliced the kid open, then had no more use for him.” He walked around a bit more, stepping carefully. “Looks like he used some brush to fuck up any trace of footprints.”

“Look,” Doc said. “Look over there.”

Kenzie ran the beam along the ground. “Where?”

“Up there, Sheriff. To your right.”

One lone print: A large one, the boot heel and a partial. It lay half-under a flat piece of rock part way up the bank. They’d gotten lucky. Kenzie stepped wide around the crime scene and eased close to the print. He took a photograph, measured the print carefully and noted the size and depth of the indentation. He piled some rocks up around it, hoping to preserve it for the forensics team that would come up from Elko in the morning. He paused.

“Doc. Come here.”

There was something near the heel of that print, something grayish and dried up. Kenzie used the end of his knife to scrape some of the matter out into a plastic bag. He sniffed carefully. It smelled foul, even with the stench of the body and the open intestines lying nearby. He felt Doc behind him and held up the bag.

“What the hell is that?”

Doc whistled. “From pigs. That’s pig shit.”

After a few seconds of silence, Kenzie turned his head. “What, Doc? What are you thinking?”

Doc took a step back, his bulky body large in the moonlight. “I’m thinking that there is only one farm around these parts that has a lot of pigs.”

Kenzie felt his heart kick. “Let’s not get too excited yet,” he said. “Maybe the perp just crossed that man’s land to get here. Where is it?”

Doc shook his head and pointed south. “We’re gonna drive, we got to go all the way down to Star Valley and go over the bridge. But a man could walk it in fifteen minutes going right across that field.”

Kenzie jumped to his feet, excited. “Damn. You mean that old German guy Klaus, the one who hired me? He keeps pigs at his place?”

Doc nodded. “He surely does.”

“I’ve always had a funny feeling about him.” Kenzie grabbed his cell phone and tapped out a number. After a few rings, a sleepy Laura answered. “Laura? It’s me. Honey, look. I want you to call the State Police right away. Now get a pen and take this down.” He told her about the anonymous call, where the body was, and what he had already done at the crime scene.

“Sam, Jack Talbot called from Los Angeles. He said you were right about the phone calls, whatever that means.”

“Thanks.”

“Sam, this is terrible. Horrible.”

“Yes, it is.”

“What are you…”

“Now sweetie, don’t worry about me. But tell them I have gone to interview a suspect by the name of Klaus Wachner.”

“What?”

“Yeah, our landlord. Just tell them this is a weird old guy who hardly ever comes to town. Doc and I are going to his place right now. If he did this, I don’t want him to have time to cover up anything.”

Laura said: “Sam, I’m worried. Don’t go alone.”

Kenzie laughed reassuringly. “Like I said, don’t worry. He’s just a crazy old man, and there are two of us. Doc is with me. Now make that call, honey. I’ll call you back in an hour or so.”

Kenzie broke the connection. Doc spat again. “Nice of you to volunteer my ass without asking me first.”

“I don’t have time to run you back to town,” Kenzie said. “Sorry. You can wait in the car if you want to.”

Doc hugged himself against the cold. “You carry a shotgun, right?”

“On the dash.”

“Well then you can keep that there popgun. I’ll carry the shotgun and back you up. How’s that sound?”

“Just fine,” Kenzie said dryly. “That’s what every cop wants to hear from his partner. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be right behind you every step of the way.’” They shared a bitter laugh. Kenzie packed up his camera and the evidence he had collected. A few moments passed. Doc cleared his throat.

“Sheriff? I’m scared shitless.”

“That’s a reasonable posture,” Kenzie said. “Me too.”

Kenzie paused to look down at Timmy. I’m sorry I have to leave you here, he thought. You were a brave little boy. I will get this bastard, I promise. The boy stared back as if asking a question of tremendous importance. Kenzie swallowed. No, I don’t know why the world allowed this to happen. I wish I did.

In the car, Kenzie said: “Now tell me about any other missing children from around this part of the state, Doc. This is damned important. Don’t leave anything out.” He drove slowly, carefully. This old road was poor anyway, and tonight it was covered with slick ice and patches of snow.

“Hell, only other time I heard of was maybe eight, nine months ago,” Doc said, “and it wasn’t here, but over the mountain in Dry Wells. A couple lived there name of Johnson went to get their little boy one morning and he was missing. Everybody searched up and down the valley, but they never found a body. Sheriff Harris helped them out. He was getting on in years by then, and it upset him no end. Some folks figured the kid got caught by a mountain lion. Maybe ten days later, some migrant workers passing through lost their little boy. Same deal. Search parties, flyers, shit we even had some local television coverage that time. Nada.”

A grinding, hissing noise: Kenzie felt the cruiser sliding to the right. He gunned the powerful engine and twisted the wheel until he had regained control of the vehicle. He kept his speed down, trying to be as quiet as possible. He searched for the ancient bridge while he listened.

“They went nowhere with the investigation,” Doc said softly. “Then a couple of weeks later they caught this drunken tramp down by the railway, and he had some stuff on him belonged to the Johnson boy. Can’t recall what exactly, maybe a sweater and a pocketknife or something. It seems that tramp had been living around Twin Forks for years, comin’ out at night to scavenge for food in trashcans. Man, he was some paranoid, pissed-off guy. He broke the nose of the sheriff of Dry Wells when they went to arrest him. Kept on babbling about dead children and ice cubes, something like that. Said he probably had killed ‘em.”

“Probably? Sounds like a paranoid schizophrenic,” Kenzie said. “Crazy as a loon without medication. Will the state give him the needle anyway?”

Doc chuckled without humor. “We’re talking a couple of kids, here, Sheriff. Missing and presumed dead. Guy was screwed, blued and tattooed in a heartbeat. You get my drift?”

“I get it. They were happy to have nailed somebody,” Kenzie said. “Too happy to think things through properly. And old Sheriff Harris got to retire with honor.”

“It bothered me some when I read about it,” Doc admitted. “But still, he could have done it. Some schizophrenics are dangerous, right? That’s how I rationalized, it anyway. I think everybody wanted it to be over with, even though it was in the next county. And for the last few months it was.”

“Until tonight.”

“I guess so.”

Kenzie saw the bridge. He shut off the lights and rolled the police cruiser onto the battered wood and steel platform. He winced at the racket the tires made going over the splintered planks. Kenzie reflexively lowered his voice to a whisper.

“So maybe this is our killer, maybe not. What do you know about old Klaus Wachner, Doc?”

“Just that he moved here recently,” Doc said. “He was some kind of big shot with the Army. Way I heard it, back when he worked at one of those Area 51 places, all top secret stuff.”

“A scientist?”

“A biologist, I think,” Doc said. “Stuff that’s way beyond me. He worked with new technologies and weapons-grade chemicals, something like that anyway. Never talked much about it. Likely wasn’t allowed to.”

Kenzie knew that many serial killers had seemingly normal lives. He chewed his lip as he drove slowly through the cold, oppressive night, then asked the question that was on his mind. “Any family?”

“Huh?”

“Klaus Wachner, does he have a family?”

“Did. Wife died in childbirth,” Doc said. “And then his little girl suddenly got real sick and died, too. I heard that was maybe ten or twelve years back, when he worked for the government. Then not long ago he just moved here, picked up a couple of empty houses and up and bought his spread.”

“So he moved here just before me?”

“That’s true, he did. But before that he really fixed the place up. Wachner had crews digging holes, pouring concrete, adding on to the ranch house, installing livestock pens and a new power panel, all kinds of stuff. He did a hell of a lot of work on that ranch.”

“And he lost a daughter,” Kenzie mused. “Maybe that’s the motivation for killing kids.”

“How so?”

“Well, one of them ‘killed’ his wife by getting born, right? Hell, maybe he murdered his own little girl years ago for revenge, and then that’s what started him off.”

“I could see that making sense to a nut job.”

“My instincts tell me he’s wrong, Doc. And they never lie.”

17.

The tension was so palpable time seemed to warp back on itself. Kenzie felt like they had been driving for hours, but it had only been minutes. He knew they must be close to the right place.

“Where are we?”

Doc peered through the windshield, which had started to fog up from the warmth of their bodies. “Can’t tell,” he said, finally.

Kenzie risked flicking on the lights. They saw bright, feverish eyes in the roadway. He felt ice run up his spine and the short hairs on his neck jumped.

“Fuck me!”

The scrawny coyote lowered its head, sniffed and slithered off into the brush. Meanwhile, Kenzie caught a glimpse of a dilapidated cabin perhaps twenty yards away. He was surprised to see power lines running to it and that the dim porch light was on. He clicked the lights back off and unbuckled his seat belt. “Doesn’t look like he worried too much about the exterior,” Kenzie said. “It’s a dump.”

“You’re stopping?”

“I figure we walk from here,” Kenzie said. He unfastened the bands holding the shotgun tight against the dashboard. “There you go, Doc. Try not to blow my ass off, okay?”

After a moment, Doc said. “The devil’s alternative.”

It was pitch black. Sheriff Kenzie took several deep breaths to calm down and then turned towards Doc. “What did you say?”

In the blackness, Doc said: “The devil’s alternative. I’ve got two crappy options. I stay out here alone, or walk into what might be a trap. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

Kenzie grinned wickedly. “Then may as well ‘do.’”

After a time, Doc sighed and unlocked the passenger door. “Suppose you’re right at that,” he said. “Better than doing nothing. I warn you, though. I may have to go somewhere and clean out my shorts after this.”

Kenzie thought for a moment. “Me, too.”

Doc eased his bulk out onto the dirt road. Kenzie’s eyes began to adjust, and he watched Doc’s massive form as he waddled forward with the shotgun cradled in his arms. “One thing I do not get,” Doc said, softly.

“Why he called me and whispered where the body was.”

“You got it.”

“I suspect he wants to get caught,” Kenzie replied quietly. Suddenly he thought of Oso, The Bear, whose mother burned him with a hot iron when he misbehaved: I can’t stand the pain any more, ese. Kenzie shook the memory away and continued speaking. “Most likely part of him wants to get caught. It happens. Might have just gotten tired of waiting for justice and decided to give us a little hint.”

“Like stepping in pig shit.”

The air reeked of fecal matter. Kenzie became aware of a small choir, gently chuffing and squeaking. He realized they were passing an enclosure filled with large pigs. Nauseated, he wondered if Klaus Wachner had fed the missing children to the big animals once he was done abusing them. No bodies that way, for sure.

Jesus Christ, that conjured up some awful images. Sooooie, pig pig.

Kenzie paused at the edge of the light streaming from the yellow porch bulb. He looked at Doc and swallowed. He dropped his voice to a hoarse croak. “You know how to use that thing, Doc?”

“Little late to ask me, ain’t it?”

“You’ve got a point. Now listen, you stay on my right once we get through the door. You cover from the right, I take the left. First rule is we don’t shoot each other, okay? After that, damned near anything goes.”

Doc cocked the shotgun. The snick of the slide was loud, ominous and nasty. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to wait for the State Police?”

Kenzie shrugged. “Shit yes, I want to. But there could be another kid in there, Doc. Or he could be getting rid of evidence while we’re fucking around. Can’t risk waiting another hour for them to get a car down here. Look, it’s my town, my call.”

“Then let’s do it.”

And they edged forward by starlight. Kenzie took the Glock from its holster and flicked off the safety. He edged up onto the wooden porch, heavy flashlight in one hand and pistol in the other. Doc stepped to the right of the doorway. The porch moaned under his weight. Kenzie steeled himself.

“Police!” He kicked at the door, kicked again. The wood shattered and flew inwards. Kenzie flicked on the flashlight and jumped into the room, moving to his left. He heard Doc stumble in behind him. Dust flew up and clouded the air. Kenzie sneezed and briskly searched the room. Nothing but tattered furniture and mounds of books. He jumped into the small kitchen. It was empty, too.

“Stay there, Doc.”

Kenzie flattened himself against the wall and eased down to the only other doorway. He took a deep breath, released part of the air and tried the knob. It was unlocked. He pushed the door and stepped back out of the way, unconsciously waiting for a hail of bullets that didn’t come. The door slammed against the wall with a loud BANG and he jumped.

More silence.

Kenzie played the flashlight through the bedroom. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, piled onto tattered furniture and lying at the foot of the bed. The smell was overpowering, but this time it was the stench of human body odor and pig droppings. There were stacks of books in the corners and on a shelf, most of them dog-eared and stuffed with markers and slices of post-its.

Arcane symbols had been scrawled on the walls with magic markers of every conceivable size and color. Most of them appeared to be mathematical in nature. The letters EMR appeared over and over again, in varying patterns and scripts.

“What the fuck does EMR mean?”

“Beats me.”

“And speaking of paranoid schizophrenics,” Doc said, “I think this guy has gone totally bat shit.”

“Believe it,” Kenzie said. “But where the hell is he?”

Doc found a light switch on the wall. One lone bulb flickered on; it dangled from a worn black wire right in the middle of the ceiling. The light cut in and out, giving everything a strobe-like flicker. Kenzie searched the room while Doc stood guard. His movement stirred the powder coating the books, bed and clothing. Soon the air was foul and cloudy with dust so thick it hurt to breathe. Kenzie sneezed a second time.

“My fucking allergies. My nose is running.”

“Be glad of it,” Doc replied. “This guy has need for some industrial strength deodorant.”

Kenzie felt his stomach sink with disappointment. He’d found nothing to link Klaus Wachner to the dead boy except for the presence of pig excrement in the boot print. Hell, it was arguable he’d not even had probable cause to search the premises. For the first time in his long career, Kenzie’s instincts appeared to have let him down.

Doc coughed and spat. “Are we seriously fucked here, Sheriff?”

Kenzie nodded reluctantly. “Looks like it,” he said. “And I don’t mind telling you I’m pissed about it. This guy is wrong, I can smell it.”

Doc sniffed. “Me, too. Literally.”

“I really like him for the murders, Doc. I think Klaus Wachner called me tonight and lured us here.”

Doc seemed dubious. “And because he blamed his own kid for his wife’s death in childbirth, he got pissed and poisoned her?”

“That kind of flies, doesn’t it? Stay with me on this. Then let’s say the guilt started to eat him up, so he had to kill other kids to justify what he did, then it goes on and on.”

“Maybe.”

“I had a case like this in LA. I probably told you about it somewhere along the way.” Kenzie frowned. “But there’s one other thing I don’t get. Why didn’t he leave us one last clue? Why bring us this far for nothing?”

“Beats me,” Doc said. “But I know one thing, Sheriff. I could sure use a drink.”

I’m sorry, kid, Kenzie thought. I don’t know what to do next. I wish you could talk to me. He holstered his weapon and took one last look around the bedroom.

Suddenly, Doc swore. He’d gotten his foot snared in a throw rug. Irritated, he kicked it out of the way; lost his balance and just barely caught himself in the doorway. “God damn it,” he grunted, “let’s get out of this dump.”

“Wait,” Kenzie said softly. “Look at this.”

He rolled up the rug and used it to wipe a thin coating of dust away from the floorboards. Saw a brass handle.

“Is that a fucking trapdoor?” Doc whispered.

Kenzie drew his sidearm again. He held a finger to his lips. His skin went cold and damp with perspiration. He motioned for Doc to aim the shotgun and then eased the trapdoor open. The hidden hinges squeaked like the gate to a graveyard. More powder scattered and swirled through the beam from the flashlight.

Doc looked terrified. “Oh, you go first,” he said, trying to inject some humor. “Really, I insist.”

Kenzie saw stairs leading down into what appeared to be a large basement. It must have taken years to hollow out this enormous a space in the hard, rocky ground.

‘Doc,” Kenzie said, “you wait up here and keep watch.” He held the gun even with the flashlight and dropped into the hole. He eased down the steps, searching the basement with his tired eyes. No sign of life. He waited for his eyes to adjust.

“Kenzie, you okay? Can I come down too?”

Doc sounded frightened to be alone upstairs. “No way,” Kenzie called. “I need you to stay up there and watch our ass end.”

“Oh, man…”

Kenzie looked around. He shook his head. “Doc, you’re not going to believe this.”

Meanwhile, upstairs: “The devil’s alternative.” Doc took one last look around the house, which seemed even more terrifying than before now that Kenzie was no longer in sight. He forced his bulky body down the steps.

“You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

Kenzie whirled “I told you to stay up there, damn it.”

But Doc was staring, speechless. Kenzie knew why. Klaus Wachner had hacked out a laboratory beneath the old cabin, added electrical power and then plastered the dirt and rock walls well enough to hang blackboards. The symbols were everywhere again, the letters EMR appearing over and over. Doc shook his head and whistled.

“Hell of a lot of trouble to go to.”

Kenzie nodded. “But a great place to hide bodies. You see another light switch anywhere?”

Doc searched the wall nearest the steps. A simple dimmer switch lay half-buried between two chunks of stone. He dialed it up and three rows of recessed ceiling lights came on. So did some kind of generator. Something started to hum, so low they barely noticed it.

“What the hell is this place?”

“Saw this movie once,” Doc said. “It was about some guy supposedly had this beautiful mind. Turns out he was all messed up. Thought he worked for the government, but he didn’t. He had nonsense written all over the walls, map coordinates, sketches and diagrams and numbers and letters. But none of it meant anything. Looked an awful lot like this.”

The air was still thick with haze. Kenzie fought back another sneeze. He pointed at a handle buried in the wall. “What’s that?”

Doc lumbered over, transferred the shotgun to one hand and tugged hard. Nothing happened. “Don’t know,” he said. “This metal is colder than my ex-wife’s ass, though.”

“Try again.”

Doc rested the shotgun against the rock. He grabbed the handle with both hands, put his formidable weight to work and tugged again. Kenzie heard a crisp snapping sound, like a branch breaking. The door boomed and began to move outward. The generator sound grew in intensity and moved from a hum to a low rumble. Doc pulled one last time, and yet another room was revealed.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

It was some kind of homemade walk-in freezer. Doc stood silently, inadvertently blocking the doorway. Kenzie crowded closer and peered around him to look inside.

The two men were momentarily speechless. Kenzie groped along the interior and exterior walls, searching for a new light switch. At the same time, he splashed the flashlight beam along the interior of the freezer.

What he found made him drop the flashlight in alarm. The freezer went dark. Kenzie and Doc tried to step out of the doorway at the same time. They wedged themselves together, almost comically. The Sheriff turned sideways and escaped back into the cellar.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he exploded. “What the hell was that?”

Doc rubbed his face. “That,” he said, “looked to me to be a freeze-dried child. A little girl, to be precise.”

Kenzie paced the cellar, rubbing his arms to rid himself of goose flesh. He was revolted. “Do you recognize her, Doc? Is she one of those missing kids?”

Doc had gone green, too. When he spoke again, it was with an eerie calm. “No, she’s not one of our locals, Sheriff. Unless I miss my guess, that’s Klaus Wachner’s dead daughter in there.”

“And I thought I’d just about seen it all,” Kenzie said. “Did you notice any other kids, or just her?”

“Just her, I think. And them words.”

“Words?”

“Latin words. Almost the same as upstairs,” Doc said. “E-something, M-something and R-something.”

Kenzie blinked. “You saw words, though? Upstairs it’s only the letters. Let me see.” He elbowed Doc out of the way and went into the freezer on his hands and knees, searching for the flashlight.

“Sheriff,” Doc asked quietly, “where’s the fucking shotgun?”

Kenzie sensed something in Doc’s tone and his guts clenched. “You left it by the door,” he said. His voice echoed slightly in the freezer. His hand closed on the handle of the flashlight just as Doc said: “I know. And now it’s gone.”

Kenzie had a premonition, then, something he could not have explained. He sensed his life was over. He hesitated a long moment, and then turned on the flashlight.

The little girl was nearly naked and encased entirely in some kind of special, bluish ice. Her eyes and mouth were closed. She looked perfectly preserved. Her genitals were artistically covered, and her little hands still had manicured nails.

“Sheriff,” Doc said nervously, “did you hear me? The fucking gun ain’t here anymore.”

Kenzie didn’t answer. He raised the beam and examined the three words carefully. His throat tightened up and his bowels begin to loosen. He knew what they said, even though it had been many years since he’d studied Latin. He slowly backed out of the freezer, hand on his own weapon. He turned in the doorway and got to his feet, his eyes searching the cellar. Nothing but flickering light and powdery air.

“Doc?”

The big man was sweating profusely and his eyes were wide with terror. He didn’t answer. Kenzie slapped him on the back. “Doc, it says E Moritus Revoco. Does than mean what I think it does?”

Doc nodded his head. His eyes were fixed on the stairs leading up out of the cellar as if he already knew what was coming. “I know the whole passage from somewhere,” Doc said. “It says ‘from the dead, I summon thee, from the dust I recreate thee’.”

I poke death, man…Oso meant I revoke death! SHIT! And that figure eight on its side, the Ourabouris sign, was right there on the wall.

The trap door slammed shut, and more dust flew. Someone or something slid the locking bolt into place.

Klaus Wachner had completely outmaneuvered them.

That’s when the truth hit Kenzie with the force of a sledge hammer. Suddenly he knew why the old man had always seemed oddly familiar. He had been the man driving the Nissan the evening Kenzie had been shot. He’d honked three times to warn Oso and sped away. Wachner must have been coming to pick up the kidnapped child.

He had been the missing man involved in the LA child murders.

Wachner had moved to Twin Forks to set things up, probably right after reading about the ‘cowboy cop’ who had nearly destroyed his life’s work. He’d been implementing this revenge when he mailed a letter offering Kenzie a job back in his home town. And Kenzie had walked right into the trap.

Panicked, Kenzie tried his cell phone. The walls were too thick to get a signal.

I can’t stand the pain, ese! The pain of his guilt?

Something moved.

Kenzie brought up his weapon, but there was nothing to shoot. Except…right at the foot of the steps, a strange creature had begun to form itself, something that was at once alien and unspeakable. It was short, like a human child, but the features—formed mostly of dirt, trash and spider webs—were distorted, garish and smeared. It had the keen, hungry teeth of a predator; the canines came to nasty little points.

“Klaus didn’t murder his own child, Doc,” Kenzie said, his voice cracking. The demonic specter in the corner shifted and floated towards them, malformed feet not even touching the floor. Kenzie saw that several others had somehow assembled themselves in various nooks and crannies. They also approached, each of them grinning and drooling in anticipation.

“Fuck this!”

Kenzie fired his weapon three times. The explosions were nearly deafening in the confined space. The bullets passed through the things and harmlessly punched knuckle-sized holes in the wall.

Kenzie cringed, but was somehow not surprised, when one phantom looked a bit like his dead sister. He shook his head in amazement.

“Hell no, Doc. We blew it. Wachner didn’t kill her, he tried to save her.”

Doc gasped and clutched himself. His chest seemed to have tightened unbearably, as if death anxiety now raced his heart past the breaking point. His voice began to grow weak and feathery. He mumbled: “He was experimenting, trying to find some way bring her back.”

“And they,” Kenzie said in a broken voice, indicating the approaching ghouls, “are the practice runs.”

…Ourabouris, the figure eight on its side, the sign of eternity…

The lights went out and Kenzie was suddenly in darkness. He thought of Laura all alone in the world, and his eyes filled with tears. There came a faint but busy noise, like the warning of a nest of angry diamondbacks; or the sound of a child’s toy rattle. Oh my God the rattle, the rattle was meant as a warning…Doc fell heavily to the floor, mercifully unconscious.

Sam Kenzie heard the hideous sound of the several children giggling; then the rustle and rip of clothing and the smacking of their greedy little lips.

Amidst his horror and revulsion, Kenzie realized why the killer had waited so many months before luring him here. Wachner had wanted to have these creatures to feed him to. Kenzie knew that backup would eventually arrive, but also that they would be far too late.

He put the gun in his mouth and gripped it as tightly as possible.

He promised himself he would pull the trigger the second he could no longer stand the pain.

_______________________________________________________

(c) 2010 Harry Shannon