Hunting Ketch

HUNTING KETCH

A Novel

by

Jack Forge

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 John Stephen Rohde

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be re-sold or given to others. If you want to share this book, please buy a copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book but did not buy it, please go to Smashwords.com and buy a copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 1

Little Tony Wright was playing alone, when the stranger appeared. The boy was completely unaware of the man who for days had been hanging around Henley Park, watching children, staring at them, and stalking them. In the balminess of late summer evenings, Tony liked to play there, across the street from his house, and he was having too much fun to notice anyone else in the surrounding world.

September days in Southern California can be torrid, but the evenings often mellow with the hint of the coming fall. On the soft air, Tony sensed through the yellowing trees the aromas of cooking food that drifted from nearby houses in the San Fernando Valley suburb. He knew his mother would be calling him for dinner soon so he wanted to play as long as possible. He enjoyed clambering on the complex structure the neighborhood fathers had built in the middle of a big sand pit. Whenever he saw an opportunity, the little boy would head straight for it, even without his mother's permission, especially without it. She had let him play there so many times Tony assumed she would not mind if he went there occasionally on his own.

The child had been on the Earth only six years going on seven, but he possessed an independent streak, probably inherited from his mother. At least that is what Donna Wright liked to say whenever anyone noticed or mentioned the little fellow's wandering ways. Since her husband left her, she increasingly counted on her son to look after himself as much as he could. Not that she was neglectful. No woman loved and cared more for her children. But she was a single parent. Even with the best intentions and actions, she often strained to provide for her offspring, particularly in making time for them.

While preparing dinner for Tony and his baby sister, Donna seldom looked out a window to check on her boy, whom she assumed was playing in the front yard. If she had glanced, she might have noticed that Tony was gone. If she had discovered him in the park, she might have spotted a shadow drifting among the Japanese mock-orange bushes and the California sycamore trees.

At first, the shadow was only that: an insubstantial thing, a fluctuating shade cast by fluttering leaves, formed by the vagaries of light and imagination. Had anyone peered into the tight spaces among the shrubs, though, one might have seen the familiar contours of a human being. But for now, the shape was barely visible as it floated low from tree to tree around the sand pit.

If the boy had seen the shape, he might have thought it a bogeyman and either froze with fear or raced home. But, even when the stranger reached the periphery of the playground, the boy did not see the dark figure. Tony was unaware of any attention to him, oblivious to the glint on the gray narrowed eyes and to the eerie smile at the corners of tightened lips. The child was so engrossed in play that he did not notice another shape appear, see the two shapes disappear, or hear the muffled noise of a person gagging. He barely noticed the screaming birds and their whirring wings as they shot out of the bushes and trees where the shadow had been lurking.

Tony!

The strident female voice startling him, the boy looked up and saw his mother crossing the street to the park. He swallowed hard at the sight of her slender figure marching toward him, her long dark hair flying as if flaming in the late light.

Anthony Jay Wright! she snapped. What do you think you're doing—running off without my permission?

Tony gulped. He was experienced enough to realize that his mother knew the answer to her question. He thought quickly and climbed to the top of the structure. The boy spread his face wide into an endearing smile and shouted to his mother with a ploy he often used to placate her whenever she was charging with a burst of reprimand.

Mommy—watch me! He sat upon a parallel bar then let himself swing backward, hanging at his knees.

His mother nearly gasped and presently forgot her fear born anger until she saw he had not fallen from the bar, and then with a sharp squint she kept her purpose. Now, don't you go showing off, young man—thinking I'm going to forget about this. You come down from there this instant and get back to the house. It's time for dinner.

When he saw his mother put her hands on her hips, Tony knew she would be coming after him at the next moment so he let himself drop to the ground. This time she could not contain a gasp. When the boy stood up and raised his arms in Olympian victory, she had to set her jaw to keep from grinning at her spunky child.

Yes, yes—that was very good, Tony, she said. But you shouldn't be taking such chances. You could break your neck.

Knowing he had dulled the point of her righteous anger, Tony Wright took his mother's hand and walked happily with her back home. As she mildly admonished him along the way, as he listened submissively, neither of them had the slightest idea of what lay lifeless in the thick bushes thirty feet from the playground.

Chapter 2

The next morning Detective Sergeant Mark McQuade was the last to arrive at the scene. Actually, he planned it that way. He liked to hear from the other officers their version of a crime scene before he examined it himself. He knew which cop had discovered the body, because the uniformed officer was already questioning curious neighbors who were standing on the periphery, close enough to glimpse the corpse but distant enough to preserve both propriety and their digestive systems. Even so, the flashing police lights rippling across their faces made them look dyspeptic.

Hey, Bob— McQuade said so loudly to the uniform that a few gawkers turned to look at him. He liked to stimulate bystander curiosity. You call it in?

Officer Bob Tranks was officious, proud of being the first cop to make the grim discovery. Yeah, I'm the lucky one, Detective. Taped off for you. Ready for your big board. Woman who discovered the body over there—in the sweat clothes—one with the dog.

McQuade glanced at her and snapped his eyes back at Officer Tranks. He had heard a smartass crack in the cop's description of the list of crimes in the Robbery-Homicide Division. McQuade disliked it almost as much as the title Killer Kops that Tranks and others had attached to the detectives. McQuade ignored him and let his eyes follow the plastic yellow tape tied to some trees, a haphazard polygon around the dead thing on the ground. Stepping into the scene, he scanned the corpse.

Like any other guy, McQuade thought. Ordinary clothes. Face blue. Probably strangled. Neat though. No fuss, no muss. Looks like a professional job. No staging. No struggle. Killer caught him by surprise and left him where he fell. McQuade crouched beside the crime scene investigator. Whaddya say, Michael—some kinda tidy mugging?

Doctor Michael Murrin spoke to him without looking away from the body. I doubt it, Mark. Too fast. The killer caught him from behind with a thin garrote—like a wire. Killed him without a fight, barely a twitch. Almost like an assassination. Man's wallet still in his pocket.

Detective McQuade grunted then nodded into a question as he stood up and pushed back his dark hair. Maybe a personal vendetta?

Murrin looked at him. Maybe.

McQuade knew the look and the terse comment, which meant that figuring out motive was his job. He looked at the woman in sweat clothes. She was standing back from the crime scene, her head averted as she talked on a cell phone. McQuade headed straight for her. Excuse me, ma'm—

She threw a startled look at him then said into the phone, I have to go now, dear. Yes. Yes. I'll get home as soon as I can.

Detective McQuade, ma'm. You found the body?

The woman, a suburban princess on the high side of thirty, obviously worked out regularly. Her body under the blue skintight outfit looked good to McQuade. Susan Doherty, she coughed. Her golden Lab greeted the detective, jutting his nose into the man's big hand.

McQuade stroked the dog's head affectionately as he studied the woman's eyes. I have a few questions, if you don't mind.

Sure. No. But I don't know that I can tell you much, Detective. Sunshine, my dog, he found the body. I let him off the leash in the park. He likes to run. Suddenly he disappeared into the bushes. And he wouldn't come when I called him. He likes to look for bits of food the kids leave behind. Disgusting. When I went over to see what he had gotten into, I saw him sniffing that, that— Her voice locked up.

McQuade liked her looks but even more her vulnerability. Take it easy, ma'm. See anyone else in the park?

No. It was early. I like to run before people get up. It's quiet and cool then. I find it clears the mind. She chuckled. Not this time—

He nodded and looked at the dog. So—you didn't hear anything unusual.

Not a sound but the birds. Just the way I like it.

Yes, ma'm. He made some notes in a pad. Guess that's all for now. Can you be available, if we need to ask you more questions?

Her eyes quivered with anxiety when she looked at him.

No trouble, ma'm. Just like to keep in touch with anyone invol—with all potential witnesses. You understand.

She nodded reluctantly. May I go now? My husband is waiting with the children. And he has to go to work.

Yeah—sure. Go ahead. He was disappointed to see her leave. And thanks for your help, ma'm.

She flipped a weak smile over her shoulder and hurried out of the park with her dog on a short leash. McQuade watched her go, admiring her moves. Nice butt. Only a slight jiggle. He grinned. In a moment he shook off the distraction and gazed around the neighborhood.

Upscale. Ranch style homes. Manicured yards. Not a weed in sight. Scarcely a fallen leaf. The killing dirtied up the place. Poor guy prob'ly somebody's husband, some kid's father? Check missing persons. One of these housewives maybe a widow overnight. Tough. Someone settling a score? Pissed off neighbor? Bad business deal? Caught messin' with a guy's wife? Gotta be greed, jealousy, or revenge. Even in Happyland. Never know.

The detective found himself wandering back to Officer Tranks. Anyone else see or hear anything, Bob?

Tranks shook his head with more gravity than necessary. Not a soul. So far looks like you got yourself a big red file.

Not for long. McQuade turned slowly and marched back to his late model chariot. He did not appreciate the suggestion that the case would go unsolved for a long time. He hated that. One of the reasons, maybe the only reason he liked police work was to solve the mysteries—quickly. The game kept his mind off the evil. And when he could figure one out and arrest a bad guy in no time, he felt like he was making progress toward a better world. He knew deep down that was bullshit but Detective Mark McQuade at least tried to pretend something good about life.

In his car he thought about this new case but not too hard. He estimated he would solve it in a day or two. Likely a crime of passion. Some guy found his wife in bed with an overly friendly neighbor. Those kinds usually come to light soon. Funny, though, how the perp killed him in the bushes. Almost like he caught him there. And with a wire too—like a pro. Strange.

McQuade made a U-turn in front of the park, glanced back at the scene, and drove slowly out of the quiet, pretty neighborhood full of people much better off than he was. When he got onto the busy boulevard, he felt more relaxed, more in his element of a broader and deeper stratum of society. City streets were like that—democratic zones where everyone traveled on evenly paved roads. Most did not give more than a honk or an obscene gesture to others in passing. He felt almost glad to be back in the urban mix. Something disquieting about the 'burbs for all their celebrated peace and quiet. Too tidy. Like they're covering up bad deeds with pretty packaging. He grinned at his clever insight as he took the freeway back to downtown LA. Still feeling confident, he cut the car into the parking lot of the Parker Center. Yeah, he'd solve this one fast. Too easy. He strode into the building, wishing he had something big to work on for a change. Not that he wanted bad things to happen to folks, but a cop's life could be damned dull between the big scenes. Yes. Detective Mark McQuade, twenty years on the force, was ready for some excitement.

Chapter 3

As he sauntered into the police building, McQuade presented his sardonic grin to the comely woman behind the front desk, reminding himself that someday he ought to ask her out for lunch. Not bad for a female cop. Now that he was living alone again, he believed he had the right. Before she could drop her eyes, though, he took an elevator up to the Robbery-Homicide Division, all the way wondering if the green eyes in her smile meant come or go.

When he pushed through the door into the division bay, McQuade saw gigantic Gordon Dalsworthy spreading his huge butt all over McQuade's desk while gabbing with a couple of detectives. Sweet thoughts about the pretty cop disappeared from McQuade's mind, as he blurted out, Hey, Gordo—get yer ass off my papers. You gonna wrinkle 'em—don't know what else.

Gordo glanced at him with a look that said: Fuck you. artificially softened with tiny creases curled up at the corners of his mouth.

McQuade chuckled down his adrenaline and shoved the big man as if being playful. You guys got nothin' else to do but hang around my desk and shoot the shit?

Greg Firth, one of the guys in the klatch, quipped, We were waitin' for you, Mac. We got a bet about the theory of relativity. McQuade hated being called 'Mac', especially by his colleagues. Too familiar. Even contemptuous. Ronnie Binder in the desk behind him uttered a subdued snicker and pointed her thumb at Firth to show McQuade that she was not an accomplice to the men's shenanigans.

McQuade winked at her and checked Firth, unsure if he was joking. He had never heard him or anyone else in the RHD talk any serious science, let alone astrophysics. But he decided to play along for the hell of it. Yeah? He raised his square chin and stuck it out. What about it?

Gordo here says you can knock up a relative as long as she's yer cousin twice removed. He winked at the others.

To McQuade the wink meant the whole thing was bullshit but he was one of the guys, so he took a flier, no matter how much the subject bothered him. I'll bite.

Well, give us the answer, man, Firth said. You're supposed to be the thinker in the division. We figured you'd know right off.

Yeah, Mac, the other cop said, a new guy transferred from vice whose name McQuade could not pronounce.

McQuade ignored him and looked at Gordo, who was grinning and nodding like a drunken gorilla. Then McQuade shot a look at Firth. Tell ya what, Firth. Why don't you guys go into the storage locker and jack off together. When you finish, you'll know the answer.

The three cops looked him over as if he had just asked them to solve a problem in calculus then looked at each other for confirmation of the insult and their respective indignation. Greg Firth spoke for the team. Cute, Mac—real cute.

With that as a signal, the three men dragged their butts away from McQuade's desk and returned to work, grumbling among themselves. McQuade smirked and let himself fall into his chair. Interlocking his hands behind his head, he leaned back and looked out the big windows. He often did that, hoping to glimpse a bird or even a cloud. Certainly no chance to see more than the top of a tree. Too high. Have to stand close to a window. Nothing to see anyway. Inside or outside. He hated the structure as being too corporate. A police department designed to look like a business building seemed to Mark McQuade entirely too slick and completely incongruous. He preferred the old stone building. Monumental. Like the law.

Spotting nothing to amuse him in the smoggy space over the vast pile of gray city blocks, he yanked open a drawer and pulled out a report form. While filling it out, he thought more about the crime in the park. That is what it would be in his mind for the time being—the crime in the park. Probably some yuppie gone off the deep end. Maybe an anonymous neighbor will call in a day or two, or maybe the perp will walk into a police station. Give himself up. With his lawyer of course. Hoping to snag a passion plea. Prob'ly will. Prob'ly get off too. Specially if he's got plenty dough.

Ever since a famous rap star walked free after beating his girlfriend to death, McQuade had lost a lot of faith in the system. Been losing confidence in it for years, but when that happened, he felt like spitting in the juror's faces. Justice. Hah! Exoneration of the rich and famous. That's what it's become. His bitterness did not keep him from busting bad guys; besides the competition, he liked the chase. McQuade was a predatory animal. At least that is what his wife had called him among other things just before she walked out with the dog and a big part of their collection of video tapes.

Mark was surprised Shelley did not contest him for the house. He expected she would have wanted the place. It pissed him off she took Pardner and the tapes instead, especially the porn. He guessed she did that to spite him. It worked. He felt like belting her even though he never had hit his wife and never would. But taking the dog was low. Pardner was his best friend. Maybe more than his wife. Mark had kept a few pets since his childhood, but none of them had meant as much to him as that border collie.

Mark McQuade had never laid a violent hand his wife in their three years together, but when she walked out with Pardner and some of his best diversions he had an urge to succumb to the beast in him. Good thing they never had a kid. Would've taken that too. Now when he went home he walked into a house too big and quiet for comfort and did not like it. Even the RHD was better than the house. At least the distractions of cops and their work kept his mind off his troubles. At home he thought only of his broken love life, reminded of it by every scent, every sight in the house. For the first few weeks after she left, he thought he heard her rummaging around the place. Tidying up the rooms. Trying out new recipes. Bathing the dog. Laying the covers back on the bed before the two of them crawled between the sheets. He was pining for her in a big way.

Damn. He missed her—girlish, nymph-like. She looked great for thirty-five. Proud of her figure. He missed sleeping with her almost as much as her company. They'd been buddies. Understood each other—at least in their work. When he first met her at County Hospital, Mark felt the magnetism. Nearly made him forget his partner in intensive care with three bullet holes in his body. Mark was surprised to find out she was an emergency medic. Not because she was a woman but because she seemed too sensitive for that kind of work. This first conjecture was wrong, though, for she was one of the most dedicated medics he had ever known—man or woman. And her sensitivity translated into a passionate caring for the people she helped. Made her a prize on the team.

So they had shared a lot of war stories, laughed and cried about them. One of the things that had bound them together. Mark was sorely sorry to lose her company in the house. He wished he could have been a different person for her. Not so predatory, as she called it. Idealistic little broad. Tough but romantic. Something he could never be. For him life was a do or die contest. One struggles through seventy, eighty years then calls it quits from sheer exhaustion. Nothing romantic about it.

Detective McQuade sensed someone standing behind his desk and sat up straight, a little embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming.

Don't let me interrupt you, Detective, a man with a rather quiet voice said, putting a sarcastic curl on his words.

McQuade spun around in his chair to face the hulking figure of Captain Dwight Mansford grinning at him. What's up, boss?

Mansford tossed a folder onto the desk. Take a look at that.

McQuade flipped open the folder and saw clipped to a rap sheet a mug shot of a man who looked familiar.

Recognize the face?

McQuade started to shake his head until he saw a body beneath the face form in his mind. He looked at Mansford. The vic in the park.

You got it. Looks like we're minus one child molester.

Child molester! McQuade looked over the rap sheet, all three pages. Guy made a career of it.

Well, somebody retired him.

McQuade looked again at Mansford and felt a little stupid. Yeah— he droned.

What you been thinkin' up to now? Feuding neighbors? Maybe a screwed up drug deal?

McQuade nodded. He would not admit how inaccurate his guess had been.

Better make another trip to the scene, McQuade. Talk to the neighbors. See if anyone knows anything about this guy.

Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. McQuade scooped up the folder, jacked himself to his feet, and headed for the door.

While you're there— Mansford shouted after him, check if they got a neighborhood watch or something. Could be some vigilante types tryin' to do our job for us.

McQuade waved in compliance without looking back. He marched out of the RHD with a little bounce to his step. The case was beginning to look like it could amount to something after all.

Chapter 4

When Detective McQuade returned to the area of the crime scene, he stopped his car at Henley Park and scanned the surrounding houses. Vine-covered fences separated them from the park, and no windows were clearly visible, so he looked at places across the street. Six of them lay in view, all typical Valley houses. Anyone looking out a window, picking up a paper, or turning on sprinklers could have seen someone lurking around the playground. He guessed they probably would not have noticed anything peculiar about some guy taking a walk through the neighborhood but might have looked twice if the guy looked suspicious. McQuade knew people tend not to suspect others, though, and if they do so, they refrain from telling anyone. Part of the let's-not-get-involved syndrome that has infected society and made the police officer's job more difficult than necessary.

The sun was cooking off the morning cool for another southland roaster. McQuade did not bother catching weather reports most days, because it was nearly always sunny by noon and sunny in LA means hot. What that TV weather personalities liked to euphemize as a warm spell in the arid southwest. More like a curse, McQuade thought. He hated the heat. Born and raised in LA but he had grown to detest the weather.

He was supposed to wear his dress coat when talking with the public, as part of the professional image the force was always trying to impress upon the citizenry, but when the temperature rose, he could not think clearly so he took off his coat when he got out of the car. The man needed to feel a little air on his sweaty skin to keep him on track.

Striding across the street, he headed for the farthest house on the left, among those with a sizable view of the park. When no one answered his knock or the bell at one, he moved on to the next but received no response there or at the next one either. He knew many people worked these days, both parents. Kids at school. Not until he got to a pale blue house directly across from the park did someone open a door. A cozy little place with pansies in the flowerbeds.

The young woman was wearing a white T-shirt under a short denim jumper and holding soiled cloth gloves in one hand. Strands of brown hair drifted around her dewy face. Traces of dirt lay like fine freckles on her nose. Her brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She smiled invitingly and spoke with a lilt. Yes?

Sorry to bother you, ma'm— McQuade fumbled with his ID. Detective Mark McQuade. I'd like to ask you some questions—if you don't mind— He watched to see if she was going to invite him in, hope rising in him that she would. He was always eager to spend some time with a woman like this, even officially.

Her smile faded. Questions? About what? Something like an electrical shock struck her mind. Her eyes rounded as she fixed on his eyes. Nothing happened to my son—?

Oh, no, ma'm—I'm sure you're son is fine. He sought the right words to open a frightening subject. Did you by any chance see all the commotion in the park earlier this morning?

Commotion? She looked past him into the park.

He caught the scent of her bath soap mingled with odors of sweat and the earth, reminding him of wildflowers. His smile drew her eyes back to him. She did not return it but frowned. No—no, I didn't see anything like that, Detective—but then I was taking my son to school—and I had to pick up some plants from the nursery. Trying to make the yard look better. She laughed with a little puff of air. But I'm not much of a gardener.

He sensed her breath was as sweet as her face and had to force his eyes away from her mouth. She in turn noticed his attention and jumped into her words. Oh—please—come in, Detective.

He wanted to hear his name on her lips as he stepped into her living room and glanced around the house. The place had that hyper-lived-in quality of homes with small children. Frayed furniture. Wrappers lingering in a nearly empty candy bowl. Fingerprints on the TV screen. A ball in a corner by the fireplace. Thank you, ma'm. He bowed slightly.

She wiped her free hand on her shorts and held it out to him. Donna Wright. Have a seat. She started to turn. Can I get you something to drink?

He was burning for a beer but declined. She looked frustrated for a moment then said, Well, I'm going to have some iced tea. Made it just for gardening day. Sure you wouldn't like a glass?

He accepted. He liked being friendly to this woman, as he watched her sashay into the kitchen, and wondered what her husband was like. Nice butt, he thought, and remembered the woman with the dog in the park. While waiting for her to return he studied around the room. Nice place. Smells good too. Homey. The house made him feel he belonged there: soft colors, comfortable furniture, lots of light. When she came back, he watched her move and thought of dancing. She was smiling broadly, perhaps at being intensely noticed by this man. When he took the glass from her hand, he barely touched the tip of one of her fingers and felt or imagined a current pass between them. Thanks, he said and sipped the tea while watching her slip her body into a chair. The drink was very cold, and he wanted to slug it but thought it would look better if he took occasional sips. Polite sips. Over the glass, he watched her drink and fixed on the wet that made her lips shine, made them look even more tumid than they were. When he started to wonder what her nipples looked like she fractured that train of thought with a hard U-turn back to the purpose of his visit. And she was there waiting for him.

So, Detective McQuade— she asked, what else would you like to ask me?

He looked at her too sharply. Yeah. Right. He tried another sip but sucked in a mouthful. Uh—have you noticed anyone, any strangers in the—hanging around the neighborhood lately, Mis'ess Wright?

Caught by the question while drinking, she shook her head. The ice rattled in her glass. One slipped into her mouth. She stiffened a little. "No. Sounds scary. Is somebody...?

He was reluctant to throw a bomb into the middle of their pleasant little visit but he had to lay it out for her if he was going to get the information he needed. I hate to tell you this, Mis'ess Wright, but....

Donna—please.

He nodded and tried to smile but could not make it work. A man was killed last night—murdered.

She held the ice immobile in her mouth and spoke around it. Who? Where?

In the park.

She sat straight up to look out a front window. Across the street?!

He nodded.

She nearly swallowed the ice, and her face blanched. "Oh, my god—my son was playing there yesterday evening.

Your son? When exactly was that, ma'm?

The fear of what might have happened to her son was distracting her. When? Oh, about dinnertime—seven o'clock—I was running late that day. I had to go over and get him. He likes to.... She nearly spilled her drink in setting it on the edge of a pile of magazines spread across a coffee table. She covered her eyes with both hands and groaned, nearly sobbing, at the thought of her son in danger. Oh, my god—!

Your son's all right, ma'm?

She shot a look at him that made him shudder. Yes. Of course he is. Do you think I'd be in the back yard gardening, if something had happened to Tony? What kind of mother would I be?

He could see her eyes were gleaming now. I'm sure you're a very good mother, ma'm. He pulled the mug shot of the murdered man out of his pocket but for a moment kept it turned away from her. I need you to look at something, Mis'ess Wright. He slowly laid the photo onto the table next to her drink.

She picked up her glass and leaned over to look at the picture, her other hand still at her face, near her mouth. McQuade noticed her tapered fingers, the nails neatly filed. He wanted to take her hand in his, steady her nerves. Have you seen that man before?

She studied the picture as if trying to find some sign of recognition yet afraid she would. After a long time of studying the image, she shook her head. I don't think I've seen him before. Why? Is he the...?

Yes, ma'm. The man who was killed.

Unbelievable, she whispered in a long draft.

Ma'm?

She looked at the detective with eyes that seemed to plead for safety. I can't believe something like this could happen here—right across the street—where my kids play— She started to gasp but swallowed it with a big gulp of tea, wishing then it was wine.

McQuade nodded pathetically. Then silence swelled between them, and he thought she might want him to leave so she could process this terrible information by herself. However, he could not leave. Not yet. He had more to say, something he wished he could put into the toilet where it belonged and flush it out of sight and mind, but he knew he had to bring it up. His job. No matter how much it upset people, he had to dig into the dark rot of human nature, find the evil there, and root it out, bind it, see it locked it into a cell of concrete and steel—or as many people wanted—execute it out of existence. That was his mission. And he took it seriously. I'm sorry to trouble you with this question, ma'm—but has your son told you about any—any interactions with strangers?

What kinds of interactions? Before the last syllable left her florid lips, she knew what he was driving at and again she paled. She studied the picture once more, attempting to find something reasonable in it. Who was this man? Where did he come from?

His name was Lawrence Tribble. He was a convicted child molester, tried once for murder but beat the rap for lack of evidence. The jury couldn't get over their unreasonable doubt."

She started and nearly jumped to her feet, the color rushing back into her face. Child molester. Jesus Christ! I heard one of them was living somewhere in the area—but I didn't think he was so close. What in hell was he doing walking around our neighborhood?

He looked at her knowing she knew the answer to her own question.

God! she snarled. Those horrible monsters are all over the place.

Yeah, well, not this one. Not anymore.

She started to