Xinnis

"I can assure you that if I tape your mouth closed the discomfort will be unbearable. Do not scream."

"What do you want?"

"My name is Maxwell Xinnis. I'm the husband of the murdered Janet Xinnis and the father of the murdered unnamed child."

Kadill's head was bowed slightly, but he could see Max put his hand around the gun grip and release it from the holster under his jacket. A thin trickle of blood flowed from Kadill's forehead and into his left eye.

"Don't kill me. I'll give you anything you want."

"I'm sure you will." Max aimed the gun at his head and Kadill flinched. "Is there anyone else here?"

"No. I live alone now."

"Are you expecting anyone tonight?"

"No."

"Where were you planning on going tonight?"

Kadill seemed puzzled at the questions. He shifted his weight and the pain from the broken bones shot up his arm and neck. He held the scream in through clenched teeth.

"I need to get to the hospital -- can't you see that? Take what you want and leave!"

Max pulled the hammer back, carefully locking it down. He modulated his voice into a dispassionate monotone. "I'll make this as clear as I can. Until you give me my wife and child back, your life is forfeit. Answer my questions immediately, with perfect accuracy, or I'll kill you."

"Why should I -- if you'll kill me anyway?"

"Cooperation first. Then we'll negotiate. Now, where were you going tonight?"

"Nowhere. I never go anywhere on Friday nights. I get up early Saturday and take the boat out -- that's it!"

Max lowered the hammer and returned the gun to its holster.

"I've got cash. Bonds. Some other stuff. It's yours -- I'll get it for you."

"Where?"

"Floor safe," he nodded in the direction of the hallway. "Has a combination. I'll open it."

Max ran a length of the tape around Kadill's chest and the chair. "I'll open it."

He walked to the hallway and moved the small lamp and table into an adjacent bedroom. A framed portrait that had stood on the small table fell and hit the floor, breaking the glass. Max could see the photograph of a young woman, perhaps twenty-five, dressed in a wedding gown, her face content and full of hope. He left it lay, then jerked the oriental rug aside, throwing it behind him.

The lines in the wood floor appeared as seamless as a gymnasium. He turned on the light and stamped on several spots until a one-foot square popped loose. He pried the square out and tossed it aside. He could see the inexpensive Sentry safe that had been dropped into the hole and secured with cement.

"The alarm --"

"No alarm," said Kadill.

"What are the numbers?"

"Clockwise to three, turn it back to fifteen, then clockwise again to sixteen."

Max did this and the lid opened. He lifted the contents from the insulated steel container.

There were three stacks of Federal Reserve Notes of varying denominations, tightly wrapped in plastic bags, each about three inches thick. He tossed the packages aside.

A small velvet bag with a draw-string held twenty sealed coins of certified numismatic value. Below the bag, standing upright and wrapped in an oily rag, was a six-shot Ruger revolver loaded with .38 Special wadcutters. Max turned the weapon over in his hand. It appeared never to have been fired. He discarded the rag and tucked the gun into his jacket pocket, remembering Kadill's offer to open the safe.

Pressed against the cylindrical wall was a manila envelope, held there by three plastic cylinders filled with Saint-Gaudens gold pieces, twenty in each. He opened the envelope and read the few large sheets of paper.

"Those are negotiable Bearer Bonds," said Kadill. "Anyone can use them like cash."

Max carried the pile to the table and dumped it in front of Kadill, then sat opposite him. "This is what you killed my family for? Paper and metal?"

Kadill was obviously exhausted from struggling with the tape, and in serious pain, but his anger seemed to be capable of sustaining his consciousness. The two men looked across the table at each other in silence.

Max took the three stacks of cash and broke into the hermetically sealed plastic.

"They're yours," said Kadill. "Take them."

Max unhesitantly began ripping them into small pieces. These were recent bills, and Max could feel the mylar thread resist him as he worked. Kadill stared in horror -- his negotiating power being shredded before his eyes. If Xinnis would not accept the contents of the safe, what could he bargain with? Max broke into the remaining package and Kadill began laughing in fear.

It was the reaction Max wanted. An irrational man is a dangerous man, unpredictable and desperate. When Max had completely reduced the bills to confetti, he took Kadill's gun from his pocket.

The house was quiet except for Kadill's rapid, nervous breathing and the steady pendulum click of the grandfather clock in the living room. They heard the spirited whine of a high-powered boat a quarter of a mile distant. Max waited for him to relax, staring into his eyes.

"You said if I cooperate you would --"

"Shut up and listen. This treasure you've heaped up is tainted with my family's blood. This house, your boat -- they're all bought with the blood of the unborn. You have allowed your life to be sustained by that blood. You should all burn!"

Kadill could no longer look at Max. He was beginning to feel as if he might really die now. The unfinished plans ran through his head as he searched in vain for one unselfish reason for his life to be spared, but without material goods to deal with his options were nil. Kadill felt the bind of the tape around his chest and the steady pain in his right arm. He was ready to beg for his life when Max spoke.

"There's only one way to prevent my killing you."

"Anything," he gasped.

"You must stop butchering babies."

Max caught a glint in his eye. He would tell a lie now.

"I will. I swear it!"

"Oh, I can't take the word of an abortionist, of course. An oath to your god wouldn't be binding -- do you see? You'll have to guarantee it." Max lifted the pad of paper from his briefcase and tossed it to him.

"Start writing the names of your colleagues in the aborticide industry."

Kadill did as Max commanded without argument, pulling the pen from the pad and writing quickly. He started with the names of physicians, and Max told him to include as much of their work and home addresses and phone numbers as he could remember. After a list of eighteen, a cramp developed, and Kadill could no longer write with his left hand.

Max took the paper and inspected it. "Spell this," he said, pointing to a name, and printing the word as Kadill spelled it. "And this," he said.
Perspiration dripped freely now from Kadill. Max could hardly believe this young man, only a few years his senior, could be a butcher who kills thousands of babies a year. Max filled a glass with water, set it in front of him, and continued taking dictation.

"Name the others in the industry on the sidelines: the lawyers, the pro-choice zealots, office staff, whomever."

"Throckmorton," said Kadill.

Max paused for a moment, laying the pencil down on the pad. "Yes. Tell me all about Throckmorton."




The sun was balanced on the horizon, the last fiery remains shooting through the enormous windows. He had held Kadill hostage for over two hours, and had gained twenty-one pages of names and notes. It was enough to rip an earthquake through the aborticide industry of three states -- if he used it properly. Max planned to do exactly that.

Max paced the floor as he interrogated Kadill.

"What's the name of the man who buys the fetal remains?"

"I never got involved in that. The owner has them picked up by a guy in a white van on Saturday night. He takes them somewhere for disposal or storage."

"What happens to those that are stored?"

"He sells them to the highest bidder."

"Your clinic. Who owns it?"

"It's a limited partnership. It was sold last year and I don't know the partners -- only the managing partner. Mexican, I think. His name is Tophet."

Max lifted the cordless phone from the cradle and carried it with the phone book to the table. He began verifying the information randomly, calling the information operator with a name and street address. With few exceptions, the doctors' names were unlisted, assuring Max that the information, though suspect, was not entirely without merit. The doctors could not be a fabrication of Kadill's imagination and also have unlisted numbers.

"Where is your appointment book?"

"At the clinic."

"Your personal appointment book!"

"It's -- it's in my suitcoat pocket," he said, nodding toward the bedroom. Max went to it, stepping over the hole in the hallway floor.

The coat had been casually thrown on the bed. Max pulled the book from the vest pocket and immediately knew by its weight that it must also be his wallet. He opened it and found several identification cards, an array of plastic credit cards designed imply prestige, exactly two hundred bucks in cash, and a beautifully overstuffed address book. To Max, it was a gold mine of information.

Kadill had been making a reach for the phone at the opposite edge of the table. He knew that he need only dial the enhanced 911 service, let it ring until answered, then replace the handset. They would try to call back before sending a cop to investigate. When the phone rang, Xinnis would probably make him take the call. Then it would be a simple matter to get them to the house by calling them Aunt Millie -- unless Xinnis listened in.

But the phone was a full foot out of reach, and he was unable to move the chair any closer.

Max returned to the table and removed the cash, again ripping it to shreds.

"I was going to tell you about that --"

"Shut up! Tell me the truth. Are you planning any late-term abortions this coming week?"

Kadill looked at him confused, unsure how to answer to his satisfaction.

"We -- we don't do them. First and second trimester only."

"Do I have to start kicking the back of the chair?" Max walked behind him. Kadill could feel his heart beat faster. The pain in his arm had dulled over the last hour, and he had no desire to relive the sharper pain.

"It would be rare, one in two or three hundred, maybe. Nobody likes them. But only my secretary knows ahead of time -- I just show up. She's in charge of the counseling and scheduling."

The sound of the hammer of the gun clicking back made his body jolt erect.

"But I know someone who does them -- nearly every day. We send our patients to him when we can't... can't handle them."

"And receive a generous referral fee, no doubt."

"Not generous enough."
"His name?"

"Abe Silvestri. Has a G.O. practice in Hurstwood."

Max wrote. "Tell me more."

"You said you'd let me go if I cooperated."

"Okay, I'll let you go visit your Creator, how's that?"

Kadill cursed him despite the threat.

"Now say something coherent."

"Silvestri is in his office everyday except Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. He works at his offices in Chicago on those days. He has late-termers being sent to him from all over the state. He's what you'd call a specialist." Kadill made a strong effort to keep his hand from shaking as he took a drink of the water. "I want you to leave now."

"Well, why didn't you say so?"

"I mean it. I can't stand this much longer. I might do something you would shoot me for. So just leave before you become a murderer."

"Like you? You'll be happy to know we're almost finished. There's just one more thing. The guarantee."

"The what?"

"You either produce evidence that I can use to blackmail you from ever working in the aborticide mills again, or I can't let you live, not with all your faculties, at least."

Kadill thought about his words for a moment and became suddenly dizzy. His body shook violently under the tight bands and he unexpectedly vomited without control onto the pile of torn money.

Max grabbed the pad of paper and stood from his seat, stepping back to avoid contact with the fluid. He stood still and silent, fearful that he might ruin his advantage by allowing himself to pity the man's condition. Max wanted to say he was sorry -- that it was for his own good; convince him that he deserved to be dead, and should be happy to cooperate. If he refused on this point, Max knew he must put a bullet in Kadill's brain; and he did not want that. He had already inadvertently broken his arm by applying excessive force. Holding Kadill hostage for interrogation was not beyond Max's nature -- but torture was. Experiencing the humiliation of the man, now sitting in his own vomit, raised deep questions in him. The doubt was closing in, pounding on his temples and demanding entry.

Max shook his head. He had to remember that this was a man who kills the innocent for a living, and would have no hesitation at killing him if given the chance. He waited.

Kadill slowly lifted his head, his eyes angry and wet. The barrel of the gun was aimed at his left temple. Kadill looked into his cold face and could not guess what Xinnis was thinking. Max was looking past him at a picture of Kadill's estranged wife and child. His hand trembled slightly.

"I have to think. I need some time."

"To dream up a lie?"

"No!"

"Then talk. You know what to say."

Max continued looking at him through the aligned sights of the Ruger revolver. If he weakened now, he would have to kill him; and he would be hunted like an animal for the rest of his life. Max knew that he must not let him suspect what a great advantage he held, or that Max was willing to wait all night for the information. The room was quickly dimming. The twilight was being replaced by a clouded moonlight.

Kadill closed his eyes, expecting every moment to be his last.

"If I give you what you want, you'll make it public only if I perform another abortion, right?"

"That's the deal."

"What happens when the cops catch up with you? Your notes will fall into their hands, and I'm ruined."

"You're going to have to decide whether the risk is worth your life. I'm sure that as long as I have the notes it won't be you calling the cops."

Kadill stalled another moment. He knew he would never be able to maintain a legitimate practice. No decent hospital would want him with his weak credentials. Yet, it was unlikely Xinnis could trail him forever. He could sell out here and move to Oregon, or even New York. Xinnis would never find him in New York.

"I won several malpractice suits on technicalities that were invented by the lawyers. At least one judge was paid off. There were also several women who weren't pregnant that we operated on anyway. One became sterile."

"Detail, Kadill, detail! Names, dates, witnesses -- spell it out!"

Thirty minutes later, Max was still writing. The evening shadows had overtaken the room, and he was straining to write. Max found the switch and a Tiffany counterfeit blazed softly from the ceiling. Scanning the last three pages of notes, Max felt justified. He held the names of former malpractice plaintiffs and the approximate dates and settlement amounts. He also had the names of the bribed judges, court clerks, and ambulance drivers. Then came the names of five other patients who could have filed lawsuits if they had wanted to; or if they could have told their families, Max deduced.

"Do you have more complete information on these five?"

"No. It's all at the clinic."

"Where at the clinic?"

"The files, man --" He cursed briefly under his breath, the grimace now frozen on his face. Max remembered them -- three columns of beige file cabinets hugging the wall behind the receptionist.

"Where are the keys?"

"On the key ring, over there on the counter."

Max grabbed them. "Which one?" Kadill pointed. Max stuffed the entire set in his pocket and Kadill bit his tongue.

"I'm convinced that I've got enough to hang you, and your boss as well. So we have a deal. You mention my name to anyone and I make it all public knowledge. The tabloids will love you. Tell Tophet that if he opens his doors again, I'll have copies of this package in the hands of the press, the district attorney, the sheriff's department, and the state licensing board within 24 hours. Got it?"

Kadill nodded in relief, knowing Xinnis was not planning to kill him. As long as he was alive, he could handle the damage control. He felt suddenly cold, and a chill ran up his back causing his teeth to chatter involuntarily.

Max pulled the black handcuffs from his belt and snapped them around Kadill's left wrist. He broke the tape loose from the chair and lifted him by the back of the shirt to stand him up. Max forced him to the back porch where he set him down against the wall to handcuff him to the electrical conduit that fed the backyard lighting. A light rain had just begun to fall.

Kadill, seeing his intention, swung a desperate roundhouse punch at Xinnis, hoping to knock him cold. As his fist came up he flexed his body, ready to follow up the punch with a kick into Max's groin.

The attempt was feeble. Max felt the alteration in Kadill's body tension and instinctively deflected the blow, finishing it by driving his left knee into Kadill's solar plexus. Kadill gasped for air. His chance was gone.

Max snapped the cuffs into place and removed Kadill's diamond ring and platinum Rolex. There was no resistance, no protest. He stepped into the kitchen and dropped them into the sink drain, turned on the water and threw the garbage disposal switch. Kadill gritted his teeth at the sound of the high-speed stainless steel blades shaving the precious metal.

The blades continued to shave the gold from the watch as Max used the large Bearer Bond envelopes to rake the unsoiled shreds of cash onto a plate. He threw the pile into the sink where the water washed them away. Max had heard somewhere that the treasury once replaced bills if reconstructed by the owner.

Max dropped the three tubes of gold coins and the Bearer Bonds into his briefcase, then crammed the notes he had collected into a file pocket on the side and zipped it closed. He removed the letter he had kept in his breast pocket and laid it on the table, placing the key to the handcuffs on it. He returned to the porch after taking a quick look around for anything he may have forgotten.

Kadill was fighting the larger mosquitoes with his broken hand. Max addressed him with contempt.

"I wish I could burn down your life as easily as you've burned down mine, but I don't have the stomach for it without giving you this warning. It's not too late for you to turn your life around and serve God -- others have done it. Look where serving man has brought you.

"Maybe you won't take my advice, and you'll return to your profession to kill more innocent children. If you ever do, you can expect a visit from me, or from someone just like me, after you've built your dream house."

Kadill's thoughts were black and insane with hatred. He believed, in the darkest of those emotions surging within him, that if he ever got the drop on Xinnis he was a dead man. He knew the insurance company would pay none of the damages, except perhaps the Rolex. But the policy carried a five hundred dollar deductible, and nothing in the safe had been listed. No matter where Xinnis would try to hide, he could be found -- and the property as well.

"Burn those Bearer Bonds and you're crazy," Kadill said, testing him.

"Blood money, George. Are you trying to make me an accomplice to your murders?"

"You'll need to stay hidden. The money will help you stay ahead of the police."

"Concerned for me? You'd better hope they don't catch me, Kadill. When they get me, they get the files."

Max reviewed his mental checklist. Smiling, he knew it had gone better than he had expected.

"I have one last surprise for you. It's on the table with the keys to the handcuffs."

He crossed the porch and jumped the railing, landing soundly on the manicured lawn. He had one hand on the Ruger in his pocket as he walked to his car -- expecting an ambush from every shadow.

xxxxxx

Just fifty yards west of the entrance drive to Iroquois Lake, Olshane had backed his van into the public access ramp leading to a narrow runoff stream. From his vantage point, he had been able to keep watch on Kadill's house with his set of 20 x 80 Celestron binoculars. It was not the ideal location, but it was safe; and this was Max's operation. Olshane was sure Max was here to assassinate Kadill, and did not want to interrupt his plan.

The portable scanner continuously surveyed the sheriff, the highway patrol, and the trunked eight-hundred megahertz radio frequencies the city police were using that day. It had been necessary to purchase and install a new crystal in a separate scanner for the private security patrol, but that scanner had not made a sound since he arrived. The city was quiet, still resting from the nine-to-five -- not quite ready to start its drunken Friday night noise. The scanners only picked up the tired voices of bored cops living the routine.

After the second hour of waiting for Max to emerge, Olshane was sure something was wrong. He suppressed the urge to reconnoiter the building. There was nothing to indicate it was necessary, and it could be the action that could get one of them killed. He would wait until the lights went out in the neighbor's house.

A light drizzle began obscuring the windshield. Olshane switched the intermittent wipers to their slowest speed and let out a boisterous yawn. It was time for a sandwich. He reached behind his seat and withdrew a cellophane package from the cube-shaped refrigerator. He sank his teeth into the bread just as Xinnis' brake lights came on in Kadill's driveway.

He tossed the sandwich out the window and cranked the engine, pulling out of the narrow path to follow the car. For some reason, the car turned east, heading deeper into the lake community, rather than toward the anonymous packs circling the highway.

"Why are you going that way, Xinnis?" He said to himself, wondering if he might be following the wrong person.

Two miles ahead the Caprice swung off the road into the Marina parking lot. Olshane followed him off the road and swung around to the front of the car, pulling far enough ahead into Max's headlights to be positively identified as he stepped from the van.
Max had seen him pull out of the access ramp, and recognized him immediately as he pulled in behind him. He shut off the headlights and unlocked the passenger side door. Max had his gun back in its holster before Olshane was seated.

"What are you doing?" said Olshane. "The highway's back there."

"What're you doing? How long have you been following me?"

Olshane was staring at Max's cosmetic disguise in disbelief, wanting to laugh. "I'm just looking out after you -- for Lena's sake."

"You could've told me. I could have used the help earlier!"

"From the looks of that disguise, I'd say that was obvious. So how did it go?"

"Later," said Max, taking the Ruger from his pocket and handing it to Olshane. "You keep a lookout. Sound the horn if there's trouble, then get out of here with this briefcase. I'll be back in four or five minutes."

"What's going on?"

"One last surprise for Kadill," he said, grinning. Max jumped from the car and opened the trunk. Seconds later, Olshane saw him running in the shadows carrying a five-gallon gasoline can and disappearing in the direction of the docks.

Olshane unzipped the briefcase and opened the glove compartment for light. Several crumpled stenographer's pads were all he saw. Scanning one, his eyes widened in amazement as he realized what he held. Aborticide networks for three states were identified on those pages. Olshane smiled at the possibilities. He looked in the direction of the docks. Finally, he had found someone crazy enough to trust.

Olshane felt the odd bulkiness of the briefcase and opened the side pocket. Tubes of coins, and the large Bearer Bonds filled his hands.

Meanwhile, Max had made his way to the boat. He worked swiftly, splashing the kerosene and gasoline mixture along the starboard flooring. The liquid ran toward the stern as Max entered the cabin long enough to soak the walls below. He poured the last gallon into the cabin seats beside the gas tanks. He pulled a plastic container of potassium permanganate from his pocket and dumped the red crystals onto the seat. Discarding the container, he found the small bottle of glycerin, uncapped it and tipped it onto the crystals, counting the seconds as the thick fluid flowed.

Max climbed over the side and jumped from the boat, nearly propelling himself over the width of the dock entirely. With a slice, his straight razor severed the mooring lines. Max gave the thirty-nine footer as much of a push as possible, but it drifted out only a few yards before the anchor caught. Before turning away from his work, Max marveled at the boldness of the owner in naming the vessel. The name Row & Wade had been painted in a shameless calligraphy.

I should have killed him, after all, thought Max.

Olshane was revving the engine of the van when Max reappeared.

"Follow me!" Max yelled. He jumped into the Caprice and roared westward on the dark road, his heart racing. Glancing at the passenger seat, he could see the opened briefcase, the collected notes tucked roughly inside.

"I suppose now you'll listen, Olshane?"

xxxxxx

Kadill was becoming soaked in the light mist falling on him. After resting a short time, he gripped the chain of the handcuffs and began pulling on the conduit. A dozen attempts and the pipe broke loose from the wall and the connection nearest him came apart. Jerking quickly, the wire inside snapped, and Kadill lost his balance and fell backwards, hitting his head on the barbecue grill.

Shaking it off, he went immediately to the sink and shut off the disposal. He reached in and withdrew a small section of the scarred metal strap of his Rolex. The key on the table unlocked the cuffs. The envelope it had been laid on was blank and unsealed. Kadill opened the envelope and read:




Dear Dr. Kadill,

We expressly regret your decision to cancel your insurance with us. Enclosed is a check for the unused balance of your semi-annual premium.

If we may be of further assistance in providing your insurance needs, please do not hesitate to call on us.

Sincerely,



Peter Brooks

Great Lakes Marine Security
Amhurst, Pennsylvania




The cuffs clanked to the table. Picking them up with his uninjured hand, he threw them forcibly into the backyard. And now, facing the lake, he saw the reason for the letter in the flames rising from the Marina.

He watched the glow increase, and could almost hear the hardwood snapping as it burnt. The fire alarms, muted by the distance, made the sound of screaming cats. Then, several simultaneous explosions erupted from the craft, launching bright orange debris into the sky. Without warning, the light was gone.

Kadill was shivering uncontrollably, realizing that Xinnis must have been planning this for a long time, and that he might easily have killed him. Why had he let him live? He must have known there would be retaliation.

He had not been able to land even a single blow, but he knew the man who could. Calling him would be risky, but this was more than revenge. If Xinnis was allowed to get away it would be the end of the clinic, and dozens more. But worse, he knew that as long as Xinnis lived he would never feel secure in his own home again.

He gritted his teeth and picked up the phone. He knew only one man with the connections to get Xinnis. When he spoke, his voice broke from the dryness.

"Mr. Throckmorton, this is George Kadill. I'm sorry to have to call you so late...."

xxxxxx

Max stopped his car along the edge of the Parkway Bridge. When he saw Olshane pull over behind him he set the emergency brake, left the engine running, and went to him. Olshane seemed distracted, concerned that someone may be watching them.

"What's up, Max?"

Max went to his window. "Dumping this stuff into the drink. Want to help?"

"The coins and bonds? Do you know how much trinitrotoluene that'll buy? More than we'd need to take down this bridge!"

"It's blood money, Olshane. What good can come from it? It can't be sanctified, can it? Let's get rid of it before it destroys us the way it destroyed Kadill."

"We're not going to build a church with it; we're buying dynamite! It's the love of money that brings a curse -- not the money itself. Can't you see the poetic justice in letting Kadill buy us weapons?"

A car flew by in the center lane and Max suddenly felt anxious. "It wasn't in the plan!"

"Listen -- money is not intrinsically evil. Wouldn't you have used Kadill's gun to kill him, no matter how many others he'd killed with it? Come on, Max, before the cops want to know what we're doing sitting on this bridge." Olshane put the van into gear. "Hey! Where are we going?"

"The clinic."

Olshane pulled away from behind Max's car and roared across the bridge. He arrived at the clinic just moments before Max. They pulled the vehicles into the alley.

Moments later they stood hunched together at the rear door. Max fumbled with the keys as Olshane steadied the red halogen beam of the flashlight on the lock with one hand while tapping the steel pry bar against his leg with the other. He was trying to explain the possibilities to Max.

"From nothing into something. Destruction becomes creation. Do you see what I mean?" whispered Olshane excitedly. "The creation of a revolution! We can't be the only people thinking of this. Anyone can put a match to gasoline!"

The street was quiet, and even Olshane's whispering seemed to echo across the parking lot of the Sanger Clinic. Max tried not to encourage him.

"The Phoenix rising from the ashes, can you see it?"

The key turned and Max let out a sigh of relief as they opened the door just enough to slide inside. Max had written the four-digit entry code on the palm of his left hand in ink, and now punched the small keypad mounted to the wall just inside the door. His teeth gritted reflexively, expecting the alarm, police, and defeat. But the silence was disturbed only by the cacophonous buzz of the portable scanner clipped to Olshane's belt, and the breaking of the lock on the receptionist's desk.

"Incredible file you've collected, Xinnis. I don't want to know what you had to do to get it."

"He was quite cooperative." Max concentrated on moving as quickly as possible, dumping the trash from two wastebaskets onto the floor and stuffing them with the hanging files from her desk. Olshane broke the locks on the file cabinets behind him with the pry bar. Max carried the contents of the desk to the rear door, and began searching for another container to fill.

A large metal trash can stood inside the door where he had seen the baby kick. Scanning the dark room he saw only the stainless steel door of a refrigeration unit reflecting a streak of dim yellow light from the exit sign above the doorway. Grabbing the can, he ran to Olshane.

Olshane was ready for him, dumping a great armful of files into the can, then pushing the button on his watch and the green light lit his face. "Two more minutes if we're going to beat the odds."

"Forget the odds -- God is either with us or against us. Let's find Kadill's desk."

Olshane disappeared down the hallway and Max lifted the phone from the desk and dialed Kadill's number. It rang only twice before being answered.

"Yes?"

He got out of the handcuffs. Max wondered if he should speak.

"Who is this?"

"Would you like to hear your precious clinic burn?"

"Xinnis!"

"I'll just leave the line open and you can hear the walls coming down."

Max was setting the handset down on the desk when he heard Kadill again, a bold desperation in his voice this time.

"You forgot something, Xinnis! You forgot to ask me if your child was a boy or a girl!"

Hypnotically, Max raised the phone again. The receptionist must have told him, thought Max, remembering his first visit here. A malicious taunt filled his ear.

"It was a boy, Xinnis. A perfect little boy."

Max slammed the receiver home. The answer had been part of the nightmare, after all.

Olshane had made his way down the hallway and stood outside the first office. The door was locked. "Keys!"

Max tossed the keys to the floor at Olshane's feet, crammed the remaining files into the trash can, and lugged the can to the rear door before returning to check on Olshane. He found him sitting in a fine leather chair, smiling, and handling a book as if it were the Holy Grail.

"Kadill's office calendar and address book," smiled Olshane.

Pleased with themselves, they again tore the files from the desk and filled the trash can. One minute later they were standing at the rear door, surrounded by their booty.

"Time to go," said Olshane.

"One more room."

Olshane followed him reluctantly to the room across the hall, his left hand adjusting the volume of the scanner as his right swept the red light across the room. "What are we looking for?"

"Kadill said they sell the fetal remains. They're here somewhere," Max said, walking to the freezer. His hand gripped the cool steel handle and pulled forcefully. Heavy crystalline vapor poured out in slow motion around their feet.

The frost-covered incandescent bulb threw its chartreuse light on six stacks of stainless steel cubes, approximately twelve by six inches, and as tall as they were wide. They were identical to the canister over which he had seen the baby suspended. Max gently lifted a container from the freezer, feeling the weight of its tiny occupant. He made a nervous and clumsy attempt to open it, prying it with his fingertips. Olshane reached over and turned the recessed lock on the cover, and then slid it off as Max held the box.

There was a muffled grunt of repugnance from Olshane, the sight making him turn away. Max was transfixed. Nestled on top of the folds of placenta lay a child's torso, lacking both a right leg and arm. The neck of the child was twisted so that his head faced backwards. A great deal of blood was frozen to the child's skin. His eyes were closed.

"I still don't understand," said Max. "How can we hope to win against an enemy as cruel as this?"

Olshane replaced the cover. "Maybe we can't."

"We've got to take them. Give them a decent burial."

"We're out of time."

Max was pulling another container from the freezer, the sweat he had wiped from his forehead now sticking his tight calfskin glove to the cold metal. Olshane's hand grasped his wrist and shook him.

"No. We can torch the place faster than we can load them. We're pulling too much exposure as it is. Leave them, and help me load the van!"

Max hesitated before closing the freezer door, tucking the container they had opened under one arm.

"I'm taking this one," he said.

xxxxxx

If anyone could see through the dark tinted windows of the Cadillac Eldorado they would see the twisted cynicism etched in the cold expression of the driver. The yellowish-green eyes stared at the road. Irises that had once been blue now betrayed a deeply rooted malignancy that was more spiritual than physical. Few people could look into Pedro Tophet's eyes for long without feeling sick themselves.

The wet road forced him to drive under seventy. The glaring street lamps along the highway reminded him of his brother, and how he had once bet Pedro he could break one of the lamps with a crab-apple. Pedro had bet him a dime and his brother hauled off a rocket, shattering it with the first attempt.

A strong arm had proved valuable to them during those early years, running with the street gangs of Brownsburg, Texas. His impoverished parents, unable to care for them, had abandoned Pedro and his younger brother in the streets when it became clear they could steal for themselves. They were forgotten children in a town of forgotten children. But Pedro had never thought of themselves as children -- only animals.

They had learned how to be cruel the way only children left to their own devices can be cruel. Without parents, without the church, without necessities, they had grown to hate authority. When the gang raided the watermelons and eggs from their grandparent's farm, their grandmother had thrown stones and cursed them with a foul Spanish malediction. "May the Death Angel clear a quick path to your graves!"

Stealing was not always profitable, and the garbage cans supplied many meals. An occasional sickness was always quickly overcome by Pedro, but Nature had not blessed the younger brother with the cast iron stomach of the elder. One unforgettable night Pedro carried his dehydrated brother down the main street begging for mercy, but finding only rejection and merciless bigotry.

Desperate, he took him to the free hospital where the doctor made them wait in the outer room while a large woman had her weight checked. His brother died sitting in a green vinyl chair, in a room filled with the smell of cigarettes and rubbing alcohol. Pedro's perspective on life changed forever that night.

Tophet had not known the day of his birth, but he knew he was sixteen when the policeman had seen him treasure hunting in the back seat of a parked car. In the chase that ensued through the back alleys, Tophet grabbed a length of two-by-four and ambushed the cop as he turned a corner, catching him across the throat. Tophet eliminated any chance that the cop had to survive by snatching the .38 Special from the cop's belt and firing it at the prone figure. One of the six bullets entered his upper thigh, severing the femoral artery. Ten minutes later the cop's heart stopped pumping his blood onto the street, and the dark fate of Tophet was sealed.
He remembered the foolish faces avoiding him as he stood outside the Friches' Big Boy Restaurant days later in Oklahoma City, straining at the headlines of the newspapers in the boxes: Officer Dies -- Killer Sought. It was then that he knew he was invincible -- that a force beyond his understanding had allowed him to murder in cold blood and escape. He could still see the date on the paper, typeset as black as crows wings; August 20th, 1958; the day of his surrender to the new power.

He stood leaning on the boxes, his fingers lightly touching the grip of the gun in his pocket. A giant sculpture of an overfed white boy stood beside him, smiling in seeming mockery. He would never be accepted by a society that could erect such a monument; a society that had never tasted the fear and hunger he had shared with his brother in the alleys of Brownsburg.

He watched as the middle-aged couples walked contentedly to their Buicks and Oldsmobiles. He looked through the window at the teenagers sharing malteds and French-fries. Tophet, now clothed in this fresh, unnamed power, began to laugh at their weakness. It was a weakness he vowed to exploit.

Now, only thirty-five years later, his assets included clear deed to his hundred-thousand dollar home on Chigger Creek; a small safe deposit box packed with parcels of untraceable diamonds yielding over five-hundred carats of nothing less than VVS-2 grade clarity; extensive investments in Lewisburg utilities; full ownership in the town's first successful drive-thru liquor outlet; and a nice slice of the third largest abortion clinic in Lewisburg. He considered himself indigenous now. He was part of the city.

The rough path Tophet had traveled to achieve financial independence had given him memories that he only had to glance in a mirror to recall. He saw the reflection of a scar partially hidden by his sideburns that cut a deep wedge into his right temple, about eighteen inches above the knife wound in his left arm that kept his two minor fingers in that hand frozen. His smile was often mistaken for a sneer, and his permanently bloodshot eyes were riddled with yellow and white disease. The paradox of having no family or friends coupled with his fear of being alone drove him into the arms of women who would love him only hourly for his resources. He matched their contempt with abuse. The worst of it was knowing that there was no person on earth he would not kill for a price.

Once trim and powerful enough to run from the police, it was now necessary to bribe his way around most confrontations. His heaviness began at his earlobes and hung about him in tight pouches, like money-belts strapped to his waist, thighs, chest, and upper arms. His Mexican heritage lay hidden and paled below the layers of corrupt flesh, his identity lost in his carnality.

He could feel the scar twitching through the tight deformity of muscle in his head, reminding him of the knife fight that caused it, and knowing that he would never go back to Texas. Even now the half-evaporated memories made him grip the steering wheel as if he were practicing a strangulation.

Tophet parked the Cadillac along the curb in front of Kadill's house. He had been here only once before, delivering papers for Throckmorton. Tophet still remembered Kadill's wife recoiling when she answered the door, despite his expensive tailoring.

Tophet avoided wetting his shoes on the lawn, walking the concrete path around the house. When he reached the steps, Kadill switched on the porch light, extracting a curse from Tophet as he quickly entered the foyer.

Kadill only motioned to him, and they went to the kitchen. Kadill sat gently in the chair he had been taped to earlier, cradling the wounded arm in his lap while he buttoned a clean shirt with his good hand.

Tophet remained standing. His gritty voice seemed to belong to a much older man. "Has anyone been here since you called?"

"No. Xinnis called from inside the clinic about fifteen minutes ago. Other than that, it's been quiet," said Kadill.

Tophet looked at his gold wristwatch. "Then let's make this quick. Maybe I can still catch him. Are you expecting the police?"

"Throckmorton said he'd take care of the calls. He knows some cops who'll keep things quiet. The Row & Wade was registered under the company name. Probably won't be able to connect me with it until morning, anyway. We won't be interrupted. Let's get this over -- I want to get this arm taken care of."

"Then tell me everything. This happened because of a botched abortion?"

"Just like I told Throckmorton. It was bound to happen with all the religious fanatics around here. The maniac handcuffed me, robbed me, even threatened to release our files if we ever do another abortion!"

Tophet purposed a relaxed expression. His characteristic squint eased a bit. "What does he know?" His voice was softer, almost disarming.

"Nearly everything!" Kadill laughed nervously. "He tortured me, broke my arm, held a gun to my head -- he's insane! He sat right here in front of me and ripped fifteen grand into confetti!" Kadill shook his head. "He was dead serious. If I didn't cooperate, he'd have shot me for sure."

"What did you tell him, doctor?"

"A lot. Maybe everything. The names of the women that had complications they could have sued us over, the bribed judges, the payoffs to the health department, the disposals --"

"Do you mean the fetal remain pick-ups? Did you tell him where they go?"

"No, I couldn't. I never knew that."

"But he did ask?"

"I told you -- he wanted to know everything."

"Why didn't you lie to him?"

"I tried. He knew when I was lying. He must have called the information operator twenty times to verify names and addresses."

"What did you tell him about me?" The words strained slowly through the wide spaces in his clenched teeth.

"Only what I know. I tried to hold back your phone number because of what you said before, but he found my address book anyway. He knows you're a partner in the company, but that's all."

"Why did he do this thing? Blackmail?"

"It wasn't money he wanted!" Kadill's left hand swept the remaining shreds of bills onto the floor at Tophet's feet. "But he did take a few things -- my gold coins. I don't know if he put the Bearer Bonds in the disposal or not."

"So he isn't a saint? Do you think he wants more? A lot more?"

"No. That would be rational. This guy's over the edge! He took my keys. He might be going after the tissue remains -- he was particularly interested in that part of it. I think, more than anything else, he just wants to shut down the clinic. He's there now."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"His number is in the book." Kadill pushed the open phone book across the table to him, pointing at a line.

"What else do you know about him?" Tophet lifted the phone from its cradle and dialed Xinnis' number.

"Only that he works at the Army Recruiting Office. The day after his wife was here -- about two months ago, he walked into the clinic looking for me. The cops were there, and they hauled him away. Throckmorton insisted we not prosecute for trespass -- said it might be a bad public relations move in this case since his wife had died. If we prosecuted, the jury would be swayed by his emotional argument. So I made a call to the courthouse. That was the last I heard of him until tonight."

Tophet was not surprised when the pleasant recording informed him that Xinnis' line was no longer in service. "Who are his friends?"

"Don't know. There was a girl that brought his wife in. She kept calling her name over and over, `Blaine, Blaine.' Christ, I can still hear her!" Kadill sounded weary, occasionally flinching and rubbing his arm gently. "I've got to get going. What else do you need to get him?"

Tophet disregarded him as he thumbed through the white pages of the phone book. When he found the listing for Sasha Blaine the contorted smile reappeared. He ripped out the page and closed the book.

"So you think he's insane enough to get caught soon, or is he, uh, capable of eluding the police until I can find him?

"Oh, he's clever, or lucky enough. I doubt if he's afraid to die, either. What should I tell the regular cops when they investigate the boat?"

"Never mind that now. Tell me everything you told him about us."

"What? Are you crazy, too? Haven't I been interrogated enough tonight? I've got to go to the hospital and have this arm set. I told you, he knows everything!"

"What haven't you told me? Is he working alone? Did he mention my name before you did?"

"He was alone, all right, but he never mentioned you. He was after me."

"But he's after us all now, isn't he? And you handed our operation to him on a silver plate. It seems you're washed up here, George. Why not pick up your stakes and find another clinic?"

"Because I wouldn't doubt that this guy is crazy enough to stalk me the rest of my life like he promised. I called you because you probably know someone who can get rid of him. I want you to get rid of him."

"It could be expensive. More than you're willing to pay."

"How could it be? Besides, you're at risk here, too. I shouldn't have to bear full responsibility. This could have happened to any of us."

"Could it have?" Tophet's eyes had changed again. Kadill could see the intensity in them now -- a merciless accusation.

"Of course it could have. Every one of these procedures is a potential lawsuit. It goes with the territory, just like your services. Eliminate Xinnis and you can count on me to pay my share."

"I counted on you before, doctor. But with the files and your confession in Xinnis' possession, you're more valuable to us if he had killed you."

Kadill could see the quick motion of the hand into the coat. He did not realize it was too late for words until he saw the pistol in Tophet's hand.

Desperately, Kadill dived from his chair toward the hallway. There was no time to open the door, he would have to dive through the living room window and hope the double-insulated panes would not rip him to pieces.

Kadill had taken one step from the hallway when Tophet adjusted his aim and double-tapped the trigger. Kadill barely heard the suppressed explosion of the sub-sonic .40 caliber bullets over the pounding of his heart.

The first bullet caught him just below the left ear, ripping the muscle from the connection at the jaw and exiting through the clenched teeth as the second bullet entered the back of his head, exploding on contact with the skull. The peristaltic bullet sent the fragmented copper spiraling through his brain. He collapsed instantly, his momentum carrying him into the room where he fell against the coffee table on the way to the floor.

Tophet had seen enough professional eliminations to know what conclusions the police might draw from this. A hired killer would be expected to put another bullet in the victim's head. Tophet fired another round that hit between Kadill's shoulder blades. The ruined body lay unflinching, pouring dark fluid into the shallow grain of the pecan floor.

"Our limited partnership is, uh, dissolved, doctor."

Quickly, Tophet paced the room asking himself what he had forgotten, struggling with the knowledge that he had been in the house too long. Reluctantly, he went to the front door and looked outside, switching off the porch lights before opening the front door.

Tophet flipped on the gun's safety and stuffed it into the shoulder holster before stepping from the house. Several cars in succession came around the corner and disappeared up the street. When they had gone, Tophet stepped quickly across the damp lawn.

In the car, Tophet made concurrent motions to start the engine and light his Havana Pequefio. The tobacco sputtered to life as he put the transmission in gear. Tophet could not help grunting in self-satisfaction. Throckmorton had told him to sever the loose ends.

From what Kadill had told him, the police would be looking for Xinnis as the prime suspect. Xinnis would find it difficult to use Kadill's confession while on the run. Tophet would find him and retrieve the papers, the valuables Xinnis had stolen making an appealing bonus for his trouble. The police would find Xinnis dead, an apparent suicide, with the .40 caliber that had just wasted Kadill in his hand.

Tophet turned out of the drive and headed west to the freeway. The clock on the dash told him it had been less than an hour since Throckmorton had called him. He might still catch Xinnis tonight.

xxxxxx

Max saw a police car drive by the clinic and froze beside the van.

"Probably on their way back to the station. Come on," said Olshane, lifting the last trash can full of files through the rear doors.

"This probably isn't necessary," said Max. "If the files confirm what he said they won't dare open these doors as long as we have them."

"Well, what if we got the wrong files? Besides, this is still faster than carrying those canisters out."

Max followed Olshane back to the cold storage room, each of them carrying a twenty-five pound propane tank that Olshane had disconnected from the refrigerator in the van. They set the two cylinders in the center of the lab, then Olshane led the way into the hall again. "Do you have any more of that chemical igniter you used?"

"In the car."

"Bring it in with the kerosene from the van. Meet me in the lobby." Olshane pulled the silk scarf from his neck and took big strides up the hall.

Max returned with the can as Olshane finished wrapping the scarf tightly around the hundred-watt bulb of the lamp and placing it under the Naugahyde couch. He had pulled the plug, and turned on the switch at its base. "How long before the chemical ignites?"

"This stuff is unpredictable," said Max. "Two to five minutes usually. I've seen it take longer."

Olshane took the can and splashed the liquid onto the couch cushions. He then walked along the hallway, soaking the wooden baseboards as well as possible before the can was drained.

Max held the door open for him and they entered the lab again.

"Go." said Olshane, turning the tank valves full open. The gas hissed wildly around them.

Max dumped the potassium permanganate from a paper bag and unscrewed the cap on the glycerin as Olshane ran to the lobby and plugged in the lamp. Max inverted the bottle. The clear liquid oozed slowly onto the red crystals. Max wondered if the chemical reaction would vary if he mixed a little kerosene with the glycerin to make it pour faster.
They both raced for the door, their adrenaline launching them into the parking lot.

"Follow me east on route 33," said Olshane, breaking away to the van parked in front of Max's Caprice. Twenty seconds later they were gone, and a deceptive calm fell over the street.

The propane had emptied itself from the tanks, laying invisible along the floor, spreading itself thinner and thinner as it found passage from the room -- under the door, into the furnace vent. The gas was several inches deep in the lab when the permanganate flared, igniting the gas and blowing the roof into minute debris that would land in a three block radius from what used to be known as the Sanger Woman's Health Clinic.





Saturday, June 12



Detective Jack Zerotti had long ago learned to live the routine day-to-day, but he was not pleased with it this morning. His body had become accustomed to the lack of sleep over his forty years with the Lewisburg Police Department, but rummaging through the water-soaked remains of a torched abortion clinic at five in the morning was forcing him to think about sandy beaches and deep-sea fishing.

Too many sleepless nights multiplied by the gravity of the years had drawn his face into a long and weary hound dog expression. His eyes sparkled with a street-wise wisdom that had been surprised by few things in his life. His appetite for getting to the bottom of a problem had become a passion, but today it was easy to resist the urge to get too excited.

"Not even the fourth of July, yet," he said to himself, switching off his flashlight. The morning sunlight now streamed into the room through the new hole in the roof. Zerotti could see the spires of the ancient Catholic church a block away to the east through the hole. It seemed a bizarre sight, somehow.

A glint of metal caught his eye from across the room. He went to it, acknowledging the force required to cause this degree of damage. Every wall had been ruptured outward by the explosion, and the objects launched from their former resting places seemed to have had an upward trajectory.

When Laurent found him he was pulling on a stainless steel container that the explosion imbedded in the wall. As Zerotti wriggled it loose, a stream of black putrid liquid ran down the charred wall and he stepped back.

"Be careful, Zero. You don't want that stuff on your shoes!" said Laurent, stepping through a hole that had been blasted through the wall. "Looks like the cooked remains of someone's handiwork. Smells like my wife's cooking, doesn't it?"

"Please, Laurent. Let's have some respect for the dead."

"Yeah, you're right. It's not as bad as her cooking. Anyway, a black and white just picked up the secretary. Her name's Hilda Peterson. They're holding her in the cage-car outside."

"Does she seem upset?"

"Yeah, you could say that. She didn't appreciate us pounding on her door at four a.m., either. Can you imagine? Four o'clock and she's still asleep!"

"Did the station fax the arrest reports yet?"

"Still waiting."

"Naturally. Get some names from the woman and I'll be out in a few minutes."

Zerotti stepped carefully over the rubble as he made his way to the file cabinets down the hall. The desk and cabinets were covered with broken glass. The drawers were open, yet there was little indication of ash or charred paper. The rattling sound from the lobby was the arson investigator kicking around in the wet residue.

"Morning, Blackwell. They didn't waste any time calling you, did they?"

"Or you. I guess they figure these places don't usually blow themselves up."

"Find anything yet?"

"Just the source." Blackwell held up the metal shaft of the lamp. "There was an unburned piece of silk beside it. I haven't seen this done in years, Zerotti. The arsonist wraps material, like wool or silk chiffon around the bulb and it makes a flame about five-hundred degrees Fahrenheit."

"And that was propane I smelled when I came in?"

"Propane was definitely involved. There's a hunk of the tank welded to the sprinkler system above you. I figure, from the angle of the tank shrapnel, the explosion was concentrated at the center of the room where you saw the bulk of the roof torn away. You can see from the imploded glass that the rest of the damage was caused by the subsequent fire."

"What are the chances of fingerprints on this one?"

"Same as always. If they don't want us to have them, we won't find them. DNA evidence usually gets destroyed in the blaze, of course -- so unless you and Laurent want to pick through this mess for hair follicles, you'll probably have all the information you're going to get when I finish with the spectrograph."

Zerotti stepped through the shattered doorway and into the foggy morning. The air was soaked in the smell of the city, but it was fresh, and he welcomed the change with a deep breath. As he approached the Chevrolet Lumina a uniformed policeman intercepted him.

"Excuse me, Detective. I've finished interviewing the neighbors in the apartments over there. Everyone I spoke with was glad the place burned! Only one person in the complex admitted seeing anything."

The cop handed his notepad to Zerotti and pointed. "Second floor, apartment two-twelve. The husband remembers seeing a dark-colored van parked in the alley about midnight."

"Make, model? Did they see anyone? Hear anything?"

"That's all they could remember. No one saw or heard anything else until the explosion."

Zerotti thanked him and walked to the alley where he imagined the van had been parked. There was a puddle of mud six inches deep that evidenced only the presence of the fire department. Any tracks that would have been there had been obliterated by the emergency vehicles -- and the crowd.

"Here's the list, hot off the press," said Laurent, handing him the fax printout. Zerotti took it and walked back to the car with him.

"What did Peterson say?"

"Claims she can't remember any of these names. Insists that we let her talk with her boss before she says anything else."

"Oh, good," said Zerotti, exhibiting a satisfied smile. "They're acting suspicious already. This shouldn't take long." He scanned the list and saw only one repeat offender.

"Wake her boss up and get him over here. I've got to make a call."

xxxxxx

Max and Olshane had more adrenaline pumped into their bloodstream in the last eight hours than they had experienced in the previous five years. Knowing they would not sleep, they spent several hours carrying the files into Olshane's cabin and rearranging them in piles along the floor of the living room.
Max read names from the notes he had collected, and they searched for the correlated files, transferring the references and notes to the file covers.

It quickly became obvious that this would take more energy than they had this morning.

"Where can we bury the little guy?" asked Max.

Olshane, grateful for an excuse to do something besides move paper, stuffed a collapsible camp shovel and a Bible into a knapsack. "Follow me."




Olshane read parts from the 106th Psalm as Max wiped the brown earth from his hands.

"They did not destroy the nations, concerning whom the Lord commanded them: but were mingled among the heathen, and learned their works. And they served their idols: which were a snare unto them. Yea, they sacrificed their sons and their daughters unto devils, and shed innocent blood, even the blood of their sons and of their daughters, whom they sacrificed unto the idols of Cannaan: and the land was polluted with blood.

Thus were they defiled with their own works, and went a whoring with their own inventions. Therefore was the wrath of the Lord kindled against His people, insomuch that He abhorred His own inheritance. And He gave them into the hand of the heathen; and they that hated them ruled over them. Their enemies also oppressed them, and they were brought into subjection under their hand.

"Praise ye the Lord, O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever.

"Save us, O Lord our God, and gather us from among the heathen, to give thanks unto thy holy name, and to triumph in thy praise. Blessed be the Lord God of Israel from everlasting to everlasting...."

They stood on the western slope of the hill across from Olshane's cabin. The sun was just coming over the hills, and Max could feel his face warming as he closed his eyes and faced its brilliant heart. The intensity of the moment again forced him to ask himself: why? Why had he been permitted to see thousands of sunrises, to what purpose? And yet this child had been denied even one, and to what purpose?

Olshane had closed his Bible. "Did you want to say something, Max?"

Max clasped his hands together and bowed his head. "God, keep his untested soul. Please bless our endeavors, Lord, to prevent these cruel murders."

They shared in an "Amen" and trudged down the slope, dodging the pine trees on their way. Max could see the cabin in the foggy morning light. It was a handsome piece of work, unique and obviously handmade. Max had always wanted a place like this on the river. Tucked securely a half-mile from the road, it seemed perfectly suited to their needs. Who could find them here?

"`Keep his soul.' What does that mean?" asked Olshane as he scraped the damp soil of his boots onto the edge of the great wooden deck that surrounded the cabin.

"I meant `please don't send him to hell just because he never had a chance to accept Christ.'" Max untied the leather loafers and kicked them off next to the door.

"Isn't that only way to heaven?"

"Well, it makes sense to me that God knows whether or not he would have accepted Christ if he'd lived -- and probably acts on that information."

Olshane laughed. "What religion is that? Xinnonite?"

"It was more of a hopeful expression than anything else, I guess. Forget it."

"Have you ever heard of the Herod Syndrome?" asked Olshane.

"No, I haven't."

"Some people actually say Herod was the greatest soul-winner that ever lived because of the number of children and unborn he slaughtered. He killed them before they reached the age of reason."

"That's stupid."

"That's exactly the type of twisted logic the pro-choice Christians have, though. As a protestant, you should want to end this slaughter to keep the kids from going to hell, shouldn't you?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

Inside, the rough cedar exuded pleasant aromatics. The one large room appeared lived in, cozy, and much like the hunting lodges in the Pennsylvania hills Max and Janet had visited years ago. Janet had not enjoyed the hunting. She could not stand the sight of blood.

Max heard water running into a pan in the kitchen. The wood furnace radiated a warmth he could feel in his bones, generating a deep yawn in him. It had been a more than a month since Max had slept anywhere but a rented room. Without a word, Max laid on the oversized couch and pulled a quilt over him. He could sense himself moments from sleep as he closed his eyes. The quilt and the cabin smelled like a distant home he had once had -- a safe place. Where had it been?

"Well, we made it through the night without the wrath of God obliterating us for keeping the loot," said Olshane from the kitchen. "Still nervous about it?"
But when Olshane came into the room with two cups of coffee, Max was asleep.

xxxxxx

Judge Graham had been having breakfast on his open air veranda overlooking the East Lewisburg River when Zerotti's call came in.

"Yes, Detective, I have had several confrontations with the protesters lately, but nothing out of the ordinary. I'll have my secretary fax the list over if you'd like."

"I've got the list, Judge. What I need is a suspect." Zerotti sat in his unmarked car, parked in the lot of the smoldering clinic. The donut shop coffee steamed the windshield. "Does anyone stick in your mind as a troublemaker? The kind who might go to a lot of trouble to do this?"

"No. It could be any of the fanatics. The only hard case I know is John Reynolds."

"Reynolds?"

"He pastors a fundamentalist church somewhere in town. I just fined him for disobeying the injunction there at Sanger. He is a troublemaker, but really not the type to commit arson, Detective. He's more of a speech maker, I'm sure.

"For instance, last year he bought a billboard advertisement on South Highland Boulevard that was rather gruesome. The neighborhood was screaming for his blood -- they had a petition claiming it was pornographic. The Highlanders won, but not before Reynolds preached from every street corner in the neighborhood. He was arrested at least once a week for disturbing the peace there. I suppose we've seen him habitually since that incident."

Zerotti scanned the list as he spoke. "But you don't think he would have done this?"

"I think he may know who did. The man has charisma. I wouldn't doubt if he's created a number of followers who would do anything he asked them to do."

"Like a member of his congregation?"

"It's strictly conjecture, but in my opinion it's possible."

"What about this guy Xinnis? Shows he was arrested at the same time as Reynolds' last arrest. Carrying a concealed weapon -- charges dropped."

"Yes, I remember him. I can't tell you any more than what you've got there, probably, except that he appeared to be there originally on legitimate business. Said he saw something that made him change his mind about being a protester."

"Any idea what he saw?"
"Yes -- I mean I can imagine -- but I never asked him. Anyway, the clinic dropped the trespass charges. It was his first offense, so I released him."

"There's no indication of the type of weapon --"

"He had a straight razor. In fact, he said it was a gift from his wife before she died."

"Died?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I should told you. He mentioned that his wife's death was somehow related to the Sanger clinic."

"How much longer do I have to wait here, officer?" asked Peterson from the back seat of the Lumina. "Am I under arrest?"

Zerotti put his hand on Laurent's shoulder as an indication that he would take over the questioning. Laurent handed him the legal pad of notes and walked away.

"I apologize for the wait, Miss Peterson. I'm Detective Zerotti. If you could answer just a few questions for me now, we'll be finished."

"I prefer being called Ms. Peterson, please."

"Why don't I just call you Peterson? Now, tell me anything you may remember about Mrs. Xinnis and how she died."

Peterson pursed her lips slightly; just enough to rub her light mustache against her nose. "You must mean the woman who came here under the name of Clausen. Well, she didn't die here, I can tell you! There were complications and we sent her to Mercy."

"What sort of complications?"

"That's all I know. You'll have to ask the attending physician."

"How did you find out that she died?"

"Naturally, we were concerned, and tried to follow her progress. But the first time I heard of it was the next day just before her husband called wanting to talk to the doctor."

"Can you tell me what was said?"

"Well, I think you'd better ask Dr. Kadill. The doctor did ask me to refer him to his lawyer, Charles Throckmorton, in the event he should call again."

"Were there ever any threats made to the doctor, yourself, or to clinic property?"

"By Mr. Xinnis? No, not that I remember. But he seemed threatening the day he stormed in here demanding to see the doctor."

"And what happened?"

"He pushed past me and went down the hallway looking for the doctor. I thought he was going to kill the doctor at first, but he went out the back door. I called the police right away."

"Could Mr. Xinnis have been on drugs?"

"I do seem to remember his eyes being bloodshot."

"As if he had been crying?" Zerotti was not looking at her. She did not answer him, but pursed her lips again.

"You may go now, Peterson, but I'll need to talk with you again. Please leave a telephone number where I can reach you if you decide to do any traveling in the next few days." Zerotti handed her a business card. "Do you have a ride?"

When she indicated that she did, Zerotti walked back to his car. He radioed the office for everything they had on Xinnis and Reynolds, and closed his eyes to ponder the evidence. His coffee cup was empty when Laurent slid into the driver's seat and opened the bag of glazed doughnuts.

"They found Peterson's boss blown away in the living room of his house."

Zerotti bolted upright as the fax machine abruptly clicked into motion. The black and white dot matrix photograph rolled from the machine. Maxwell Xinnis, in full Army uniform, smiled at them.



12:30 p.m.


"Would you like some breakfast, Max?"

Lena was looking down at him. His eyes squinted at the morning light.

"Breakfast?" she whispered.



Max washed up and met them at the table. The heavenly smell of Lena's cooking filled the cabin. She had fried a dozen eggs into a pile of finely diced sweet white onions and turned them onto the center of a large serving platter surrounded by grilled wheat toast and a pound of fried Canadian bacon. Once Max was seated, they wasted no time before asking the blessing and digging into the meal.

"Did you get any sleep?" asked Max.

"Too busy to sleep," said Olshane. "I've been tracking the scanners all morning. I'm sorry to report that they've got you nailed down, Max."

"Already?" he laughed. "That didn't take long."

"It's not funny, Max," said Lena. "How long can it be until they find you?"

"They'll never catch me, see?" said Max in his best Edward G. Robinson voice.

Olshane's watch beeped at the top of the hour and he instinctively glanced at it. "Let's see what the world has to say about our work, Max."

Olshane reached behind him and switched on the black and white portable TV. The four inch picture tube instantly came to life. "It's small," he explained, "but it's got a great short-wave radio."

The newscasters seemed exceptionally animated as they described the excitement downtown:

The blast was heard by residents as much as three miles away -- the explosion ripping through the clinic just minutes before midnight on this otherwise peaceful river front neighborhood. Arson is suspected.

The inevitable rush of interviews with fire fighters and police followed. The camera made an extreme close-up of a woman crying in front of a fire engine.

"I recognize her," said Max.

"Whoever would do this?" cried the receptionist. "They have no feelings, no humanity --"

The three at the table laughed spontaneously. Her acting was painfully transparent. Her performance was followed by several interviews with neighbors before the newscasters returned.

In a related story, Doctor George Kadill, the head physician at the Sanger Clinic, was found shot to death early this morning in his home on Iroquois Lake --

Audible gasps came from Max and Lena. Her eyes widened and she crossed her arms in front of her. "I never thought you'd do it," she said.

"Sshh!" Max insisted, straining his eyes at the small screen.

Police are looking for several suspects in relation to the killing, and, as Patrolman Myers -- who found the body -- states; Myers' face appeared, confident and gloating: "This can only lead to a murder indictment. The house was ransacked, a safe was robbed, and the thief took the trouble to set fire to the man's boat before killing him."

The reporter stepped closer to the policeman, shoving the microphone an inch from his chin. "Do you have any idea at this time who may have killed Dr. Kadill?"

"We're following several leads at this hour, and expect to make an arrest soon."

The anchorman promised follow-up coverage at the six o'clock report. Olshane switched off the set.

"I didn't do it," said Max.

"What?!" said Olshane.

"No. I didn't think it was necessary. I have enough dirt on him and the operation to send them all up the river for a long time. I figure if I had mercy on him, under the circumstances, God would have mercy on me. See?"

"That was foolish," said Olshane.

Lena relaxed, took a deep breath and looked deeply into his eyes. "You really didn't kill him, did you?"

"Didn't you want me to?" Max looked confused.

"No, I just want them all dead. I'm glad it wasn't you that did it."

Olshane watched this exchange with some skepticism, as if he were wavering over a dilemma, and then finished his breakfast in silence.




The sounds of Lena ridding the table of dishes and scraping the pans were making the scanners difficult to hear. Olshane adjusted the volume controls to compensate and returned to the living room area where Max was sorting the files into further sub-categories.

"You say you didn't kill him, but who would have?"

"I don't know. His wife maybe."

Olshane forced the smile away. "It had to be someone he expected -- someone he would have called after you left."
Max shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe everyone in the world wanted him dead and it was their only chance to pin it on me."

"Oh, that's helpful," he said. "Now we can start eliminating suspects."

Max ignored the comment and opened the notes he had taken at Kadill's. Olshane was persistent.

"You should have killed him, Max."

"Why? What difference does it make if I can insure he'll never work again?"

"There's no guarantee of that! You're claiming to be a warrior for God, yet you're dishing out mercy to His enemies. That should have been left to God."

"Obviously God didn't want him alive anyway."

"Yeah, but you've broken faith with your promise to carry out God's will. I was there just last Sunday at the church. I know you heard Reynolds explain it. And what did you say at dinner Wednesday night about executing God's wrath on these criminals, and not going against God's will in all this?"

"Actually, I spoke with Reynolds just yesterday. He gave me every indication that I was doing the right thing. He also pointed out that it would be a mistake to use a gun to kill him because of the negative backlash of public opinion."

Olshane ran his fingers through his short dark hair and massaged his scalp as if Max had just given him an instant headache. "How could we do anything if we had to get the public's permission? Doesn't the public say it's okay to kill the preborn child? If you really cared what they think you never would have done what you just did."

"No, Olshane, it's not that I care what they're thinking now, but what they'll be thinking next year. What happens when those gun control proponents and pro-choice fanatics get together? Congress will eat our second amendment for breakfast."

"So? You couldn't use a butter knife to kill him, or even a spatula?"

"I told you -- that wasn't the plan this time. Killing him would have been too easy. Maybe I had to do it this way to prove to myself that I wasn't just satisfying my own lust for his blood. Maybe I killed the murderer within him, even though I didn't kill the man. Isn't that possible?"

Olshane shook his head slowly. "How many times have I heard that nonsense? It's just rhetoric, Max. Next you'll be calling prisons `reformatories!'"

"What if our interpretation of the Scripture is wrong? Would God have mercy on me, even though I was unmerciful to Kadill?"
"Is that what you believe now -- that your interpretation may be wrong? The Word of God is clear, Max. Did you read it or didn't you? Man's concept of mercy is different from God's. If Kadill had lived, how much deeper into hell would he have dug himself?"

"But he didn't live."

"Yeah, but he's dead for the wrong reason."

Lena walked into the room, rubbing lotion into her hands. "I feel better knowing he didn't do it, Thomas. I couldn't be as comfortable with Max otherwise."

"It's true, Lena," said Max. "I'm weak. How can I expect to do what's necessary when I'm willing to compromise on the first rung of the program? Maybe I have made a big mistake."

Olshane seemed satisfied with the near apology and sat into the overstuffed chair in the corner. Lena had never said that she had been bothered by the knowledge that Olshane had killed men in his lifetime. But she could never marry a man who had, could she?

"How would you like to level another clinic tonight?" asked Max. "Just to keep the momentum going."

"Count me in, but let me catch some sleep first," said Olshane, closing his eyes.

Max gathered the files he had cross-referenced with his notes and handed them to Lena. "Can you get these copied without getting picked up?"

"What do you mean? They're not after me."

"I'm afraid you'll be on the same list."

She looked at the floor and nodded. "How many copies?"

"At least ten. We'll need to send them to the newspapers, and keep a copy for ourselves."

"So they'll find them if we get killed?"

"Don't worry. Take the van and stay away from the normal hangouts."

"Even the church?"

"Especially. They may be lying in wait there. How long will you be?"

"I can be back by four if I hurry."

"Then hurry, Lena. I don't want to leave without you."

xxxxxx

Detectives Zerotti and Laurent had split up to cover more ground. Laurent left to do the interviews at the hospital before the Vultures, as they called the television crews, descended on them.

Zerotti sent uniformed patrolmen to check Xinnis' last known address, hoping to get lucky, though his luck never ran like that. Zerotti would break a case because the perpetrator left his wallet behind, or an accomplice would talk. But he hated confessions. It ruined the game, and to Zerotti they were downright unsporting.

He had been poking around in the Kadill home all morning, making notes and pacing the same section of carpet. The technicians had collected their tissue samples and fingerprints and gone to lunch, leaving Zerotti to sort it out.

When Zerotti sensed the body could tell him nothing more, he waved to the drivers of the coroner's wagon. Abandoning their card game, they ran in to lift the man's body and drop it unceremoniously onto the zippered plastic bag on the stretcher.

"Seal in the freshness," said one of them as the other zipped the bag closed. A minute later they were gone.

Zerotti saw the young photographer putting his camera away and called to him from the kitchen.

"Prescott, how many do you have of this torn currency?"

"I took a series of five, Detective Zerotti."

"Did you get these on the floor?"

"Ummm. Don't think so --" He looked down the list. "Just on the table and chair."

"Get a few good ones," said Zerotti. "With the standard, please."

The kid pulled a transparent plastic sheet from his bag and placed it beside the shreds. The sheet was marked with horizontal and vertical lines graduated by inches and millimeters. He took three photographs, made the notation in his notebook, and followed Zerotti onto the back porch.

"How about this?" asked the Detective, pointing to the broken conduit.

"Series of five," said the kid.

"Good, good," he said, rubbing his finger over the scratched metal for the tenth time. "And the chair?"
"A series of twenty-four. I thought it looked important."

"Then I guess you can go. When can we --"

"I'll have them in your office before midnight." The kid hoisted the bag over his shoulder and was outside before Zerotti could say anything else.

The telephone rang, and the uniformed cop let Zerotti know it was for him. It was Laurent.

"The circumstantial evidence is stacking up against this guy Xinnis. The doctor here says he's sure there was some neglect on the part of Kadill and the clinic. The psychiatrist says Xinnis refused to talk with her, and that he was in a `volatile' state when he left the morning she died."

"Did you get a copy of Mrs. Xinnis' file?"

"No, but I've got all the information from it we need, I think."

"I want the original. Give them a receipt -- let them copy it if they want to."

"Okay..."

"What else did you find out?" asked Zerotti.

"I don't know if you heard, but the uniforms we sent to pick up Xinnis found his place empty. The bank holding the mortgage says it was sold by his brother-in-law a few weeks ago."

"And the recruiting office?"

"He was discharged last month."

"Why?"

"Don't know yet. I also called Xinnis' in-laws, but they don't know where he is. I told them to expect a visit from us later. But, get this -- the family doesn't know about the abortion."

"Great."

"Xinnis asked one of the doctors to keep it from them. Told them she died of internal hemorrhaging, but nothing else."

"I don't see how we can avoid telling them. They're going to know eventually if they follow the papers."

"There's something else. A girl brought her from the clinic to the hospital and then disappeared. One of the nurses noted on Mrs. Xinnis' chart that her name is Sasha Blaine. She's in the book, but no answer at the house. I'm thinking she might be in danger."

"Why?"

"Xinnis might be looking to eliminate more than the doctor here."

"You've been watching too much television, Laurent."

"Just thought I'd tell you what I was thinking so I'm not liable if she gets hit."

Zerotti pulled his hand over his tired face. "All right, where does she live?"

"Far northeast. It's on my way to Chestnut Hills, actually."

"Give me the address."

Zerotti made a rough scribble in his notebook. "Check it out. I'll meet you there in an hour and we'll drive out to Clausen's together. Let's try to get it all done tonight so we can compile this in the morning."

"Got it. What's going on where you are?"

"Something's missing. Something's always missing. I'm trying to find it."

Zerotti hung up and resumed his pacing, his eyes searching the walls and ceiling this time.

He stopped his pacing long enough to look at the residue from the duct tape stuck to the back of the chair. Kadill had been strapped to the chair, had vomited while sitting there, yet freed himself, or been set free, long enough to clean up before being shot. And then there was the broken conduit.

"You the primary today, Zero?" asked the plainclothed cop stepping into the house. Zerotti nodded.

"The phone records just arrived at your office. You're going to be alone here in a few minutes. Can we do anything for you before we take off?"

Before Zerotti could answer him, a uniformed officer entered through the rear door carrying a plastic bag enclosing a pair of black military handcuffs. "This is all we found from the sweep of the backyard -- no weapon."

Zerotti smiled at the puzzle piece. He took the cuffs and walked to the back porch. Kneeling beside the broken conduit, Zerotti held the cuffs next to the scratches on the pipe.

"It must be lunch time," said Zerotti. "Let's seal this place tight."

xxxxxx

Laurent saw his partner's car and decided to stop bruising his hand on Sasha Blaine's door. He wedged his business card into the door frame.

"It's okay," called Zerotti from his car. "We'll catch her on the way back."

Laurent went to his unmarked car and grabbed his notebook from the front seat, locked the doors, and jumped into the passenger side of Zerotti's car.

"Would you rather I drive?" asked Laurent.

"You never give up hope, do you?"

"No. Never," he said, snapping his seat belt.

Zerotti ignored him and plowed his way into the late afternoon traffic. Once there, they could get the interviews out of the way quickly; but he still had not managed to find a way around telling them about Janet Xinnis' abortion.

"This is the part I hate," said Zerotti.

Laurent knew what he meant. "It is unusual, us being caught in this position. Ever happen to you before?"

"No, never. And I hope it never does again. This mother just got used to the idea that her baby and grandchild have died -- now we walk in and tell her the cause of death was intentional?"

"I'll do it, if you want me to," said Laurent.

"You'd better let me handle it."

They drove another ten miles before their special radio frequency sparked to life. The office was requesting a call-in. The mobile phone was out of range, so Zerotti pulled over to a pay phone.

Zerotti made the call while Laurent walked around the car to stretch his legs. Laurent could hear Zerotti's voice change pitch as he spoke and knew something was up.

At the sound of Zerotti slamming the receiver, Laurent threw a handful of rocks at the broken fiberglass dinosaur, its head rising from the murky ditch water like the Loch Ness monster.

"What's up?" asked Laurent.
"It was Miller. He wants us to cooperate with a federal agent on this. Don't be surprised if you see one hanging around."

"Why? It's not their jurisdiction, is it?"

"They're cross-checking their list of targets who may have had a hand in this. They won't share their files with us, but we're supposed to ignore them as they look over our shoulder. Miller says they're building evidence that they'll be able to use later in the year -- new federal restrictions on clinic assaults. Sure would like to know how those guys predict the future."

"Man," said Laurent, shaking his head. "it must be nice to have the money to build a case before the law's even on the books! So why didn't you join up with them twenty years ago when you had the chance? Then you'd know everything, too."

"I'd rather find out for myself. The reason The Bureau knows so much is that they create most of the trouble to begin with. They're just mopping up their mess. They're not interested in doing anything unless it increases their own power. Pretty soon we'll have microchips implanted in our skulls at birth and they still won't be happy."

"Well, I don't see myself working under Captain Miller all my life," said Laurent.

"Don't tell me you've got eyes for one of those big badges?"

"I wouldn't mind. It's got to be better than this."

"Always dreaming about something else. Why don't you stay in your own neighborhood where you know your way around -- maybe give our grandchildren a chance."

"I don't have any kids, Zero -- you know that."

Zerotti shook his head in disappointment. Did Laurent always miss the point, or did he do that just to irritate him?

The fax machine switched on, and in a moment it began delivering the information Zerotti had asked the office to transmit. One list had every telephone number connected to the clinic for the last week until the phones melted. A second sheet had a similar listing for Kadill's home phone, current to nine a.m. that day. Laurent studied the sheets, scratching lines on them with his pen.

"Here's what you've been waiting for. There was a call from the clinic to Kadill's house minutes before the place exploded. Assuming it was the arsonist who called, why call Kadill's home? Wasn't he already dead?"

"There could have been a second actor. The arsonist calls Kadill's kidnapper to give him a signal to pull the trigger. Kadill did have at least two visitors last night."

"Why do you say that?"

"The safe had been emptied, but the money was torn up and washed down the sink. Thousands. But some of the shreds fell on the floor, leaving an outline of a shoe smaller than Kadill's."

"Not Xinnis?"

"According to the physical description from the military record, Xinnis was at least as tall as Kadill, so his shoe size should be proportional."

"That doesn't mean Xinnis wasn't there."

"No, it doesn't," said Zerotti. "The neighbor saw a man leave the house at about the same time the clinic exploded, and Kadill's boat was burned before the explosion at the clinic, so it's possible that the trigger man stayed with the doctor while Xinnis burned the boat and clinic."

"Why wait? I mean what could be the purpose in it?"

"Insurance? Maybe they wanted to make sure they could get whatever it was they went there for -- whatever it was that wasn't in Kadill's safe -- because they sure weren't after money."

"So why is that important?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm trying to understand why it is that, somewhere between the time he was assaulted and the time he was shot, instead of calling 911 he showered and changed his clothes."

"He couldn't call. He knows these guys, and they have something on him," said Laurent.

"Yeah, and it wouldn't be the first time we've seen arson hiding a bigger crime."

"There was only one call from Kadill's that night. Chicago area code."

"Dial it."

Laurent pushed the numbers, and Zerotti put it on the speaker phone.

"Throckmorton residence," said the woman.

"Sorry," said Zerotti. "Wrong number." He pushed the button that disconnected the line and smiled. "What time was the call placed?"

Laurent checked the list. "Within ten minutes of the first 911 report of the fire at the marina."

"Looks like a trip to Chicago may be in the works."

"Ugh," said Laurent. They cruised another mile before Laurent said, "Maybe that footprint you found was a woman's."

"The witness was sure it was a man. A real Alfred Hitchcock type."

"Oh. Too bad," said Laurent. "I was hoping the shooter was Ms. Peterson."

xxxxxx

When Lena returned from town, she found Max sitting on the porch of the cabin reading one of Olshane's books. She sat next to him and handed him the package of copies she had made.

"A dozen sets."

"Beautiful," he said, without looking up from the book.

"You're supposed to look a woman in the eyes when you say that."

Max smiled and put the book down on the cedar deck. "I'm sorry, but that's an extraordinary library he has. I've never heard of the things you and Thomas were talking about over dinner Wednesday. Fascinating stuff."

"You mean `scary stuff,' don't you?"

"If it's true, yeah."

Lena took his hand as he flipped through the stack of copies. She could no longer smell the kerosene and propane on his clothes.

"If these papers don't put these creeps behind bars, nothing else will," he said.

Squeezing his hand and looking up the hill she said, "Show me the grave, Max."

They held hands all the way up the mossy slope. At one point she nearly lost her shoe when she stepped into the mud. Max rescued her.

At the small plot of turned earth, Lena went to her knees and prayed silently. Max sat beside her and held her hand. After several minutes she sat close beside him.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, Max. I mean -- I love you for it."

She put his hand to her cheek and he combed his fingers through her thick black hair. It felt like velvet.
"Promise me something," she said.

He said nothing. She looked deep into his eyes so he could not lie to her. She started to speak and he kissed her gently on the mouth.

She would not ask him now.





Olshane had showered and dressed and was tying his boots when Max and Lena came inside. Max explained his reasons for choosing a target in Chicago, and no one argued. They synchronized their watches with the clock radio and agreed to leave at eighteen hundred hours.

Lena immediately began packing the things she imagined they would need for the trip. Olshane already had his assault gear in a heap by the door, and Max had his loaded into the van. They all felt a rush of anxious excitement over the preparations. None of the three could believe they were going to do it again.

Max returned the book he had been reading to the shelf. "Have you read this?" he asked Olshane.

"Years ago. It's got its faults, but it's a good overview of what historians thought the conspiracy was twenty years ago. Here's a better one, written over a hundred years ago."

"It's eighty years older, but it's better? What's it about?"

"It explains how to use government corporation as a negative force against the freedom of man. It's written from the perspective of an insider, someone with unlimited resources who has a purpose in destroying the Republic. He explains how to do it, and apparently someone followed his advice, because that's exactly what we have -- a federal corporation running the country."

"What's the gist of it?"

"Well, let me see --" Olshane turned to the table of contents to refresh his memory.

"It's step by step treason. The first goal would be to create a democratic society to override the constitutional republic. Next, subvert society's ability to make rational decisions by tying up their virtue with self-sacrifice to a Welfare State. Finally, the ruling elite destroy the economy -- debauch the currency, for instance -- eradicating incentive and the middle class. In the end there are only the rich and the poor. The rich fight among themselves to make each other poor, and the family who owns the world in the end wins."

"It's a game, then?"

"To them, it is. The poor work for the government -- their corporation -- distributing worthless services, collecting taxes, writing regulations, policing each other for the rulers..."

"So it's a how-to book for conspirators? Get everyone dependent on the government for their subsistence so no one argues?"

"Right. In a true democracy, when at least half the citizens are either working for or dependent on the government, they only need to create a new crisis to gain more control over the entire nation. The majority do the rest. Like when some madman gets hold of a gun, everyone starts screaming for more gun control. That's no accident, Max.

"It's the tower of Babel all over again. They've made themselves gods by denying the existence of the true God. They've entered into a kind of mass insanity shared by all bureaucrats. It's that feeling of superiority over your neighbors -- the pride of being part of an omnipresent group like the Nazi's created. They could do no wrong because their ruling elite were redefining morality from day to day."

"That's what the book's about?" asked Max.

"Well -- in a nutshell."

"Great, now I don't need to read it," he said, handing the book back to Olshane.

"Right. Let me show you something else." Olshane pulled another book from the shelf and quickly turned pages. Reaching his destination, he read a few lines to Max.

"`Render unto Caesar those things that are Caesar's, and to God those things that are God's.

"`And man, ever looking to elevate his ego, looks upon the coin and sees Caesar's face. He sees a man like himself, and determines it is Caesar's property. Contrarily, our God sees the coin, a miniscule portion of His creation, stamped in the image of man, who was also created in His image. In the coin, as well as in man, God sees His own image reflected, not man's.

"`God's perspective is claimed to be irrelevant by humanist civilizations, thus; failing to see God in every particle of the creation, he denies God Himself, and serves the self.'"

Olshane looked at Max as if he should have known about these things. "Do you see the connection, Max? Man tries to remove God from the world and from his actions. When we do that we're also removing all hope of salvation, and even any hope of understanding the purpose of the planet at all."

"So what's the point?"

"He's saying that to look on the face of a child and see God's creative hand is an easy thing, because our common sense tells us that man can't create such a miracle. In fact, common sense alone tells us that man can't create anything -- only alter what has already been created. He claims a mass consciousness has deluded us into thinking that the unborn is our image, our property, rather than God's. Then we deny God's sovereignty in the matter and claim ownership of that child, even to the extent that we'll destroy its life for the sake of convenience."

Olshane let the words sink in, imagining Max's skull to be rather thick.

"Interesting," said Max. "But I don't need to know all that to bomb a clinic. I've got enough to think about. It's like Reynolds told me the first night I met him -- all I need to know is that they scream."

"Reynolds may have said that, but he knows it's all tied in with this great battle for the minds of men. The enemy tries to remove Christ from the equation, but the equation doesn't even exist without Him! He is the Word of God that will never pass away, as the Bible says. Without Him, we may actually live to see the terrible result of what this mass-consciousness is capable of doing. If this New World Order has its way, we'd all end up as their cattle."

Lena entered the room with bags filled with sandwiches she had prepared, and a tenuous grasp on a large thermos of coffee.

"Excuse me for not saluting, Commander," she said, "but it's five fifty-five."

xxxxxx

Tophet had seen the cops beating on Sasha Blaine's door. When they drove away he quickly retraced their steps. He pulled Laurent's card from the door molding, read it, and slid it into his pocket. Thinking he might wait inside for her, he twisted the handle of the door until the bones in his gristly hands turned white, but he could feel the lock catching. He might be able to break the doorknob, but he would not get through the door without breaking the dead bolt, and that would be too noisy. He would wait in the car for her to return.

It would be easy enough -- just another surprise visit, like so many in those early days. The waiting had always been the most trying, but it was easier now. He was no longer the rough youth with a dark complexion that the police could enjoy harassing. His automobile offered him status, and the tinted glass hid him from their prying eyes. He could sit comfortably in the car for hours waiting for her -- the tape player gushing the ancient sounds of the crooners.

Patience was a trait he had developed into an art form, as he believed it truly was. To Tophet, patience was woven with thin threads of tension, balanced between the precipitous caution of now and the anticipated ecstasy of then. It was a road that took him from the mystery of desire to the inevitable dullness of that destination. The ride was always better than the arriving if he was patient.

He parked the car in the alley behind the corner pizza parlor. It was the perfect view of Sasha Blaine's apartment. Tophet sank several inches deeper into the upholstery and lit his cigar with a wooden match. The flame reminded him of the ruins of his clinic. He had arrived perhaps minutes too late to stop Xinnis -- the cops Throckmorton had sent had not yet arrived.

Tophet snuffed out the flame with his fingertips and wondered if he would have to kill her.

xxxxxx

Max listened to music and half slept as the blur of trees and buildings and trucks rushed by his window. Olshane drove the van at a steady sixty-seven miles an hour. Lena was sound asleep in the back bench seat.

Two hours after leaving Olshane's cabin, they were entering the westbound Indiana toll road, the brief exchange with the gatekeeper waking Max. Lena still lay on the bench seat asleep. Not wanting to wake her with conversation, Max picked up the book he had borrowed from Olshane's shelf, The Art of War, by Sun Tzu, and began reading.

The book spoke of five constant factors at work in every battle: the command, the moral law, heaven, earth, and method. At first, Max had difficulty in recognizing the role that some elements might play in the attack that night, but the deeper he went into the book, the more applications emerged, and the relationship between elements became clearer. The willingness of the soldier is affected by the courage and wisdom of the command who must set strategies for those unchangeable components of the battle landscape that best preserve the strength and morale of the men, while also remaining adaptable to the changing conditions of the enemy. This was page three. Max could see he should have read this long ago.

Lena began stirring from her nap, and Max poured her a cup of hot coffee. Her presence was comforting, though the feeling may have been incited by her perfume -- the same fragrance he had the pleasure of being near before.

"Sleepyhead!" he said, handing her the brew. She smiled sleepily, but said nothing. Max turned to Olshane.

"Tell me, have you ever put this book to the test?"

"I taught from it. The philosophy there determined the tactics my men used in every operation I was given charge of."

"You're still here to talk about it. It must be effective."

"It can be, if you apply it properly. Back in Ohio we even used it against clinic owners with a measure of success."

"How's that?"

"You read the book, so you know there are two positions you must know, yours and theirs. We always began with ourselves because, usually, that's the easiest to understand. We started with Supreme Court decisions that supported our position, then we went through the pecking order for the state of Ohio all the way from the state constitution to the state statutes to the federal regulations to the English common law. We had our position nailed down solid.

"So we started on the enemy's position and started looking for weaknesses. We had a few good motions filed that had a great deal of merit. There were several ordinances that had enabling statutes based on false legal premises that remained unchallenged. I mean, they were expanding the intent of the law far beyond what it was ever meant to be. We were in heaven whenever we'd discover one of these, but the paperwork was always thrown out by the judges. We'd spent thousands of hours researching and thousands of our own bucks before we realized we didn't have access to the system of justice.

"Shortly after that the judges put in a phone call to the clerk's office and we couldn't even get anything filed! Now we were faced with forcing the issue by suing the clerk for refusing to do his job. They could have kept us tied up for years!

"So we picked up Sun Tzu again, and saw where we had gone off track. We had let them get us off fighting our flank instead of moving straight ahead. It was then that we chose more personal, more aggressive tactics.

"We began looking at their property, and the zoning laws that they were built around, and we struck pay dirt. Before we did anything, we developed an entire Crisis Management System around it, designed to shut down the clinics, the owners, the doctors, and everyone who defends them. We read every page of the minutes from the commissioner's meetings that had to do with zoning variances, and then dug for the violations."

"How could you do more than get them fined for violations?" asked Max. "Wouldn't their lawyers just straighten it out?"

"But we didn't stop there. We found the members of the zoning board at the time the statutes were put on the books and started looking for what they had to hide. It made sense that if they'd turn their eyes aside for someone else, how much more would they do it for themselves? It didn't take long to find businesses that profited by a slight twist of their influence. Now there was property involved, and claims to settle -- not just a point of law to correct.

"In almost every case, whether it was the clinic property, the owner's home, or the zoning board members, we could find violations, intentional or otherwise, if we dug deep enough."

"Then you blackmailed them?" asked Max.

"We thought of that, but we were convinced that this would only buy them time to develop a defense against us. We used the surprise attack, instead. We identified everyone who got hurt by the violations. Sometimes it was the businessman or neighbor next door, or even the state of Ohio itself. We offered them our foundational work for nothing. Of course, once we had a few successful court decisions we were planning to ask potential plaintiffs for reimbursement. Our Crisis Management System was marketable.

"We identified as many plaintiffs as possible, and then created files for each of them. When a file was complete, the only thing the plaintiff needed was the inclination to proceed at law. We even found a sympathetic attorney willing to take them on a contingency basis. There was no excuse for the victims of those violations not to proceed.

"It paid off big, at first. We had them running scared -- threatening us with counter suits -- but they knew we had them dead to rights. We closed down three clinics that way before they closed us down."

There was a moment of silence, and Max was afraid he would not finish the story. He looked ahead and saw a sign that told them Chicago was at least an hour away. They were chasing the sun, but it was dropping rapidly, all the same. Finally Max had to ask, "How did they manage to close you down, Olshane?"

"Again, it was our fault. We stopped reading Sun Tzu long enough for them to counter our attack."

"Explain that," said Max.

"Everything we did was technically perfect. We even tracked the judge's decisions to determine patterns of bias. I mean, we had the thing working!"

A pained expression came over Olshane for a moment, and his attempt to disguise it made him look angry.

"We began teaching what we had learned, and how to create teams to wreak havoc on the clinics nationwide. We had a great thing going. The more fanatical disciples of the truth were driving hundreds of miles for these sessions. We had one fellow fly in from Utah. But all the time we were underestimating the ruthlessness of the enemy.

"We developed a small but loyal cadre of researchers and we started digging even deeper. We went to the legislative histories of the statutes that granted the authority in the first place. When we realized the implication of rights being granted by statute, we saw for the first time the difference between government-granted rights and God-given rights. It was all tied into the first section of the Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution. We were convinced that this was the point where the federal government claimed to be God, and claimed its citizens as subjects!

"Next, we started looking for a way out from under the federal umbrella -- so you can see how far off track our research had gone from its roots. Suddenly, we'd become crusaders against a State that had supplanted God -- instead of being the clinic closers we started out as. We were like kindergartners with wooden swords. While we had our noses buried in the books, chasing narrower and narrower trails of paper theory, the enemy army approached.
"They destroyed us one by one. The IRS attached property indiscriminately, they paid informers to plant incriminating evidence, they bugged our homes -- and God knows what else. In my case, they sent a SWAT team in because the child abuse hot line got a report that I kept loaded weapons in the house."

"Since when is that a crime?" asked Max.

"Since the federal government took over our lives, that's when!"

Max was sure he should not have broached the subject while Olshane was driving. His words were spiked with irony, and the disillusionment was clear. He glanced at Lena and saw the concerned look.

"What about the team you worked with over there?" asked Max. "Could they support us? Would they join us?"

"You don't understand, Sergeant. It was my wife and I that made it work. We were the team. But when the bureaucrats retaliated, they made sure they destroyed my family before they were through.

"The cops busted in when I was away. They planted an unregistered, sawed-off shotgun with my guns to justify themselves. They took my son, Joey, into protective custody. Later they sent him to the Children's Services Division of the State Welfare Department."

His voice did not give away the anguish he felt, but the beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

"It was too much for Becky. She'd been a Navy wife all those years and had learned how to get by with me not being around more than a weekend a month. But she'd never been without Joey. The emotional trauma broke her.

"The news reports showed pictures of our house after the cops had trashed it, implying, of course, that we lived like animals. Becky couldn't take that. She insisted they apologize on the air, but they never did. Eventually, she went along with them to get the boy back -- separating herself from me entirely. It was close to two years of court appearances until she saw Joey again. One of the concessions she had to make to the court was that she'd establish separate residency and avoid contact with me."

"Why? It's not like you were a felon or something."

"It's exactly like I was a felon, Max. I jumped bail because I knew they were putting me away to shut me up. They not only had me for the weapon's charge, but also for assaulting five of the cops. You're looking at what you would call a fugitive from justice."

Lena was staring out the window at the fiery sunset. The clouds had burst into shades of orange and reds for these several fleeting minutes. Nothing was said until the orange light faded back to a dark blue.

Shortly thereafter, Olshane turned the headlights on and decided to break the silence.

"Does this revelation of mine change anything?"

"Yeah," said Max. "Suddenly you seem more trustworthy."

"Good," he said, not missing a beat. "Because I want to let you in on something Lena and I have been working on for a few years."

Max looked to Lena. She smiled and nodded, excited that their secret was to be revealed.

Olshane pulled a slick folder from the storage pocket behind Max's seat and tossed it to him.

"Tell us what you think."

xxxxxx

Blaine had no sooner hung her jacket in the small closet than the doorbell rang, accompanied simultaneously by an urgent pounding. She was tired and still angry at one smart aleck job interviewer she sparred with earlier in the day, and was not in a mood for company. She answered the door hoping the encounter would be a brief one.

The large man turned around to face her. "Sasha Blaine? I'm Officer Laurent," he lied, "from the police department." He handed her the card and let his jacket hang open just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his gun leather.

She took the card and read it. Looking down at it she caught sight of his shoes. "Since when do you boys wear alligators on your feet?"

"They're, uh, imitation."

She smiled, indicating that she had been kidding. "Please come in Officer, and tell me what you want."

Tophet came into the apartment and, when she stopped in the living room, walked past her, continuing into the kitchen and sitting in a chair at the dining table with his back to the corner. Blaine seemed more amused than puzzled by this, and sat across the table from him.

"May I offer you something?"

"No thank you, Miss Blaine -- it is Miss, isn't it?"

She nodded.

"Yes, thank you, but I've just eaten dinner." Tophet paused to dust the sesame seeds from his jacket. "We're looking for a friend of yours in, uh, relation to the bombing of the clinic late last night, and the murder of Dr. Kadill. His name is Xinnis. Can you tell me where he is, Miss Blaine?"

"Well, no. I mean I don't know where he is. Did you say he bombed the clinic?"

"We just want to talk with him. We believe he may have, uh, evidence that we need to find the bomber, and the doctor's murderer."

"So he's not a suspect?"

"I'm afraid he is, Miss Blaine."

"I never thought he would actually do such a thing. He threatened me the night Janet died -- but I never suspected he could do something like that. He was always so agreeable until it happened." Blaine's heart began racing.

"His mind must have, uh, snapped, Miss Blaine. You may be next." Tophet dug in his pocket for a pen. "Can you tell me where I might find him?"

"Have you checked the Independent Bible Church? Or his girlfriend?"

"His girlfriend?"

"Lena Reynolds, the pastor's daughter."

For the first time, Blaine looked into his eyes. Their cold ugliness scared her and her intuition made her heart skip a beat.

"Let me get you a pen, Officer." There were some pens in the knife drawer. Why would he not have a pen?

Tophet saw something in her expression, and suspected that he had nonverbally given himself away. It was time to leave. He put his hand on his .40 caliber Smith & Wesson as she turned her back. There would be no one to identify him.

The doorbell rang again, and Blaine gave a sigh, taking a ball point pen from the drawer and handing it to her guest.

"That might be Max now," she said, hoping it was. She saw Tophet stand as she moved to answer the door.
"Coming!" she yelled.

The two men stood in the door with their badges showing. One of them looked like a fullback for the Lewisburg Sentinels. The other looked like the coach.

"We're sorry to bother you, Miss Blaine, but we need to ask you a few questions. It's important."

Blaine shot a glance over her right shoulder as she stepped outside. "There's an Officer Laurent inside. Do you know him?"

"Get the back, Laurent!" came the answer. Zerotti took the girl and gently, but forcefully set her down on the grass. "Stay still," was all he said before he burst into the house.

Zerotti carefully maneuvered through the hallway and living room, opening doors with his finger tense on the trigger of the .38 Special. After a detour into the bedroom he checked the kitchen and found the back door standing wide open. He heard a shout and, stepping onto the porch, he saw Laurent disappear down the alley a block and a half away.

Zerotti ran back to Blaine, pointing to the lights in the house across the street. "Go to your neighbor's house over there and wait for me!"

The eight cylinders came to life with a flush of fuel. Zerotti poured his adrenaline into the accelerator as he called for a backup.

"This is Unit Twelve -- signal 63 at the corner of Findhorn Circle and Hawthorn! Officer in pursuit!"



Tophet knew he could not run. The memory of a dark night long ago flashed in his head like a black strobe-light. He made another evasive move around an alleyway, but the steps were too close behind him.

He threw himself down against the edge of the roughly paved service road and rolled into the shadows along a mesh fence protecting a perfectly groomed lawn. The gun in his hand shook as he held it in front of his face, aiming at the center of the alley.

Laurent turned the corner a moment later and heard the explosions and the long scream as he was thrown backwards into the intersection. He did not recognize his own scream, nor why it was abruptly cut off as the back of his head hit the graveled pavement.

Tophet laughed to himself cruelly as he picked himself up from the road. The most direct line to his car was over Laurent's body, and so he ran -- not failing to see the streams of blood running from the man as he rushed past him. Laurent's eyes looked directly at him, and Tophet knew he would shoot him again if it were convenient.
A mile or so away police sirens were clicking on, and a squealing of tires sounded just blocks away. Tophet laughed louder when he saw his car in the lot of the pizza joint, knowing he had escaped again -- believing he had won.

He did not see the Death Angel one step ahead of him, clearing his path.

xxxxxx

The restaurant across the street from the Oak Park Womans-Choice Clinic was doing a good business, the revolving door appearing to have a magical effect on the patrons. Respectable businessmen and women were rotated in, being promptly replaced by loud and overstuffed inebriates that held each other erect as they stumbled to their cars. The trio sat quietly in the corner of the lot, observing everything.

Olshane and Lena had explained how they had set up the Pro-Choice Advocacy for the big fall. Max had listened in amazement, stunned by the seminar flyers they had shown him. He had not expected such bold mendacity from either of them, nor a plan with such scope.

"It's difficult to believe that you two were able to pull it off this far without help."

"That's why God sent you to us, Max," said Lena.

Max was forced to put aside the many questions he had formed about the Omni hotel assault when they exited the toll road. Immediately, but reluctantly, he resigned himself to the task at hand. Before expending any further energy on tomorrow's plans, it would be wise to live through tonight.

Now, sitting in the shadows of the restaurant parking lot, they seemed tense enough to explode. "Why are those lights still on?" Olshane asked them. "It's almost nine o'clock here and they're still spilling blood?"

Max put the binoculars down and ran his calfskin-gloved fingers through his hair, shaking his head. "The yellow page ad said they're open until seven."

"We could rush the place," said Olshane. "Start at the back with the gasoline and clear the building as we work our way out."

"What if someone inside has a gun?" asked Lena. "Shouldn't we wait until we know it's as safe as it can be?"

"We were all dead once," said Olshane calmly, not taking his eyes from the target across the street. "Without Christ we were as dead as those babies in there -- as dead as the people working there. The walking dead."

"We could see a movie and come back after," she reasoned, fiddling with the controls on the eight millimeter camcorder Max had given her. Her role was to be a simple one; radio a warning to them on their transceivers if she spots trouble while they load the files -- then film the building as it burns.

"You are using the guns only in self-defense?" Lena asked them.

Max nodded. "That's what we decided, right Olshane?"

Olshane grunted an affirmation.

Lena had just closed her eyes again when Olshane snapped his fingers loudly. A large silver Volvo wagon had just pulled into the lot of the clinic, parking near the entrance. A well-dressed woman in heels locked her car door and approached the entrance of the clinic. She was obviously pregnant.

"That's who they're waiting for," said Olshane.

"She must be seven months pregnant!" said Max. He looked at Lena as she released the record button. She had caught the woman on tape.

"Six at least," she said.

There was a tense moment of silence. Max and Lena looked at Olshane.

"We can't let them cut up a seven month-old!" said Max. "We've got to scrap the old plan and take our chances."

Olshane shook his head, pushing his big fists against the steering wheel. "You both knew this place specializes in late term aborticide. There's nothing going on now that hasn't happened here a dozen times this week! Now you want to compromise the mission? Increase the risk?"

"Didn't Sun Tzu write something about improvisation and the ability to adapt being the key to success in guerrilla warfare?"

"Even if he did, there's no guarantee the woman won't murder the kid somewhere else tomorrow."

Max shook his head in disagreement. "I know a way to guarantee it."




Max held the door for Lena and she walked directly to the back wall where the receptionist sat behind a window. Max sat himself across