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 from the pregnant woman, inspecting her clothing, jewelry, and make-up carefully before concluding she was possibly a prostitute. But then, so many women believed their character flaws could be covered with cosmetics.

The woman shifted slightly in her chair, sensing his gaze, and pulled on the edge of her skirt. She finished her scribbling in a form attached to a clipboard and picked up a magazine at random. Max folded his hands in front of him and crossed his legs. He felt the comforting weight of the Smith & Wesson under his jacket.

A woman slid the frosted glass window aside to speak with Lena. "You don't have an appointment, do you?" she asked.

"No, I just have one question, and would like to make an appointment for another time, if tonight is inconvenient." Lena had the camcorder running in her handbag to record the conversation.

"Was your question of a medical nature?"

"Yes," said Lena, "I suppose it is."

"Those questions are usually answered during consultations with the medical staff. I'm afraid it's a little late to get you in today, but we can get you in as early as tomorrow afternoon."

Max appeared behind Lena. "Excuse me, did I hear you say it's too late? But the staff is still here, aren't they?"

"Yes, but they're nearly ready to leave --"

"We can't come back. We're willing to pay a premium for the late hours." Max pulled his wallet from the vest pocket of his dark gray blazer.

The woman suddenly looked indignant, as if money were not the question. "I don't think --"

Max threw ten one-hundred dollar bills onto the counter. "Since that's what I'm paying, perhaps the doctor should be informed before you turn me away." Max could see no security cameras within sight. No alarm buttons.

The woman narrowed her eyes and looked at them.

"Please," said Lena, "won't you ask?"

"Just a moment," she said, gingerly picking up the money and sliding the glass window closed.

Max and Lena went back to the seats where the pregnant woman sat reading a copy of Chicago Magazine. Not knowing how soon they might call for her, Lena wasted no time.
"Is this your first?"

The woman looked up at her and offered a patronizing smile. "God, no. Yours?"

"No," she lied.

"I've already got two teenagers. You can imagine! I absolutely don't need another one at my age!" Max guessed that she might be forty.

Lena wanted to ask her why she had waited so long before terminating the pregnancy, but instead, in her meekest tone, said, "Excuse me for asking, but have you ever considered adoption? I mean -- do you think it's a good idea?"

"I could never do that! Once I've carried the kid it's mine! If I adopted it out I'd always wonder what happened to it!"

"At least this way you know," said Max. Lena elbowed him in the ribs, knocking some air out of him. The woman raised an eyebrow at this and went back to her reading.

Lena scowled at Max and sat back into her chair, trying to think of another approach. Max could see she was stumped, and was determined to help. He picked up a newspaper from the table.

"Oh, no!" said Max to Lena. "Did you read this?" He showed her the article. "A third grade schoolgirl was getting off the bus when the door closed on her ankle and she was dragged ten blocks to her death."

"Oh, that's terrible!" said Lena.

"Just awful!" said the woman, looking up again.

Max looked the woman in the eyes. "Kind of like what happens here, isn't it?"

Lena smacked herself on the forehead as the woman stood to move to another seat closer to the offices.

"Only this was an accident," said Max, louder.

"Real subtle," whispered Lena.

A nurse appeared at the door by the receptionist's window.

"Mrs. Tolrah, we're ready."

Max and Lena stood in unison and followed Tolrah the few steps to the door. Olshane had been watching for Max to stand up, and now abruptly entered the room just as Max pushed the pregnant woman into Lena to get a grip on the nurse. He grabbed her around the neck and clamped his hand over her mouth. Lena's knee was on the pregnant woman's chest as Olshane pushed the electrodes of the 60,000 volt stun gun to her bare neck and threw the spring-loaded switch with his thumb -- the electricity jolting the woman into unconsciousness.

The barrel of the gun was at the nurse's temple as Max spoke. "Where is the doctor?"

She pointed down the hall and Max moved his hand from her mouth to her neck while maintaining pressure against her temple with the gun. Olshane lifted the unconscious woman and pushed his way through the door. Lena followed them, one eye viewing the scene through the lens of the humming camcorder.

A doctor and nurse were preparing instruments as Max and Olshane burst into the room with their captives. The doctor shouted a frightened curse at the intrusion, but threw up his hands at the sight of the guns.

"Quiet, or you'll all be dead!" commanded Olshane. He laid the woman on the table and took his .45 caliber Colt from its holster, sticking the muzzle deep into the ribs of the nurse Max held. "Come on, you can give me a tour." Olshane left them to check the rest of the building while Max explained:

"You're Silvestri, I presume?"

"What do you want?"

"This is how it's going to be, Doc. You're going to deliver a live baby, or your staff is going to watch their first retroactive abortion."

Silvestri was ready to argue, but Max leveled the pistol, ready to fire. "We're not here to debate, Doc. If you don't want to do it, say so -- and we'll let you meet your maker right now."

Mrs. Tolrah was waking up, her eyelids fluttering like butterflies. Max grabbed the stun gun and discharged the battery beside her jugular. The woman convulsed momentarily as the blue spark crackled between the electrodes. Max looked at the doctor again -- his eyes more narrow. He could see Max was serious.

"I'll do what you say, but we're not properly equipped. The only chemical inducement I have here is prostaglandin. It's not exactly designed for a live birth. We'd have to do a hysterotomy."

"You mean like a Cesarean?"

"Yes, but --"

"If that child is harmed in any way, you're going to pay for it with your life."

"But it's premature! It could die anyway."

"See that he doesn't!"

The doctor turned to the nurse, his knees shaking. "Anesthetize the patient."




Olshane had searched every corner of the offices before surprising the receptionist in the ladies' room. He retrieved Max's money and a handful of files on 3.5" computer discs before returning the women to the operating room.

Olshane set the receptionist on a stool as the nurses assisted the doctor, using duct tape to tie the woman's hands behind her back and her legs to the base of the stool. They all watched in silence as the doctor began his incision. Three and a half minutes later, the doctor took the baby from the mother.

"It's a girl!" proclaimed Max, as if he was the proud father. A nurse clamped and cut the umbilical on the child while the other nurse prepared the instruments to close the incision.

"She's not crying!" said Lena.

Silvestri held the baby, seeming confused over what to do next, as if he had never performed a live birth. He stared at Olshane, obviously frightened by his gun.

After laying out the instruments, the nurse motioned to take the child from the doctor, but Silvestri clutched the baby to his chest, never taking his eyes from Olshane's Colt. His hand flew to the instrument table, bringing a scalpel to the child's neck.

Olshane pulled back the hammer of the gun and aimed carefully.

"You can have it when I'm outside!" said the doctor.

"No way!" yelled Max. "Give the baby to the nurse!"

"No. You'll just kill us!"

"We won't!" promised Max. "Put the child down now!"

Olshane had the sights centered between the doctor's eyes. "Last chance," he said.

"I'm walking out, like it or not!" He took half a step toward the door.

"Get ready to catch the baby, Max," said Olshane, calmly.

The determined edge Olshane's voice told Silvestri this was no bluff. For a moment Silvestri's expression seemed to indicate he had changed his mind, but he made the mistake of finishing his step toward the door and Olshane squeezed the trigger.

The receptionist failed to avert her eyes at that moment, and the shock of seeing the bullet rip through the man's head caused her to faint, her shifted weight tipping over the stool. Her head hit the floor hard enough to crack a tile.

Max tried to catch the child as Silvestri fell, but his death grip prevented its release. Silvestri's body hit the wall behind him and slumped to the floor. Max pried the child away and handed her to Lena. She could see the angry tears in his eyes.

Lena released the button on the camcorder and wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Her complexion had paled and she was breathing hard through her clenched teeth.

"Did you get it?" Max asked.

She nodded.

"Help me with the baby," he said.

Lena massaged the child while the nurse, without a word, cleared the child's mouth for resuscitation.

The other nurse checked the pulse of the receptionist to make sure she had not killed herself in the fall. A trickle of blood ran from her open mouth, but she was breathing.

"This child has to live; do you understand?" Max spoke emphatically to the nurse massaging the child.

"I'll do what I can," she said. Max believed she would.





An hour and twenty minutes had passed since Olshane first came in the door. Looking at his watch, he knew any hope of burning this particular clinic had been dashed. They just could not wait for the nurse to sew the incision. He had turned off all non-essential lighting to create the illusion that they were preparing to close for the night. When Olshane returned to the operating room, Max was bundling the child into Lena's arms.

"How would you like to be a heroine?" Olshane asked the nurse.

"What do you want me to do?" her voice shivered.

"We have to be sure we can escape without endangering the child. You just continue to sew the woman back together after we leave. Don't come out of this room until you do. If you try to identify our vehicle, I'll be forced to burn this place, and the three of you can follow the doctor into hell."

"I understand," she said, not taking her eyes from her work.

Olshane admired the woman's professionalism. If only she were on their side. "You seem like a reasonable person," he said. "Take my advice and find an honest profession."

"Like yours?" She did not look at him.

Max was sitting behind the wheel of the van with the engine running and the heater cranked up full for the baby. Pneumonia was the child's worse enemy now that it was free of her mother and her hired killer.

Lena had remained inside the door of the clinic until he signaled her. When she was strapped in, she held the baby high on her chest and kept her ear close to the child's mouth to hear her breathing. Olshane hopped in the passenger side.

"I thought that could have gone better," he said.

"Really?" replied Max as he pulled into traffic, sounding lighthearted. "I don't see how. What should we name the baby, Lena?"

"Maxine?"

"Yuck. How about Hillary? In honor of the first lady of the land!"

"Hillary!" said Lena.

"Hillary!" said Max.

Olshane loaded another round into his clip and watched the mirror, not amused by the sarcasm.

"We should be thanking God we're not dead."





12:45 a.m. Sunday, June 13th



The baby had begun crying weakly as they neared Kalamazoo on their way to Detroit. "Maybe the mother was an addict," suggested Olshane.

They would have to stop for supplies, and Olshane suggested they pull off at the Omni Hotel exit on route 131. This would be a good opportunity for them to become familiar with the layout.

Lena disappeared into a supermarket while "Uncle Thomas" held Hillary. Her breathing was shallow and tense, but she was awake and trying to focus on Olshane's big face. Olshane hugged her. "I remember now what it was like to hold Jonathan when he was born," said Olshane. "It's that feeling a person has when they hold their own child, and I feel it now, Max."

Max had never held his own child. Olshane remembered this when Max failed to answer, and passed the child to him.

"This child is ours as much as she was the natural parents," said Max.

"More so, really," said Olshane. "The child would never have been born if not for us. Her natural parents forfeited all rights when they attempted to end her life."

"Hillary should be calling Lena `Mommy.'"

"It's who she'll be calling `daddy' that concerns me."

Max was surprised by this. "I know you two are close. But if you're harboring any intentions toward Lena you should say so."

"Relax, Tiger," said Olshane. "I just don't want anybody calling me grandpa, all right?"

Max smiled. They could see Lena leaving the store now with one of everything in the shopping cart. Olshane jumped out to help her load the things into the back. Lena took the baby from Max and the men changed seats.

"You can see the hotel from here," said Olshane as he pulled away. "The tombstone to the aborticide industry."

Lena was looking worried as she coated her little finger with liquid acetaminophen and rubbed it onto the child's gums. The child was not crying now as much as whimpering. Olshane drove the half-mile up the main street to inspect the hotel.

"Where's the nearest police station?" said Max.

"Three miles away. There's a Highway Patrol post about fifteen miles south. That's all."

"That's plenty."

Olshane drove through the hotel parking lot twice to get the feel of the landscape, and then parked the car so that the two men could walk the hallways. After they felt comfortable with the place, Olshane asked the night manager to let them see the room they had reserved. They were taken through the main ballroom and shown how the room would be divided for the potential one hundred and sixty-nine guests.

An hour later, Max realized for the first time that they were continuing east to Detroit, rather than cutting south to Lewisburg.

"Where are we going?"

"We'll arrive at the Red Roof Inn at about three in the morning. There'll be several acts of arson committed there tomorrow."

Suddenly, Max no longer cared to hear anymore. He wanted to keep his mind off their plans long enough to sleep. He ejected the tape from the camera and placed it into his black gym bag, wondering how soon it would be before he could begin the editing and duplicating.

"When this is over I'd like us to visit Louisville," said Olshane. "According to Kadill's files, there's a clinic that does a lot of byproduct sales. We could shut down the distribution pipeline."

"Sounds good," said Max, "but there's a lot to do in the major cities nearby. Cleveland, Columbus, even Indianapolis must have a similar setup."

"So we'll go in, take their files and find out."

"You never asked what we plan on doing with the abortionists once we get them in that ballroom."

"Kill them, of course," said Max.

Olshane looked at Lena. Her face was expressionless.

"Could you do it now?"

"Sure," said Max, trying to imagine how it would be.

"So why didn't you with Kadill?"

"I did, in a way."

Olshane shook his head in disbelief, wondering if Max really believed what he said.

"You know, Max, we can't be concerned with whether our enemies have accepted Christ or not. That's God's business. We're soldiers defending innocent lives. You not thinking of going through the plan of salvation with a room full of abortionists before you kill them, are you?"
"No, but it doesn't seem like a bad idea."

"Max, the only ideas you have regarding the Omni had better end with one hundred and sixty-nine dead abortionists."

The thin dark strands of Hillary's hair were damp with perspiration, but the child had lapsed into sleep again in the warm security of Lena's arms. She hummed softly to the child.

"So what happened to that hot Taurus you used to drive?" asked Olshane.

"Friend of mine -- Easton. He's garaging it for me. He's loaned me this Chevrolet Caprice until the heat was off.

"Sounds like a potentially good trade, since you might never reclaim it," said Olshane.

"Are you trying to jinx us?" Lena asked Olshane.

"Hey! When your time is up, it's up," quipped Max.

"Then why carry the gun?" she asked.

"In case I meet an abortionist whose time is up."

"How much have you told this Easton guy?"

"Enough. I trust him. It's true that he may be looking after his own interests when it comes to cars, but I think he'd be with us. Maybe he could help."

"Maybe not," said Olshane. "This squad is large enough, and we're already making mistakes. That video tape, for instance. It's all the proof a jury will need to hang us. What do you plan to do with it?"

"It was going to be a documentary of our exploits, but when you pulled the trigger on Silvestri, I knew why we had the camera with us. I even dreamed about it months ago. I'm going to edit our faces and voices out of it and start making copies. We'll label it `The New Postnatal Abortion Technique' and send it to every clinic and every medical doctor practicing obstetrics or gynecology. They should get the message."

"And you dreamed that idea?" asked Olshane. "How did it end?"

"With a hundred and sixty-nine dead abortionists."

The van was quiet again as it rumbled over the road. Max closed his eyes and the Born Under Punches song came to him again. He rubbed his eyes and saw the colors of his dream dancing in a room in his head. The unborn baby sucked its thumb and dreamed in the belly of the mother. The mother chain-smoked and signed a form in the office of the clinic.
Minutes later, as the song fell into repetition in his mind, Max could see the little bodies sliding along the tiled floor and onto the mountains of the dead. Every twenty-one seconds he saw another one. His anger grew as his dream drew the gruesome conception. He saw himself looking toward the peak of a mountain of thirty million bodies and wondering where his child was.

xxxxxx

Lena rocked Hillary in her arms, humming and watching the morning sun breaking through the open curtains of the room. Whenever the child seemed to be awake she put the bottle of formula to her lips. The baby would swallow the formula that dripped into her mouth, but would not take the nipple. They were all concerned about this the night before, though Olshane pretended to brush it off. "She's either not hungry, or it's too soon," he had said.

There was a quiet hour she shared with the child, listening to her heartbeat, straining at her troubled breathing. No one would ever take the child from her. She was singing "Mommy Loves Baby" when the phone rang at nine a.m.

"Do you want to hit the restaurant," Olshane asked, "or share some milk and bananas in our room while we talk?"

"Milk and bananas?"

"Come on, then."

When she entered their room, she was glad to see Olshane had not started without her, but had an array of vitamin and herbal supplements spread on the table while finishing his nutrition lecture to Max. Max looked appropriately amused. She took a seat between them.

"So all I need to do is take all of these pills every day and I'll live to be a hundred?"

Rather than answer, Olshane scooped a small handful into his mouth and washed them down with chocolate milk.

"How do you know it's not the chocolate milk that keeps you alive?" asked Max.

Hillary made a sound that could have been diminutive laughter.

"She thinks you're funny, Max," said Olshane.

"She still won't drink the formula," said Lena. "I'm afraid we'll have to take her to the hospital soon if she doesn't respond."

"That would probably mean losing her to the State," said Olshane.

Lena nodded slowly, not taking her eyes from the babe.

"I know a doctor we can trust," said Olshane. "We'll split up. You two can take the van back to Lewisburg, see the doctor, and meet me at the cabin. I can do this operation alone."

"That's not what we planned, Thomas. How can you do it all yourself?" she said.

"I'll scout out the clinics one last time this morning with Max, drop the box of flyers off for PCAC. I'll pick up a rental car, say good-bye to you guys, then all I need to do after setting the fires is to hightail it back to the cabin."

"You make it sound as if you're going to roast marshmallows," said Lena. "You know you need someone to back you up."

"Not this time. You need to take the kid --"

"Her name is Hillary," said Lena.

"Listen. We've got the momentum going, let's not lose it." Olshane scooped the remaining pills into his hand, grabbed his jacket and went to the door. "We'll be back before checkout time."

Max hesitated long enough to kiss her cheek. "Don't worry, Lena. We're not supposed to worry."

"Max," she said, the emphasis in her eyes, "I want this baby."





Sunday morning, June 13th


Zerotti had been up most of the evening at the hospital, filling out papers while watching the doctors work on Laurent. By midnight, Laurent's sedative had kicked in, leaving Zerotti to catch some sleep himself. He radioed in his time and went home, but was unable to sleep more than an hour at a stretch.

By five o'clock he had showered, pulled on a freshly pressed suit, and was making his way to the kitchen when he heard his wife humming and laying silverware on the table.

"Good morning, Faith. You're up early," he said. He was surprised to see her ready to go out instead of in her bathrobe.

"Yes, I've a lot to do today, and I wanted to talk. Would you like a couple of eggs this morning?"
"Just the Grape-Nuts and orange juice." He pecked her on the cheek before grabbing the juice and skim milk from the refrigerator. Faith Zerotti took the bowls and spoons from the cupboard and sat across the table from him.

"I heard about the bombing at the clinic. You're working on it, aren't you?"

He nodded, suspecting an argument might be brewing somewhere.

"Jack, what will happen when they're caught?"

"Same as always." He buried his face in his hands.

"What if it's someone from our church, or from my pro-life group?"

"We think we know who did it, Faith, and he's nobody we know."

She finished setting the table and he poured the juice as she spoke.

"I thought they were saying that there was more than one. Someone burnt the clinic and someone else shot the doctor."

"Where did you hear that? The television?"

"The six o'clock news. They said it may have been a group of pro-lifers who have finally snapped, and the pro-abortion side are blaming everyone."

"I'd think your group would be happy to see us catch them, then. Aren't they just making you look bad?"

"You know how I feel about this, Jack. They interviewed one policeman who said the suspect's wife may have died at the clinic, and that the doctor who was killed may have performed the procedure."

"Great. There goes our cover. Now Xinnis knows we're onto him."

"That's his name? Xinnis? We don't know anyone by that name. Who else are you looking for?"

"We don't know, Honey."

Faith Zerotti watched her husband shovel the cereal back and forth in the bowl, still unsure of her approach to this request. It was Faith that asked him not to mix his home life with his work. She was sorry she ever said it.

"Jack, if I set a fire to a clinic, would you stand by me?"

"What a question! You aren't getting any ideas, I hope."

"You know I wouldn't do it, though sometimes I think I should. I just want to know if you would help me."

"Help you to set the fire?!"

"No, silly. I mean moral support. Would you help me with the lawyers and visit me in jail?"

"You're my wife, Faith. What else could I do?"

"It wouldn't embarrass you?"

"Well, of course --"

"What if helping me meant resigning? Would you?"

"But, Honey -- I can't imagine a situation that would require such a thing. What are you going on about?"

"Can't you play along for a moment? What if you were the only one who knew? You wouldn't turn me in."

"Of course not."

"What if our son was the arsonist, or even the murderer?"

"Well that's not the case, is it, Faith?"

"And if it was?"

"I'd have to protect my family, of course. Even if it meant resigning."

She looked satisfied.

"Can I eat my breakfast now?"

She smiled an innocent affirmation. He crunched into a spoonful of the cereal and wondered where this was leading. She had promised not to bring up early retirement again. He had six years to go and he was going to work them -- that much had been settled. They were taking their six weeks of vacation in Hawaii again this year to appease her -- that much was settled as well. What was she after?

"Our pro-life group is getting together today for breakfast before Mass. Can you come this time?"
"You know I can't. Is that what all this is about?"

"It would be an encouragement to everyone."

"Faith, we've been over this a hundred times. I don't have time to stand around holding a picket sign. It's a waste of time."

"We're not going to picket today. We're going to pray for the people who killed the doctor and burnt the clinic."

"Oh," he said, taking another mouthful.

"Jack, if you wanted to end the abortions, what would you do?"

"Well I don't see what good picketing does. At least burning them down achieves something, even if it is against the law." He already regretted saying it.

"Then you will at least pray for them with us?"

"I'll be praying that I catch them before they kill somebody else."

"Jack..."

"Okay, Faith. I can't be there, but I'll pray for your heros."

"Thank you, Jack. And will you try to take them alive?"

"I always do, don't I?"

"And will you ask the rest of the department to pray for them, too?"

"Now wait a minute --"

xxxxxx

Zerotti was looking rested and ready to fight dragons as he pulled into the station at five forty-five. He was sound asleep at his desk at six-fifteen when his intercom buzzed in his ear. It was Miller.

"Come on, Zero. Let's get something done today so I can go home."

Zerotti splashed some water on his face, wiped it with a napkin from the coffee tray, and dragged himself into Captain Miller's office.

"You look like --"
"Don't say it. I felt fine an hour ago. Have you been to see Laurent?"

"I don't need to see his sleeping mug too! I'll see him when his shift starts Monday morning, and he'd better not be late." Zerotti smiled at the hard-boiled joke. Miller tossed a thin file of papers at him.

"Look at these. They're from Juliusberg, that federal agent I told you about. Seems he found your shadow man. He faxed those to us this morning on his way to Chicago. They're sure our suspects were there last night."

"Suspects?"

"They've got a positive ID on two men and one woman. Their pictures are in there."

Miller gave him a moment to glance at the three sheets. Zerotti had seen the military photo of Xinnis, but the mug shots of Thomas O'Shanessey and Jann DeRace were new.

"O'Shanessey has been wanted on federal charges since '83. He's an all-around trouble maker. Their sweep found a piece of evidence about three hundred yards away. The guy left three perfect prints inside a plastic sandwich wrapper. The fingerprints put him at the crime scene, the bacterial growth says it had to be close to the time of the murder. That's all the circumstantial evidence they need."

"That's great. We knew there was someone else."

"Is this the guy that shot Laurent?"

"I can't be sure. This file says he's over six feet tall. To me, he looked shorter than Laurent, but I was at least fifty yards away."

"What are your theories so far?"

"We're still working on it, but our thinking is roughly this; Xinnis broke into Kadill's to rob him and take his keys. I'd say O'Shanessey was acting as lookout. Xinnis doesn't kill him because he wants to know that the key works and the alarm code is correct. Xinnis torches the boat while O'Shanessey waits at Kadill's for the call. Xinnis breaks into the clinic, makes the call, torches the clinic -- and O'Shanessey shoots Kadill. My only problem with it was a small footprint we found at the scene. Maybe this Jann DeRace was there."

"Motives?"

"For Xinnis it's revenge. His wife was killed at the clinic during an abortion. We're not sure about the others. Maybe they're in this file."

"Sounds like you're on track. Let's pick them up before they start a riot."

"I really need at least one more man in the field. Things are happening too quickly."

"Sure. Just make sure to radio for a priority back- up before you try making any arrests next time."

"And Chicago?"

"They hit another clinic, killed the doctor and put the receptionist in the hospital. And, get this -- they kidnapped a baby right out of a patient's womb."

"What!?"

Miller handed Zerotti the latest stack piled on top of the master file. "Read it. I can't promise you'll believe it."

He read it shaking his head. This was a first.

"Talk about operation rescue!"

Zerotti flipped to the next page and saw another photograph he had not seen before. "What's this?" He pulled the photograph from the file. It was a picture of Xinnis carrying a picket sign in front of the Sanger Clinic. From the variance in size of the objects and their relative focus, he could see that the photograph had been taken with a telephoto lens from at least a hundred yards distant.

"Who would have taken this?"

"The pro-choice fanatics took that one," said Miller. "Every time there's an assault we get a roll or two from them of the last protest march. They don't even bother developing them. That's not the best part."

Miller thumbed through the larger master file in front of him, plucking out a black and white photo taken by the coroner's office and handing it to him. "Do you see a coincidence, Detective?"

The poster Max had carried of the jawless child closely resembled the coroner's photograph of Kadill; his jaw also ripped away.

"Or do you see a correlation?"

xxxxxx

Zerotti had insisted that Blaine stay under guard overnight, and had requested around-the-clock surveillance and protection for her. His interview with Blaine after the shooting had been too brief. She rode in the car with him to the hospital and he asked her questions about Max and Miss Reynolds, but the ride had been short. Once they were at the hospital, he asked her to stay in the emergency room waiting area -- hoping he would have a few minutes to speak with her. An hour and a half later a uniformed policeman came to her and told her he had been radioed and instructed to take her home.

Zerotti's pounding on her door woke her. When Blaine finally answered the door, she was robed in something scavenged from a film noir movie set -- a long, soft white length of silk that dragged the floor. She groaned when she saw him.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Blaine, but I need to talk with you for a few minutes."

"Seems like you had that opportunity last night."

"I'm sorry about that. I'll try not to keep you from church."

"I'm not going out today anyway. I had a hard time going to sleep after the excitement. Would you like tea, or instant coffee?"

"Tea, please. One cup of coffee is all I'm good for anymore."

"Really?" said Blaine. "My great-grandfather drank it every day of his life since he was twelve."

"Oh? And how old was he when he died?"

"Thirty-nine," she said, absolutely serious. "How is the policeman who was shot? Laurent?"

"He's stable. They gave him a sedative to kill the pain and let him sleep through the night. I'm on my way there, but needed to talk with you first."

"All right. What else do you want to know?"

"Do you think it's possible that Xinnis and the man who shot Laurent could be working together?"

"Of course not. Max would never hurt me. The man that shot your partner was looking for Max. I told you last night that I think Max is in danger."

"Asking you for information might have been a ruse. He may have been trying to get information out of you before killing you. Xinnis may not have been able to do it himself, for obvious reasons, so he sent that man to kill you."

"I don't believe it! Max sat over there and witnessed to me, and said he had accepted Christ as his Savior just the day before. Does that sound like the act of a murderer?"

"Assuming he's not insane, I can only say it's not unusual for Mafia hit men to verify the date of their victim's last confession before killing them. This supposedly gets them off the hook with heaven. Could that be what he was doing?"

"No, no," she said, shaking her head insistently. "You're wrong. Look, Detective -- I betrayed him once when I talked with that impostor, and I just know I've made things worse for him because of my lack of faith in him. You'll never get me to agree to that theory."

Zerotti opened his thin briefcase and removed a photograph from the file. "Have you ever seen this man, Miss Blaine?"

She looked at it carefully, and then handed the picture of Olshane back to him. "I never have."

Zerotti nodded and slid it back into place. "At first I thought this may have been the man you saw last night."

"No. He was a heavy man, and nasty looking -- I told you. He looked as if he had eaten too much pork."

"Well, if this fat man does intend to hurt Xinnis, doesn't it make sense that I find him first?"

"That's funny. That's what he said last night. I told you everything I know. I haven't seen him since I stopped going to that church. I can only tell you the same thing I told the fat man; if he's anywhere he's with Lena Reynolds."

He pulled the picture of Jann DeRace from the file and held it out to her.

"Yeah, that's her. Not a very flattering photo, is it?"

Zerotti smiled at the hint of jealousy.

"You should see my driver's license. Makes me look like Walter Matthau."

She gave him a quizzical look.

"You mean you're not?"

xxxxxx

Zerotti walked into the private hospital room expecting to see Laurent still asleep. A great smile appeared on his face when he saw Laurent's wife feeding him his breakfast.

"Hey! No solid food for two weeks, doctors orders!" kidded Zerotti.
"Forget that! I haven't eaten anything but lead since yesterday!"

"Good morning, Helen," he said, kissing her cheek. "I expect you're glad to see this lug-nut awake."

"He's indestructible, just like he said!"

"My vest is, anyway," said Laurent.

"I suppose you'd like some coffee, Detective Zero?" said Helen. It was an offer to leave them alone to talk about work, a ritual she had become accustomed to over the years.

"You can stay, Helen. I won't be here long."

"I've heard that before. I'll get the coffee."

"Make it orange juice?"

The door rocked closed. Picking up the fork with some effort, Laurent scooped a pile of greenish applesauce.

"I couldn't remember if I'd told you that I didn't think it was Xinnis that shot me. It was dark, but I could see he was under six feet, and heavier set than Xinnis' description."

"You didn't say much of anything except mumbo-jumbo. But we knew last night it wasn't Xinnis. The girl swears she never saw this guy that shot you. In fact, she says Xinnis is really a nice guy. Quite the refined individual."

Laurent started to laugh, but felt the pain in his side and stifled it.

"Did she thank me for saving her life?"

"Profusely."

"Really?"

"You might be more interested in the call Miller got this morning," said Zerotti. "Xinnis and his friends were out on a little caper last night in Chicago." He handed Laurent the file, pointing to the photo of O'Shanessey. "This guy is working with Xinnis. The girl is someone he bailed out of jail and helped her to establish a new identity as the adopted daughter of Pastor Reynolds."

"Yeah, that's her -- I saw a picture of her when I questioned Reynolds. But how did they make O'Shanessey?"

"The feds found his prints at the Kadill scene. Witnesses in Chicago identified him from this picture. You can tell by his sheet that they're all working together. It's a marriage made in heaven."

"So this is the guy Xinnis called after torching Sanger's?"

"That would agree with the evidence," said Zerotti. "Ballistics will be turning in their report to Miller sometime today. If we get a match on the casings we found in the alley where you were shot with the three we found at Kadill's that should indicate that the guy who shot you is also working with them, and was there to kill Miss Blaine, just like you said."

Laurent smiled.

"There are still other possibilities," added Zerotti.

"Like what?"

"Like a professional killer hired by someone in this abortion empire to kill both Kadill and Xinnis."

Laurent nodded. "Okay. But if he's not working with Xinnis that means he wasn't at Kadill's house until after Xinnis left. Why didn't Kadill call the police?"

"Maybe he did. The one call made from Kadill's that night was to his lawyer's home number. If the feds can run it down, they may find Kadill was calling his own cleanup squad."

"But why Kadill?"

Zerotti shrugged. "Maybe he was a liability somehow. Maybe he had screwed up once too often. His credentials weren't too impressive. This wouldn't be the first time we found a big bug squashing a little bug," said Zerotti. "I'm on my way to see the big bug."

"Throckmorton?"

Zerotti nodded. "Miller said Xinnis' photo will be on the news tonight. We should find him soon."

"Be careful. He might be crazy."

"Not everyone who kills someone is crazy, Laurent."

"Hey, I've been to church. I've heard them talking about abortion. But I've never heard anyone seriously talking about burning a clinic and killing the doctors. Why would they unless they were crazy? The place is just providing a service. The only way to shut them down is to stop soliciting the service. Am I right, or am I right?"

Zerotti smiled. "It's one way -- apparently not the only way." He stood to leave. "Anything I can get for you?"

"A better looking nurse. Mine has a face like a horse."

"Listen, Laurent -- I wish I could have prevented your getting drilled like this."

"Never say you're sorry in a hospital, Zero -- you know that. Some shyster is bound to hear you."

"Right, right. Just get some rest, then. I'll check on you tomorrow."

xxxxxx

The rented Pontiac Bonneville was emitting the smell of burning oil, and Olshane saw the smoke filtering into the air vents. He was not sure what had happened, though he suspected an oil seal had blown. He stopped at a small grocery on the road to let the automobile cool while he grabbed a bite to eat, praying that the car would hold together long enough to return him to the safety of the cabin.

He sat against the warm hood of the car with his sandwich and milk, listening to the news reports on the car radio. There was no lack of excitement about his recent reign of terror in Detroit.

It had been a great deal more difficult without Max and Lena. Every second that he stood exposed, transporting cans of fuel, waiting for the guard to open the door -- they all seemed like slices of eternity:

The downtown clinic worked out of the corner offices on the second floor of the Breckinridge Building. Other companies, mostly law firms, shared that floor with them. Olshane had walked in last Monday after talking with Detroit PCAC, pretending to wait for his girlfriend. He remembered the blank looks in the faces of the girls waiting in the small office lobby. They were all lost.

Olshane made his final visit to the clinic shortly after saying good-bye to Max and Lena. He had backed his car up to the loading dock in the rear and honked his horn, hoping they would open the doors. When no one did, he went up the narrow stairway to the door marked `deliveries.' The door was locked, so he pushed the buzzer and waited. His plan was to force whoever answered to carry the fuel upstairs on the freight elevator, saturate the clinic, ignite the fuel, and leave him to ring the alarm. Simple.

The building security guard was not amused at the request to answer the rear door. He tucked his paperback book into his pocket and carried a roast beef sandwich in his left hand as he walked the inner corridor.

The instant the door was unlocked, Olshane had the nine millimeter to his head. "No one is going to get hurt if you cooperate. Don't talk -- just lay belly-down on the floor."

"No way! If you're going to kill me, shoot me standing up, you coward!"

"I only want your guns. Then you're going to help me torch the clinic upstairs."

"Go to hell!"

That was not what Olshane wanted to hear. He quickly swiveled his right hip away from the guard, slid the handgun into the inside-the-belt holster, and swung back with a powerful uppercut into the guard's jaw as the guard stepped forward to attack. The blow dazed him, and before his senses returned, Olshane followed through with three clean, successive punches to his solar plexus, sweeping his feet from under him as he lurched forward.

The guard was on one knee, holding his ribs and gasping for air as Olshane took his revolver and patted him looking for a back-up weapon. There was nothing in his belt or around his ankles.

"Where's your back-up?"

The guard still could not answer. Olshane pulled the handcuffs from their pocket in the guard's belt, ratcheting one cuff around his right wrist. He then pulled him across the room and made him hug an I-beam before snapping the other one. The guard spat an incoherent curse at him.

"I can't have that. You'll wake the neighborhood." A five-second discharge crackled from the electrodes, rendering the man unconscious. Olshane checked to make sure the guard had not swallowed his tongue before running back to the car.

The weight of the five gallon plastic containers of fuel made Olshane grunt as he ran up the stairs. He went past the guard to the freight elevator without checking the guard. The basement doors to the elevator were not solid, but made of a heavy mesh, and as he ascended he could see the guard beginning to move. He would have to hurry.

There was a noisy and abrupt halt. His big hands lifted the fuel into the second floor hallway and locked the doors open. There was no one in the hallway to see this. Twenty steps later, he was in the clinic office.

The first sound he heard was the scream of the receptionist as he walked through the door. The fuel cans alone would have alerted her, but Olshane had also adopted a manic expression in the fight downstairs that clung to his face with claws. She jumped from her desk at the sight of him.

There was no one else in the office. He immediately dropped the cans and went for the Smith & Wesson, taking up the steps between himself and the receptionist in an instant.
He had no intention of shooting her, and when her fist swung to hit him as he slid over her desk, he could only let the blow land solidly against his right temple. He caught her arm and threw a punch into her face that he was sure would knock her out cold. Her back hit the wall behind her and she stood there dazed. Thick blood poured profusely from her nose. She tried to look at him, but her eyes seemed to be swimming in their sockets. Olshane would not need to hit her again.

Instead, he twisted an arm behind her and forced her into the back offices. There was a short hallway before the next door. Once through it, he could hear the vibrating hum of the suction device in operation.

The sound triggered a primal brutality in him. He opened the door and threw the woman inside, ignoring her subsequent fall into the anesthesiologist. The two of them fell to the floor beside the operating table. Olshane looked past the startled faces of the abortionist and his nurse to the nearly delivered child. The child's mother had paid extra to sleep through the horror.

The abortionist had pulled the baby by the legs out of the womb, and now held the limp torso of the small child, perhaps six months old, in the grip of his left hand. The nurse still held the bloody scissors that had made the hole at the base of the baby's skull; just large enough for the tip of the suction device that was now inserted into the child's skull, evacuating its brain tissue.

"No!" Olshane's incoherent scream tore the false sanctity from the room. The abortionist dropped the suction tip and stepped away from his grisly work, as if he could disassociate himself from it. The nurse stepped behind the doctor, pretending to shield herself, but reached into the heavy elastic garter around her thigh, pulling a chrome plated .25 caliber semi-automatic and firing instinctively in the direction of the door.

The sharp crack of the first bullet alerted Olshane, but one hit the side of his heavy leather jacket before he threw himself to the floor and fired nine rounds in less than two seconds toward the threat. The nurse and the doctor fell to the floor.

Olshane turned the gun to the anesthesiologist and the receptionist. She was crying forcefully, gasping to breathe, and hiding her bloodied face in the folds of the young doctor's gown. The doctor was hugging her with his left arm, his right hand waving the air to ward Olshane away.

"Don't! Don't!"

Olshane exhaled as slowly as he could. It was not supposed to go this way. He stood and looked at the debris of the two he had shot. They both had wounds in their chests. The nurse had a bullet in her throat and abdomen. There was no doubt that they were dead.

He bent over the corpse of the woman and saw the small Raven handgun in hand. He addressed the man without looking at him.

"How can I know you'll never assist in another abortion?" Olshane's voice was tired. The question sounded as if he had asked it a thousand times.
The anesthesiologist shook his head. "I won't. I won't do it again!"

"Give me your driver's license."

He handed Olshane his wallet. He took the license and slid it into his shirt pocket. Before he threw the leather back to him he removed the paper money and tore it into pieces.

"Making a living from the blood of the innocent can get you killed," explained Olshane.

"Yes, Sir," he agreed.

Olshane went to the sleeping mother. Her abdomen was convulsing. "Can you take them out of the building?"

The doctor looked to the woman in his arms and spoke softly to her. "Can you get up? Try, and I'll help."

The woman stood weakly, fear shaking her body. Olshane removed the dead child and handed it to her. The child was wet and rubbery and limp. The woman looked at the baby and began sobbing, as if she had never seen the results of the appointments she arranged.

"She deserves a decent burial. If I let you go, will you take care of it?"

The woman could not see through her tears, but nodded. Olshane doubted her sincerity. He threw the blue cotton sheet over the mother and motioned for the doctor to pick her up. The girl was a teenager, but not small, and the man had to struggle to lift her.

"We know who you are now, Doctor. You've just seen what happens to murderers. If you continue in this line of work, we'll meet again."

The doctor nodded. Olshane guided them through the doors at gunpoint. At the entrance he kicked over the cans and let the fuel pour out as he stepped into the hallway with the others. He snapped a small flare to life and tossed it into the room.

Immediately the muffled explosion of the expanding gasses chased them as they ran down the hall. Olshane knew the sprinkler system would kick on any moment, and the damage would probably be contained, but his message would remain. Before the elevator doors closed they saw the red and orange light of the fire being radiated from the room through the heavy glass entrance door of the clinic.

The elevator began its decent and Olshane looked at them, huddled in the corner, the mother asleep on the floor.

"It was either them or me," said Olshane.

"They thought they were defending themselves, too," said the doctor.
Olshane turned away again. "The difference is that I came here to prevent murder. They came to commit it."

Olshane felt in his pocket for the key to the handcuffs, suddenly remembering that he had forgotten to take the guard's key. The elevator bounced gently as it hit bottom, and Olshane threw the cage open. The guard was gone.

Olshane preferred not to use hostages to save himself. The trio had prayed earlier that day for God to clear a path for him, and he believed that now he must have faith in the answer to that prayer.

"Stay here," was all he said to them as he launched himself toward the door. He sprinted as if a tiger were at his heels, and was at the door in seconds. The fire alarm pierced his ears as he burst out of the door and jumped the railing to the ground. He could not hear the police sirens over the alarm bell, but he imagined them clearly enough.

"Lord, help me out of here!" he said aloud.

The car started and Olshane stepped on the gas and went up the alley in front of him, not remembering where it would end. At the moment it did not matter. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and the clinic as quickly as possible.

The town was looking less and less familiar to him as he drove through the near west neighborhoods. He took the Smith out of its holster, removed the clip, and snapped a fresh one into place. He could feel the sharp pain in his right side as he made these movements, and lifted his leather jacket to see how bad the wound was. There was little blood -- but he could feel the fractured rib where the force of the bullet had smacked him.

A few minutes later he took the ramp onto Interstate 94 towards Grosse Pointe Shores and the privately owned Vasser Clinics -- two adjoined suburban abortuaries. He was glad to see they were closed on Sundays, as advertised. He had wanted to blow their place apart ever since he saw their eight-hundred number on an expensive yellow pages advertisement boasting their "six full-time staff -- trusted for over a decade."

It was a short ride. He knew once the police caught wind of the incident downtown they would be covering the other clinics as routine procedure. It would be unlikely that this more distant community would feel an immediate threat.

Without waiting to check for a guard, Olshane drove to the rear of the building. He jumped out of the car with a tire iron and turned his face away as he shattered the glass from an office window. After emptying the fuel from the two remaining cans through the opening, he reached into his pocket for another flare. The pocket was empty.

He cursed himself as he went back to the glove compartment to dig for matches. A few seconds later he was putting a lit match to his gasoline-soaked gloves, feeling the ball of flames in his hands before throwing them through the window.
The concussion of the explosions inside the building triggered the smile on his face. He noted that he was becoming dulled to the adrenaline rush of these assaults, and wondered whose army he would have to join next to get as excited. The fuel spread and burned as Olshane pulled into the alley and drove parallel to the main street until he was a quarter of a mile away from the blaze.

There had been no other trouble in Detroit. Olshane found his way to the freeway and again felt the security of anonymity among the thousands of carloads of families returning from their Sunday adventures. He drove west to Ann Arbor before making the turn south to Lewisburg.

Eventually, he stopped at a small grocery store and had them wrap up a turkey and lettuce on wheat bread from their deli. He bought a quart of low fat milk and sat on the hood of the car to watch the final moments of the sunset. He remembered the moment the three had shared only last night when the sky exploded into orange and blue, and longed for Lena's company. He stared into the reddened sun and thought about the tragedy of never being able to see this sight again. He tried to remember the faces of the abortionist and the nurse before he pulled the trigger, but could only recall their crumpled and bloodied bodies. He closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face and reminded himself that the only thing worse than not seeing this again would be to never have seen it.

xxxxxx

"What do you think is keeping him, Max?"

They sat in the large room of Olshane's cabin, watching the early news reports. Olshane was more than comfortably late. Max could only shake his head. "We should have stayed with him."

She knew it was true. Lena's fears for the child's health had been unwarranted. When Dr. Thompson saw the child he suggested only Pedilyte and body rubs, but told them the child had been in no danger.

The miniature screen fuzzed over with white noise as Max tried to improve the reception. The newscaster stressed her words demonstratively:

A Westside woman, Mary Llyn Granger, described by her neighbors as "quiet and dignified", and a strong supporter of the Catholic church, set fire to a doctor's office on Lyre Road today. Before fire fighters arrived, however, police were summoned to an intersection just two blocks away. It was there that they found the body of the accused arsonist who had been hit by an automobile driven by Nancy Krull, a worker at the clinic that had been set aflame. Krull claims she saw Granger set the fire, and while chasing her, Granger allegedly ran in front of her vehicle.

Residents in the area believe the arson to be an attack on Dr. Tafe's outspoken views on abortion. His office has offered reproductive services since 1975. Police are still investigating the apparent homicide.

In a related vein, a group of teenagers from Loyola High School, on a field trip to the Weinberg Memorial Hospital, suddenly turned into a mob, vandalizing everything in sight. Damage was contained to the sixth floor, which is, according to hospital personnel, used strictly for abortive and emergency elective surgery. Channel Five News interviewed members of the senior class.

A young man who may have been the class president spoke quickly into the camera. A small crowd of young men and women cheered him.

"We wanted to send a message to the community! We're not going to put up with the killing of our silent brothers and sisters anymore! The time for killing must stop, and we're putting the abortionists on notice!"

Another face, this of an angry young girl, shouted;

"We're challenging the other schools to rally with us! Einstein once said if just one percent of us protest, the jails cannot hold us! Let's stop the killing!"

"Amazing," said Max. "I thought I was dreaming, but there really are warriors out there waiting to fight for this."

Changing the channel, they stared at the news film of a burning building:

Reminiscent of the racial conflicts of recent months, flames and smoke could be seen from miles away as several abortion clinics burned out of control last night. This was the sight in downtown Detroit as fire fighters fought the crowds of onlookers to bring their equipment to the scene. At this hour reports are unclear, but police may have the arsonist in custody.

This is only one of the most recent of numerous clinic attacks that have been sweeping the state this week.

The anchorman shook his head in disapproval. "Correspondent Lisa Campbell is at the headquarters of Indiana Life-Rights. Lisa..."

"Surprisingly for some, local representatives of Life-Rights, International are not endorsing the acts of violence against clinics. At a press conference earlier, Michael Knave explained their position..."

"We do not deny the outrage of the holocaust that is taking place in abortion clinics on the planet." The middle-aged man in business suit was sure of himself, comfortable being interviewed. "But using violence against violence is not the answer. In remembrance of the hard-won victories of Ghandi and Martin Luther King, our organization has always recommended the harder road of education and political reform.

"This current violence is an attempt by a small radical faction of the anti-abortion movement who refuses to learn the lesson of peaceful equanimity with mankind. Only when we convert the hearts of all men to recognize the value of human life can we hope the end the killing of the unborn. That is the meaning of Pro-life."

"Hypocrites!" said Max, his knuckles white.

"Look, Max," Lena said. "She's taking the bottle!"

Max turned off the set and put his hand on the child's head and smiled. "Well, then," he said, his hand trembling. "Everything's all right."

xxxxxx

Olshane was barreling down the road in the twilight, only a few hours behind schedule. As he clutched the steering wheel, he could feel the swelling in his hands for the first time. The fight had been brief, but he could see the bruises showing.

He grew sleepy from the monotony of the white line, and daydreamed of Lena and her new baby. Max had told him how he saw Hillary's future role in the battle. He could see her as a five-year old with an adult vocabulary, daring the National Organization for Women crowd to abort her now that she can talk. Max had promised to keep a journal for the baby as well -- to document her life and the struggle they were in. Olshane was wondering what he could contribute when the radar detector lit up like a Christmas tree.

The Bonneville had just peaked the hill when the cop flipped the instant-on button of the radar gun. Olshane's right foot instinctively changed pedals, but, not yet adjusted to the car, fishtailed the rear end slightly. He was unable to see where the police had hidden themselves as he passed a row of old buildings and a half-demolished general store, but he knew he would be pulled over in a moment. Rather than slow down now, he turned off the screaming radar detector and stepped on the gas, looking ahead for a good place to pull off the road. Someplace private.

The flashing blue and red lights suddenly filled his mirrors, though they were nearly a mile behind him. The police car hit a hundred miles an hour making up the short distance between them. Olshane took his foot off the gas and coasted, taking another mile to slow the car, and finally turning north onto a gravel road before hitting the brake. He slid his holster behind him and pressed his back against it. His eyes swept the horizon, quickly gathering as much information as he could manage. He could see a farmhouse and barns ahead lit up by security lights. The headlights revealed only the gravel and dirt road. He took several deep and controlled breaths.

A spotlight hit the back of his head with half a million candlepower. They would be able to see every twitch he made. Immediately, a cop was at his open window.
"Good evening, Sir. May I see your driver's license and proof of insurance, please?" The words would have been polite, but the monotone of the command implied otherwise.

Olshane dug the forged license from a shirt pocket and handed it to him with the rental papers from the glove compartment.

"Do you know why I stopped you, Mr. Sparks?"

"Probably because my tires weren't touching the ground as I came over that hill."

"We clocked you at eighty-five. Have you been drinking tonight?"

"No."

"What is that smell? Gasoline?"

"I spilled some on my clothes when I was filling up."

"Please wait in the car, Sir. This shouldn't take long."

Olshane knew he could not wait in the car. The papers were out-of-state, but completely bogus. Their computer check was certain to give him a problem. A pair of cops coming after him together would have an unquestionable advantage. Olshane decided to make his move.

Gently opening the door with his left hand, he jumped out of the car, the gun aimed at the cop's head.

"Don't move!"

The cop's hand was moving to his side arm. Olshane fired a nine millimeter round over his head and the cop froze. He removed the .357 Smith & Wesson revolver from the cop's belt, keeping him between the police car and himself. He could not see the another cop.

"Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"But there's another unit nearby?"

"They're on the way."

Olshane snatched the papers out of the cop's hand. "You're going to give me your back-up weapon and run into that corn field as fast as you can. Do you understand?"

"I don't carry a back-up."

Olshane patted him down with the gun pushed snug against the cop's kidneys. He found the .380 Beretta in an ankle holster.

"It's good strategy to lie to the enemy," consoled Olshane. "Now take off."

The cop hesitantly moved into the ditch along the road and climbed the short fence. "Move it!" yelled Olshane. The corn was still short, and Olshane watched him plow into it as he made his way to the nearest farmhouse.

Olshane took the shotgun from its mount in the police car and released several rounds into the radio and dashboard. The spotlight shattered, throwing the area into relative darkness. Another round and the headlights and emergency lights flickered out. The car was dead. He took the keys from the vehicle and threw them into the ditch.

A car approached as Olshane walked back to the Bonneville. He considered flagging it down and taking the keys, or even disabling the vehicle by shooting out its tires, but discarded the idea when he saw the gray hair of the driver barely visible over the dashboard. The rusty AMC Gremlin scooted by -- the driver entirely oblivious to the front page news she was passing.

He threw the cop's guns into the rear seat, holstered his own and left the scene. He would have to leave the main road now, and go as much as a hundred miles out of his way to evade them. Every police car in the county would be converging on his projected route of flight within minutes. The only immediate method of obtaining another car was to steal one.

He scanned the horizon for signs of life, but the only lights were from the farmhouse to the north. Olshane shook his head, again wishing he was not alone. It was going to be a long ride back.

xxxxxx

Tophet took a can of soda from the refrigerator and poured it into a glass. "Don't suppose you got any liquor in here?" he asked, knowing the answer. "Too bad. I hate doing this sober."

Pastor Reynolds was unable to answer. Tophet had him securely strapped to a kitchen chair and gagged with a wet cloth. Reynolds had tried to reason with him using verses from the Bible, and just when he thought he was reaching him Tophet gagged him.

Tophet turned up the radio to hide the screaming that would soon fill the room, but instead of music heard the news reports of the day's clinic bombings. Tophet opened his stiletto and inspected the blade edge as he listened.

"... the workers of yet another abortion clinic were surprised this morning when they arrived to find their offices leveled. Witnesses say two men were seen unloading a Caterpillar earthmover from a heavy machinery transport around six o'clock this morning. The equipment was then driven over the single-story business that stood on this otherwise quiet suburb of Wichita, Kansas. The men then fled in the truck, leaving the heavy equipment behind. The Patrick Kelly Memorial Clinic had opened early in '93 as an alternative to the heavily picketed Woman's Services Building. No one was hurt, but damage is estimated at over two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. Police are still hunting for the drivers of the earthmover."

"Do you hear that? That's because of your friends. One clinic gets torched and all the wackos come out to play. Only I'm not playing."

Tophet took the rag from Reynolds' mouth and held the knife point a quarter of an inch from his eye. "You can stop this anytime you want. Just tell me where they are."

"You must be crazy!"

"I haven't slept for thirty hours. I'll show you how crazy that makes me."

"I'll never tell you. You might just as well kill me now."

"You're going to wish I'd killed you now. For all your, uh, knowledge of life after death, I know something you don't know. You see, there's a small room between your life and your death where you will talk. You will be dead, and you'll know it. But you'll want to talk with me. Believe that."

"I believe in the promises of my Lord."

Tophet unplugged the toaster, cut the cord away at its base, and began stripping the insulation from the wires.

"Then you believe in suffering for your faith?"

Tophet separated the two strands of copper he had stripped and wrapped them around Reynolds' wrists. Reynolds could see the malice in him as he worked. His eyes gleamed with a dark, sociopathic darkness.

"God forgive you."

"No, thank you," said Tophet as he pushed the plug into the wall socket.



Seven a.m. Monday, June 14th

Max had placed the scanner on the oak tree stump, adjusting the volume to hear it as he cut wood for the morning's fire. He was not sure how to handle Lena's concern over Olshane's absence, and preferred the fresh air and work to her quiet apprehension. He would take her for a walk to the top of the hill after lunch to calm her. The green serenity exuded by the trees seemed to calm them both.
Max left the scanner to hiss through its cycles as he carried an armload of wood into the cabin. He felt a draft as he entered, as if the breeze was being channeled through an open door. He dropped the wood at the sight of Tophet's fat hand gripping Lena's throat, his gun tight against her side.

"Come in, Xinnis, and get my files for me."

"Leave the girl alone."

"Give me what is mine, and I'll give you what is yours."

Max quickly sized up his chances against his opponent. He would take no risks with Lena's life, but if he had two clear seconds...

"Don't give him anything!" Lena yelled. "He'll kill us anyway!" The scream startled the child, and she began crying.

Tophet's grip tightened around her throat, cutting off her air.

"Stop it!" shouted Max.

"Give me the files, or the girl dies. Or maybe the kid."

Tophet took a step toward the baby lying on the sofa, dragging Lena by the neck. With every fiber of strength in her she screamed, and when his hand slipped she spun around, swinging her elbow in a tight arc -- driving it hard into the side of his face.

In the same instant that she struck, Max made his move -- diving toward them.

The explosions threw Lena backwards into Max's path. He caught her as she went down. There was a moment when he did not know what had happened, but then he was sitting on the floor, staring into her flashing eyes, the life pumping out of them in quick flickerings. He held her head in his hands and felt the life go out of her.

Tophet had fallen back, and was getting to his feet. The terror filled Max as he saw Tophet go to the sofa and pick up the child. The words came to him in gasps.

"You... Cold... Heartless..."

"I haven't got all day. The files now, or the kid dies."

Max sat paralyzed at the sight of the twin red tears in Lena's chest. His leg was pinned beneath her.

"Give her to me," said Max, showing signs of hyperventilation. "I'll, I'll tell you where the files are."
Tophet aimed the gun at arm's length. "Maybe I'll kill you and find them myself."

"I was already dead once. So was the baby. So was Lena."

"I just want the files. Where are they?"

"There's not enough time for you to find them. You've got the gun -- I'm not going anywhere. Hand her to me."

Tophet could see that he did not care if he was killed. He put the child on the floor and stepped backwards. "Where?"

"Under the carpet." Max pointed, indicated the lumpy rug against the wall. Tophet went to it and threw it aside, exposing the thin stacks of paper.

Max held Lena's body as it lay cooling on the drafty floor. The energy emptied from him as he took her lifeless body in his arms. She was gone. Hillary's mother was dead.

He looked through Tophet as if searching for a soul, but could find only a shadow. For one pure moment he truly felt the mercy that Christ felt for His enemies. It was a sadness and pity for the suffering Tophet would experience for all eternity for this act. Max was compelled to testify for Christ.

"Who are you?"

Tophet said nothing, stooping to pick up the papers.

"All you know is destruction -- and to fulfill your lust and greed you justify this? Are you so dead that you don't know what you've done?"

Tophet was scooping up the papers into one pile, hearing, but not understanding.

"I wonder if it's too late for the likes of you to be saved from a sin as great as this?" Max watched the lifeless tears trickling down Lena's face. "She's with Christ now."

"I didn't want to kill her. She made me."

"Unless you look for salvation in Christ, you'll never get the opportunity to apologize."

"I'm not apologizing," he laughed. "Jesus is for losers like you two. I don't need a reason to live in a dump like this. I'm my religion!"

"Reject Christ and you'll pay for your sins. How can you afford this?"

"You're crazy," said Tophet, standing. "I'd kill you now if I thought you could call the cops. Try to follow me and you're dead!"
Tophet was backing out carefully, the gun still aimed in his direction. Max shifted his weight to cover the movement of his hand slipping from Lena's face to his ankle holster. As Tophet gripped the doorknob, the .380 Sig semi-automatic slipped into Max's hand. He would not have time to aim -- he would have to shoot instinctively. He would try for a one-shot kill, then empty the gun into his path. The variables flashed in Max's brain as Tophet opened the door.

"Don't do it, Xinnis," leveling his gun. "I have what I want. If you want to be dead, I can give you what you want."

Max had lost the clear shot, and another thought burned its way forward in the instant. He felt a euphoria flow over him as the serotonin flooded his mind. Why not join Lena? Why not join Christ? For an instant he knew the metal in his right hand and the flesh of Lena's cheek would be the last feelings he would have. Tophet's last words still vibrated in Max's inner ear as he decided to take the shot.

Then through the crashing waves he heard Hillary's cry.

Tophet saw the expression of distraction on Max's face and laughed, knowing he would stay alive to protect the child. Max saw Tophet's bulging face disappear as the door closed. "Next time, murderer," Max swore. "There will be a next time."

He quickly slid from under her and went to the closet, reaching inside for the shotgun mounted above the door. Olshane said he had hit a rabbit at a hundred yards with the rifled slugs.

Throwing the door open, he aimed the gun at the Cadillac backing down the drive. Tophet's laugh mocked him -- he knew Max could still not take a shot. Tophet had Reynolds locked tight in the power sunroof.

When he was close enough to the road, Tophet opened the sunroof, untied Reynolds, and pushed him from the car. Max could see Reynolds had no energy to stand, and ran down the hill to help him as the Cadillac sped away.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. I must have told him. I don't remember doing it. I heard the shot. What happened?"

Max helped the pastor stand and supported him as they made their way back to the cabin.

"He killed her, Pastor. He killed Lena."

Reynolds shook his head at this and forced himself to move more quickly, but Tophet had been thorough in his work, and he collapsed after several yards. Max got a better grip on him and got him inside.

Reynolds stood in the doorway shaking his head in disbelief, unable to fathom Tophet's evil, though he had experienced it himself first hand. Max laid Lena's body on the sofa, covering her with the quilt and kissing her forehead. He went to where Hillary lay on the floor and gently picked her up.

Reynolds stumbled toward Lena. The pain melted him as he collapsed by her side, quietly sobbing and blaming himself. He watched in restrained horror as her blood saturated the patches of the quilt over her heart.

Max knew Reynolds must have led the murderer to them, but had seen by the burn marks on his wrists that the information had not come cheap. Max rocked the child slowly in the bentwood rocker, hugging her securely. She cried for a while, and then kicked lightly at the muscle in his arm as she fell asleep. He whispered a prayer and watched the door as the shadows grew.




The unfamiliar sound of a limping engine broke into the quiet valley road, making the blood rush into Max's ears. He put Hillary gently into Reynold's arms without waking her and went out the side door with his 9 millimeter Browning drawn. Looking low around the corner of the house he saw Olshane approaching. The Bonneville behind him was trashed -- a long crease defacing the passenger side.

"What's wrong, Max? What happened?"

"Where were you, Olshane?" There was a violent edge to his voice.

"Things weren't as simple as I thought."

"I'm sorry to tell you, but Lena's dead. I think it was the same psychopath that shot Kadill."

"What?! Oh, no --"

Olshane ran into the house and went to where Lena's body lay. He lifted her cool hand to his face as he knelt beside her. The blood had soaked into the quilt, making a near-perfect circle over her heart. Reynolds put his hand on Olshane's shoulder. They said nothing.

It was a while until Olshane walked to the front porch to confront Max. Max was searching the files.

"Who did this?"

"Big, nasty looking. Black hair, wrinkled blue suit, alligator shoes. Maybe a hit man. He said the files were his."

"Did he get them?"
"Yeah," said Max. "He got the originals. The idiot never asked about copies. His name must be here somewhere."

"This place is no longer secure. We need to get packed and get out of here."

Max did not answer, but kept flipping pages. Olshane could see the same demented gaze in his eyes that he saw the night they opened the clinic freezer.

"Max, I want to find that butcher too, but we don't have time to identify him now. We haven't got a clue who he is, and running through the forest blind and naked to find him is just stupid!"

"His initials are P.T.," said Reynolds, now standing in the doorway. "I saw it engraved on his pocket knife."

The swift chopping sound of a low-flying police helicopter made them look to the road. The rotors were just visible over the tree line as it flew northward.

"Looking for you?" asked Max.

"Maybe. I ran into a little trouble on the way."

"I can see that. What happened to the car?"

"Bounced off a truck I was passing."

"Is that how you got the bruise on your face?"

"No. The guard wasn't cooperative. Neither was the nurse." He raised his jacket to show him the effect of the bullet on his ribs."

"Get him inside," said Reynolds.




"Hurry up, then," said Olshane to Reynolds. "This place has been compromised. We've got to get out of here."

Twice Reynolds tried to reach the bullet from the entrance point and failed. Finally, he held the knife poised over the small lump several inches below the wound.

"Go on."

Reynolds drew the sterilized scalpel across the lump. Olshane sat on the chair gritting his teeth as Reynolds pulled the small chunk of lead from the incision. The antiseptic and ointment stung worse than the bullet.

"Now I've got two holes in me."

Max entered waving Kadill's notebook. "It's either Pedro Tophet or Penelope Towbridge."

"I vote for Pedro," said Olshane.

"There's a phone number in Kadill's book, but no address," said Max. "He's not in the city directory, either. So how do we find him?"

Olshane finished wrapping the gauze around himself and pulled on a clean shirt. He packed two large duffel bags and carried them to the door.

"John, we need you to stay here and tell the police everything you know about what happened. You don't have anything to do with this, so just tell them the truth."

Reynolds nodded. He looked exhausted. Olshane motioned for Max to help him with the bags. Max was surprised to see that he wanted them loaded into Lena's Mustang.

"What's happening?"

Olshane adjusted the driver's seat back and climbed in.

"Max, we've got the ball rolling, and now we've got to direct it or lose the momentum. I've waited years for this chance. This is our opportunity to change history."

"It is changing. Haven't you seen the news reports? Let's find this guy first, then we won't have to watch our backs every second."

"We'll get him, but we have to take advantage of what's happening. Think of how nervous these events will make the clinic owners. We could have the Omni filled to capacity."

"Throckmorton. He'd know where we can find him." Max said distantly.

"How long do you think it'll be before the feds tell them to spike the stories? We have to send a clear signal to other potential warriors out there who are waiting. To do that, we need to expand our area of assault -- we need to leave the state and cause some trouble where they're not looking for us."

Max was listening, but not looking at him.

"Find a safe place for the baby," Olshane said. "We don't want her being raised by the State. Maybe Reynolds knows someone. You maintain a low profile until the Omni assault. Memorize the script Lena wrote for the seminar. It's in the van with the other papers. Meet me there in the room reserved for Linx Security. Take the van -- it's registered under a fictitious name."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to take the long way there. Don't tell Reynolds we're splitting up and he won't have to lie to protect us. The cops'll be looking for two men working together."

"Why split up? I don't understand."

Olshane looked back at the house, seeing Lena in his mind's eye. "The baby needs someone. You can't leave her here, the cops will put her in the care of the State, and she'll end up brainwashed in the State's public schools." He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life.

"Hold it! I deserve an explanation, Olshane."

"All right, Max -- have it then. I don't want you traveling with me just now because I don't trust your judgment. For years I've dreamed of creating a team as tough as the SEALs to crush the abortion industry. You were my first serious recruit, but you've made too many mistakes already. You're dangerous."

"I never enlisted in that plan."

"That was the problem, I guess. If you want to help, and if you live long enough, we'll join forces at the Omni. I'll need you there."

"You're blaming me for what happened here?"

"Aren't you responsible? How else can I say it, Sergeant? I knew it was too soon after your wife's death to hope you'd have your wits about you, but I was anxious. So was Lena. She wanted you at the Omni so bad she named the security company after you."

"What?"

"Yeah. About a month ago. She wanted to see how long it would take before you noticed." Olshane put the transmission in reverse.

"You should've shot Kadill yourself, Max. The compromise has cost a lot of suffering. There might be a lot more."

Max turned back to the house as Olshane backed away, resenting his words, yet knowing them to be true. As the car disappeared from view he felt a dead quiet come over his body, the feel of Lena's hand still sending shock waves through his nervous system.

Max stopped at the door to the cabin when he heard Reynolds praying for God's mercy on Lena's soul and for the destruction of her murderer. He closed his eyes and hung to the door frame, preparing himself for the sight of Lena's inert flesh. He would wrap Lena's body in clean linen before leaving her. A pile of blankets on the floor of the van would be the baby's bed.

For some foolish reason, he had thought Lena would be the last to die.



Friday, July 23rd

The old Chicago Metro building on 60th street seemed to be begging for a demolition crew. Rusty chain-link fence surrounded its discolored and crumbling mortar and brick. The barred windows and wire-imbedded glass had only been partially successful at preventing damage from the rocks thrown by vandals -- the large cracks in many of the windows having been patched from the inside with plywood. It sat in the midst of a deserted, polluted, and forgotten corner of the urban concrete. There were no sounds of children, no schoolyards, no industry in the area to distract a visitor from the stark deadness of the remains of a once thriving neighborhood that now lay vacant and burned.

Inside, the first floor offices appeared similarly dilapidated; the varnished oak rails stained by hundreds of thousands of hands, a visible path etched in the marble floor by the masses seeking solutions to the problems created by the bureaucracy inside. The city had long ago deserted the landmark in favor of modern comforts, and its deed was now held tightly in the grasp of the few quiet businessmen who preferred discreet prosperity to the notoriety of the downtown crowd.

It was not until the ancient Otis elevator bumped to a stop at the higher floors that one would notice the renovation. Tophet stepped onto the thickly carpeted penthouse and was immediately greeted by Throckmorton's secretary. She announced him and brought him through a wide hallway to the large offices in the south corners.

"May I get you something to drink, Mr. Tophet? Some juice or coffee?"

"Yes, coffee please. Cream and sugar." He was not used to being treated royally, even by secretaries. She walked through the opened doorway at the end of the hall, and he followed her into the spacious walnut lined walls of Throckmorton's office.

Throckmorton tried to crack his backbone as he stood from his leather throne. A big smile flashed across the face of the impeccably dressed lawyer. The distinguished gray at the temples and the strong chin might convince a client of his potential to persuade a jury, but his thick double chin and three-martini belly told Tophet that he had become too comfortable behind that desk.

"Pedro Tophet. Good to see you again. You haven't changed much!" He was lying on both counts. The men exchanged a handshake.

"Not since the last time you needed a problem, uh, solved. Things have changed, though."
"Well, sit down and tell me about it. You can talk in front of Mrs. Engels. She's one of us."

"Then I'll tell you I don't like coming here. I've got my own territory to protect, and you know I hate traveling. I can only think of one reason why we couldn't have handled this on the phone."

"I was sorry to hear about Dr. Kadill. Was his funeral well attended?"

"How would I know?"

The men sat down and the coffee was served on a small silver tray that she sat on a pull-out shelf built into the large mahogany desk. She left them and Throckmorton nervously stood again.

"We haven't really talked in years, have we?"

"It's been six years since I was here."

"That long? Well, I've been thinking about you ever since this trouble started up with Xinnis. We need to minimize our potential losses in this mess.

"This office has become the guiding light, if you will, of the clinic structure in Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana. We have a certain influence with an increasing number of non-client clinics, as well, thanks to our reputation. It's a reputation I want to protect. Do you know our history, Mr. Tophet?"

"It was never a favorite subject."

"But it's important! Unless we know where we've been, how can we know where we're going, as they say."

Throckmorton had spent the morning considering the risk in divulging the inner secrets to Tophet, and had finally become comfortable with the idea as he reviewed Tophet's outstanding record for confidentiality. The company needed Tophet's skills, and Throckmorton had to know he could trust him. He knew it worked both ways.

"What we do here is strictly legitimate today. But the operation was really founded by Otto Kempler, an unscrupulous man who would pay prostitutes five-hundred dollars a month to carry a baby to term, and then sell the kids through his black market to the highest bidder. Depending on their sex and color, he would get between ten and twenty-five grand apiece for them.

"Kempler hated to lose money. If there was a stillbirth he would sell the parts -- nothing wasted. He had avenues of selling the tissue we can't touch today. In 1965 -- the first year his net exceeded half a million -- he had seventy-eight surrogates working for him. Of course, the IRS didn't appreciate being circumvented, and a few years later Kempler landed in jail, despite the payoffs he made to the agents.

"When he was released years later, he knew he couldn't operate the same way, but was determined to take back the profits he figured the government stole from him. So he came to me to work out a legal method of operation that would keep his hands clean -- or clean enough.

"His timing was perfect. We were both in the right place at the right time. The Supreme Court had just handed down the Roe versus Wade decision and there wasn't a lawyer I knew who wasn't looking for some way to profit from it. It seemed so obvious. We no longer had to pay the women to conceive our products -- in fact, we could charge them for removal and disposal! We were no longer outside the law. The aborted tissue was marketable worldwide, and we were actually making a profit from the doctors as well! We were turning considerable profit.

"Through the years, as you've witnessed, it's been primarily a matter of lobbying to stay on top of the regulations game. Of course, we've made a few inspectors wealthy along the way. Now, with our experience, there's nothing to stop us. Our business is destined to grow as Americans grasp at those precious extra seconds they need every day to keep their head above water. You can bet, with the expansion of the socialist agenda, that time is going to be even more precious! Children just aren't going to fit into the discretionary spending column of American's middle class.

"So now, we're like the auto parts business. Our warehouses are human junkyards. You know how much a desperate parent will pay for a perfect set of internal organs."

"No, I don't. That's your end."

Throckmorton fixed his stare at the snarled traffic on the freeway thirteen floors below. He drew his left hand through the stiff gray hair at his temples, seeming disturbed. Tophet had become accustomed to people looking away from him.

"I bought out Kempler's share in the early seventies for one point three million, but now it returns a million to me personally every year -- despite the enormous overhead. I'm telling you this so you'll know what's possible if you think big. I can help you get a piece of the big time if you're interested in a secure investment."

"I'm satisfied where I am. If you called because you're worried about the files --"

"That doesn't concern me and I don't want to know how you got them back. I'm more concerned with how our Mr. Xinnis has been playing us for fools.

"I've been in touch with Ms. Durrem at the Detroit Pro-Choice Advocates office regarding the legal aspect of allowing them to endorse the New World Surgical seminar in Kalamazoo. It sounded so good to us here, so timely, that I wasn't really concerned about the lack of information about it. Legally, it works both ways for us -- we can easily shift any liability to the hotel if a problem arises. The kind of security program presented to Dr. Hao by Linx Security seemed perfect for our needs. But then my secretary noticed something interesting.

"She's had the name of Maxwell Xinnis written in big red letters by her phone for several weeks now -- just in case he shows up. You wouldn't know it to look at her, but she's as accurate with her little Beretta as I am with an interrogatory. She's also good at other things you wouldn't expect."

Throckmorton sat in the black leather chair and tossed the slip of paper across the desk to Tophet.

"After trying to get hold of Sam and Lewis Linx, she noticed something interesting about these names she had been staring at for so long. They appear to be a rough sort of anagram for Maxwell Xinnis."

Throckmorton smiled at Tophet's surprised expression as he read Engel's scribbles that unscrambled the names. Tophet nearly spilled his coffee in his lap.

"Yes. It's an impossible coincidence," continued Throckmorton. "I didn't tell the detectives when they called. Now that we know who he is, we can stop him." He pushed a button on his speed-dialer. "Let's see what Ms. Durrem has to say."

When Durrem answered the phone, Throckmorton pushed the speaker phone button.

"Ms. Durrem, I have my colleague, Mr. Tophet, here with me, and we'd like to ask you a few questions. Can either of the doctors join us?"

"Good afternoon, Sir, and Mr. Tophet. Just a moment and I'll ring them." There was a brief pause in which Throckmorton went to the bar, dropped ice into a glass, and poured a bizarre mix of diluted liquid chlorophyll and vodka.

"Dr. Hao will be here in a moment," she said. "How can I help you?"

"We're trying to get to the bottom of a puzzle," said Throckmorton. "Would you mind describing Mr. Linx to us?"

"I happen to remember Mr. Linx well. He was over six feet tall. Short, dark hair. I believe he had blue eyes. He wore all black clothes and looked muscular. He had an arrogant approach for a salesman, and there was something about him that wasn't kosher. I felt it intuitively."

"Can you be more specific, Ms. Durrem?"

"I'm afraid not. Most salesmen seem full of themselves, and full of bull, but wasn't like that at all. But he was throwing in some hyperbole somewhere. I can only say I didn't feel comfortable with him. It could be because he isn't aligned philosophically with us. He's only in it for the profit motive."
Throckmorton looked across the table at Tophet and smiled at her statement. How anyone could think this was a question of battling political philosophies rather than a method to accumulate wealth was beyond him. He always found it amusing that so many fools were willing to lobby to keep his clients busy, and his investments growing.

"Does that sound like the man to you, Mr. Tophet?"

Tophet was doubtful. He leaned forward as he addressed the woman. "Ms. Durrem, did you say over six feet?"

"Yes, and about two-hundred and fifty pounds and muscular -- like an ox."

Tophet shook his head and Throckmorton decided to change the subject. "Is either Dr. Hao or Muer there yet?"

"Yes, this is Hao," came the answer. "Dr. Muer is playing golf today."

"Dr. Hao, I suggest we do everything we can to abandon this seminar. We need to withdraw from our endorsement without suggesting we suspect any conspiracy. Can you call your clients and suggest they cancel their arrangements because of technical problems? Don't tell them anything else -- we don't want to lose face."

"That'll be a big job."

"Nevertheless, have her start with our best doctors and work her way down the list, contacting only our clients. I don't want you to get her any help. Nobody else needs to know of this."

"Contact only our clients?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"May I ask what you suspect?"

"No, you may not, nor may you breathe a word of this conversation or any conjecture whatsoever to anyone else. I'll be in touch to check your progress."

Throckmorton disconnected the line. "I put him through college."

"Xinnis must have someone else working with him," said Tophet. "Her description doesn't match the man I took the files from."

"It doesn't matter. We know where to find him."

"Why didn't you want her to contact all the, uh, doctors. Everyone she doesn't contact might be killed at the Omni."
"Compassion? From you?"

"Not compassion. But don't we need them?"

"Not all of them. It was John D. Rockefeller who said `competition is a sin,' Pedro. With this panic Xinnis has caused, profits from our clinic trade have gone down by a third. It would be preferable if my clients didn't have to compete for fewer patients.

"We can survive this thing, and even make it work to our advantage -- if we don't panic. We'll continue to raise our prices on our inventory of byproducts now that there has been a slowdown at the clinics. As long as the inventory holds out, our profits here will remain steady. But we can't depend on the police to solve our problems. They can't escort the ladies inside if the building has been burnt to the ground!"

"So you didn't want her to call everyone so you could make a few bucks back from Xinnis' plan?" Tophet snorted a vile laugh at this cleverness. "He's working for you now!"

Throckmorton seemed pleased that Tophet appreciated the scheme. "There's always money to be made during a panic, Pedro. It's almost funny that Xinnis doesn't seem to realize that after he kills the doctors at the Omni, we can expect to see public opinion sway in our direction. That should keep Durrem and the liberal activists happy for quite a while. They can use a few more martyrs. Who knows what concessions they may be able to squeeze out of their sympathetic representatives in congress as a result of it? And the timing is perfect politically because of the hatred generated by their `Violent-Prone Clones,' as the papers call them. Have you read about them?"

Tophet looked bored as he nodded his head.

"The media used the label and the anti-abortionists have picked up on it. They've made Xinnis some anomalous hero to their cause, and are emulating his every move. Little kids are throwing rocks through clinic windows and spray painting `VPC' -- among other things -- on the buildings."

"That isn't why you called me here, is it Charlie?"

"No. No, it's not."

Throckmorton made another trip to the bar and poured another drink. "I have a lot invested here, just like you, and I'm not going to let go of this operation without a fight. I want you to eliminate Xinnis at the Omni. After he completes his plan we can't afford to have him running around making life difficult for us. We're being threatened by the insurance companies with policy cancellations. And I don't want him martyred in prison like that woman in Florida a few years back. I want him dead."

"Are you sure the price isn't, uh, more than you want to pay?"

"What do you mean? It's your foul-up! And it's your future as well as ours. You take care of this problem, and let's go back to making money."

"You shouldn't have bragged about all the money you're making. I want forty thousand, or forget it."

"What?! Didn't I just offer to let you in on the big time?"

"The big time means a big target."

"You've still got to eliminate him yourself, or you're finished. Why should this office pay you anything?"

"Because if you refuse I'm leaving tomorrow for good. Lewisburg is too hot for me now. The weather should be easier to take in Atlanta. Now stop stalling. You knew this was going to cost you."

Throckmorton could see from his unflinching eyes that his vicious nature had matured. He was not going to be able to snow him, and Tophet was the only person he could trust to be discreet and effective. Without him, Throckmorton would be packing his bags as well, and Tophet knew it.

"A ten percent share of all the business we do through this office. It's yours for the asking."

Tophet shook his head. "I prefer independence."

Throckmorton nodded, seeing now that it was just as well they only see each other once every six years.

"I'll have the funds transferred to your account before the day's out. Twenty thousand now, twenty after it's complete."

"Agreed."



Thursday, July 29th

Miss Penny pulled into the clinic driveway as usual. She was dedicated enough to be several minutes early, this being the best paying job she ever had. She knew the job came with an element of risk, and she was alert to the special security problems of the day, though Nashville had yet to see any of the violence that had swept through the nation recently. She and the other staff members had postulated the reason: beer and country music -- a lobotomizing combination that kept them safe.

Her heightened awareness clicked when she saw the van parked in the doctor's space in the corner of the rear lot. Even if the doctor had driven a different vehicle this morning, he would never beat her to the office.

Climbing out of the Mazda sedan with her fist clutching her small can of MACE under her purse, she glanced quickly at the van and make a mental note of the license plate number. Tennessee plate. Maybe a rental.

Miss Penny moved quickly across the lot and to the rear door of the two story brownstone that had been converted for their offices. The video camera mounted under a second floor awning gave her a sense of security. With the four cameras, they could see every inch of the surrounding grounds, and she only had to rewind the recording tape to study the evening's activities.

She relaxed when she found the door unlocked -- no one but she and the doctors had a key to this door. Removing her jacket, she grabbed a lab coat off the hook and replaced it with her own. She had been the only receptionist at the clinic for five years, and, though not actually a nurse, found that she was treated with the same respect by the clientele when wearing the coat. The doctors liked it that way.

The familiar sterile smell met her as she entered the back room, but there was something else. Her split-screen security monitor was blank. Then she felt the presence behind her.

Spinning around, her breath was taken away entirely by the sight of a large policeman leaning against the door, closing it with his weight. She failed to prevent dropping the MACE and her purse, but at the sound of it hitting the floor she remembered the three things she had to do; scream, run, and fight. She knew he was no policeman when he spoke.

"Relax, and you won't be harmed."

Her mouth had just opened to scream when the huge hands clamped themselves around her head. She fought in desperation for several seconds as she felt herself being lifted from the floor before losing consciousness.

There was a darkness she swam in for a time. It was a pit without air, full of pain and suffocation. She may have been there forever had the sharp stings on her face not brought her out of it. Her gasping came in waves before she heard his voice.

"Would you like to die now, or will you cooperate?"

She struggled to understand. The sound of his voice frightened her more than anything she had experienced. It seemed emotionless, almost hoping she would decline. His features were cold, as if harboring a hatred towards her.

"What do you want?" Her voice surprised her by maintaining a defiant edge. The hand flexed around her throat.

"Disarm the rest of the security system. Answer the phone as if nothing is different. That's all."

"Why? So you can kill everyone?"

"No. Just one."

xxxxxx

When Doctor Cleaver finally arrived at the clinic it was nearly ten o'clock. He walked through the door without noticing Olshane standing in the shadows of an adjoining office.

"Penny, can't we keep the patients from parking in my spot? I almost ran into that van!"

The lack of an answer to his question caused him to step into her cubicle. He was reaching to pinch her on the leg and make a joke about waking up when he saw the tape securing her to the chair. Penny strained her neck to see him and Doctor Cleaver recoiled at the sight of her mouth covered with the same silver duct tape. Before he had fully turned, Olshane dropped the butt of the Colt hard against the side of his head and he collapsed without a sound, the shock still frozen on his face.

Olshane returned to the office he had been standing in and retrieved the remaining staff, the two nurses and Doctor Crites, from a locked closet. He herded them into the hall where he had struck Cleaver and ordered them to carry him to the operating table.

Olshane pushed the chair through the hallway in which Miss Penny was strapped. The group kept glancing over their shoulders as they stumbled along the hall ahead of them. The sight of Olshane's gun kept the group quiet.

The three had a difficult time lifting the two-hundred pound man onto the table, but it was accomplished and Olshane motioned them against the wall while he taped Cleaver face-down to the table. Confident that he would be unable to move if he awoke, Olshane backed himself against the wall furthest from them and explained.

"These are the facts. Doctor Edward Cleaver is guilty of numerous murders that I am here to avenge. His execution will be performed by those he has trained to kill, and with the technique he perfected on tens of thousands of the unborn."

Nurse Brawn fainted at the sound of the words. Both Penny and Nurse Shrike began crying in fear.

"You can't be serious. We won't do it!"

"Please Doctor, don't pretend to have moral convictions. How many of these procedures have you assisted? How many babies have you seen on the brink of life, their bodies fully delivered, when the good doctor pushed the scissor point into the base of the baby's skull and inserted the tip of the suction device to evacuate the brains? How many times have you done it yourself?!"

"You're mad! We can't do that to Cleaver!"

Olshane considered this and lifted the Colt. "You do have a choice."

Crites shook his head in disbelief. "I don't believe you'll kill us."

Olshane let the subsonic bullet fly from the silenced weapon, ripping flesh from the right side of Crites' cheek. Only Penny screamed, the sound muffled by the tape.

Olshane pulled the tape away from Miss Penny and ordered her to revive Brawn. As she came to consciousness, Olshane flipped the switch on the suction device. The quiet chugging sound vibrated through the room.

Doctor Crites was gritting his teeth as the blood ran down his arm. Nurse Shrike stared into Olshane's eyes as she stepped slowly to the table. Her hand was trembling as she picked up the Metzenbaum scissors on the tray. Her eyes were glazed over.

"Doctor?" she asked.

Moments later they were huddled around Cleaver, telling themselves it would be over in a minute, and that it was not them, but the intruder, who was responsible. Crites administered the gas as they forced away the thoughts that told them otherwise. The bottom line was that Cleaver was just one more victim of this mass hysteria, and they were not willing to risk their lives to save his. No one's life was worth sacrificing the quality or quantity of their own. It was survival of the fittest, the theory of evolution made flesh that enabled them to become gods five days a week.

"Are you ready?" asked Shrike.

Miss Penny saw her lay the sterile scissors in Crites' hand, and she wondered, why?

Why did the scissors need to be sterilized?



Friday, July 30th

"Close the door, Zero."

Captain Miller was sorting papers into piles as Zerotti came into his office. He looked up from his work, smacking the papers on his overloaded desk with both hands.
"So, anything new on the O'Shanessey gang?"

Zerotti sat down with his coffee and the file folder Miller had asked him to bring. "Yeah, I think so. I've been following the reports that Juluisberg has been faxing me about this circle he's making through the Midwest. It started July fourth, as you know, in Denver. After the assaults in Des Moines and Kansas City, they had an ambush ready in St. Louis -- but he backtracked to Springfield and destroyed a manufacturer of abortion equipment; the suction devices, actually. Then he went on to Memphis and took out a clinic directly across the street from the federal building there."

Miller nodded; the irony flashing a smile to his weathered face.

"The feds studied his psychological profile and set up another ambush in Evansville and Louisville, but he hit St. Louis next. That's where we are now. But I think I see a pattern that will bring him back to us."

"Explain."

"He must have access to scanners that cover the frequencies the feds are using -- who knows what kind of equipment he took with him when he left the Navy. That's probably why he backtracked. I think he's waiting to hit Evansville or Indianapolis next, and I expect him to make his way back to Chicago by the middle of August." Zerotti handed Miller the crumpled Omni seminar flyer.

"You think he'll try to cause trouble there?"

"I expect so. This was found among the personal effects of Jann DeRace."

"What makes you think O'Shanessey knows anything about it?"

"Nothing, except that he's made half the circle. He has time to make a few more hits. Then this seminar."

"Have you told Juluisberg about this theory?"

"Not yet."

"Well don't bother. Your man hit Nashville last night. He made the staff perform a D and X on the same doctor that invented the procedure."

"Sounds messy."

"The feds are moving everything south. They expect him to visit some of his former stomping grounds in Alabama before next week. We've been asked to drop the investigation and let them carry the ball from here."

Zerotti nodded, trying to think of an argument. "But Xinnis is still on the loose. Are we closing the file on Kadill?"

"It's all federal now. Nobody knows where Xinnis is, so they assume he's still with O'Shanessey. It's out of our jurisdiction unless you happen to catch him eating lunch at Nino's. We'll let the feds chase them -- they have the budget for it."

"Right. Only they would spend half a million dollars on an operation like this -- chasing two men a thousand miles."

"So, if that's all, Zero, we'll concentrate on something else now. Maybe we can catch up on last month's backlog. Drop off the files sometime today."

"Just one more thing, Captain. I'd like to be there at this seminar. Off duty if necessary."

"You feel that strongly about it?"

"All roads are leading in the same direction. I'd hate to have been right about it."

"I'll notify the Kalamazoo district and have them put a few men on detail."

"If it's all the same, I'd like to be there as an advisor with just a few of their men undercover. We could possibly trap them rather than scare them away."

"Out of our jurisdiction," said Miller, looking at the seminar flyer. "But I'll make a call."

"Thank you." Zerotti knew when to leave.

"You might as well see this," said Miller, handing him the pages detailing the Nashville assault. The third page included a coroner's picture of Doctor Cleaver, his brain now in a less organized and somewhat liquified state in the suction containment vessel.

"By the way, did you see the latest in teenage fashion?" asked Miller. "I saw it on the news this morning. They're wearing shirts with photographs of aborted babies printed on them. The shirt manufacturers say it'll be the biggest mass political statement made since the liberated Barbie doll scandal, and it's all because of what started here in Lewisburg. I wonder what Xinnis would say to that?"

"From the profile, I'd say he'd probably attach some spiritual significance to it."



Wednesday, August 2nd

The phone was ringing as Blaine entered her apartment. She grabbed it and recognized Max's voice at once. His lack of a greeting did not surprise her.
"Can you go out the back door without the cops out front seeing you? I'll meet you in the alley in two minutes."

She hesitated. It was the same alley in which Laurent had chased the fat man. Zerotti had tried to warn her.

"Did you hear what happened, Max? I mean about the fat man who tried to kill me?"

"No, but you can tell me later."

"The detective thought you had sent him. He thought it was you and the fat man that killed that abortion doctor."

"Is that what you think?"

"No -- I don't think you'd have anything to do with him. I told the detective you wouldn't hurt me, despite what you said the night Janet died."

"I can't remember what I said, but I need you, Blaine. If you were ever a friend to Janet and me, I'm asking you to be one now."

She hung up the phone and went to the window. There had been a car parked on the corner every night since the incident, and tonight was no exception. She could see the men eating their sandwiches and pouring coffee, and diligently staring at her windows. They were there to protect her, they said -- but what they really wanted was Xinnis. She looked in the mirror and picked up her sweater before going out the back door.

Max had pulled the car beside the chain link fence that bordered the backyard. Blaine had to go into the attached garage and out the alleyway door to avoid being seen by the police. She jumped into the old T-Bird he was driving and threw him her famous quizzical smile.

"Thank you, Blaine."

"Sure Max."

Max put the transmission into reverse and drove backwards until reaching the next street. It was not until she looked behind her that she noticed the child in the rear car seat. She reached back and took the baby's hand, and a question filled her.

He turned the car east and drove to the high school several blocks distant, parking in the shadow of the bleachers. The varsity football team scrimmaged as a few onlookers in the stands cheered or took notes. No one noticed them.

"You haven't added kidnapping to you repertoire, have you?"

"Her name is Hillary. I thought you'd appreciate that."
"She's beautiful, Max, but so tiny! Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"Let's go for a walk."

Blaine could see he was troubled. They strolled casually along the perimeter of the field, Max holding the baby close to him. He detailed everything that had happened while occasionally sweeping the horizon looking for trouble. He left out only their plans for the Omni, and the names of Easton and Olshane.

Blaine was not so distracted by the intensity of his story not to notice that he never allowed his eyes to linger on her for more than a moment. He seemed deliberately trying to avoid looking at her. She almost said something about it, but forgot when he began explaining how the three of them had saved Hillary, and how his friend had burnt those clinics in Detroit. Explaining the details of Lena's death was not easy for Max. Blaine had escaped Lena's fate.

Hearing the sad memories, Blaine relived the emptiness and fear she had experienced at Janet's funeral. She had been melancholy ever since. She remembered the eulogy that Pastor Reynolds gave, and the powerful, tearful plea he had made in favor of nonviolent protest. Lena's death had changed Reynolds. He seemed weaker. Tired.

She had to stop walking for a moment and rest against a tree. She knew now that her intuition had been correct. How could she feel anything but compassion for him? Max stood there holding the child, looking completely out of place -- like a cowboy with a rag doll. It occurred to her why he had called.

"You want me to baby-sit? Is that why you're here?"

"No, Blaine. I want you to be her mother. I want you to raise her like your own."

A hundred arguments flashed in her mind at once. She knew she would refuse if he declared to have some claim on her life because of her part in the tragedy. But Max answered the dumbfounded look on her face by sliding the child from his arms to hers.

She looked into the child's eyes and Hillary smiled at her, clutching the air until she latched onto the fabric of Blaine's thin blue sweater. Suddenly, she forgot what to say.

"I want you to do it because you want to," said Max. "Not because you think you owe me something."

Blaine stared into the child's eyes and saw redemption from the self-doubt and accusation she had suffered. She heard the stress and passion in Max's plea and heard a voice inside her beg for the child.

"I could be the child's mother, Max, but I may never be what you expect."

"You're going to be great."
They walked and Max told her what his plans had been for the child; about how one day she will join the voices of the nearly aborted and demand retroactive recognition as a human -- for herself and her millions of brothers and sisters. She would expose this cruelest prejudice -- this vile, selfish insanity.

By the time they returned to the car, Max felt confident he had explained everything she needed to know. He even felt he may have effected some change in her philosophy. Or had Janet done that posthumously? There was no doubt in his mind that she had changed.

Opening his trunk, he removed a collapsible stroller and unfolded it, showing her where the lever locked it open. He lifted a heavy diaper bag and set it in the carrier under the stroller. He gently moved the child from Blaine's arms and into the seat, but she held tight to Blaine's short hair. It was clear that Hillary liked her.

"You'll find some cash and a small fortune in gold sovereigns in that bag. The cash is for expenses, and should last quite a while. The gold is Hillary's inheritance. It's to be used for her college education. I'm trusting you not to send her to Radcliff, if you know what I mean."

She could only imagine where it came from.

"Max, is it really worth dying for, or going to prison for the rest of your life to stop a few clinics? The million and a half will be killed anyway. Couldn't we work together on something nonviolent?"

"The violence wasn't started by me, Blaine. I'm only doing what I can to end it."

"But what about mercy?"

"Mercy comes after repentance, Blaine, not before. First there is justice."

"But you didn't hear what Pastor Reynolds said at the funeral. Oh, I wish you had heard it, Max! The Pastor closed the doors to outsiders -- no media, only the church. He apologized for sanctioning the murders of the abortionists. He said even though it was justified, there were better strategies to close the doors to the clinics."

Max listened while searching the field for trouble. He had only planned on being here a half hour. Could they know she was gone? Could they have retrieved the phone conversation already?

"Max, you're not listening! Pastor Reynolds spent an hour explaining another way to end it! He said despite all the leftist influence, the clinics operate for profit. If we can keep them from making a profit, they'll shut themselves down."

"That's what we're doing. They can't make a profit if the building is burnt out, or the abortionists don't show up for work because they're either dead or afraid of becoming dead."

"Will you listen? He told us about his earlier experiences at the Sanger Clinic, and how he made it real difficult for them whenever he had the chance. He'd walk by in the middle of the night, snip their phone lines and they'd be out of business until the repair crew arrived. In the dead of winter, when the temperature really dropped, he'd shut their gas valve off and break a few windows. The next day they'd come in and all their water lines would be frozen solid, the toilet tank broken and their basement flooded."

"Blaine, what you're talking about is the same thing the serious anti-abortionists have been doing all along. It just isn't working."

"Wait. Imagine you're a doctor at one of these clinics."

"They're abortionists, Blaine. Doctors take the Hippocratic oath to defend life. Abortionists break that oath."

"Okay, okay. Imagine that every time the abortionist arrives at the clinic there's a window broken, or the pipes are frozen, or the basement's flooded, or red paint's splashed on the outside walls, or there's a bullet hole in the front door, or superglue in the locks. How much of this is the guy going to take until he figures he can make better money with another specialty? If it's just economics that motivate him --"

"Yeah, I understand," said Max. "But you're talking science-fiction. Do you know how many abortionists there are?"

"Well it doesn't matter," she said. "The point is, we start a network of civil disobedience that makes it economically difficult, if not impossible, for the clinics to make a profit."

"A network?"

"The pastor suggested we band together in small groups of no more than four -- to prevent infiltration. Then we recruit. We could even have our own underground newspaper, just like the Lewisburg Free Press used to be. We'd print it ourselves and scatter them all over town. We could publish pictures of everyone who goes into the clinics. We could print license numbers of the cars and phone numbers of the workers."

She was staring into his eyes, trying to discern his reaction. He seemed distracted and restless, perhaps even bored.

"I don't have the patience for that kind of attack," he said. "Reynolds once told me that we all fight on our own levels. I know what I'm doing works, but this idea of Reynolds' seems unrealistic to me. When these criminals are threatened, they know how to respond! If you pull a gun on them you'd better be prepared to use it or they'll blow you away while you're trying to make up your mind. It's precisely because their world is economically based that they'll think nothing of hiring a security team to eliminate a temporary problem like a few unarmed vandals. It's just another necessary expense they chalk up to the cost of doing business, and eventually it'll all be charged back to their customers.
"And even if we were able to make some progress, and clinics did begin to close their doors; how long would it be before some clever entrepreneur builds a better mousetrap? How long before the government took over?"

"What if, Max? Couldn't we build a better one right back? Couldn't we try?"

Max took her hand. He had never thought they could have a conversation such as this. He had been carefully guarding his emotions, but heard himself say it.

"We? Together?"

"It's worth a try, isn't it?"

Max took a hard look at her now. Was this what he wanted?

"I've been doing some serious thinking, Max." She pulled herself close to him as she had done last spring, her eyes staring deeply into his, filling with tears. "It was me that killed Janet. You were right. I convinced her it was the right thing to do. I lied to her, Max. I'm so sorry."

She refused to begin sobbing, biting her lip and flexing her jaw as she continued to look into his eyes. The tears were flooding down the sides of her cheeks.

Max put his hands to her face and wiped the salt water away. What was it about her that made him want to embrace her?

"Blaine, it's over. I've thought about it a lot, too. I keep asking myself why she liked you so much -- I didn't know for a long time. Now I do."

"We can do it, Max. Together."

"I've got something to finish. If I can come back, I will."

"You make it sound like you won't."

"It's not my decision either way, and I probably shouldn't say this, but if it works out, we'll raise the baby together."

He heard her draw in a quick breath as she bit her lip. His words amounted to a proposal. He adjusted the strap on the carrier and kissed them both on the forehead.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I'll never see you again. Why can't we go with you?"

"Did you love Janet?"

"Yes, Max, I did."

"Did you know her well enough to predict what she would have done just now? Janet would have just gotten into the car. She wouldn't have asked -- she knew me better than that. That's why I got to know Lena so well, I guess. She was the same way."

"You're saying `no' because I wouldn't just get in? Because I'm not them?"

"No, because you've asked me to decide for you, instead of making the decision yourself. Somehow you know where I'm going is too dangerous for you and Hillary. Maybe our time will come, Blaine. If not, God never meant it to be. I hope you believe that."

Max got behind the wheel of the T-Bird and fired the engine. He looked at Blaine to say good-bye. She looked confused.

"Let's pray for each other," he said.

She nodded, and Max drove away -- quickly disappearing into the rush hour traffic.

Blaine sat on the grass beside the baby bound in her cotton blankets and watched the scrimmages. She remembered the night she had accused Max for what happened to Janet, and him accusing her. It was the story she had heard of Adam and Eve. Now they would blame the snake before being expelled from the Garden.

Laughter rose from the small group of spectators, and she went further back -- remembering those days as a student, and the innocent times, both carefree and careless. She could not prevent the flood of regret she felt for all the days she had wasted since.





Wednesday, August 18th


Tophet guided the car smoothly through the faster lanes of the four-lane freeway. Kalamazoo was still several hours away. It was inevitable that he would be thinking about plane crashes as he watched the white jet trail spread in the clouds above him. Why he should be afraid of being crushed in the steel coffin of a plane rather than a car was not logical. He shook his head at the realization of the time that he was wasting.

When the cellular phone rang, Tophet expected it to be Throckmorton again, checking on him.

"You're on your way to hell, Tophet."

"Who is this?"

"You met me two months ago, remember? When you killed the girl?"

"Xinnis!" he said, a malevolent smile filling his face. "Are you calling to thank me for sparing your life?"

"I'm calling you to tell you today was Lena's birthday. She would have been twenty-nine. But I'm giving her gift to you."

Tophet laughed. "You can't touch me!"

"The files were copied, Tophet. Your petty empire of death is coming down. All of it! I'm going to make it happen!"

"You plan to mail them to the police? They're on my side!"

"I made a deal with Kadill that we wouldn't release the files if we were left alone. That was before you murdered Kadill. That was before you killed Lena. You'll be a hunted man tomorrow, Tophet. We'll see how you like it."

"We should meet somewhere and talk this over. Where are you calling from?" Tophet's voice betrayed his apprehension.

"I decided to leave your gift in Chicago. Come pick it up if you like. It's in the old Metro building. Thirteenth floor."

Max slammed the handset onto the pay phone and walked across the lobby and out to the parking lot of the Metro Building.

His visit had been brief.




Part Three: The Choice

Man's "progress" is but a gradual discovery
that his questions have no meaning.
- Saint-Exupery

Saturday, August 28th

Detective Zerotti had borrowed three men in plain clothes from the Kalamazoo department to walk the halls of the Omni looking for Xinnis and O'Shanessey, just in hope that his hunch was correct. He had spent the first hour searching the conference room for explosive devices, and now sat in his car watching the main entrance. Well-dressed travelers were coming and going, getting caught in the fresh, brisk evening wind, but he had not seen Xinnis or O'Shanessey among them. He was beginning to think he had been mistaken. Perhaps the death of Miss DeRace had altered this plan.

Zerotti remembered his wife's request to take Xinnis alive, and how she had become resolute in her assumption that he would be bringing in a live prisoner. He tried to avoid the conversations, but she always got what she wanted. He had even attended Mass with her these last two Sundays, hoping to appease her. He loved her determination, but hated the idea of hurting her -- especially since he had encouraged her to get involved with the church activities.

He flipped through the report on the Metro Building assault, rereading Juliusberg's conclusions:

Throckmorton dead, shot with 9mm, either a Browning or Israeli imitation. Files ransacked -- some missing. Resembles execution rather than robbery. File on person of victim implicate Pedro Tophet, a partner in the Sanger Woman's Clinic, and a business associate of Throckmorton (file attached). Fingerprints inconclusive.

Throckmorton was legal consultant for 15 clinics in Ohio, Michigan, and Indiana, and was retained by Sanger Woman's Health Clinic in Lewisburg, site of origin [file 137].

Juluisberg had not discovered that Throckmorton had spoken on the phone with Zerotti just days before being murdered. Throckmorton had agreed with him about beefing up security now that the seminar flyer had been found with DeRace's effects. But Zerotti decided to keep the feds at arm's length. If Xinnis maintained his established method of operation that indicated he would have no more than two conspirators, Zerotti and his men could manage the situation. Or, as he had explained to Miller, "We don't need an army of over-armed jarheads mucking up the water."

Zerotti had identified the pattern in the circle of violence through the Midwest that would lead him here, but after failing to attack the clinics in Evansville, Terre Haute, or Indianapolis, Zerotti had assumed the feds to be correct about the trail leading south. He knew he had been right when they hit Throckmorton.

Zerotti felt no remorse about missing the guess, and failing to warn the Chicago police department. Throckmorton had inherited that which he dealt in -- just as everyone does.

xxxxxx

Looking from his dark room on the second floor of the Omni, Tophet recognized the characteristics of the unmarked police car, and wondered how difficult it was going to be to fulfill his contract with Throckmorton. Even from the grave, the contract remained binding, though the methods Tophet could employ were now entirely flexible.

Tophet had not expected Xinnis to kill Throckmorton. Tophet's calls to Throckmorton's office went unanswered, and when he heard the radio news report of his death, Tophet was shocked that they could have gotten to him.

Without someone to sign the check for the balance of Tophet's fee, there was no reason to risk his life for the Xinnis hit. He had been packing his bags to leave the country when the call came in from Engels.

She was strictly businesslike in her manner, immediately stating her reasons for calling. The first was to assure Tophet that the balance of his fee would be waiting for him when he completed the job. The second was to promise him that a contract would be on his head if he tried to cross Charles Throckmorton on their deal.

Thinking that the target may be too hot, Tophet offered to return the money. Engels was not interested. "Kill him, Mr. Tophet. Or we'll kill you." It had been thirty years since anyone dared to say such a thing to him. The last man who tried also managed to cut him along the side of the head in the brief knife fight that followed. Tophet had dragged the man half a mile to Parker's Curve and left him lying unconscious and bleeding on the rails to meet the 5:20 to Albuquerque.

Yet, Engels was correct. He had accepted the money and he must complete his end of the transaction. Ultimately, he knew she was taking care of the business she had inherited the only way she knew how. Some agreements could not be annulled.

He had not decided how he would finish them, though images of humiliating them in front of everyone by defiling their bodies with lead flashed in his mind. He nodded cruelly at his reflection in the window. Yes, he could feel the power within him, still.

xxxxxx

The crystal hanging from the ceiling lamps splits the light prismatically along the floor and walls of the banquet room. The red transparence falls along the tables of guests, crowded with casual talk. Max stands in the blue fog of their cigarette smoke and clears his voice. The silence returns. He touches the switch on the wall and the purple light shoots from a lens, creating a hologramic image of an unborn child clenched in a fetal position. The image begins to rotate as Max speaks to the crowd.

The prism light cuts a line along the base of the wall to his right. The yellow stripe of the spectrum glows, and attracts his attention to the pair of disembodied eyes watching him at the door, in the shadows of the hallway. The crowd is looking at him in amazement. The eyes in the doorway are brighter now -- greener. Janet stands behind him in a blue cotton gown, holding the child. Max sees the blood trickling down her legs in long ribbons, the pool at her feet widening.
The green eyes stare at him, and he can no longer remember the words he should be saying, but Janet knows. Max turns to her --


Max had been lying on the bed trying to rest up for the evening, but his dreams would not have it. He called Olshane's room several hours ago. Max gave him his room number, and Olshane concluded the call with an abrupt, "five o'clock," and hung up the phone. He was becoming more and more of an enigma to Max.

Olshane's exploits had been reported constantly by a press that blamed it generally on the Christian zealots. There was even some speculation -- mostly by prosaic historians who spent their lives being interviewed by Ted Koppel about their cyclical theories on ozone depletion and African civil wars -- that the dozen or so daily assaults on abortion clinics nationwide were the result of a planned conspiracy, being operated by the CIA and funded by the "religious right" in America. Numerous theories were offered, but researchers believing these events to be time-selective phenomena that could have been foreseen by studying ancient history received little air time. The angles that received the greatest consideration always ended in Christian bashing. Someone was already writing the book.

Max was strapping on a bullet-resistant vest that Easton had secured for him when Olshane began pounding on the door. Max cautiously snatched his gun from the bed before unlatching the door.

"Did you see the cops here?" Olshane said, as he rushed in, setting a black leather medical bag inside the door.

"No, but I've been expecting them."

"I wasn't expecting you, though. What's with the vest?"

"Even knights wear armor. Just trying to keep from ending up like you."

"I mean this," said Olshane, stroking his chin.

"My beard? Distinguished, isn't it?"

Max finished dressing, observing with interest the unusually sharp appearance of Olshane. He was dressed in a dark gray Armani imitation with subtle pinstripes, a white button-down with a dark red tie. The black wing-tipped Florsheims looked new. Max could not see his weapons under the long, black, cashmere coat, but he knew they were there.

"I'm surprised you're still alive, Olshane. What you've been doing is... well, the D and X in Nashville -- did you really do that?"

"Surprised? It's only been six clinics, four houses, one fetal storage vault, and one dead abortionist in nine weeks. You should have done as well."
"I did get Throckmorton."

"I'll bet it was self-defense."

Max squinted his eyes at him.

"So?"

"Did he know where to find Tophet?"

"Maybe," said Max. "The fool pulled a gun out of his desk and I had to shoot him before I could ask. His files were useless. Everything was on computer disc."

"That's not a problem."

"I took the files, but haven't been able to access them."

"I know a place," said Olshane. "I saw the van parked outside," said Olshane. "My stuff's loaded. We're leaving together."

"Want to drive?" asked Max, digging in his pocket for the keys.

"I've got my spare. First one to the van drives. I have to tell you, Max. Something's wrong down there. Only a dozen abortionists have registered; the PCAC representatives aren't here, and I can't reach anybody in Detroit to find out if they left. The fact that the cops are here as well might mean it's all a trap."

"How many cops?"

"Just a few in plain clothes. They don't look like feds -- more like some monkeys from downtown."

"So, if we go through with this we're dead, then?"

"Max, we have to go through with it. Here's our chance to take out a dozen of them in one shot, maybe more! When will we ever have another chance? I mean, it may not be a hundred, but just do the math! We'll still save thousands of children -- maybe tens of thousands."

"I know, I know. I'm ready." Max went to his briefcase on the bed. He opened it and revealed the West German made submachine gun. Olshane smiled.

"Careful, it's clean." said Max. "It's loaded with fifty rounds of .45 caliber hollow-points. It's custom ammo -- designed not to penetrate walls, just people --"

"I've used them, Sergeant," said Olshane, unimpressed.

"I would have picked one up for you, but I figured you'd come prepared."

Olshane picked up the black grip and threw it open. It contained perhaps ten pounds of handmade C-4. Two firing caps sat on top of the explosive waiting to be pushed into it. Their wires ran to a small plastic box with an on/off switch on the top and a short antenna. The words Radio Shack were printed on the box.

"What are you going to do with that?"

"I was expecting quite a few for dinner. We can still use it if you get shot when you're reloading. We can blow out the entire ballroom with this."

"We won't need it. Besides, a lot of innocent people are in the building and there are only twelve abortionists."

"But you could have rationalized the killing of a few innocents if all one hundred and sixty-nine had shown?"

"I don't know."

"What's that mean -- maybe? So it's just a matter of degree with you, isn't it? What is an acceptable ratio, Max? One innocent for twenty abortionists? One to two?"

"What are you getting so mad about? I just don't like the idea of innocents being killed. I don't see how it can help things."

"It's hypocrisy, Max. Get your philosophy straight! It's like I told you before -- either get committed to the program or back off!"

"I do have it straight. I've never believed that the ends justifies the means, and I never will. We'll do it my way."

"And how many of those abortionists are carrying guns? If we don't live through this, who'll burn the warehouse in Louisville?"

"And I'm telling you we can do it without risking innocent lives. I can't imagine not getting them all with one clip. Just be ready after the dinner address. Stand outside the door and take out anyone I miss."

"Whose operation is this, anyway?"

Max finished the knot in his tie and reached for his jacket.

"If I don't hit them all, you can throw the switch on the explosive. Fair enough?"

"You're giving me permission? I can promise you that the room is vapor if you foul up, Sergeant!"




The twenty or so people in the conference room were dangerously outnumbered by the place settings, but it was too late to make any changes. Max avoided conversation with them, going straight to the head waiter to clarify two things with him. First, that all staff were to leave after serving dessert, and secondly that he expected ten times the service from the staff to make up for those absent if they expect a fifteen percent gratuity on the total.

The girl at the bar overheard him. "Can I pour you something, Sir?" she said, seeming to read his mind.

"I can't. But thanks."

"Some mineral water?"

"Oh, sure. Thanks."

"You're the seminar organizer, aren't you?" she asked.

"One of them."

She nodded. Her peach strapless dress looked as if she had purchased it that afternoon.

Max left the room again and went to the front desk only fifty steps along the hallway. A young lady sat behind the switchboard. There was no manager in sight.

"Tell me," he said, "is the ballroom soundproofed? I might need to make some noise in there later."

"As long as the doors are closed you're okay. We can barely hear the Amway crowd unless the doors are open."

Max thanked her and went to the conference room. The other two female college students Olshane hired from a temporary employment agency sat at the reception table looking gorgeous and professional and bored while checking off names and handing out programs. He talked with them briefly and verified that there were still only twelve registered for dinner.

Inside he could see the three or four small cliques of abortionists talking at the bar. Most of them had their wives or girlfriends with them, making the actual number in the room an even twenty. Max glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. The staff would begin serving dinner soon.

"Mr. Linx?"

Max turned to the voice at his side. It was a stout man in his early forties. Max could see he was a cop, despite his plainclothes. Olshane was nowhere to be seen.

"Yes?"

"I'm Officer Strom. We've been tipped that there might be a troublemaker here tonight. We'd like to mix with your guests if you don't mind, for your own protection."

Max prayed that his meager disguise would hold up under the stress. "May I see your badge, Officer?"

"Of course, excuse me." Strom quickly threw his long coat aside, exposing his service revolver as he dug into his pocket for the badge. He opened the wallet and Max squinted at the printing on the identification card, then nodded.

"Forgive me, but for all I knew, you might have been the troublemaker!" He laughed and the policeman smiled.

"Would you and your troops like to have dinner with us? I'm afraid we've ordered too many."

"That's kind, but --"

"It's okay, really. I hear the prime rib is quite good here."

"Well, I'll check with them. Thank you."

"Oh, there's just one thing," said Max. "Our lecture after dinner, well -- I'm afraid it's private. You understand."

"That's not a problem at all, Sir. We'll just patrol the hallway after dinner."

"How many policemen are here, Officer Strom?"

"Oh, enough to handle the problem. I've got two men cruising the halls, and a Detective Zerotti is watching the door. We'll be okay."

Officer Strom turned away and Max suddenly felt a terrible dryness in his mouth. He knew the name from the Lewisburg papers. Zerotti could only be trouble tonight.

xxxxxx

Max insisted that the girls Olshane hired stay for dinner. He set them at the rear table with the police to keep them distracted while he maintained only the barest of polite conversation with the guests. Max carefully watched Strom and his men eat their meal, expecting Zerotti to enter the door at any minute. He knew the detective, who had been on his trail for months, would see right through his disguise. But he did not show, and he was relieved to see the cops leave before dessert.

After dinner, Strom walked outside to the front entrance to talk with Zerotti. Strom found him pacing the sidewalk.

"You should've had dinner with us, Detective. It was real good steak!"

"It wasn't the dinner, but the company I was avoiding," said Zerotti, walking the narrow sidewalk along the building. "Present company excluded, of course." Zerotti could not imagine trying to enjoy a meal in a dining room full of self-important physicians who rip babies apart for a living. And if Faith ever found out...

"The guys want to know how long you want them to stay. They don't think anything is going to happen here. There aren't even any protesters."

"It's quite all right. Have you checked the adjacent rooms again?"

"Yes, Sir. After dinner we gave it another walk through."

"Well, as long as you leave me one man I suspect we can handle things."

"I'll stay. It's a lot easier than going home to the wife, if you know what I mean."

Zerotti nodded, but he did not know what he meant.

xxxxxx

After an impossibly rich cheesecake in brandy sauce, Max tipped the girls a twenty each and sent them home. In a few minutes, he would deliver the speech, and then the payoff.

Olshane entered the room and sat at the now vacant table where the girls and police had been sitting. He set the satchel under the table at his feet while the bus boy cleared the table. Max hoped Olshane would not be too upset with his altering of the script.

He took the folded sheet from his pocket and looked at the words Lena had carefully penned, and he had scribbled over:

"Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Sam Linx, president of Linx Security. On behalf of myself and Detroit Pro-Choice Advocacy Collective, I wish to welcome you to the first annual New World Surgical Security Seminar!
"We'll be starting in a few minutes. You'll notice we've had a few cancellations tonight because of inclement weather, which means you few folks will be the exclusive repositories of this critical information. Just remember that when the others give you a call and want to know what happened. Tell them to have their credit cards ready.

"This meeting is an excellent example of great things beginning small. Who would have thought that your industry could grow into a multi-billion dollar concern and over one and a half million abortions a year in the United States alone? As the pro-choice philosophy continues to spread, we plan to bring our message to your colleagues, confident that our security expertise will help you through these difficult times -- times we might term `the years of pro-life terrorism.'

If you are here as a guest of one of the doctors, and for personal reasons you no longer believe you should be in this seminar, I would ask that you please leave now, and do not return, but rather enjoy the amusements available in the comforts of the hotel. The following is a private, high-level briefing of a sensitive nature. Only those dedicated to eliminating the violence against the clinics should attend.

Yes. Max was sure that last part was a fair warning, though Olshane would be shaking his head impatiently in the rear. He glanced at his briefcase on the table with the submachine gun packed inside, and wondered for the hundredth time how many bullets he would need.

Max scanned the faces of the twelve abortionists and their nine female guests. There was only one female abortionist among them, and she, too, was accompanied by her girlfriend. If the guests did not leave the room after the warning, they would be guilty by association.

Max saw Olshane, alone at the rear table, with his hands in the bag, probably pushing the blasting caps into the soft, homemade C-4 explosive. He saw him close the bag and push it behind the stainless steel wall where the college girl had poured their drinks.

The metal wall between Max and the explosive, though thin, reduced the possibility of a ricocheting bullet ruining their chance of escape. Olshane felt his pocket for the radio transmitter, and then snugged his gun tightly into its holster. He was ready.

Olshane had planned out the following sixty minutes hundreds of times as he traveled the lone road these last weeks. If he was killed here he would be just another veteran that lost his mind and resorted to violence, guns, and bloodshed -- an unsatisfactory martyr to the cause. The feds wanted his head on a platter, he had been killing abortionists without remorse, and had a list of kills against foreign agents that would identify him in the eyes of the leftist media as a cold-blooded militarist. Even his bulk worked against him. Americans could mourn the death of a child, but the sight of a ex-CIA operative as large as himself tended more to intimidate than raise sympathy.

Max still remained an excellent candidate for martyrdom. The idea of sacrificing Max had crossed Olshane's mind once, but he knew he may have been wishing to eliminate the competition for Lena's attentions, and had discarded the idea for that reason. Now that she was gone, Olshane almost wished it. It was something his Weather Underground contact had once said while he was working as a counter terrorist for the CIA. "Good martyrs aren't born, they're manufactured."

But it would have to be God's doing. Olshane was not going to initiate another political martyrdom -- those days were over. He could not help thinking of the purity he had seen in Lena. She would have been a perfect martyr, had the world known of her death. He wondered if she would approve of the final solution he kept in the bag at his feet.

Olshane felt the impatience of the room now, and looked to signal the start of the program to Max, only to see him leaving the room with a short man in a blue suit.

Olshane sat up straight in his chair in alarm. He walked immediately towards Max's table, and could see from half the length of the room the papers with Lena's script scattered on the floor.

Walking out of the nearest door and into the hallway, he saw the plainclothes cop running in his direction.

"Did you hear that?" asked Strom. "Sounded like a gun down the hallway!"

Olshane did not know what to say. He looked along the unoccupied hallway for Max.

"Is everyone okay?" asked Strom.

"Yeah --"

Strom stepped away quickly, beginning a sprint down the hall while barking into his radio. "This is Strom --"

Olshane hit him a heavy blow to the back of the head with his fist as he collided with him. Quickly getting to his feet, squatting low, he took Strom by the hair and delivered a solid punch to his face. Strom was not fully unconscious, but he was out of the game.

Olshane smashed the radio against the wall and pulled Strom's gun away from his holster.

"I'm sorry to have to do this," said Olshane.

Strom, still cross-eyed from the blow, saw the double image of Olshane's fist rocket toward him an instant before the lights went out.




Only three minutes ago the alligator shoes had walked into the room and already the plan was ruined. Max had looked up into Tophet's sick eyes, luminous with mocking hatred. Tophet had said nothing to him, but only motioned to the door. Max obeyed, knowing God would end Tophet's miserable life tonight.
Olshane could see Tophet exiting the building at the end of the hall and became hypnotized with a deep visceral hunger for Tophet's blood that overcame his senses. His love for Lena came to his memory even purer now -- her beauty transformed into ethereal poetry. He remembered a kiss they had shared a year ago, and for a moment he felt her strength.

Olshane bolted towards him like a wild animal, filling the hallway with his powerful gait. Near the exit he saw Max doubled over in a hallway junction, blood flowing from his left sleeve. Tophet's gun lay on the floor.

"On your feet, soldier!"

Max struggled to shake the webs of pain from his head. He gasped for a breath. He had fought Tophet for the gun, sensing the opportunity as Tophet looked behind him to Olshane. Max had spun and snatched the gun with his right hand, the explosion tearing into his clothing and throwing his balance off enough for him to miss the punch he had directed at Tophet. Seeing he had little hope of wrestling it from Max, Tophet slugged him in his fresh wound and ran for the exit door.

Max was having difficulty, and Olshane lifted him under his right arm and dragged him out the door. The .40 caliber bullet may have been slowed greatly by the Kevlar, but the way Max was fighting for air Olshane assumed he might have a punctured lung. They could see Tophet limping quickly along the sidewalk, heading for the bank of cars parked at the rear of the building. Max pushed him away.

"Kill him, Olshane."

The warrior needed no more encouragement. He could see the window of opportunity evaporating as Tophet's silhouette disappeared in the shadows of the cold green light. Tophet had run half the length of the building and would soon be out of reach.

The van was in sight and Olshane went quickly to it. The spare key was still in the ash tray. The flywheel had not completely engaged when he floored the accelerator.

The sound of the grinding gears as the van tore across the lot toward him made Tophet run all the more frantically, his arms swinging wildly. Without his gun, running was his only defense. The Cadillac was just ahead. He had to make it to the car.

Fifty feet from his target, Olshane swerved the van over the curb of the sidewalk, hitting the building fast and hard at a sharply acute angle. The metal exploded against the brick behind Tophet, throwing Olshane forward and breaking the steering wheel.

The sound pierced Tophet's bones, and he tried to look behind him, but it was too late. The last things Tophet saw as the van pushed him against the wall were the sparks flying around his head as the metal surrounded him, and the wings of the Death Angel embracing him.

The destroying noise came to an abrupt end, and Max went to it. He could hear the excited voices behind him -- they would have to act fast to escape.

Max came to the brick wall, red with blood -- a long smear from where the van had pinned Tophet to where it now rested. The engine fluids poured onto the sidewalk and merged into a crimson blackness at his feet. Max reached Olshane's door and pulled it open.

Olshane was slumped over the steering wheel. A small spiderweb of a crack in the windshield explained the blood that ran onto his face. His breathing was strained, but he was conscious.

"Come on, Olshane. We got to get out of here."

Max put his arm around him and tried to lift his chest from the steering column, but encountered resistance. Olshane screamed through his teeth.

Then Max saw the damage. The broken, twisted steering wheel, smashed under his weight, had impaled him through the collar bone under his left shoulder. The bulge above his shoulder blade was darkening, telling Max it had gone completely through.

"Can't. Can't move," he gasped, trying to relax the pain into submission. "My pocket. The detonator."

Reaching into Olshane's jacket pocket, he withdrew the small black box.

"Open it."

Max lifted the hinged cover and saw the diode glowing red above the toggle switch.

"Throw the switch!"

Max looked at him in disbelief. His mind flashed with images of the smiling girl behind the counter, the children playing in the elevators, the bus boy clearing the tables --

"Do it!" his pained eyes glared at Max with contempt. His breathing had become tortured as he fought for consciousness.

"I'm sorry, Olshane. We don't know if it's clear. Innocent people might die."

"Do the math!" The blood was running off the seat, dripping into the rapidly expanding puddle on the floor of the van.

"I can't. The end doesn't justify the means -- I told you!"

"Why did Lena want you here? To let them go? God even gave you a dream about it --" Olshane sounded as if he wanted to laugh. "Lena would have done it," he said. His eyes closed.
Max shook his head. He could not believe that Lena would side with Olshane. He could hear the curious voices of the crowd coming closer. Turning, he saw two men running toward him. The older man splashed his feet in the bright chemical yellow of the radiator coolant running in the gutter. He struggled to keep up as the younger cautiously paced his steps to keep his gun leveled on Max's chest.

"Freeze where you are, Xinnis!"

Max realized his gun was too far away from his hand. He would never make it. They were upon him now.

"Stop!" said Max, matching the deep authoritarian tone. He held the detonator away from him, his thumb on the switch. "Or the dynamite inside lifts this building off its foundation!"

Zerotti came to a full stop just inches from the patrolman. "Wait, Mr. Xinnis! Innocent lives are at stake here. Put that down and let us call an ambulance for your friend."

"No time to talk! Give me your guns or the place gets lit up!" Max was staring the uniformed cop in the face. His gun was pointed precisely between his eyes. Max knew the game. He knew he had better not blink.

"Give us the transmitter," said the cop, "or I'll disconnect your brain."

"Wait," said Zerotti. He reached into his belt holster and removed his gun, gently laying it on the sidewalk.

"Are you crazy? I'm not giving up my gun to this lunatic!"

"You have to," said Zerotti. "There are hundreds of people in there."

The cop was clearly struggling. Max's poker-face stared deeply into his eyes. "Keep your gun," said Max. "Run for an ambulance -- evacuate the hotel."

The cop looked to Zerotti. "You're responsible."

Zerotti nodded.

Putting the gun in his holster, the cop sprinted back to the hotel entrance.

"You can't get away."

"Shut up and give me your back-up weapon."

Zerotti reached into his rear holster and gently pulled the .380 Walther PPK, handing it to Max with two fingers. "It has sentimental value. I'd appreciate it if you'd drop it where I can find it."
"Promise you'll help Olshane."

"Always making deals, aren't you Mr. Xinnis? Don't worry, we'll take good care of Mr. O'Shanessey."

Max picked up the two weapons, leaving the transmitter on the ground. "I'll leave your guns in the car," he said, jogged painfully towards the spectators stopped along the south fence.

"What car?" yelled Zerotti after him; but then he saw what he meant. Max reached into the nearest car, grabbed a young male driver by the collar and pulled him through the window of his silver Mercedes coupe. The astonished onlookers froze. The stunned driver picked himself up and looked ready to fight until he saw the gun leveled at his chest.

"Run!" Max commanded. The Mercedes owner backed away into the crowd as quickly as he could without taking his eyes from the gun. Moments later Max was gone.

Zerotti shook his head at the bloody mess that Tophet had become. Looking at the damage to the front end of the truck, he was reminded of the shrink-wrapped bullet he had seen mushroomed around pieces of Kadill's brain after the autopsy. Separating Tophet from the metal would be difficult -- not a job for the faint of heart. He remembered an accident back in '62 where they were forced to bury the driver with the car.

Zerotti went to the unconscious driver and felt his pulse. "You look like you're about to reap the whirlwind, O'Shanessey. Hold on, it doesn't have to be over for you."

Olshane slowly opened his eyes and forced a smile at Zerotti. "Go ahead -- throw the switch," he winked. "No one will know."




Wednesday, January 26th


When Max was satisfied that he had mixed enough explosives for one night, he cleaned up and sat by the furnace vent with a cup of Indian tea. His eyes were burning again from the fumes of the nitric acid, and he wanted to sleep.

The snow was turning to ice as it fell, beating against the windows in the shack Easton had found for him on Houghton Lake. Every time the gust hit the house he felt the draft chase the warmth from the room. The water was never hot enough to be comfortable, either, but he felt safe.

The last month had been a hiatus in which his evenings were spent copying Hillary's rescue tape and writing the letters to the abortionists and the media that would accompany them. During the day he would copy the files that documented his case and visit the hardware, grocery, and post office for supplies. When his dreams allowed it, he would sleep.

After the Omni, Max had caused as much trouble in New England as he could manage alone before nearly being stopped outside of Newark, New Jersey. Two police cars were suddenly following him on the turnpike, but before he could adjust his speed, they had him. Seeing an exit ahead, Max passed an eighteen-wheeler in the fast lane, then swerved the car across four lanes, just catching the ramp by inches. Trying to turn around, one of the police cars went over the shoulder of the road, flipping over into the ditch. Before the other could radio for help, Max had evaded them. It was time for a rest.

The sound of the ice hitting the window made him feel the cold all the more. It reminded him of the endless winter days at the orphanage with nothing to do but think. If his parents had left a letter for him, he would have read it every day. It might have made those days less solitary. Hillary would not be so deprived.

Max opened the diary. On its inside cover he had written "Confessions of a Clinic Bomber" and then roughly crossed it out and rewritten "Confessions to Hillary."

His pen was in hand, but he hesitated and slowly flipped the pages, skimming pieces of what he had written in the last few months:


God is constantly testing His children, putting us through His fire to burn out the dross; purifying us or consuming us. My mistake was in fearing the trial rather than welcoming it. Why did I fear it? God only chastens His own.


So far, there have been no serious injuries of fire fighters. They've been wise enough to stand back and let the clinics and houses burn, satisfied to contain the damage. How much longer will God protect them? I pray for them.


Something happened after Janet died that made me look at the world differently than I ever had before. I felt the world falling apart before my eyes, and knew if I didn't do something it would be over forever, and there would only be pain left. I had to do something, anything -- even if it was wrong. I had to try.


They never print my letters in the editorial pages, even though I enclose a videotape of your rescue every time to prove my identity to them. What are they afraid of? Most of the letters I write defend our actions against the opinions of the leftist clergy who always seem to get their voices heard. They are as capable of fulminating true hatred as anyone! Though their words seem to be written with a form of neutrality, it's clear they hate the unborn. Do they hate them because they envy them?

I've had a lot of time to reflect on why things went so badly. If we're going to succeed in these assaults we'll need to become better prepared. We'll need more people willing to put their lives on the line. After the Louisville assault, I'll scout among the pro-life groups for a handful of men and women who have the guts to rush these abortuaries in force. We'll be the first active anti-abortion guerrilla task force. From the perspective of the children we would save, could we be considered anything but anti-terrorists? An anti-terrorist squad to end the terror of their annihilation. I am convinced it could work.


The abortionists are not my enemies -- they are the enemies of my innocent neighbors, the preborn. I will continue to defend these little ones with every breath God allows me.

If I were a child in my crib, or a child in my mother's womb, I would want someone, anyone, to protect me from being mutilated and killed, and it wouldn't matter what methods they used to save me. I would want someone to save me. I wouldn't know about the laws of God or man, I would only want to be saved from that hideous violence. Why should it be that I would have no voice to protect me, simply because I cannot speak? Why wouldn't someone defend me? Wouldn't my cry of pain be enough? And what if my crying isn't heard? Does that make me less than human?


He knew these pages reflected his loneliness. He lacked the impetus to discard those feelings, and wished he could pretend he was anything but desperate. Earlier that evening the fusion of scents from the perfume on Lena's leather jacket had sparked memories he could not escape. Max knew God had taken her from him for the same reason He took Janet. He had not deserved them.

A smile came slowly to him as he remembered Olshane's boldness, and the wringer he had put Max through that first time they met. Then he unconsciously set his jaw and made a fist with his right hand, hating himself for not being able to remember Janet's laugh. Yet, Blaine's voice was clear to him. She had seemed so different when he brought the baby to her.

All these things fueled his desire to speak to Hillary, though only in another time. Max threw the pages aside to the first blank sheet and began:

It is past midnight as I write this -- but I prefer to postpone tomorrow as long as possible. What have I to look forward to but another day of looking over my shoulder? I would not wish this on anyone.

The sweet, toxic smell of kerosene haunts me, and I can't scrub the aluminum powder from under my fingernails. It seems everyone notices it. There is no question that I'm paranoid -- and paranoia itself seems another trait that draws attention.

The new incendiary I've been working on is quite effective, and even continues to burn when sprayed with water. I've been waiting to use it for a while, and finally the Louisville target is ready. The temperature there at night has been averaging ten below zero. The fire fighters can do little but try to contain the blaze when it's so cold; the water freezes before it gets to the fire.

Perhaps I shouldn't be writing about that, but I see you beside me as I work -- as if I have to do this or you'll disappear. I'm trying my best not to disappear myself, but it's becoming more difficult each time. I really needed confederates with me.

I also dream of you helping me someday. Not setting charges, of course, but laying the philosophical foundation for an army of armed Christians who will take back their cities. I pray God will convict you of this destiny.

Last night I dreamt of Lena and Olshane and Janet again. We were all in your backyard, that is, Sasha's backyard -- or how I imagined it to be. We were all sitting around on lawn chairs and waiting for something while Sasha filled our glasses with lemonade.

Then we heard a symphony of children's voices behind us. When we all turned to look, you were there, just as I imagined you in my daydreams -- the embodiment of the virtues of your godparents, Olshane and Lena, as well as those of Blaine and myself. You had Lena's beautiful voice and brave demeanor, Olshane's wisdom and capable bearing, and you had learned to share the love that Blaine will have filled you with over the years. From myself, I knew you inherited the endless questions that demand satisfaction. I could see all this in your eyes.

You stood in the garden, holding hands with a group of children between the plowed rows. More children were coming. Thin, dark snakes slithered away in all directions, as if frightened by the sound -- but it was a beautiful sound! Your voices filled the air with a children's verse that I had heard Lena recite, but can't remember. Your numbers expanded geometrically as more children came, and the children joining you picked up the tune. I can see now that it wasn't only you that we saved, but uncountable others, all of you creating the future generations.

Hillary, regardless of what your life brings, and whether or not I am able to be a father to you, I want you to know that I claim that title. Know that your father loves you. Never believe that I abandoned you like your biological parents. If I'm not there it's because my relationship with you is so deep, and I continue to fight for your future.

I want you to grow up willing to give your life for the things you believe. Our lives are precious because God granted them, but He also granted truth and reason. A world without these things becomes a prison, and the only reasonable thing to do in a prison is to fight for escape, even if it means looking death in the face.

I'm constantly fighting against the side of me that wishes to join you. But how can I quit when there is so much to do? Yet, returning to you and your mother is what I want most.

He read the last paragraph again and considered erasing it. It exposed too much of him. Before he could, his eyes closed and he slept restlessly under the dim light of the lamp -- his spine twisted uncomfortably in the contour of the too-soft chair.



Several hours later the chime of the doorbell broke into his sleep. Max woke suddenly, somewhat alarmed, dropping the book to the floor as he struggled to stand.

He took the Browning from its holster and pulled back the slide slightly to see that it was loaded, but his eyes had difficulty in focusing. He tucked the gun back into place and went to the door.

The old man at the door appeared harmless, stamping his feet and clapping his hands together to stay warm. Max opened the door to him and the biting January freeze pushed into the room as the heat rushed out. With the scarf around his face and the snow blowing between them, the man looked like the landlord. Unable to stand in the deep-freeze of the open doorway, Max waved him inside.

"Come in, come in!" Max insisted.

The older man quickly complied, stepping in and shaking the snow from his coat. Before he had his scarf completely removed, Max recognized him -- his hand going automatically for the Browning.

But it was too late. Max was looking down the barrel of Zerotti's service revolver.

"Good morning, Sergeant Xinnis. May I have your gun, please?"

Max hesitated.

"It's all right, Mr. Xinnis. I'm sure you don't want to start shooting policemen as well as abortionists."

Max handed him the gun, grip first, and raised his open hands to chest level. It was one of Fat Sakiri's tricks. Max had seen Sakiri snatch both gun and knife from an assailant's hand in the blink of an eye. But he was never as fast as Sakiri, and the last time he had tried it, he had caught a slug in his body armor.

"I can't believe your lousy timing. How did you find me?"

"One of the re-mailers you've been using is an FBI front. They intercepted your mailing of the videotapes to the doctors in Mississippi."

"Please don't call them doctors. They're nothing but slaughterhouse butchers." Max rubbed his biceps briskly to warm them. "So you traced me back to this zip code because I was careless enough to send the packages from here. How did you narrow it down to this joint?"

"It was just luck that I saw that souped-up Taurus of yours parked outside. The paint job almost fooled me, but you should've changed the VIN number, as well."

"Yeah, thanks for the tip. Come in, Detective. If we're going to be civilized about this, we might as well get warm and have a cup of tea together. The water's hot -- if it hasn't boiled away, and it can't matter if we leave now or in twenty minutes, can it? Or are your friends impatient?"

"I wouldn't mind a cup of tea."

Zerotti lowered his gun to his side. Max lowered his hands and went through the kitchen and dining area. Zerotti joined him, tucking his gun politely out of sight under his coat.

"You've led me on an interesting trail, Xinnis. It seems anti-climatic now, finding you like this."

Max shrugged. "I don't know what you mean. What did you expect?"

"After seeing the damage you'd done in New England, I expected you to have amassed an army. But you've been hibernating, I see."

"Like most animals that hibernate, I don't actually sleep, I just move a lot slower."

Max carried the pot of hot water and the mugs and spoons and the tin of tea bags to the table under the watchful eyes of his visitor. They sat at the table and Max poured the hot water into the cups. He looked into the clear blue-gray eyes of the older man and smiled. Somehow, Max knew that if harm was to come to him, it would be his own doing.

"Perhaps you could fill in some gaps in my understanding since you're here, Detective. The papers said Reynolds has disappeared. What happened to him?"

"He's moved south -- practically run out of town by the news hounds and video crews. A week after they released the story to the media the church was filled with gawking curiosity seekers. Half of his regular congregation left for the Episcopalian church across the street. When the smoke cleared, the regulars had voted Reynolds out."

"Voted him out? Since when did Reynolds allow democratic rule in that church?"

Zerotti smiled, reaching for the plastic bottle of honey shaped like a cartoon bear -- the only sweetener on the table.

"It's an interesting thing about force," he said. "No matter how humane, or inspiring, or godly a person feels his ideas are, there's always the force to crush those ideas if enough people feel threatened. It's like Reynolds' congregation feeling threatened by the controversy generated by his radical viewpoint."

"Americans used to feel threatened by government force and even aborticide," said Max. "It's amazing what a few generations of television can do to stifle resistance to tyranny and sin."

"Your success at the Omni seemed to galvanize congress. They're allocating National Guard troops to quell future uprisings."

"It was never my intention to blow up the Omni."

"O'Shanessey did claim the credit for that idea. He said you were afraid to hurt innocent people, but he doesn't believe in innocence once a person's born."

"Yes. That was where we parted company."

"What about the children of your victims? The nurse in Detroit with five bullets in her left a five year-old boy."

Max had read the details of Olshane's assault in the papers. "I know what that child can expect. I've felt his pain," said Max, his jaw tightening. "And then I thought of what I would trade for five years with my own child. I wondered how she -- or anyone committing aborticide -- could spend their days mutilating infants and go home at night and pretend to love one. Olshane explained it to me once, and I believe it now: the sin of the fathers brings a curse that continues through the generations. That child will grow up under that curse, just as all of us do."

Zerotti looked as if he were going to say something, but hesitated, obviously changing his mind.

"So you've traded in your military specialty for a major in philosophy and a minor in arson. Or is it the other way around? How many abortionist's homes have you torched since you started?"

"I should probably take the fifth on that one, Detective."

"We knew it was you, of course -- always using the same chemical igniter."

"I got a good deal on a fifty pound bag of the stuff."

"But you can't believe God is smiling on your efforts when Miss DeRace is dead and O'Shanessey is in prison! You're a loner now."

"Only because the clones were just a flash in the pan. I thought setting an example would be enough, but they needed a leader like Olshane, or a specific target like I had with Kadill. Few of them could do it solely for the sake of the unborn. When the news reports of the rescues and attacks stopped, so did the imitators. Believe me, I haven't got a taste for kerosene, but someone has to do it."
Zerotti sipped the tea. Max scrutinized him closely.

"Or did the attacks stop, really? Tell me, Detective, are the media reports lying about that too?"

"Let's just say you shouldn't believe everything you read, especially when it's a matter of national security. I don't think the president wants the National Guard shooting American citizens if it can be avoided. It looks bad in the public opinion polls. I did hear something that the papers never printed that might interest you."

"Yeah?"

"That nurse, the one who assisted in the hysterotomy at Silvestri's clinic in Chicago. She quit her job and went to work part-time as a consultant at Heart-Line. It's one of those pro-life centers."

"That's good to hear. I'm sick of reading this trash," said Max, pointing to the open newspaper on the table. The headline read: Supreme Court gives abortion clinics weapon against protesters. The sub-heading read: Lawsuits under federal Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations legislation may crush dissent.

"Yes, I've read the news about the RICO act. Do you think it will crush dissent?"

"It will undoubtedly weed out those who aren't serious. But I imagine people like myself feel pushed against the wall. The Freedom of Access to Reproductive Services Act they passed after the Omni Hotel fiasco wasn't enough for them. As a result, society will get the kind of criminal it deserves, just like John Kennedy said. A fascist society creates anti-fascist terrorism. If I fail to sway the hearts of Americans, I'll at least drive the clinic's insurance companies into bankruptcy!"

"How do you know that's not the intended effect? If the bombings continue, the police control increases. Maybe that's what this administration is waiting for -- an excuse to jump feet first into totalitarianism."

"That's where socialism and fascism meet anyway. They're headed there without my help. If anything I do speeds it along, God help us -- but if I'm acting as God's servant why should I worry about it? Children are being saved."

"Just pray that Christ returns before that, Sergeant, or all those children you've saved will be living under the iron boot of oppression. My father told us what it was like to be a patriot nationalist who fought Mussolini's henchmen in the alleys at night with rocks and bottles. In the day he copied resistance literature by hand because they had destroyed the presses. He warned me about impatient anarchists like yourself."

"You sound like Olshane."

"I've spoken with him. He even speaks well of you."

"That surprises me."

"Did you know that he believes himself to be a political prisoner? A jailed martyr? He finds some sort of irony in that, but he won't say why."

"Now why would you take such an interest in Olshane?"

"Oh, it's just routine. Looking for leads. I'm afraid if I visit O'Shanessey in prison one more time I may get converted to Eastern Orthodoxy."

Max smiled and thought how strange this conversation suddenly seemed. Why wasn't he being hauled away? Where were Zerotti's friends? He unconsciously glanced past Zerotti to the counter where Kadill's Ruger lay covered with a hand cloth.

"How is Olshane doing in prison?" Max asked.

"He's busy. He reads a lot -- and teaches a Bible class in the prison. He's as healthy as a man can be in a State-run institution, which isn't saying much. He trades chocolate and cigarettes for apples. He believes it helps compensate for the lack of sunlight. He gets paid less than twenty-five cents an hour for the work he does there, and the state confiscates it as payment toward the millions he's being sued for by the survivors of his victims."

"So he needs more than one life sentence to pay them off."

"Exactly."

"I'm surprised he hasn't walked away."

"Oh, they're aware of his talents, and treat him accordingly, I assure you. I don't think he's got anywhere to go since the federal boys leveled his cabin looking for guns. His girlfriend getting killed didn't help, either."

The tension went out of Max's face and he suddenly looked melancholy. He looked deep into the cup of dark tea in front of him.

"Or was she your girlfriend?"

Max thought about his answer. "She was my friend," he confessed. "And a brave soldier."

"I find it strange that you use that term."

"Why? This is war isn't it?"

"You've made it look like a battlefield, that's for sure."

Max refilled their cups with the hot water.
"How about surrendering peacefully, Mr. Xinnis? I can promise you fair treatment if you do."

"A fair trial as well?"

"That would be out of my hands, I'm afraid."

"Then why should I?" Max unconsciously glanced at the Ruger again.

"You'll become a political prisoner -- a martyr to your cause, if you like. You can write your memoirs while serving your term, and be the toast of the talk-show circuit ten or twenty years from now."

"Thanks, but I'll leave that scenario to Olshane."

"O'Shanessey will be in prison a lot longer than that for placing the explosives at the Omni, and especially that mess in Nashville. He wasn't in on your attack on Throckmorton's office, was he? I saw your letter of confession to the prosecutor's office exonerating him."

"Too bad they buried it at the trial."

"You could have come forward when they pinned it on him."

"I'm sure that's what they wanted -- why else would they have buried the letter? So now, Olshane's serving three consecutive life sentences instead of two."

"But only until you're caught. Is it fair that he rots in jail while you remain free?"

"Free? You mean free to do what I want? If you believe that, you don't understand anything about this. I wouldn't be here alone in this cold shack if I had a choice."

"You do believe crime deserves punishment, don't you? You've punished others on the weight of your own opinions. Don't you believe the State has a right to execute judgment as well?"

"It's true that the State is given authority from God to punish the wicked, but my crimes were against an ungodly State that turned its back on God's law and embraced the evil it was created to restrain. My only sin against God was not wasting Kadill in the first place, like Olshane said. The State may have the force to do with me what they will, as you say, but the way I see it I'm not obliged to surrender to a State that has lost its understanding of biblical justice."

"Now it's you who sounds like Olshane," said Zerotti.

"Olshane should be here with me, and probably would be if I'd gotten the drop on Tophet. He's my inspiration, you might say, despite our disagreements -- despite that I think he went too far. The work I've done is dedicated to him, and the memory of Lena."
Zerotti drank the remaining tea in one gulp. "And your wife?"

"The rescue of the child was a tribute to her. Hillary is the most tangible proof that what we did was legitimate. I wish I could be fortunate enough to rescue a baby like that every time for Janet's sake."

"So you're refusing my offer?"

"We were all dead once, Detective -- just as Olshane says. I never expected to be taken alive, and don't now."

"I believe you, Xinnis."

Max was unaware that his glimpses of the Ruger had been noticed by Zerotti. The detective stood and moved between Max and the Ruger. He removed an envelope from his vest pocket and tapped its edge against the tabletop. "Could you tell me why you called Kadill from the Sanger Clinic. Was it just to gloat?"

"No. I wanted to make sure he got out of those cuffs. I was going to call his secretary to rescue him if he didn't answer. But he did."

"That's funny. I would never have guessed that. You probably read that we matched Pedro Tophet's gun to the murder."

Max nodded.

"Anyway, this note's from Miss Blaine. She asked me to deliver it if I ever caught up with you."

Max took the letter. He recognized her perfume as he broke the seal. There were only two words handwritten on the paper.

"The feds will probably be here looking for you before evening. I can't say I agree with your methods, Xinnis, but I wish you well."

"You're not arresting me, then?"

"No time and no jurisdiction. I've got real criminals to chase back in Lewisburg. My department has their man, and Tophet is pushing up daisies. Except for Throckmorton, the bullets from their guns match the victims. O'Shanessey neither confirms nor denies any part in the incident, and so `case closed.'"

Zerotti set Max's Browning on the table and continued:

"It's really the feds that feel cheated. They'd throw Mrs. Clausen in prison if they thought it would get them anywhere closer to you. The FBI staked out your post office for a couple of weeks, but when they couldn't find you they had to go back to the governor for authorization to do a house-to-house search of the entire zip code area. My Captain caught wind of it and happened to mention it last Friday. It would mean my badge if he knew how I was using this sick leave. I'm an accessory after the fact, you see."

"So why are you here if you have so much to lose?"

Zerotti smiled, knowing how this was going to sound. "Don't get the wrong impression. If you were the cold-blooded vigilante the newspapers make you out to be, or if you'd made a move for that gun you've got hidden in the kitchen, they'd be drawing a chalk outline around you. But I'm letting you off for Faith's sake."

"Faith?"

"My wife. You're a hero to her and that tired pro-life group of hers. She's in complete agreement with your position and she'll make my life miserable if I don't find some way to appease her. She's always trying to get me to those rallies and tote a sign around town when I want to watch the game. I figure letting you off will pay my dues for a long time. I get to share in your victory, so to speak. To Faith, I'll be just another unsung hero of the movement. You look as if you don't believe me."

"Well --"

"You'd have to know my wife to understand. Never underestimate the power of a woman's influence."

Max smiled. "That's always been my undoing."

"You'll be on The Bureau's unposted most-wanted list for a long time, Sergeant. I'm surprised you haven't been killed already with all the Federal Marshalls hiding in the bushes of the abortion clinics these days. You'll live longer if you take Blaine's advice." He tapped on the empty envelope.

"I'd think going back to Lewisburg to get them would be crazy."

"The feds aren't omnipresent yet. Besides, Hillary needs a daddy. You should know that as well as anyone." Max knew it was an inference to his orphaned childhood.

Zerotti went to the door and picked up the scarf and gloves.

"Thank you for the warning, Detective. But what was all that about a deal?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders innocently. "Just thought you might like to come in out of the heat. Some do, you know."

Something occurred to Max as Zerotti turned to leave.
"Wait!"

Max moved quickly into the other room and retrieved the diary from the floor where he had fallen asleep.

"Here's some evidence for your wife. Can you see that it gets to Blaine if anything happens to me?"

He took the diary, and, without making concessions, stuffed it deep into his wide coat pocket.

"I wouldn't wait too long before leaving if I were you. The federal boys will have this neighborhood combed by the end of the day, and they prefer their prisoners cold."

Zerotti turned away and never looked back, but smiled at the sight of Max's silhouette in the trapezoid of light spread on the snow. He had wanted to tell Max the rest of the story, but he had been unable to say the words. It was too strange.

Climbing into the Ford LTD, Zerotti had to push the papers aside that had slid onto his seat from the files he had been reading. He started the car and felt the welcome blast of warm air in his face. A paper in the yellowed file fluttered and again caught his attention. He had dug the file from the depths of the Lewisburg police department archives; a forgotten record of a desperate man who hanged himself in his cell shortly after his arrest almost thirty years ago. Zerotti could smell the age of the paper as he opened the file.

There was no picture of the man, only the faded scrawlings of the few policemen who came in contact with him after he committed his crime. He was a young man of twenty-two, working the small hay and grain store his father owned just outside of town. There had been no previous police record noted.

He read the words for the hundredth time.

"The man surrendered peaceably. Identified as Joey Brackston of East Lewisburg. Suspect claims he killed the doctor in retaliation to the illegal abortion performed on his girlfriend, who he refuses to name."

Brackston claimed he had not meant to kill the woman who had been with the doctor that night, and it was assumed that it was his remorse following the murders that led to the suicide. With the murderer dead, there was no need to investigate, and the case was readily dropped. Even the papers were silent -- it being a time when such scandal was nearly unprintable.

Zerotti pushed the paper into the file and put the machine into gear. The snow seemed inches deeper than when he had arrived, and he knew it would be hours before he would reach his hotel in Grand Rapids.

The thought of God's curse came to him again as he entered the highway south. It was a concept -- a natural law of justice -- that he had always suspected to exist, but never fully grasped before. He wondered if Max knew he was under the curse himself, and that these fateful efforts must be a form of sacrifice to break the chain -- the chain that started with Max's father, Doctor Andrew Xinnis, performing illegal abortions in his quiet downtown office.

The weight of the diary in Zerotti's pocket comforted him. He imagined how Faith's face would light up as she opened it.

xxxxxx

Max had stood at the door watching the detective walk away, barely feeling the icy wind fighting to get past him. His paranoia refused to subside until Zerotti's headlights had disappeared around a distant corner. There were no other cars on the street.

Max knew that Zerotti would have taken him in if he had accepted his deal and surrendered, but let him go because he declined the offer. Why? Had this only been another test of his convictions? Had he finally passed?

It had not taken Max long to evacuate the apartment. He allowed the car engine to warm the interior and defrost the windows while he packed his clothes and scraped the clay-like explosive into airtight plastic containers. Less than an hour later he was cutting a path southward in the driving Michigan snow.

Seeing the Louisville City Limits sign rush by, Max felt the adrenaline move into his bloodstream. If Zerotti was correct, they would have busted down the door in that little apartment by now, but there was little to stop him here. The fetal byproduct warehouse was within his sight to the west, just down the river from the Galt Hotel where he would be staying tonight. From his room he would watch the warehouse burn to the ground.

He would be with Blaine and Hillary soon. He glanced again at the letter laying open on the seat beside him. Come home, it said.

The kamikaze spirit in Max seemed to have left him alone with his feelings for Hillary, and even Blaine. He knew she would get into the car without being asked this time, and that the car would bring them to a quieter place -- into the adventure of being a family.

Max and Blaine would raise the little girl to speak for the unborn, teaching and nurturing her warrior spirit. When Hillary's time comes, her parents will be with her. God willing, love would come to the three of them.

He would pray for it.

Xinnis

The Confessions of a Clinic Bomber

******

By Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit

******

Copyright 1994 by Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit

******

Quote from Felix Holt, by George Eliot.

Quote from The Wisdom of the Sands, by Saint-Exupery.

Quote from The Pro-Counsuls, by Rudyard Kipling.

Lyrics from Take A Chance With Me
by Brian Ferry and Phil Manzanera. Copyright E.G. Music Ltd, 1982

******

Life Enterprises Unlimited
Post Office Box 850307
Mobile, Alabama
36685-0307

This novel provided as a service of:

Life Enterprises Unlimited
A (501-c-3) Christian Pro-life non-profit organization
opposed to willful abortion in all forms for any reason.

Donations used for education leading to the end of murder by abortion.