Hussein closed the door behind him, came limping across the floor towards her, dragging his right foot.

She could still remember him slapping her.

She almost flinched as he approached.

aDonat be afraid,a he whispered, and stopped just a few feet away from her.

She said nothing.

Realized she was cowering, tried to straighten her shoulders, realized this emphasized the thrust of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, hunched over again. Behind the Hussein mask, his eyes were bright and blue. He held the AK-47 in his left hand.

aI wanted to tell you how sorry I am,a he said.

Iall bet, she thought.

aFor hitting you the other night.a aThatas okay,a she said. aForget it.a aNo, really,a he said, and knelt beside her on the floor. aI got a little excited, is all.a Heas sitting too close, she thought. Watch it, Tamar.

aWhat can I do for you? To make you more comfortable,a he said, and put his right hand on her exposed knee.

aNo, donat,a she said, and turned her body away, into the radiator.

aSorr-eee,a he said, and pulled back his hand as if head burned it. aJust trying to be helpful.a How about unlocking this handcuff? she thought.

Only way out of here is to get hold of the gun, she thought.

Any one of the guns.

They all have guns around here.

aMy wrist hurts,a she said.

aAhh,a he said. aWant me to rub it for you?a aBe better if you took off the handcuff,a she said.

aBut I donat have a key,a he said, and put his hand on her knee again.

This time, she did not tell him to stop.

aWhy donat you go get the key?a she asked. aItas very uncomfortable this way.a aAvery has the key,a he said.

Avery, she thought. A name.

He did not seem to realize head slipped.

aGo ask him for it,a she said.

His hand slid onto her thigh.

aNo, donat,a she said. aNot now. Go get the key first. Take off this d.a.m.n handcuff,a she said, and smiled.

aHow does it feel to be dancing in front of people half-naked that way?a he asked. His eyes were shining bright in the holes of the mask. His hand on her thigh was trembling.

aGo get the key,a she said. aIall dance for you.a aI could f.u.c.k you without having to go for the key,a he said. His voice was trembling, too.

aBe better if Iam loose,a she whispered.

aYou promise?a he said, and his hand tightened on her thigh.

aI promise,a she said, and licked her lips.

He rose abruptly. Almost scrambled to his feet.

aIall be right back,a he said, and hurried to the door, the rifle in his left hand.

Donat forget to bring your gun, she thought.

The door closed behind him.

She heard the soft click of the lock again.

Now she was trembling, too.

ONE CERTAIN AXIOMof this city is that you will never find a homeless shelter, a rehab center, or a parole office in a good neighborhood. If youare apartment-hunting, and you ask the real estate agent about the nearest location of any of these places, and she replies, aWhy, right around the corner, dearie!a then what you do is hike up your skirts and run for the hills because the onliest place you donat wish to live is right here, honey.

Early that Tuesday afternoon, Carella and Hawes visited a parole office in a downtown neighborhood that they could best describe as aindifferent to law enforcement,a but perhaps this was a hasty judgment premised on the presence of hookers and drug dealers on every street corner. By oneP.M. , they had driven across the river and into the trees of a delightful Calmas Point enclave known as Sunrise Sh.o.r.es because once upon a time it had indeed been an elegant waterfront community that faced the sun coming up over a bend in the River Dix.

The neighborhood had long ago been overrun by street gangs whoad once been content to rumble among themselves for the sheer joy of claiming worthless turf or second-hand virgins, but who had since graduated into selling dope on a large scale, and were now killing each other and innocent bystanders in drive-by shootings that made it dangerous to go to the corner grocery store for a pack of cigarettes.

The Sunrise Sh.o.r.es parole office was above one such grocery store, outside which a huddle of teenagers who should have known better were smoking their brains outa"and donat write me letters, Carella thought. There were two ways you walked in a neighborhood like this one, even if you were a cop. You either pretended you were invisible, or you pretended you had dynamite strapped to your waist under your jacket. Shoulders back, heads erect, both detectives strutted like walking bombs to the narrow doorway alongside the grocery store. The guys smoking outside figured these dudes were ex-cons here to make their scheduled visits, so they left them alone. So much for Actors Studio exercises, Carella thought, and went up a stairway stinking of p.i.s.s, Hawes sniffing along haughtily behind him. On the second floor, they found a wooden door with a frosted gla.s.s panel lettered with the words: DIVISION OF PAROLE.

MANAGER, KIRBY STRAUSS.

The office was small and perhaps even shabbier-looking than the Eight-Sevenas squadroom. Six metal desks were s.p.a.ced around the room, two of them flanking a curtainless window with a torn shade. A straight-backed wooden chair sat empty alongside each desk. Early afternoon sunlight tinted the shade yellow. Dark green metal filing cabinets lined one windowless wall, and an open door revealed a toilet bowl and a sink beside it. An ancient copying machine was on the wall alongside the bathroom. A wooden coat rack was in one corner of the room. There were several topcoats on it, but only one hat.

Two men sat in swivel chairs behind the choice window desks.

They both turned to look at the detectives as they walked in.

Carella wondered if the hat belonged to one of them.

aMr. Strauss?a he asked.

aYes?a He was a man in his fifties, Carella guessed, wearing brown trousers and a brown cardigan sweater, a shirt and tie under it. He was sitting at the desk on the right. Bald and a trifle overweight, he looked like someone you might find selling stamps at your local post office. Carella figured the hat was his.

aI called earlier,a he said. aDetective Carella, the Eight-Seven. My partner, Detective Hawes.a aOh, yes,a Strauss said, rising and extending his hand. aThis is Officer Latham,a he said, and gestured with his left hand toward the man sitting at the other desk. Latham nodded. Strauss briefly shook hands with both detectives, and then said, aHave a seat. Youare here about Wilkins, right? Let me get his file.a The detectives took chairs alongside Straussa desk. Strauss went to the filing cabinets, opened one of them, began rummaging.

aIs it going to rain out there?a Latham asked.

aI donat think so,a Hawes said. aWhy? Who said it was going to rain?a aFeel it in my bones,a Latham said, and shook his head mournfully.

He did, in fact, look a bit arthritic, a tall thin man wearing blue corduroy trousers and a gray sports jacket, a dingy white shirt with a worn collar, and a dark blue knit tie to match the trousers. A cardboard Starbucks container was on his desk, alongside his computer.

aHere we go,a Strauss said, and sat behind his desk again, and placed a manila folder between himself and the detectives. aI could do this on the computer, but itas easier to look at hard copy,a he said, and opened the folder. aCalvin Robert Wilkins,a he said, atwenty-seven years old, took a fall for armed robbery when he was twenty. What happened was he went into this bank alone, mustave been desperate, donat you think? Stuck a gun in a telleras face, ran off with whatever she had in the cash drawer, something like three thousand dollars, can you imagine? Gambles three thousand bucks against twenty-five in the slammer? Heas driving away from the bank when he gets a flat tire, finally climbs out of the car and starts running. The cops chasing him get out of their car, and one of them fires a shot that catches him in the legaa aThe right leg,a Carella said, nodding.

aWell, let me check,a Strauss said, and looked at the report. aYes, the right leg. Knocked him a.s.s over teacups, ended his Bonnie and Clyde career. He was convicted of Rob One, a B-felonyawell, you know that. Caught a bleeding-heart judge who sentenced him to a mere twenty because it was a first offense and all that jazz.a aWhen was he paroled?a aSix months ago. Just before Thanksgiving. Lot to be thankful for, that kid.a aHow so?a aGot sprung his first appearance before the Board. Served only seven of the twenty. I call that stepping in s.h.i.t.a aYou said it was a first offenseaa aWell, first time he gotcaught, letas say. With these guysaa aAny problems since heas been out?a aYeah. Violating parole, for one.a aWhatad he do?a aFirst year of parole, heas supposed to be under what we call aIntensive Supervision.a This is like a readjustment period for him, you know? He comes here to the office every week, and somebody from herea"weave got six guys in this office, itas a fairly small onea"visits him at home once every two weeks, once a month, whatever. Itas an intensive period, thatas what itas called, Intensive Supervision. This is supposed to continue for at least twelve months, after which we place him on what we callRegular Supervision, which means fewer home visits, and fewer visits to the office here.

aWell, he got out of Miramar just before Thanksgiving, thatas a state lockup even worse than Castleviewawell, you know that. And he started coming here like clockwork once a week. He was living in a decent furnished room, and he had a job washing dishes in a deli over on Carpenter. Iall tell you the truth, I figured he was a prime candidate for early discharge, which wouldave been three years instead of his maximum five. Then, all of a sudden, he doesnat show up the week after Christmas, which I figured the holidays and all, am I right? But then he misses the first two weeks in January, and I figure s.h.i.t the manas absconded. Which is what it turned out to be. Failure to report here, changing address without permission, for all I know even leaving the f.u.c.kin state. A cla.s.sic case of absconding. I issued a warrant for his arrest. If we catch him again, heall be doing his maximum-five behind bars. Some guys never learn.a aCan we have that last known?a Hawes asked.

aSure, but it wonat do you any good. Heas gone, man. And itas a big bad city out there.a Strauss got up nonetheless, and carried the file on Wilkins over to the copying machine. Seeing the open bathroom door, he closed it as if sight of a toilet bowl might be offensive to his visitors from across the river. aWhy do you want him?a he asked.

aHe may be involved in a kidnapping.a aGraduation Day, huh? Some guys never learn,a he said again.

aHow bad is that limp, by the way?a Hawes asked.

aWell, heas not a cripple or anything, if thatas what youare thinking. He just sort of drags the right foot a little, you know?a aCan you show me what you mean?a Carella asked.

aCharlie, show him how Wilkins walks, will you?a Strauss said.

Latham got up from behind his desk.

Like an actor preparing before he went onstage, he hesitated a moment, thinking, and then he started walking across the room. The limp he affected was a slight one. His impersonation captured perfectly the walk of the masked man the detectives had seen on Honey Blairas tape.

aHowas that?a Latham asked.

aPerfect,a Strauss said. aMaybe we ought to sendyou up there to Miramar, finish out his term.a aYeah, yeah,a Latham said, but he seemed pleased head been such a big hit.

Strauss carried a sheaf of papers over from the copier. Stapling them together, he said, aYou might as well haveall the vitals,a and handed the pages to Carella. aIf you find him, let me know,a he said. aI really thought he was a candidate for early, the jacka.s.s. Goes to show, donat it?a He actually looked sad.

CALVIN ROBERT WILKINSwas still wearing the Saddam Hussein mask.

He had the rifle in his left hand.

Nothing in his right hand.

No key, no nothing.

He closed the door behind him.

Came limping across the room to her.

aHe wouldnat give me the key,a he said.

She could swear he was grinning behind the mask.

Standing not a foot away from her, he unzipped his fly.

THIS, NOW, was what it was really like.

There was no vorpal blade this time.

There was no slow strip tease, no musical accompaniment, no claws catching at her garments to tear them tantalizingly to shreds. This was her top being violently ripped from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, this was rough hands reaching under her already tattered skirt to tear her panties open over her crotch. There were no biting jaws, he did not bite her, he simply slapped her again and again, kept slapping her as she tried to pull her manacled hand free of the radiator, slapped her until her face was aching and bruised, her free hand flapping on the floor where he had rested the rifle, trying to find the rifle with blind seeking fingers while he kept slapping her till she felt dizzy and weak, murmuring aNo, please donat, please donat, please donat.a But still he had not raped her.

Still he seemed to derive pleasure from the incessant slapping, his hand rhythmically hitting her, the back of his hand, the palm of his hand, the back of his hand again until she collapsed against the radiator, murmuring soundlessly no please donat, no please please donat.

This time, there was no vorpal blade to save her.

This was merely rape.

Viciously, he spread her legs and forcibly entered her, tearing tissue as he plunged inside her. She screamed at the forced penetration, screamed again when he slapped her again and told her to shut up, and then slapped her again and again and again. And then his hands were on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, squeezing her nipples hard, thrusting his over-powering rigidity into her below, grunting, his hands seeming not to know where to hurt her next, her face, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her b.u.t.tocks, squeezing, slapping, punching her now, pinching her, punching her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, punching her face, blood suddenly bursting from her nose, until at last she screamed in agony, aPleasestop! a and he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in that instant, and the door flew open and Yasir Arafat came into the room and shouted, aYou stupid f.u.c.k!a and she lost consciousness.

12.

THE SQUADwas somewhat perturbed. One might even say they were quite blaxitomed! Special Agent in Charge Stanley Marshall Endicott had just learned from his superior at Division Headquarters that the Police Commissioner had ordered the 87th Squad to stay on the Valparaiso kidnapping case!

aA s.h.i.tty little squad uptown,a he complained, visibly hummered.

The agents and detectives in the big conference room at Bison Records all shook their heads in solemn agreement. All except Lieutenant Charles Farley Corcoran, who was pacing the floor, quite red in the face, even for an Irishman.

aDismissed my complaint,a he muttered, all visibly perscathed. aSaid Carella wasnat under my command and therefore could not have been insubordinate.a aWhat do we do now?a Feingold asked. aWhose case is it, anyway? Do we dismantle here, or what?a aItas oursand theirs,a Endicott said.

aA horse race, you mean,a Feingold said sourly.

aI mean a horse race wead betterwin! a aSuppose a motorcycle cop on the f.u.c.kinstreet insulted me?a Corcoran asked the air, still fuming, still all dejebbeled. aWould that be insubordination?a ad.a.m.n right,a Jones agreed, kissing a little a.s.s, not for nothing had he learned to make his way in the white manas police department.

aSon of a b.i.t.c.h said head call again at three,a Endicott said.

aThe Commissioner?a Lonigan asked. He was none too bright, even though head been credited with smashing a big heroin ring in Majesta. But that was ten years ago.

aThe perp, the perp,a Endicott said, getting more and more perplexed himself. aThis time we zero in,a he said, visibly afumitaxed. aIf Loomis canat keep him on the phone, Iall personally cut off his b.a.l.l.s.a aThe perpas?a Lonigan asked.

Endicott merely looked at him.

THE TELEPHONE CALLcame at precisely threeP.M. The kidnapper was nothing if not punctual. Though she recognized the voice at once, Gloria Klein asked who was calling. When the kidnapper said, aThis is personal,a she asked him to hold one second, please, and then buzzed Loomisa inner office.