AT MIDNIGHT her body was wracked head to toe with pain and she couldn't stop crying. The new morphine load would take her under, but fifteen minutes later the pain would again overwhelm and wake her up. The in-line morphine pump had been replaced by a hand-held and she was able to self-medicate and eventually close her eyes again. But then it would return and she would be crying out and screaming for Caroline to hold her.

Caroline was at wits' end. She called the doctor and he again recommended transfer to hospice. Morgana again refused. She was determined to die at home.

"I want to ask you something," Morgana said to her friend and lover. Morgana's once beautiful face was now gaunt-hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, mostly bald head from the now-discontinued chemo.

"What can I do for you, my love? Just ask."

"I want to press the plunger as many times as I can and then pass out."

"Well-I don't know."

"Then when I'm out I want you to press it until it's all gone."

"You want me to help you commit suicide, in other words."

"I'm begging you."

"I can't do that."

"If you love me, you can and will. I'm begging, Linus."

Linus. The most endearing name for her lover. Caroline's heart was already fragile and the term of endearment just pushed her over the edge. She would have to help.

"Do we have to do it tonight?"

"Right now. I can't do this any longer."

"Understand."

Morgana patted the bed beside her. 'Come up here and lie down beside me. You need to hold me while I do it."

Tears were streaming down Caroline's cheeks but she was restraining herself and crying inaudibly. She kicked off her house shoes and climbed up on the bed. Hands and knees, she positioned herself alongside Morgana.

"Perfect," said Morgana. "Now you tell our baby hello from me."

Without another word she pressed the pump ten times, counting each one out. The normal dose was one pump every five minutes. Almost immediately Morgana's eyes closed and her lips parted as her breathing grew shallow. Caroline spooned her and grasped the pump in her hand. She began clicking the plunger without counting. She held her friend and kissed the back of her neck. She wept until there were no more tears.

Fifteen minutes later the breathing had stopped.

Caroline lay very still and held her breath. She listened for breath sounds. She released the plunger and pulled away. She propped up on an elbow and listened, placing her face on Morgana's face. Already the skin felt cool on her cheek. She heard nothing.

She climbed off the bed and sat again in her bedside chair. The clock downstairs chimed three times. Without moving, she sat watching the next hour, looking for any sign of life.

But there was none.

She called the crematory service.

It was done.

In the morning the home health nurse came to collect the medical supplies. She looked quizzically at the morphine bag but said nothing to Caroline. Clearly the bag was empty, a vacuum where the self-administering plunger had withdrawn all air. Curious, she placed the items inside her nylon bag and left.

She would definitely have to report this to the director of nursing.

Someone would need to write it up and she didn't want to be the one. It would be like ratting out a friend. The home health nurse had grown to really like these two women.

She would report it, but she wouldn't write it up.

58.

It was a straightforward motion on a case involving a woman to whom nitrous oxide had been administered while having a tooth shaped for a new crown. Call it an overdose, call it her surprise allergy to the drug, she had lapsed into a coma from which she still hadn't awakened twenty-five months later. The dentist's lawyer had filed a motion for directed verdict seeking to have the case dismissed. The motion was based on an expert witness report defense counsel had bought and paid for, and it totally exonerated the dentist. Thaddeus had countered with an expert report of his own when responding to the motion. It was a battle of the experts, both of whom were purchased, both of whom said what the lawyers wanted them to say, and both of whom had sleazy ethics but that was okay, it was how the game of medical malpractice experts was played. Or as the lawyers put it, my guy can kick your guy's ass. The court had "carefully considered both motions," as the judge recounted, had listened to arguments of counsel, and was now ready to rule.

Thaddeus knew going in that he would win on the motion. The defense won about once out of a hundred times. Directed verdict motions were mostly used by defense counsel to pad their bills to the insurance companies. Fourteen hours of research @ $600/hour + eight hours of motion drafting at $600/hour + three hours of in-office conference time to discuss the motion, + two hours of travel back and forth to court + three hours to prepare to argue the motion + two hours of oral argument + one hour post-motion to discuss the motion with plaintiff's counsel, and so forth. That was the idea. It was the sort of practice that made people hate lawyers, and with good reason. Thaddeus had no such golden goose at his disposal. His fee would be paid out of the jury verdict he was planning toward. It was a crap game and in some ways he hated it. He thought he had left gambling behind in Vegas when he got out of the casino game, but here he was, still betting the odds. The upside was that injured people got access to a lawyer and his or her firm without up-front money. So that day, he was patiently going through the motions of going through the motions, knowing that at some point the defendants' motion practice would burn out and then the case would probably settle. That would be when the golden goose had been totally de-feathered by hourly billings. At the end of the court session, he was bored, tired, and ready to head back to the office.

The judge droned on about this legal citation and that, for the sake of the record, giving his reasons for denying the defense motion, and the lawyers were half-listening, wishing only to pack their bags and head out.

At last the judged uttered, "It is so ordered. We stand in recess," and everyone stood up and stretched as His Honor fled his throne.

Thaddeus was throwing things in his briefcase when he felt the eyes on his back. He turned around.

For the most part the courtroom was empty. There was nothing to attract attention to a rather mundane argument of technicalities on a rather mundane medical malpractice case on a rather mundane late Tuesday afternoon. Except for one man, wearing sunglasses, seated at the rear of the gallery, who was paying close attention and appeared to be texting on his phone. But nobody noticed the man, nor should they have. He was obviously Middle Eastern and oddly interested in a nothing-to-recommend-it legal proceeding. The man had gone through courthouse security, was found to be carrying no weapons and nothing which might pose a threat to other courthouse habitues, so he of course was waved right on through and allowed to proceed upstairs. Now he seemed to be fixated on Thaddeus.

Defense counsel cleared out, the bailiff took flight, the court reporter sprinted to the elevator for her next hearing, and the clerk of the court trundled out beneath his epic stack of files from the afternoon's doings. Now it was just Thaddeus and the dark man.

Thaddeus pushed open the gate at the bar and began walking up the aisle toward the double doors. When he drew abreast of the man, the stranger stood and removed his sunglasses.

"Could I have a word with you?" he asked Thaddeus.

Thaddeus stopped. He checked his watch. "Sure. What can I do for you?"

The stranger came closer. "I have your daughter."

Thaddeus felt his heart thump against his rib cage. "Say again?"

"I have Sarai."

"Not funny, pal. Now excuse me."

The man stepped into the aisle, blocking his way. "No, excuse me. If you want to see her again, you'll come with me."

"How do I know you have my daughter?"

The man gave a vague smile. "I notice the mole on her left shoulder has grown since I last had custody of her. You really should have that looked at."

He felt the sweat roll down his back. The guy really knew and the description of the mole was a hundred percent accurate. It had grown and it was being monitored by her dermatologist. "What do I have to do. All I want is my daughter back."

"You will have her back. But you'll have to accompany me to fetch her."

"I'll do whatever you say."

"Just follow me to my car."

"I'll do that. Please, lead the way."

They left down the back stairs, avoiding the elevator and the FBI agents waiting in the lobby. They made their way to Lot D on the north side of the courthouse. It was hot out, and windy, but Thaddeus noticed none of it. He was sweating profusely, a million thoughts racing through his mind, none of them taking hold as acceptable strategies. The problem was, dark man had given him just enough detail to convince him he knew minutiae about Sarai's physical appearance, minutiae that wouldn't be casually noticed.

Her shirt had been removed for such an observation to be made.

His heart was pounding by the time he climbed inside the Ford Bronco.

Before turning the key, the man turned to him. "She's still here in Chicago. Whether she remains here is entirely dependent on the next three minutes. Do I have your attention?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand that if you try to overpower me while I'm driving I will not make my next check-in call and she will be moved?"

"I understand. What do you want with me?"

"Bright boy. We want information."

"What kind of information do I have that you could possibly want?"

"You have killed three friends of mine. Is that enough for now?"

He knew better than to deny it. Realizing they had caught up with him, he felt himself slump back against the seat and heard the air leave his diaphragm as he totally succumbed. They had Sarai, they had him. All that mattered now was the protection of his daughter. His own existence had no value beyond taking care of his baby. Whatever they wanted from him was as good as theirs already. But he wouldn't tell them that. While they thought he might still resist them, he had at least an ounce of bargaining power. It wasn't much, but he knew he had nothing else in his favor.

"Can I call her mother and tell her Sarai is okay?"

The man violently shook his head. "Pass me your cell phone, please."

Thaddeus retrieved the phone from the suit's breast pocket and handed it across the seat.

"Is this the only one?"

"Yes."

He passed it back. "Open the back of the phone."

Thaddeus inserted a thumbnail under the release on the back of the phone. "Got it. Now what?"

"Remove the SIM card."

Thaddeus removed the tiny circuit board. "Okay," he said.

"Lower your window and throw it out."

Thaddeus complied.

"Now pass me the phone again."

Once the man held the phone again, he drove several miles further on. Then he lowered his own window and threw the phone out.

"Now you may call Katy. Oh, you don't have a phone? Then I guess you can't call. Now sit back and say nothing more until we exit the truck."

Thaddeus closed his eyes and forced his mind to stop wheeling through space at 11,000 miles an hour. He envisioned Sarai's face, her smile, and let himself hear her voice. He almost panicked when he lost the image, but forced himself to stop trying. He began to consider what information they would want from him and what they would do with it. He knew he was only one step ahead of his own death. These were not people who would suffer his trespasses against them. Not at all. They would want their revenge and they would have it in spades. First, of course, they would take care of the business of their cell. He could only guess what their role was in the grand scheme of jihad. But he knew he had interrupted them in their strivings and for that there would be pain.

They took the Palatine exit from I-90 and headed north. The city fell away and houses stood further and further apart until, as if scenery were gliding by in a dream, Thaddeus realized they were in the country. It was getting dark early evening, the highway was heavily tree-lined, and, once it became two lane, the shadows from the western side began covering the highway. He didn't know the road, though he knew the general area. There was a massive Cineplex in Palatine that he and Katy at one time enjoyed, and there was a medieval-themed restaurant where knights jousted while the guests dined on roasted chicken and cheered the pageant. Sarai had been left that night with her nanny. When they had returned home at eleven, she was sound asleep in her own bed, warm and safe. Right then he would have given every dollar he had or ever would have if only he could be in the same position of arriving home to find his family safe.

But it wasn't that way. His drive to exterminate these people had left him blindsided. How could he not have foreseen that they would come for him? What had they done, obtained surveillance video from the mall or the Jungle Zone? How could he not have foreseen that they would identify him and immediately track him down?

They kept rolling north and soon left the familiar behind.

Then it was nightfall and headlights were burning a path through the gloom.

59.

When he regained consciousness the first thing he knew was that he was completely immobilized. He had been strapped to a spinal board made of hard plastic with four hand-size openings along the length of each side. Each opening anchored adjustable nylon belts that were passed insufferably tight across knees, waist, chest, and head. His arms were pinned at his sides where the first waist belt went up over his waist and the second waist belt was passed beneath his lower back, pinning his arms to the board. He immediately panicked; breathing was labored, thanks to the chest belt. His lungs and chest cavity could expand to grab a breath only one inch. He closed his eyes and told his mind to slow way down. He told himself that he had been breathing even while they had drugged him so there was enough oxygen passing in and out to sustain him. Calm settled over him.

He moved his eyes right and left. He could see only ceiling and partial wall to the left; he could see only ceiling and partial wall to his right. His shoulder burned, and he remembered being injected. Whatever chemical they had used had formed a bolus just under the skin that was emitting a burning sensation throughout the shoulder. Relax, he told himself, the burning won't kill you. In fact, there's no indication at all they want to kill you.

Coming from somewhere above him was the sound of a baby crying. Through the fog shifting and curling inside his brain he formulated the notion that from the sound of it the baby would be about a year or less. It erupted into an even heavier caterwaul, and for a moment he thought that he might have been mistaken, that maybe it was the sound of a cat being tortured. He drifted off and then returned when the crying broke into a series of choking sobs. Definitely a baby. He knew from having Sarai- Then he remembered: Sarai. It was coming back, bits and pieces. They had pulled off the highway onto a long gravel road. It was dark and the headlights bounced off trees and heavy brush as they picked their way along the gravel. Then the house had loomed up out of the blustery gloom and they had driven around back and parked. He had voluntarily followed the dark man inside, expecting to find Sarai held there, as they had told him.

But there hadn't been Sarai awaiting him. There was only the room with the backboard set up across three sawhorses. They had forced him to fully undress and recline on the board. Then came the straps.

"Where is my daughter?" he had asked.

But there was no answer. Instead, as an apparition just beyond his peripheral vision once he was strapped in, a hypodermic floated by and the next thing he knew he was falling, falling down a deep bottomless well. Then he was gone.

He sensed a presence in the room.