"Mental Hygiene Law, section thirtyathree thirteen," she said mechanically, pushing her thick black hair away from her face in an absentminded gesture that rattled one of her gold hoop earrings. "When a patient articulates a clear and present threat to another person, the therapist must break confidentiality and inform the potential target. She was obsessed with revenge."

"On the guy who abused her?"

"No," she said, a rueful smile on her face. "On the guy who left her. It was a stormy relationship. She was a very needy, very demanding young woman. And, eventually, her demands strained the relationship to the breaking point. And all the pentaup hatred she felt for...her father got redirected to her boyfriend. He was in real danger."

"What sense does that...?"

"Some patients suffer from a kind of moral dyslexia," she said, brushing her hair away from her face again. "They project the conduct of the abuser onto an innocent person. But what you need to understand is only their facts are wrong. Their emotions are true. The abuse did happen. It's just that- "

"The wrong man paid for it?"

"He paid for everything," she said, finally lighting a cigarette.

"I'm doing a paper on it," the black man told me. His scrawny neck was so long it couldn't support his large head- his face listed at a odd angle. It was hard to hold his eyes.

"How long have you been- "

"Almost six years," he interrupted. "This whole ritual abuse thing has been metastasizing for longer than that though. Despite the fact that there isn't one single documented case- not a single case authenticated by legitimate law enforcement investigation- the number of reported cases has been expanding exponentially."

"Because...?"

"Because the accounts have been traveling through the survivor community," he said in a strong, vibrating voice, punching a thickabodied black Montblanc fountain pen in my direction for emphasis. "We noticed a certain phenomenon a while back. Whenever survivors gather in groups, especially for allegedly therapeutic purposes, a 'Can you top this?' ethos emerges. One woman says she was an incest victim. The next says she was an incest victim too, but she had multiple perpetrators. The next says they took pornographic pictures. Before too long, they're up to ritualistic murder of babies and international plots."

"You're saying they make this up?"

"They are induced to the images," he responded, like he'd had a lot of practice answering that question. "And seduced by the power it gives them. They don't 'make it up'- they have the images implanted by others. They know they are in terrible pain. They seek reasons for the pain. They know they're hurting more than the last speaker, so they must have suffered more. Do you understand?"

"I understand what you're saying..."

"But you find it incredible? Good! A skeptical attitude is exactly what is needed in this area. The true believers have polluted scientific knowledge. So what we did, sir, is we tested our hypothesis. We used an 'artifact' method, deliberately introducing bogus material to see if it became absorbed."

"You sent a ringer into Tagroups?" I asked him.

"That is precisely what we did," he said, a note of triumph in his deep voice. "We prepped and trained three talented actresses. They simply joined existing groups. Groups in which there had been no prior members who made complaints of ritualistic abuse. After a while, each actress introduced her own tale. And in every case, in each group, other members began to 'disclose' similar stories."

"Like group hysteria?"

"Exactly like group hysteria," he said. "And when my paper is published, the scientific community will understand that it has been practicing some group hysteria of its own!"

The man and woman looked twoaofaaakind: same height, same weight, same noashape. Dressed alike in those brown mail order pants guaranteed to last a lifetime, both wearing white Tashirts with FREE THE BYRDS on the chest. Another woman, a younger one, in a dark blue shirtdress stayed in the background, busying herself with affixing labels to a stack of newsletters piled up on a long folding table.

"We have a mailing list of almost four hundred," the man said. "But our circle of support is much, much wider."

"Do you know them personally?" I asked.

"We have come to know them," the woman said. "We didn't at first- just what we read in the papers. And from the TV. It was Laureen's case first," she told me, pointing at the young woman still working on the labels.

"How do you get your cases?" I asked, ballpoint pen poised over my reporter's pad.

"There are certain things you look for," the man said. I had to look to make sure it was him- his voice was the same as the woman's.

"What things?"

"Media overkill, that's the first sign. Biased reporting. The Byrds were good citizens in every way. Home owners, taxpayers, churchagoers...you name it. That is exactly the type of person the media targets, you know. I mean, it's not much of a story if some known degenerate is accused, is it? The feeding frenzy really started a number of years ago. In Jordan, Minnesota. That was the original case for the movement. And after that, it became an epidemic. The media isn't interested in people on welfare committing abuse. The media wants white, middleaclass victims for its witch hunt. Look at McMartin, or Marilyn Kelly Michaels. If you work in a day care center, why, you're at risk, it's as simple as that. The list is amazing, just amazing."

"And what they have in common is...?"

"That they are all innocent," the woman said. "But their cases are tried in the newspapers, and the public finds them guilty without any evidence."

"And that's what happened to the Byrds?"

"Exactly!" the man said. "But it's not going to stop there. Appeals are pending. We have a complete factasheet on the case. Laureen..." he called over his shoulder. But the young woman was already walking toward me, a stack of paper in her hand.

"You look the same," she said. I knew it wasn't a compliment.

"You too," I told her, ignoring the how the brunette wig didn't sit just right. And the crow'safeet around her eyes.

"Aren't you sweet! But I only work outacall now," she told me, stepping back so I could come inside the studio apartment.

"Just tell me how the trick went," I told her. "Like I said on the phone."

"How'd you know about him?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "It was only that one time."

"You pay money, you get information," I said.

A pathological liar lies- that's what they do. But a professional liar treats truth no different from a lie- you use whatever works. So I told her I'd paid cash for what got me to her door- that kind of thing would make sense to her. No point explaining about the credit card receipts. If people weren't greedy, they'd never get caught. Businessmen have been charging whores to their businesses since forever, billing it as limo service, restaurant tabs...sometimes just "entertainment." If they just paid cash, nobody would ever know- but then they'd have to spend their own money. If you know what you're doing, you can follow the paper trial right into the shadows of their lives. I didn't know where Wolfe got hold of Kite's American Express receipts, but this was the only one that hadn't deadaended.

"And you're gonna pay me?" she asked, absently rubbing at her cokearuined nose. Only it wasn't a question.

"You know me, Penny," I said. "I work the same way you do. You're too high class to be grabbing front money, right?"

She sat on the unmade double bed, shifted her tooathin body inside the black silk robe. "I thought he was a trick too, okay? But all he wanted was to talk."

"Sex talk?"

"No. And he didn't want to wear my panties either, okay? Or have me spank him. He wanted to ask me about another trick."

"And you told him you didn't talk about your clients, right?" I asked her, putting it together finally. If Kite had offered her cash over the phone, she would have spooked. So he came in person, like he was a customer.

"Right. But you could see he wasn't a cop. I mean, I never saw nobody ever looked like him. Like he had all the blood drained out or something. And he already knew all about the trick. Just not what we...did, okay?"

"Okay. So you told him...?"

"Yeah," she said, sandpaper in her voice. "I told him, okay? No big deal. It was nice just to...talk, for once. It wasn't like he was paying me to rat the trick out or anything. I mean, he wasn't the heat, right? He was doing...research, like. That's what he said. He was consulting me," she said, her voice loving the sound of the word in her mouth.

"And that was it?"

"That was it, Burke. No big deal. You want to pay me now?"

"Sure," I said, reaching in my pocket. "By the way, did you know that trick was a judge?"

"Oh yes!" she laughed, nastyaedged. "One thing you can always get from tricks, honey- they can't wait to tell you how motherfucking important they are."

I had other things to do besides Kite's job. I'm a professional- I work even when I'm flush, not living from score to score like some rookie. Like most criminals, I learned my trade in prison. On the yard, listening to the Prof preach the gospel: "Every take ices the cake, schoolboy. But you never finish working, see? It's ain't a bunch of jobs, it's all one job. That's your work, got it? So when the time comes you got to cut into the cake, the cash is there, waiting. You don't got to do something stupid. You ain't in a hurry. Keep that cake rich all the time, so when you got to slice, it stays real nice."

All the scores don't pan out, especially when you work the corners the way I do. And the federales have been crimping some of those corners lately. Used to be I could always count on a steady stream of firearms sales to halfass Nazis preparing for the revolution, but their latest psycho fantasy is biological warfare- dump a load of botulism toxin in the water supply of "Nigger Deeatroit" or "Jew York," wait patiently up in the hills in their ramshackle little hateahouses to mow down the fleeing survivors.

The feds even monitor the White Night shortwave radio traffic now, and the FBI has a whole pack of undercovers working the survivalist beat. The feds cruise the Internet too, but that's still safe for me- I make kiddie porn deals but I never deliver, satisfying myself with the upafront cash. I guess I get some of Uncle's buyamoney mingled in there once in a while, but they'll never come close enough to make a bust. Besides, it's the product they want- a lousy fraud arrest doesn't race their motors.

I trade with the feds too, but I never took a CI jacket- Confidential Informants never stay all that confidential. I take it out in favors instead. The way that works is so simple I'm surprised they haven't caught on: I sell guns to some Nazi wannabe, then I drop a dime on him and the feds get a good solid bust. They don't pay me for the info, but I get a couple of more cards in the Get Out of Jail Free deck each time.

Gamen are pretty neutral characters. They don't go native like some of the NYPD undercovers do. Hoover's dress code went out the window about the time he went into the ground, but you can still spot the Gee at a hundred yards. Even across cyberaspace.

That's the latest frontier, the freshest stalking ground for predators. But the Internet's no different from any other piece of technology. It's neutral, like a scalpel. In the hands of a surgeon, it cuts out cancer. In the hands of a freak, it cuts out hearts.

The Net is paradise for lurkers: nameless, noascent psychopaths. That's the way camouflage works- by blurring the outlines. Most people look to the edges for definition- when it's not there, they don't see anything at all. But camouflage doesn't help when the other guy's willing to defoliate the whole jungle.

There's a few heavy players working the fringe now. They climb on the Net, usually one of those "kids only" boards, and they get right into the pen pal thing. It never takes long. One of the freaks engages them, chats a bit, makes some promises, and sets up a meet. The freaks especially love airport hotels- inaandaout's their game anyway. They check into the room and, in a little bit, a kid shows up. Whatever they thought they were cybering with- a little Latino boy, a freckleafaced white girl- doesn't matter. But before they can get down to what they do, the door pops open and there's a real big, real angry man there. Turns out- it always turns out- that the kid is his kid. Somebody's gonna get hurt. Real bad. But if the freak spills out enough oil, fast, maybe he can put out the fire before he gets burned himself. All it costs is money. It's the old badger game, updated cyberastyle. And the freaks never run to the Law.

I don't go in for that stuff myself. I don't like to operate out of my territory. But I know there's crews working in half a dozen cities. Probably more by now. Freaks lock onto the Net and start salivating. They never figure that, in this world, there's creatures that prey on predators.

The world's nothing but crime. I don't do every kind, but I do more than enough. I've been playing this way for such a long time that I'm doomed to it now, dancing between the acid raindrops, waiting for that manicured hand to drop on my shoulder and read me my rights. That happens, I'm ready for it. Even with my record, I'm not risking a long time inside. Not with the way I work things now. I may sell guns, but I don't carry them.

And I keep swearing I'll never use one again.

The one place I couldn't risk the Prof invading was Kite's aerie. The way I had figured it at first, Heather was living there. The floor plan to the building backed me up on it- there was enough room for a large family in the penthouse. Wolfe had her living in that twoabedroom apartment over in the West Seventies, but I thought that was probably just a place to store her clothes and keep up appearances. Then I found out Kite owned the building she lived in. Not right out in the open- he had a corporation nested inside a holding company, and shares of that company were controlled by a real estate investment trust that also held a miniamall in Tucson and an office building in Dallas- but he was Heather's landlord all right.

"Bitch is a cleanafreak," the Prof told me. "Joint's a fucking hospital. Got one of them filter machines, looks like a waste basket it's so big. No carpet, nothing but tile and wood."

"Look like she lives there?"

"Yeah, I guess. Food in the fridge, stuff in the cabinets over the sink. Hamper got clothes in it, so...But she ain't no chef, I tell you that. All she had was them packaged meals. And a microwave."

"The food just her stuff you think?"

"Oh yeah, bro. Ain't been no man in that place ever, except maybe to fix the sink or something. 'Sides that, she got a motherfucking shrine in her bedroom."

"Religious stuff?"

"Only if your boy Kite is God, Schoolboy. Got pictures of him everywhere. On the dresser, on the wall. Big bulletin board too. Bitch's got every article ever mentioned his name, it looks like. Got a trophy drawer too."

"His stuff?"

"Got to be. Only thing that ain't clean in the entire joint. One drawer, sealed, like. Got a handkerchief, pair of white silk boxer shorts- I know women be wearing that stuff now, but that Heather broad couldn't get her damn leg in the pair I saw. Man's shirt. An old watch. Pair of cuff links. All wrapped in tissue paper. Souvenirs, like."

"Cash? Jewelry?"

"Nothing worth taking. Cheap costume stuff. Except for the chains."

"Necklaces?"

"No, bro. Chains. You know, those little ankle bracelets. Broad's gotta have a couple of dozen of them, all different kinds. Gold, silver...platinum, one looked like. All different patterns, too. She got them on little hooks in her closet. Like she puts on a different one every day."

"Prof, were the chains in pairs?"

"All singleao, bro. All the same exact size too- bitch has got some ankle on her! And for cash, she didn't have more than a couple yards loose, unless she had a real good hiding place. And it didn't smell that way...she's got that joint set up like nobody's ever gonna visit, understand?"

"Yeah. She have a computer?"

"Not even a typewriter. No diary, no notebook. Not even a pad to write on. She got a big TV set though, got three VCRs stacked on top. Whole bookshelf full of tapes too, got a name and date on every one. Seems like she tapes all them daytime things, maybe watches when she gets home."

"What about books?"

"I went through 'em good, when I was looking for a cash stash. Decoration- they was new, like she never cracked them. Except for the porno..."

"Porno?" I asked. The Prof is a stone prude- what he thinks is pornography wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a church waiting room.

"Yeah. You know, paperbacks. Always got a broad and a guy on the cover. In them oldatime costumes. Like pirates and shit."

So Heather read romances. And put Kite on the cover in her mind...? "Nothing to interest the cops, huh?" I asked him.

"A smart cop, maybe. She got toys, bro. Brass knucks, steel snapaout baton, set of punch knives. This broad gets close enough to you, she could do some real damage."

"This is all I could put together on such short notice," Hauser told me in his gravelly voice. "The Post's not on NEXIS that far back- I had to go to the morgue."

"Thanks. How're the boys?"

"They're perfect," he said.

"No kids are perfect," I told him.

"What do you know?" he sneered, throwing the electricablue Ford Explorer into gear and lurching into traffic without looking.

Heather was telling the truth. About the lies. The clips Hauser pulled for me had it all, just like she said.

Except for the suicide note the professor sent her.

"This one was the flip side of the fat broad, Schoolboy," the Prof said to me a few days later, telling me about his toss of Jennifer Dalton's apartment. "Place is a pigsty. Stinks out loud. Got dirty clothes on the floor, roaches. Wouldn't surprise me she had a couple of little cheeseaeaters hanging around too. Only decentalooking thing in the place was the answering machine- looked brandanew. Uses the living room for everything: eats there, probably sleeps on the couch too. The bedroom didn't have nothing but the bed. Not even a phone back there."

"What's she read?"

"Total trash, man. You know, space aliens spotted in a parking lot in Miami, getting it on with a bull gator. TV Guide. Confession magazines."

"No romance novels for that one, huh?"

"No romance period, brother. Joint smelled bad, I tell you."

"You come away with anything?"