"Stare so deeply into my eyes- it's not polite. I suffer from nystagmus, and your staring makes me uncomfortable."

"Sorry," I lied, sitting in that butterscotch armchair. "Anyway, it's the real deal. It checks out every way there is."

"You're sure?" he asked softly. "There's no mistake?"

"Unless there's some more evidence lying around, I got it all," I told him.

His eyes flared behind the pink glasses. "Do you believe there might be some?"

"Might have been," I said. "But this Brother Jacob character won't be stupid enough to hold on to it. I'm done digging- there's no pay dirt left."

"Is there anything else? Anything you haven't turned over?" he asked, one long finger tapping a thick stack of documents on the little round table to his right.

"Just this," I said, pulling a list of names and addresses out of my jacket pocket. "It's not the coffin, but, with everything else, it's damn sure another nail."

I handed it over. He scanned the list, shaking his head. "I don't see what this- "

"Third page, fourth name from the top," I told him.

"'Russell J. Swithenbrecht.' A post office box in Erie, Pennsylvania. What does that have to do with- ?"

"That's him," I said. "Brother Jacob. He keeps the box under that name. Drives over about once a month. Only takes about an hour and a half, two hours tops. Always the same way. Drives there on a Friday night, stays over, hits the box Saturday morning- the branch is only open until noon. Then he drives back to Buffalo in time for his regular sessions on Saturday afternoon. Been doing it for years."

"And that proves...?"

"What you have in your hands is a printout of a subscription list," I said. "For a little magazine called Unique Yearnings."

Kite's eyebrows lifted into a question.

"Girlalovers, they call themselves," I told him. "Little girls."

"We have found the truth," Kite said, looking up directly into my eyes.

I could feel Heather standing behind me- feel the heat coming off her.

I met Morales in Bryant Park, right behind the Public Library, a block from where the heart of Times Square would be if it had one.

"This guy I'm looking at for Kite. If you ever hear anything- "

"What you got so far?" the cop asked.

It took another six weeks to assemble the ingredients. Then Kite dropped the bomb. Jennifer Dalton sued Brother Jacob in New York County Supreme Court. For twentyafive million dollars. Her complaint alleged sexual abuse, statutory rape, sodomy, extortion, intentional infliction of emotional distress, assault, battery, pastoral malpractice, and half a dozen other charges. The Psalmists were not named in the lawsuit- it was all Brother Jacob.

I caught it on the news, a thirtyasecond clip from a press conference called to announce the litigation. "Yes, we understand that these events occurred some time ago," Kite was saying smoothly, looking implacable and immaculate in a darkachocolate doubleabreasted suit. "And while it is too late for the criminal justice system to act, we believe it is time for New York to join other, more progressive jurisdictions in providing a civil remedy for a child driven into a psychiatric coma by the deliberate, predatory acts of a sexual abuser. We are prepared to prove that the perpetrator's conduct was calculated to assault and impair the victim's realityatesting. This was no accident. It has happened time and time again. It is happening as we speak, to children all over this country."

The newspapers ran with it heavy, Kite piling on fact after fact, every detail displayed for the public, holding nothing back. They even broke out one of Kite's quotes in a blackabordered box in the middle of the article: "The statute of limitations was designed to be a shield to protect the innocent from claims filed so late that the evidence had disappeared. But now it is being used as a sword, a sword to attack the weakest, most vulnerable members of our society. When it comes to child sexual abuse, the statute of limitations has no place in a civilized society. This case isn't about the law. This case is about the truth."

The lawyers for Brother Jacob kept saying they didn't want to try their case in the press. But Kite kept up the assault, wondering out loud who was paying for Brother Jacob's defense. Tabloid TV reporters surrounded the house in Buffalo, blanketing the neighborhood for the usual empty quotes. Brother Jacob moved to an undisclosed location. A spokesman for the Psalmists appeared on a talk radio show. When he said something about the suffering of Job, the board lit up with enraged callers demanding to know if Jennifer's suffering meant anything. When the Psalmist spokesman tried to explain the church's position, the radio host called him a dirtbag and kicked him off the show.

Kite's legal papers ran almost three hundred pages, counting exhibits. Photocopiers at the courthouse pumped around the clock. The document became a bestaseller overnight, turning up at coffeehouses and society parties and college campuses. Some commentators wondered out loud if Brother Jacob could ever hope to get a fair trial. And their colleagues pounded back, wondering with even more vehemence if Jennifer Dalton would ever get justice.

Just as the fever broke, a new wave hit. Five more victims came forward. With their lawyers. Three different lawyers.

Two of the victims were in their thirties. One claimed to have reported the sexual abuse to the police twenty years ago. Even said she was interviewed by someone from the DA's Office. But nothing happened.

The other three victims weren't women. They were girls. One fifteen, one sixteen, the other just turning eighteen.

"The statute of limitations won't protect him from this," Kite crowed on TV.

Michelle was watching with me when they made Brother Jacob take the Perp Walk for the assembled cameras. He kept his head down, a coat over his wrists to hide the handcuffs, but he turned his face up just before he bent forward to get into the back seat of the police cruiser.

"He's got the look," Michelle hissed. "You can smell it right through the TV set."

I knew what she meant. They didn't all look alike, that was their camouflage. But they all had the same look when captured- that icy predator's glare promising no cage will ever change them.