On his way out of the living room, he paused next to Bob's graduation photo from West Point. He looked young and strong, clear-eyed and ready for whatever life threw at him. "I'm sorry," whispered Andy, setting the picture back down on the piano. "I tried, but I could never measure up." He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the bar, then bounded up the stairs to the bedroom.

Opening the double doors onto the upper balcony, Andy stepped outside. The smell of dying vegetation filled his nostrils with a kind of instant nostalgia. Autumn always made him feel gloomy, made him ache for something he'd never had. It was a beautiful late October day, sun filtering through the nearly leafless trees, the damp, decaying leaves forming a kind of pentimento on the back lawn.

Andy stood there with the sunshine warming his face, feeling naked under the limitless sky. The earth was off its axis today. Somewhere out there Andy believed that pigs were probably flying and that hell had suffered a hard freeze. All his life, he felt as if he'd been involved in a fruitless battle. Had he wanted too much? Hadn't he tried hard enough? Was he simply weak? Worthless? Had has father been right all along?

Remembering the bottle of vodka in his hand, he unscrewed the cap and took several swallows. The liquid burned as it went down. He hated liquor, hated anything and everything that reminded him of his father. But after what he'd done, a little booze seemed like a minor infraction. He leaned against the rail and downed half the bottle before finally returning inside.

Once back in the bedroom, he bent down and slipped a briefcase out from under the bed. He manipulated the rings on each side of the handle until the proper numbers popped up, then opened the case and dumped dozens of plastic prescription bottles on top of the bedspread.

The room seemed cold after the warmth of the afternoon sunlight. But it didn't matter. Cold was better than fear. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been afraid.

Removing a pen and a piece of paper from the briefcase, he sat down on the bed and wrote: I love you with all my heart, Anika. Even before I met you, I warmed myself with the hope of you. Forgive me. Andy.

He cracked open the bottles and downed the pills with the rest of the bottle of vodka. He didn't know how many there were, but it was enough.

34.

Bram breezed into the kitchen and kissed Sophie on the top of her head. "They released Andy and they've got Chris in protective custody. Oh, and the cops have impounded everything in Phil's mini storage garage."

"How'd you find all that out?" asked Sophie. She was cleaning up their lunch dishes. Bram had prepared one of his famous omelets.

"I just got a call from Al on my cell."

"Did he say anything else?" She was worried that they might be charged with burglary-or breaking and entering at the very least.

"You mean about us? We're off the hook, Soph. Al released a story to the papers that said we were at the mini storage place last night because we have a storage unit there. And that while we were driving by one of the double units, we heard a woman cry out for help. Not only are we free and clear, but we're heroes. I intend to talk about the whole thing on my radio show this afternoon."

Sophie turned around, slipping her arms around his waist. "My husband, the hero."

Bram flashed his eyes and adjusted his tie. "If the shoe fits."

"What about Phil?"

"They're looking for him. Ballistics matched the gun in his truck to all three homicides."

"Did Al say that precisely?"

Bram narrowed an eye. "He said the gun that was used in Bob's shooting was the same one used to murder Loy and Irazarian."

"See. He said 'shooting.' "

Bram sighed. "Yes. Shooting. As in murder."

"But he didn't say that. Not exactly."

"You're splitting unbelievably tiny hairs."

"But I'm not wrong."

"Look, you add a charge of felony kidnapping to the murders and Phil won't see the light of day for the rest of his natural life. That's the bottom line. Oh, and get this. In all three murders, he used a plastic Coke bottle as a silencer. They found two of them- one at Bob's place, and another at Irazarian's motel room, but they never gave that bit of info to the newspapers. That's why Al went nuts last night when I told him what I saw in the front seat of Phil's trunk. It must have been the one he used when he shot Loy."

"What an evil man," said Sophie, leaning back against the counter.

"He's a classic sociopath, sweetheart. Sociopaths don't grow up; they metastasize. But he'll be in custody soon."

"What if they can't find him?"

"They will. Every policeman in the state is on alert."

"He could run to Canada."

"I suppose it's possible, but for Chris's sake, I hope they nail him soon."

Sophie couldn't begin to imagine what that poor young woman had gone through, and now here she was, scared for her life, waiting for Phil to be caught. There was one bright spot. With all the forensics the police were probably developing, the case wouldn't rest solely on her shoulders.

"What are you up to today?" asked Bram. "Fomenting more conspiracy theories with Mother?"

Sophie folded her arms across her stomach. "I thought I'd stop down to see Anika on my way to my office. Oh, and I have to run over to the Times Register Tower for a meeting late in the day."

Sophie assumed Margie hadn't spoken to Bram yet about the verbal assault she'd received from Sophie's dad yesterday morning. Just thinking about the conversation warmed Sophie's heart. But while her dad probably figured the tongue-lashing was the end of the story, Sophie knew better. Margie never took criticism in stride, probably because, in her own mind, she was never wrong. She was undoubtedly on the warpath, just waiting to explode all over a cozy evening, or a romantic breakfast. "Did you talk to your daughter yesterday?"

"No. Well, she did leave me a voice-mail message. She sounded sort of sniffy, like she'd been crying. I didn't have time to deal with it. I'm sure we'll talk today." He tipped Sophie's chin up. "Do you know what it was about?"

She shrugged, wiping any trace of amusement off her face. "You know Margie. Could be anything."

Sophie listened outside Anika's door for a few seconds. When she heard the TV switch off, she gave a soft knock.

Anika appeared a few moments later, still wearing her bathrobe.

"I assume you heard what happened," said Sophie. It had been all over the morning news.

Anika brushed a shock of blond hair off her forehead. "Come in."

Sophie entered hesitantly, judging by the grim look on Anika's face that the news hadn't changed anything. Sitting down on a chair next to the couch, she said, "Andy's been released."

Anika perched on a chair next to the desk. "You know that for a fact?"

"Bram talked to the detective in charge of the case."

She nodded. "Of course, I'm incredibly relieved. I never believed Andy could murder someone in cold blood. I suppose he went back to Bob's place."

"I would think so," said Sophie.

Anika seemed to ponder the situation. "He hates being alone. Even on a good day, that house feels like a tomb."

"It's certainly big."

Anika thought a few more seconds, then turned a hard gaze on Sophie. "You know the situation. If I go back there, he'll get the wrong idea. He'll think I've changed my mind, that I'm coming back to him."

"Possibly."

"But that's not going to happen. I mean, how can I do that to him, get his hopes up just to crush them? I can't stand much more of this myself."

Sophie could tell she was in pain.

Looking away, Anika said, "You think I should go see him, don't you."

"It doesn't matter what I think."

"Yes," she said softly. "It does."

"Well then," said Sophie, choosing her words carefully, "yes, I think you might want go see him. He's been terribly wounded by the arrest. You can explain that you're not staying, but that you just wanted to be with him for an hour or two, just to make sure he's okay. I'm sure he'd understand, and that he'd appreciate it."

"If I didn't still love him . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I am such a mess. I don't know how I could help anyone."

"It's up to you," said Sophie. "Just . . . don't completely rule it out until you give it a little more thought."

An hour later, Anika hurried up the walk to Bob's front door. Pressing the key in the lock, she entered to find the local MPR station blaring from the living room. Feeling relieved that her husband must be home, she took off her coat and walked into the living room.

"Andy?" she called, snapping off the radio. "Where are you? Andy?"

He didn't answer. She wondered if he'd gone outside. Stepping over to a long row of windows overlooking the backyard, she did a quick search. When she didn't see him, she decided to check upstairs. Maybe he was taking a nap. He was no doubt tired from spending the night in a jail cell.

Up on the second floor, she saw that the door to the bedroom was open. She couldn't exactly call it their bedroom because they'd only spent two nights in the house, and one of those nights she'd slept alone in a guest bedroom.

As she entered, she saw that he was asleep. His head was at an odd angle on the pillow, but he was a restless sleeper. Thinking that he must be cold, she grabbed a quilt off the top shelf of the closet. As she draped it over him, she noticed the empty pill bottles. Dropping the quilt, she started to count them. Eight. Ten. Fourteen.

"My God, Andy! What have you done?" When she bent over him to check his pulse, she kicked something with her foot. Looking down, she saw an empty bottle of vodka lying on the floor. "Damn you!" she screamed, backing up. She stared at him a moment, then leaned her ear close to his nose. He was breathing, but just barely.

Grabbing the phone off the nightstand, she punched in 911.

One ring, two-"911 emergency."

"This is Anika Gladstone-my husband's just taken a bunch of pills! He's breathing, but it's shallow! You've got to help us! Please! Right away!"

35.

Bram returned to his cubbyhole office after his radio show. As soon as he sat down behind his desk, the phone rang. "Baldric," he said absently. He was still thinking about his last caller. Or, more precisely, he was smoldering.

"Hey, buddy. It's Al."

"Hi. Any news?" He leaned back and put his feet up on the desk.

"I caught the last hour of your program."

Bram grinned. "What'd you think?"

"You're not gonna want to hear this."

"Why? What?"

After the first hour, Bram had opened up the program to callers. The topics: three recent homicides in the Twin Cities; the scandal at the Minneapolis Times Register; had the Twin Cities turned into the Evil Twins of big-city crime? Since the news stations had already picked up what had happened last night, Bram couldn't exactly deny that he'd been instrumental in bringing new information to light on the Loy, Fabian, and Irazarian homicides. The lines lit up as he described the evening's events in vivid-perhaps even a tad melodramatic-detail. He carefully left out certain facts that he'd been asked to keep quiet. But there was still plenty of fodder for his talk-radio audience. Phil Banks had made a lot of enemies in his years as the owner of Banks Construction. The dirt flew hot and heavy, mainly during the last hour. "Something you didn't like?" Bram asked Al.

"Not me, pal. Banks. If he was listening, you're probably number one on his list of guys he'd like to see splattered across a concrete wall."

"Meaning what?"

"That you should stick a sock in your mouth, go home, and keep a low profile until we find him. Jesus, Baldric. What were you thinking? Do you have some sort of death wish? Were you trying to wave a red flag in front of an angry bull?"

"If my program dislocates him from wherever he's crawled to hide, then fine. I'm happy to oblige."

"You're an idiot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Look, just take my advice. Now, I also called to tell you that we've got his house staked out, his construction company, and the restaurants where he's part owner. We also linked the gun found last night to a murder that happened up in Duluth in '95. Believe me when I tell you, you don't want to mess with this guy."

The message was beginning to penetrate. "Okay, okay."

"Keep your nose clean. I gotta run."

"One question first."

"Make it quick."

"Bob Fabian, he's dead, right?"

"Of course he's dead."

"Banks shot him."

"Yes."

"The bullet killed him."

Silence. "Like I said, I gotta run."