"We'll pursue it if we get a lead," Dixon said. "There's nothing we can do right now."

"You'll do something when I'm dead on the floor," she snapped. "That's a great comfort to me! And I heard that Kemmer girl was found not far from here. This killer is lurking out here and you're wasting precious time accusing people who had no reason to be involved-"

Mendez's pager interrupted the tirade. He excused himself and went back to the car to radio in. When he got the message, he ran back, dismissing Milo Bordain from his mind.

"We have to go," he said to Dixon. "Gina Kemmer is conscious."

91.

"She's drifting in and out," Hicks said as they met at the elevators near the ICU. "She fights for it, she's with it for a few seconds, and then she goes back under."

"Has she said anything?" Dixon asked.

"Not that makes any sense. She mumbles when she's out. Stuff like 'stop it, go away, leave me alone.'"

"I wonder who she's talking to?" Mendez asked. "Her a.s.sailant? She hasn't mentioned a name?"

"No."

"Is her family here?" Dixon asked.

"They left to go have lunch."

She looked like h.e.l.l. The rat bites had scabbed over and the bruises were in full bloom. Somehow Mendez figured she would have thought she looked pretty good compared to the alternative. She should have been dead. The shot that had been meant to kill her had pa.s.sed through her shoulder doing the least amount of damage possible. She had been plucky enough to survive on garbage and tenacious enough to get herself up a ladder with only two good limbs.

Vince was sitting beside her, waiting. He had done most of the talking the day they had interviewed her. His voice was strong and distinctive. If Gina was going to connect with any of them, it would be with him.

"How's Anne?" Dixon asked.

"Sore, tired, upset," he said.

"That kid's just bad," Mendez said. "My mother would say he's the son of the devil."

"I don't think even the devil would claim him," Vince said. "Twelve years old and he's done. He's broken. What are we supposed to do with him?"

"Lock him up and throw away the key," Dixon said. "How's the little girl? She was there."

"Seeing Dennis trying to stab Anne scared her pretty badly. On the upside for us, it seemed to shake loose some memories. Still no name for the killer, but she's closer to having access to it in her mind-if it's in there."

Gina Kemmer stirred and mumbled, "Knock it off."

Vince leaned closer to her. "Are you talking to us, Gina? It's Vince Leone. Do you remember me? I came to your house a couple of days ago."

Kemmer stirred and whimpered.

"Can you open your eyes and talk to us, Gina?"

"No," she said, her voice small and weak.

"Sure you can," Vince said. "You crawled out of a well with one arm and one leg. If you can do that, you can open your eyes and talk to us. Come on. You can do it. You have to fight for it, Gina."

"No, Ma-ris-sa. Stop."

Vince bobbed his eyebrows. "Is my voice getting higher?"

Mendez laughed. "If she thinks you're Marissa, she must be hallucinating."

"Hey, you've never seen me in a skirt."

"Ay, yi, yi, I could go blind just thinking about that," Mendez said.

"Come on, Gina," Vince said. "You're missing all the fun here. Open your eyes and talk to us."

Mendez thought he could see her struggling to follow Vince's instructions. Her brow knitted. A frown curved her mouth.

"Thatta girl," Vince said. "You're almost with us, Gina. Come on."

She lifted her eyelids as if they weighed a hundred pounds apiece.

"Hey, there she is!" Vince said. "These are a bunch of ugly mugs to wake up to, huh?"

She parted her lips as if they had been stuck together. Mendez took a gla.s.s of water from the bed table and slipped the straw between her lips. She drew on it enough to get a little bit of moisture.

"You've had a rough few days," Vince said. "Do you remember?"

She nodded slightly.

"Do you remember that someone shot you, Gina?"

She nodded again. Just that much effort was wearing her out. Her respiration had picked up a beat and seemed a bit labored.

"Do you remember who that was, Gina?" Vince asked.

She nodded again, then visibly worked at gathering her energy to say the name.

"Mark."

92.

Sundays in Oak Knoll were days for music. A concert by the McAster Chorale, chamber music on the Plaza downtown, a student playing the Spanish guitar in the bookstore.

Mark Foster had gathered his honors bra.s.s quintet at the old Episcopalian church for a special preview of the upcoming winter festival.

The pews were nearly full. Cultural activities were always well attended in Oak Knoll. Between the academic community of McAster and the large population of white-collar retirees, no performance of any kind went lacking for an audience.

The quintet was in the middle of "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" when Hicks and Mendez walked into the back of the church with a pair of uniformed deputies. The deputies made their way up the outside aisles. Mendez and Hicks walked up the center aisle and stood politely, waiting for the song to end.

Foster turned to bow to the crowd's applause. His face dropped at the sight of them. The deputies came in from the sides.

"What's going on here?" Foster asked.

Mendez stepped forward. "Mark Foster, you're under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Gina Kemmer. You have the right to remain silent-"

Foster went chalk white and looked at the deputy approaching him with handcuffs.

"Don't run," Mendez warned him. "Don't do it."

But like any cornered animal, Foster's strongest instinct was flight.

People in the audience gasped and shrieked as he bolted to the left of Hicks and dashed for a side door. Mendez sprinted after him, catching him by the back of the collar as he got the door open, and running him through the door and face-first into a stone pillar.

Slapping his own cuffs on Foster-now sporting broken gla.s.ses, a broken nose, and a split lip-he said, "I told you not to run."

Vince was waiting for them in the interview room. He had made himself at home with a cup of coffee, a couple of file folders, a notepad he was scribbling on when they came in the door.

He glanced up at Foster over the top of his reading gla.s.ses.

"Mr. Foster," he said, standing up and offering his hand-reminding Foster he was still in cuffs. "Vince Leone."

"Mr. Foster had it in his head he might outrun me," Mendez said, depositing Foster on a chair.

Vince frowned. "Oooh ... never run, Mr. Foster. It makes you look guilty."

"I haven't done anything."

"Then why did you run?" Vince asked, taking his seat. "See how that works?"

"I'm being hara.s.sed."

"No, I believe you're being arrested. Which will follow with being booked and fingerprinted and deposited in the county jail."

He made a couple of notes, referred back a few pages, took his gla.s.ses off and set them aside.

"Gina Kemmer regained consciousness this afternoon."

"That's good news," Foster said.

"Not for you. Gina tells us you shot her and dumped her down an abandoned well and left her for dead."

"That's absurd!" Foster said, trying to laugh. "Gina is a friend! She's confused. She must have a concussion or something."

"No, actually, she doesn't. She broke her leg during the fall, but she didn't hit her head. There's nothing but layers and layers of garbage down at the bottom of that well. A pretty soft landing."

"Why would I do that to her?" Foster asked.

"Here's another tip for you: Never ask a question you aren't going to like the answer to.

"When Marissa was killed, Gina got scared, on account of she knows a lot of secrets," Vince said. "She's a sweet kid, Gina. She doesn't have the stomach for secrets. She just wants to have her little store, and live in her little house, and have her friends. That's all Gina wants.

"But her best friend gets killed, and she's afraid maybe she knows who did it. She figures to get out of Dodge before something bad can happen to her. But she should take a rack of cash with her-just in case. So she calls a friend-you. You'll give her a little 'loan,' she thinks.

"The next thing she knows, she's in the trunk of your car."

Foster shook his head. "That never happened."

"I can tell you haven't done this a lot, Mr. Foster," Vince said. "Tip number three: Don't deny what can be proved absolutely."

"We've impounded your vehicle, Mark," Mendez said. "It's in our garage, and as we sit here, evidence technicians are going through that trunk with a fine-toothed comb-literally. All they need to find is one hair."

"Do you own a handgun, Mr. Foster?" Vince asked.

"No."

"If you do, and it's registered, we'll find out," Mendez said.

"I don't own a gun."

"Does Darren Bordain own a gun?"

"You would have to ask him."

"Oh, we will," Mendez said.

"You don't strike me as the kind of guy who reacts aggressively to situations as a rule, Mark," Vince said. "You must have felt very threatened by Gina. You must have thought she could cause you to lose something or someone very important to you. Your career, for instance."

"She threatened to tell Bruce Bordain about you and Darren, didn't she?" Mendez said. "Bruce sits on the board at McAster. If he wanted you gone, you'd be gone."

"You define yourself by your career, don't you, Mark?" Vince said. "You're proud of what you've achieved. People your age don't reach the status you've reached in your world, do they?"

"Or did you do it for Darren?" Mendez asked. "If Gina let that secret go ... Bye-bye, political career. I wouldn't be surprised if the old man disowned him, either. Even if Haley Fordham is his kid."

Foster sighed. "You might notice I'm not partic.i.p.ating here. I don't have anything to say-other than that I didn't do it."