But he wasn't. They found the morgue attendant sitting on the floor, in a daze, his skull bloodied. He said Reiser clipped him with a gun b.u.t.t. He was gone. And he'd taken his daughter's body.

Lights and sirens, flying through town pedal to the metal, Doyle driving, Zina hanging on to the dashboard crash bar.

Turning onto the Point Lucien road, he switched off the sirens without slowing. Not that it mattered. Reiser would be expecting them.

"Eavesdropping," Zina said suddenly.

"What?"

"When we were out here before, the girl was fishing. Emil signed for her to turn her back. He said she could eavesdrop at fifty yards. But she was deaf."

"He meant she could read lips."

"That's right. And where would a kid learn to do that?"

Doyle risked a quick sidelong glance, then refocused on the road. "In school," he nodded. "Doctor Bannan teaches hearing impaired kids and she was in the anteroom when her husband and Lehman were arguing about outing Reiser."

"In an office with gla.s.s walls," Zee finished. "The secretary couldn't hear them, but the Doc could have picked up the gist of their argument. And warned Reiser."

"And Reiser killed her husband to-Sweet Jesus!" Doyle broke off. "What the h.e.l.l is all that?"

Ahead of them, the sky was glowing red, dancing shadows flickering through the trees as Doyle whipped the patrol car around, skidding broadside into the Lone Pine parking lot.

The boatworks was engulfed in flame, a seething, crackling inferno fueled by the stacks of dried wood. Black smoke and sparks roiling upward into the winter night. Backlit by the blaze, Emil Rieser was calmly watching the fire consume years of his work. And his daughter. His whole life.

As Doyle and Zina stepped out of the car, Reiser turned to face them, his work clothes blackened with soot, his s.h.a.ggy mane wild. Holding a hunting rifle cradled in his arms.

Doyle carefully drew his own weapon, keeping it at his side.

"Mr. Reiser, we'd appreciate it if you'd put that gun down, and step away from it."

"Not a chance, Stark. Just give me a few minutes. Jeanie wanted her ashes scattered out here, this is my last chance to do for her. Let the fire go a bit longer, then we'll get to it."

"To what?" Zina asked.

"You know who I am, don't you? And what I've done."

"You killed Jared Bannan?" Doyle asked.

"I did the world a favor with that one. I only wanted another month or so. Less, as it turned out. He was gonna wreck the little time Jeanie had left just to squeeze a few more dollars out of the deal. If anybody ever had it comin', that sonofab.i.t.c.h did."

"Was Bannan's wife a part of it?"

"Part of what?" Reiser asked, glancing absently at the fire, gauging its progress.

"Did she know you were going to kill her husband?" Doyle pressed.

"She phoned me, warned me he was going to blow my cover. Tell her I said thanks."

"You can tell her yourself."

"No," Reiser said. "It's too late for that. Fire's about done. Let's get to the rest of it."

"Please don't do anything crazy, Mr. Reiser," Zina pleaded quietly. "Do you think your daughter would want this?"

"All Jeanie ever asked for was an early Christmas. She didn't even get that. Maybe it's an early Christmas where she is now. h.e.l.l, maybe it's Christmas every d.a.m.n day. We'll see."

Zina and Doyle exchanged a lightning glance, reading the vacancy in Reiser's eyes. Knowing what it meant.

"Hold on, Mr. Reiser," Zee said, drawing her automatic. "Please, don't do this."

"Funny, that's what Bannan said. Don't. Please. Something like that. It didn't work for him either." Reiser jacked a sh.e.l.l into the chamber of his rifle. "It's on you two now, lady. You can send me over. Or come along for the ride."

And he raised the rifle.

Doyle fired first, spinning Reiser halfway around, then all three of them were desperately exchanging fire as the boatyard blazed madly in the background, flames and smoke coiling upward, smothering the stars of the winter night. A funeral pyre worthy of a princess.

"Do you think he was really trying to kill us?" Zina asked, fingering the rip in the shoulder of her black nylon POLICE jacket, the only damage from the fatal shootout.

"I don't think he cared. He sure as h.e.l.l didn't leave us any choice." They were in the car, roaring back through town, lights and sirens. Leaving the smoldering boatyard to the firemen and the crime scene team. And the coroner.

"What's your hurry?" Though she already knew.

"Like the man said, it's time to settle up. Any problem with that?"

"Nope. I told the Doc if anyone else died, we'd be along."

"All right then."

It was past midnight when they skidded into Lauren Bannan's driveway. Doyle left the strobes flashing. Wanting the neighbors to know. He hammered on the door. No answer.

"I'm out here," Lauren called.

They circled the house to the rear deck. Lauren was standing by the rail, in black slacks and a turtleneck, looking out over the lake. Slivers of early ice floating ghostly in the dark waters, as far as the eye could see.

"Reiser's dead," Doyle said bluntly. "His daughter too."

Lauren nodded, absorbing it, showing nothing. "Did Jeanie go easily?"

"I ... suppose so," he said, surprised by the question. "She died in her chair, on the dock."

"That's good. It can be far worse, with that type of cancer. What's the rest of it?"

"Emil Reiser killed your husband, Mrs. Bannan. He admitted it. Before we had to kill him."

"I'm sorry it came to that."

"It didn't have to! You could have stopped it! Warned us. The way you warned him. You knew what he'd do."

"No. I didn't know that. I thought-he'd bring pressure on Jared, that he'd contact the marshals or-"

"But you d.a.m.n sure knew what happened after the fact! And you still didn't tell us."

"I couldn't."

"Because of some d.a.m.ned health regulation?"

"No. Not because of the law. I would have broken the law. Perhaps I should have. But my obligation wasn't to you, Sergeant, or even to my husband."

"Triage," Zina said quietly, getting it. "You told us the first day. It was too late to save your husband. Or Reiser. You were protecting the child."

"Jeanie's mother is a hopeless alcoholic, drowning in self-pity, with a violent boyfriend. If I'd warned you about her father, she would have spent her last days in foster care with strangers or even in court. She had so little time left and she was already dealing with so much. I simply couldn't do that to her."

"But you knew Reiser was a murderer!" Doyle raged.

"Actually, I didn't, not to a certainty. But it wouldn't have mattered. You saw them together. She worshiped him. And he treated her like ..."

"A princess," Zina finished.

"What?" Doyle said, whirling on her. "You can't be buying into this crock?"

Zina didn't answer. Didn't have to.

"Are you here to arrest me?" Lauren asked.

Doyle eyed his partner, then Lauren, then back again.

"It's your call," Zina said.

"No," he said slowly. "Not tonight, anyway. But you're not clear of this, lady. You'll be answering a lot more questions before it's done."

"I'm terribly sorry about the way this played out, Sergeant. About what you were forced to do. I hope you can believe that."

"I don't know what I believe," Doyle said, releasing a ragged breath. "Let's go, Zee."

In the car, he sat behind the wheel without starting it, staring into the snowy darkness.

"I know what's bugging you," Zina said quietly.

"What's that?"

"It's one h.e.l.luva coincidence. That warning Reiser, for the sake of his daughter, just happened to make the doc a very rich woman."

"You think she's capable of that?"

"I think she's awfully bright, Doyle. She has the degrees to prove it and she's one very cool customer. So is it at least possible? d.a.m.n straight. But given her choices? I don't know what I would have done."

"Nor do I," he admitted. "I just wish ..."

"What?"

"I wish that kid had gotten her early Christmas, that's all."

"h.e.l.l, maybe she did," Zee said. "Maybe her father was right. Maybe where she is now, it's Christmas every day. Start the d.a.m.n car, Doyle, before we freeze to death."

Doyle nodded, firing up the Ford, dropping it into gear. But as he pulled out, he realized Zina was still eyeing him. Smiling. "Now what?"

"My grandfather Gesh once told me he'd killed many a deer with one perfect shot," she said. "Right through the heart. But sometimes a buck will keep on running, a hundred yards or more. He doesn't realize he's been hit, you see. Right through the heart."

"I don't follow you," Doyle said.

"I know," Zina grinned, shaking her head. "I'm just sayin'."

THE LIVE TREE.

John Lutz.

WITH MORE THAN FORTY NOVELS AND TWO HUNDRED short stories to his credit, John Lutz has demonstrated both the ingenuity and work ethic of early pulp writers who turned out readable, entertaining prose year after year. His most commercially successful book is probably SWF Seeks Same (1990), a suspense thriller that served as the basis for the 1992 movie Single White Female starring Bridget Fonda and Jennifer Jason Leigh. Lutz has served as the president of the Mystery Writers of America and has been nominated for four Edgar Awards, winning in 1986 for best short story. "The Live Tree" was first published in Mistletoe Mysteries, edited by Charlotte MacLeod (New York, Mysterious Press, 1989).

The Live Tree.

JOHN LUTZ.

CLAYTON BLAKE WAS TIRED OF Christmas, and it was still five days away. His four-year-old son, Andy, was curled on the sofa pouting, making Clayton feel about as small as one of Santa's elves. But d.a.m.n it, he was right about this.

His wife, Blair, said, "You're wrong about this, Clay. What would it hurt to buy one more real Christmas tree? It's a big thing to Andy, and he's still so young. He doesn't understand how you feel about Christmas."

Clayton's argument with Blair and Andy had left his nerves ragged. But he was still determined to buy a small artificial tree this year, keep G.o.d-awful Christmas fuss to a minimum. "How Andy feels doesn't change what Christmas really is," he said. "Nothing but a major marketing blitz that starts sometime in October. You know the retail stores make half their profits during the Christmas season?" He peaked his eyebrows in indignation. "Half! I mean, it's reached the point where how well they can con us at Christmas determines how the entire economy's gonna go. The world economy! G.o.dd.a.m.n governments rise or fall on it."

Andy said, "Wanna weal tree." It came out as a pitiful bleat.

Blair looked as if she were suffering physical pain. Then she shook her head, her long blond hair swaying. A beautiful woman still in her thirties. Slightly myopic blue eyes. Bedroom eyes. "Tell Andy about the economy," she said. "He'll understand your position once the two of you have talked about gross national product and the trade imbalance."

There was a clatter on the porch. Stomping footsteps. The mail being delivered. Clayton was grateful for the interruption.

He and Blair both strode to the front door to get the mail. When she saw what was happening she stopped and let Clayton step out onto the porch to collect it. As he pushed outside, the winter wind seemed to slice to his bones like icy razor blades.

He was still cold after he came back in. Just those few seconds outside had chilled him to the quick. Temperature must be near zero. He really hated not only Christmas, but this time of year in general. Gray skies and gloom.

"Twee," Andy insisted.

Clayton hardened his heart and ignored his son. Said with disappointment, "Looks like nothing but Christmas cards." He dropped the stack of mail on the table in the foyer. Laughed without humor at the one envelope he was still holding. It was a longer envelope than the others, and he recognized the return address. The state penitentiary. This would be the yearly Christmas card from his brother, w.i.l.l.y, who was serving time for mail fraud. Clayton said, "The usual card from w.i.l.l.y," and tossed the envelope in with the unpaid bills piling up from Christmas shopping. 'Tis the season to be indebted.