They wrestled in the pitch black, pinned together by pain.

Bruce Wilcox felt his fingers encircle his attacker's neck, and he squeezed hard, trying to choke the life from the man. His useless right hand rose and joined his left, completing a ring around his opponent's life. Wilcox grunted with exertion.

He thought, I've got you, you bastard.

Then pain spiked his heart.

He did not know what it was that was killing him, did not know even who was killing him, only that something had ripped through his stomach and was rising toward his heart. He felt panic surge past the instant agony; his hands dropped away from the killer's neck, tumbling down to his midsection, where they closed around the handle of the knife that had ruined his fight. He felt a single insignificant groan escape from his lips, and he crumpled back to the wet floor.

He did not know it, knew nothing anymore, but it would be almost ninety seconds before he rattled out his last breath and died.

24. Pandora's Box

Her solitude was complete.

Andrea Shaeffer peered down the empty streets, eyes penetrating the gloom and mist, searching for some sign of her companion. She retraced her route for what seemed to be the tenth time, trying to impose reason on the disappearance, only to find that each footstep drove her deeper into despair. She refused to speculate, instead allowing herself to fill up with complaining expletives and anger, as if her inability to find the man were mere inconvenience rather than disaster.

She paused beneath a streetlight and steadied herself by leaning against it.

She would even have welcomed the sight of a Newark patrol car, but none came into view. The streets remained empty. This is crazy, she thought. It's not late. It's barely night. Where is everybody? The rain continued to thicken, hammering down on her. When she finally spotted a single woman, working a street corner in desultory fashion, she was almost pleased, just to see another human being. The woman was slouched against a building, trying to shield herself from the elements, her enthusiasm for another assignation on a cold, wet night, clearly limited. Andrea Shaeffer approached her carefully, producing her badge from about ten feet away.

'Miss. Police. I want a word.'

The woman took a single look and started to move away.

'Hey, I just want to ask a question.'

The woman kept moving, picking up her pace. Shaeffer followed suit.

'Dammit, stop! Police!'

The woman slowed and turned. She eyed Shaeffer with apprehension. 'You talking to me? Watcha want? I ain't doing nothing.'

'Just a question. You see two men come running through here, fifteen, twenty, maybe thirty minutes ago? A white guy, a cop. A black guy in a dark raincoat. One chasing the other. You see them come by here?'

'No. I ain't seen nothing like that. That it?'

The woman stepped back, trying to increase the distance between the detective and herself.

'You're not listening,' Shaeffer said. 'Two men. One white, one black. Running hard.'

'No, I ain't seen nothing, like I told you.'

Andrea felt anger creaking about inside her, pushing at the edge of its container. 'Don't bullshit me, lady. I'll make some real goddamn trouble for you. Now, did you see anything like that? Tell me the damn truth or I'll run you in right now.'

I ain't seen no men chasing. I ain't seen no men at all tonight.'

'You had to see them,' Andrea insisted. 'They had to come by here.'

'Nobody's come by here. Now leave me alone.' The woman stepped back, shaking her head.

Andrea started to follow, only to be surprised by a voice behind her.

'Whatcha bothering people for, lady?'

She turned nervously. The question had come from a large man wearing a long black leather coat and a New York Yankees baseball cap. Rain droplets had formed at the edge of the brim. He was a dozen feet away, striding toward her steadily, his voice, his body, all uttering menace.

'Police, she said. 'Stand back.'

'I don't care who you are. Come down here, bothering my lady here. Whatcha doing that for?'

Andrea Shaeffer seized hold of her pistol and brought it out, leveling it at the approaching man.

'Just stay there,' she said coldly.

The man stopped. 'You gonna shoot me, lady? I don't think so.'

He spread his hands a bit, his face grinning. 'I think you ain't where you should be, lady policeman. I think you ain't got any backup and you're all alone and I think you got some trouble here, maybe.'

He stepped forward.

She clicked back the action, chambering a round, readying the pistol. 'I'm searching for my partner, she said between clenched teeth. 'He was chasing a suspect. Now, did you see a white cop chasing a black man down here, thirty minutes ago? Answer that, and I won't shoot your balls off.'

She dropped the angle of the gun, so that it was pointing toward the man's crotch.

That made him hesitate. 'No,' he said, after pausing. 'Nobody come down here.'

'You sure?'

'I'm sure.'

'All right,' she said. She started to maneuver past the man. 'Then I'm leaving. Got that? Nice and easy.'

She slid by him, walking backward up the street. He turned slowly, watching her. 'You got to get out of here, miss policewoman. Before something bad happens to you.'

That was both a threat and a promise. As she moved away, she watched the man drop his raised hands and heard him mutter an expletive, drawing it out so that it trailed after her. She kept her weapon in her hand and turned and walked away, heading back to where she had left the car, now completely at a loss and totally frightened.

Her hand trembled slightly when she started the ignition. With the car running and the doors locked, she felt a momentary security, which allowed her anger to renew itself. 'That damn stupid sonuvabitch. Where the hell is he?'

Her voice seemed cracked and whining, and she regretted using it. She shook her head hard and stared out the window, for a single moment allowing herself the reassuring fantasy that Bruce Wilcox would come walking out of some shadow any second, out of breath, sweating, wet, and uncomfortable.

She let her eyes wander up and down the street, but she could not see him.

'Damn,' she said out loud again.

She was reluctant to put the car in gear, to move, thinking that sure enough, one minute after she pulled away from the curb he would emerge, and that she would have to apologize later for abandoning him.

'But I haven't, goddammit,' she argued with herself. 'He left me.'

She had little idea what to do. Night had taken a firm grip on the inner city, the rain had redoubled in intensity, steady sheets of gray sweeping down the street. If the cocoon of the car was warm and safe, it only added to her sense of isolation. Putting her hand on the shift lever and switching the car into gear took a painful, exaggerated effort. Driving a single block seemed exhausting.

She traveled slowly, painstakingly searching the area, back to Ferguson's apartment. She paused, staring up at the building but could see no lights. She pulled to the curb and waited for five minutes. Then another five. With no sign of anything, she drove back to where she had last seen Wilcox. Then she drove up and down the adjacent streets. She tried to tell herself, He caught a cab. He flagged down a patrol car. He's waiting back at the motel with Cowart and Tanny Brown. He's down at the precinct house taking a statement from Ferguson, wondering where the hell I am. That's probably it. He probably got him to talk and he's locked in some little room with Ferguson and a stenographer, getting a statement, and he doesn't want to break the momentum by sending someone out to look for me. He figures I'll know what the hell to do, anyway.