"Where does your vie come in?" said Banks. "The Argent woman?"

Milo said, "She could've come across the drug scam. Or found out something from Peake she wasn't supposed to."

"Or, she was part of the drug scam."

Silence.

"Why," said De la Tone, "did Peake start prophesying?"

"Because he's still psychotic," I said. "Crimmins made the mistake of divulging what he was going to do, figuring Peake would keep his mouth shut. Don't forget, Peake's been mum for sixteen years about the Ardullo murders. But recently something-probably the attention Claire paid him-opened Peake up. He got more verbal. Started to see himself as a victim-a martyr. When I brought up the Ardullos, he assumed a crucifixion pose. That could make him a threat to Crimmins. Maybe the role Crimmins has hi mind for him is victim."

"Not if he's the one sliced that woman up on the I-Five."

"Not necessarily," I said. "In this case monster and victim aren't mutually exclusive."

Banks ran his hands down his lapels, looked up at the helicopters.

"One more thing," said Milo. "That fence wasn't cut tonight. There was some oxidation around the edges."

"Well rehearsed," I said. "Just like any other production.

That's the way Crimmins sees life: one big show. He could've come anytime, set the stage."

"What a joke," said Banks. "Place like this and they take keys home."

"Not that it matters," said De la Torre. To Milo: "You ever seen a maximum-security prison that wasn't full of dope and weapons? Other than my mother-in-law's house."

"Can't stop inhuman nature," said Banks. "So now Crimmins and Peake are heading back to the hometown? Why?"

"The only thing I can think of is more theater. A script element. What I don't get is why Crimmins would leave that woman on the freeway. It's almost as if he's directing attention to Treadway. So maybe he's deteriorating. Or I'm totally wrong-the escape's a one-man operation and Peake's fooled everyone. He's a calculating monster who craves blood, is out to get it any way he can."

Banks studied his notes. "You're saying the Ardullo thing might've been financial revenge. Why kill the kids?"

"You ruin my family, I ruin yours. Primitive but twisted justice. Derrick might have planned it, but at twenty he lacked the will and the stomach to carry out the massacre himself. Then Peake entered the picture and everything clicked: the village lunatic, living right there on the Ardullo ranch. Derrick and Cliff started spending time with Peake, became his suppliers for porn, dope, booze, glue, paint. Psychopaths lack insight about themselves, but they're good at zeroing in on other people's pathology, so maybe Derrick spotted the seeds of violence in Peake, put himself in a position to exploit it. And it was a no-risk situation: if Peake never acted, who'd ever know the brothers had prodded him? Even if he said something, who'd believe him? But he did follow through, and it paid off, big-time: Carson Crimmins was able to sell his land; the family got rich and moved to Florida, where the boys got to be playboys for a while. That's one big dose of positive reinforcement. That's why I called Peake a major influence on Crimmins."

"Crimmins didn't worry about Peake blabbing back then," said Milo, "but now it's different. Someone's listening."

"Maybe Claire was involved in the drug scam," I said, "but unless we find evidence of that, my bet is she died because she'd learned from Peake that he hadn't acted alone. And she believed him. Believed in him. Because what she was really after was rinding out something redeeming about her brother. Symbolically."

"Symbolically," said De la Torre. "If she suspected Crimmins, what was she doing getting in that Corvette?"

"Maybe she got involved with Crimmins before Peake started talking. Crimmins held himself out as a cinematic hotshot, a struggling independent filmmaker trying to plumb the depths of madness or some nonsense like that. He calls his outfit Thin Line-as hi walking the border between sanity and insanity. Maybe he asked her to be a technical adviser. The guy was a con; I can see her falling for it."

"Something else," said Milo. "If Peake's blabbing to Claire, he's telling her about Derrick Crimmins. The guy she knows is George Orson."

That made my heart stop. "You're right. Claire could've told Crimmins everything. Fed him the very information that signed her death warrant."

"Eye wounds," said Milo. "Like the Ardullo kids. Only he sees. No one else." He rubbed his face. "Or he just likes carving people's eyes."

"Evil, evil, evil," said Banks, in a soft tight voice. "And no idea where to find him."

The helicopters' sky-dance had shifted westward, white beams sweeping the foothills and whatever lay behind them.

"Waste of fuel," said De la Torre. "He's got to be on the road."

Chapter 35

Milo and the sheriffs did more cell-phone work. Better suits and they might have looked like brokers on the make. The end result was more nothing: no sightings of Peake.

Milo looked at his watch. "Ten-fifty. If any reporters are playing with the scanner, this could make the news in ten minutes."

"That could be helpful," said Banks. "Maybe someone'll spot him."

"I doubt Crimmins has him out hi the open," I said.

"If he's with Crimmins."

Milo said, "CHP says the vie from the freeway was transported. I thought I'd hit the morgue."

"Fine," said Banks. "Let's exchange numbers, we'll keep in touch."

"Yeah," said Milo. "Regards to Petra."

"Sure," said Banks, coloring. "When I see her."

In the past, Milo had sped through the eucalyptus grove. Now he kept the unmarked at twenty miles per, used his high beams, glancing from side to side.

"Stupid," he said. "No way they're anywhere near here, but I can't stop looking. What do you call that, obsessive-compulsive ritualism?"

"Habit strength."

He laughed. "You could euphemize anything."

"Okay," I said. "It's canine transformation. The job's turned you into a bloodhound."

"Naw, dogs have better noses. Okay, I'll drop you off."

"Forget it," I said. "I'm coming with."

"Why?"

"Habit strength."

The body lay covered on a gurney in the center of the room. The night attendant was a man named Lichter, paunchy and gray-haired, with an incongruously rich tan. A Highway Patrol detective named Whitworth had filled out the papers.

"Just missed him," said Lichter. The bronze skin gave him the look of an actor playing a morgue man. Or was I just seeing Hollywood everywhere?

"Where'd he go?" said Milo.

"Back to the scene." Lichter placed his hand on a corner of the gurney, gave the sheet a tender look. "I was just about to find a drawer for her."

Milo read the crime-scene report. "Gunshot wound to the back of the head?"

"If that's what it says."

Folding the sheet back, Milo exposed the face. What was left of it. Deep slashes crisscrossed the flesh, shearing skin, exposing bone and muscle and gristle. What had been the eyes were two oversized raspberries. The hair, thick and light brown where the blood hadn't crusted, fanned out on the steel table. Slender neck. Blood-splashed but undamaged; only the face had been brutalized. The eyes… the slash wounds created a crimson grid, like a barbecue grilling taken to the extreme. I saw freckles amid the gore, and my stomach lurched.

"Oh, boy," said Lichter, looking sad. "Hadn't looked at it yet."

"Look like a gunshot to you?"

Lichter hurried to a desk in the comer, shuffled through piles of paper, picked up some stapled sheets, and flipped through. "Same thing here… single wound to the occipital cranium, no bullet recovered yet."

Gloving up, he returned to the gurney, rolled the head carefully, bent, and squinted. "Ah-see."