"You're wrong." The detective was shaking her head. "I need him back on his feet by the end of the day, and fully functional. He's on the Reaper's radar now. Or did you really think that firing exactly four blanks was just a coincidence?"

Johanna deferred to Mallory on the subject of psychological terrorism. She wondered if this young sociopath was what Timothy had in mind when he wrote the words, Only a monster can play this game. No case would ever be proven against the Reaper and no justice obtained for the dead, not by normal human means – but perhaps by Mallory's. Johanna's sidelong glance caught her own profile in the full-length mirror hanging on the open bathroom door. She studied the hump on her back without bias and fairly deemed herself the lesser monster in this room.

"There's no one I care about more than Riker," said Johanna. "I would've died before I'd let this happen to him. But you – you pushed him into this confrontation. You might as well have shot him yourself. The game means more to you than he does."

Mallory sat down at the extreme edge of a chair, creating the nerve-jangling illusion of hovering there like a cat set to spring. "You like him so much? Good." She brought one fist down on the coffee table with the force of a hammer. "Then fix him!"

Much could be read into that small gesture of violence. It was no signal of a runaway temper, but deliberate and manipulative. The young detective had a freakish containment of emotion, and this control had come from long practice at trying to pass for normal.

"A quick fix?" Johanna settled into a calm, absolute certainty that Mallory would not physically harm her, and, hence, had lost all power over her. "Riker's not unconscious. I'm sure he's aware of what's going on around him." She nodded toward the hallway that led to Riker's bedroom. "Suppose you go in there, hold him very close and tell him you care if he lives or dies. Or you could shoot him with a real bullet. Either way, there might be a beneficial shock value." And she wondered which of these alternatives Mallory would be most comfortable with. "But I still recommend therapy."

"Years of therapy." The detective's tone was not mere sarcasm but malice. She stood up suddenly, the better to look down on her opponent. "No time, Doctor." Mallory pulled a velvet wallet from her back pocket and plucked out a thin piece of metal. She crossed the room to stand before a small desk. After diddling the lock on a drawer, she opened it and pulled out another weapon. "This is Riker's gun. Six months ago, I cleaned it for him. He's such a slob. He'd never do it himself." She carried the revolver back to the couch and held the muzzle close to the older woman's face, close enough to see that all the exposed chambers held lethal bullets. Had the young police been hoping for a cringe or a tremor? Yes, there was a flicker of annoyance in those green eyes.

"Breathe deep," said Mallory. "Smell the oil? This gun's been cleaned every day since he left the hospital. He's got a new oil can under the sink and three empty ones in the trash – the trash he only takes out once a month."

Johanna wondered if Mallory had been systematically breaking into this apartment to check up on Riker. Of course she had. She passed through locks with such ease.

The detective's body slowly revolved, and her eyes wandered over the chaos of the front room. "So it didn't take me years to figure out what was wrong with him. Look at the mess in this place. But what a nice, well-oiled, spotless weapon." Her fingers curled tightly round the handle of the revolver. "It's insane how many times he cleans his gun." One white hand slowly drifted down to the back of an armchair, touching it lightly, almost a caress. "He sits here with his cigarettes, his bourbon and his gun. The next morning, the ashtray's full, the bottle's empty and the gun is perfectly clean. That's how I know what he's thinking about every night. He's setting up habits, planning his own crime scene – staging it. That's why the empty bottle and the gun oil are so important. They're props. The night he finally decides to do it, I know there won't be a note left behind. He'll want me to believe it could've been an accident. Riker thinks that'll make it easier for me to lose him."

Stunned, Johanna resolved never to underestimate this woman again. She would not be tempted one more time to find Mallory a convenient slot in the range of sociopathic behavior. This creature was standing alone in a category all her own. Whatever she was, she was one of a kind.

The young detective stood at the window. Something on the street below had distracted her. There was a sudden tension in the rising hand that held the gun. She laid the weapon down on the desk blotter, saying, "It's fully loaded, so don't touch it. Just think of it as a bomb. You still think he's got years? She crossed the room quickly and the door closed behind her with a bang.

Johanna stared at the revolver, then looked up to see Charles Butler standing on the far side of the room. He must have heard a good part of the conversation, for his face was sad and sympathetic.

"Riker does that, too," said Johanna. "Always slamming doors."

Charles strolled over to the desk, picked up the gun with obvious distaste and shut it up in the drawer. "Mallory only does it when she's irritated."

"Or to intimidate."

"That, too." He joined her on the couch, easing down on the cushion and giving her a foolish smile as he hunted for some way to arrange his long legs.

Mallory took the stairs at a dead run, feet touching down on every third step and landing in the hall. She ran to the door and pushed into the street. The man she had seen from the window was heading for the subway. She followed at a distance, descending the stairs to the underground train, following the red wig, the black coat and white cane. The man's movements were quirky as he turned to see her coming up behind him. She made no attempt to hide. He dropped his cane, and she stood very still, patiently waiting for him to retrieve it. He backed away, and she took two steps forward. He turned and ran, pausing at the stairs to the lower level, then clutching the rail in his stumbling descent. Cat and mouse, they rode the trains uptown and down.

Johanna stared at her hands. "I thought Mallory was using Riker to get to me… so she could play the game."

"And now," he said, "you realize that it was quite the other way around.

Riker needed help. Her dragging him into this mess, that was brutal – and necessary. I couldn't have done it. Neither could you."

She nodded. "I'm wondering if Mallory might be the better psychiatrist." "Oh, hardly. What she did to him was dangerous. Though I don't think anyone could've predicted this outcome. But Riker's still alive, isn't he?

You know, it was Mallory's idea to move Riker in here. You might say that was for her convenience – so she wouldn't have to drive all the way to Brooklyn to check up on him." Charles's eyes slowly took in the entire room. "This was the only safety net she could devise for him. Now, this is a bit of a stretch for you, given what you think of her, but – "

"She saw Riker's breakdown coming."

"Yes, and long before I did. She always knew how much trouble he was in. Her instincts are superb, and that's quite a compliment to you. She seems to have great confidence in your ability to – "

"She thinks I can fix him in a day. Impossible. There's more to this than a single frightening incident. It could take months just to uncover his history before I could even begin to deal with the anger issues. That's why he slams doors. On some level, he's angry all the time."

"But that's a recent thing with Riker. I agree there's a complex problem here, but you might want to consider the idea that it all began six months ago. Before that – "