Hanson stepped forward. “I asked you to get out of my way, buddy.”

“My name is Darwin. I’ll be your killer tonight.”

Hanson had barely tightened his grip on his pistol when Darwin hit him. Hanson was 195 pounds of grade-A muscle, but the punch emptied the air from him, knocked him backward. Hanson clung to the shower curtain rod with his fingertips, all of his tender parts open to the world. Darwin stepped into him, hit him full force just above the solar plexus, sent him tumbling into the bathtub. Hanson’s head smacked the inside of the tub.

Darwin sat on the edge of the tub. Hanson’s legs hung over the rim, dangled above the checkerboard floor. Darwin tugged at the young policeman’s little toe. “This little piggy…” There was just a minimal autonomic response. He looked into Hanson’s face. “Take your time. Shallow breaths. Pretend you’re sucking in air through a straw. The second punch broke the two lower ribs on your left side. Shattered them, actually. Your insides are filled with splinters of bone. Shrapnel to the vital organs. You’re filling up with blood. So, as I said…shallow breaths. Look at me. Stay with me. Do you have a foul taste in your mouth? A rotting-meat taste? Do you?”

Hanson gurgled a response.

“See there? Your liver’s been shredded. Amazing how quickly the bile backs up when the ducts have exploded. The human body…what a playground.”

“W-w-why?” whispered Hanson.

“Always the why with us, isn’t there? We always have to know why. A steer waiting in line to be slaughtered sees the steer in front of it getting its throat slit…do you think either of those dumb beasts wonders why?” Darwin smiled at the handsome young policeman. “It’s a heavy burden being human, isn’t it?”

Hanson tried to speak, groaned, his face twisted on the bottom of the tub.

“I know eighty-seven ways to kill a man with one punch. Eighty-seven kill spots on the human body if the blow is perfectly placed and struck with sufficient force. I don’t mean to brag; I just thought you’d be interested. You’ll be dead in a couple hours, but I wanted us to have some time together first. I so very rarely get to discuss my handiwork. That’s why I asked you about the Warriq crime scene.” Darwin played with Hanson’s toes again. The policeman needed to trim his nails. “I was trying to get your impressions.”

Hanson’s eyes widened.

“I don’t mean to be a poor sport, but there wasn’t a word about the killings in the papers, no footage on television. It was as if it hadn’t really happened.” Darwin stuck his forefinger in the young policeman’s open mouth, hooked him behind the front teeth, and repositioned his head to help him breathe more easily. He wiped his finger on Hanson’s shirt. “Vanity is a weakness, but a man deserves to take pride in his work. At the end of the day, family and friends are nothing-all we have is our work. Every one of my kills is seared in my memory. Every one. I could describe in detail how I killed them, and the look on their face at the moment of death. I could tell you about the way they fought, and what they were wearing and the sounds they made or didn’t make. I could prove it to you. I could run through the complete list”-Darwin smiled, smoothed the young policeman’s eyebrow-“but you don’t have that much time.”

Jill Stanton buzzed open the gate to her ranch and Rakkim drove through, the car bouncing over the dirt road. A drizzle started and he hit the wipers, the stiff rubber leaving a smeared, muddy trail on the windshield. The guy he’d stolen the car from should keep up on the maintenance. Probably didn’t change his oil at the recommended intervals either. Lightning in the distance. Early evening and the clouds blocked the stars, made it darker. He kept his foot heavy on the accelerator.

It had taken him a day to find the gypsy cabdriver who had picked up Sarah in the Zone late Wednesday night. Her neighbor Hennesy had been right, it had been a Ford that had picked her up, but it had been dark green, not maroon.

The cabdriver had recognized the photo of Sarah-his eyes gave him away-but, he just said, what’s it worth to you, brother? Silvery protective medallions picturing Osama and Zarqawi dangled from his rearview, faces turning as the Ford roughly idled. “How much, brother?”

The lights in the ranch house came on as Rakkim navigated the road. He had only been here once before, five years ago when he’d been home on leave, jangled, unable to sleep. Nothing had seemed familiar. Except for Sarah. She had brought him to the ranch, not even telling him where she was taking him, wanting to surprise him. It had worked. Jill Stanton was easy and unaffected, quick to laugh, a woman who had willingly left the glamour of Hollywood behind fifteen years earlier and never looked back. The three of them had ridden horses all morning, then picnicked beside a river, lazing with cheese and fresh peaches and cold cider in the sun.

Sarah had interviewed Jill for How the West Was Really Won: The Creation of the Islamic States of America through the Conquest of Popular Culture. Lousy title, Rakkim had thought, but he wasn’t complaining if it got him the chance to meet Jill Stanton. “The Face” herself, the woman considered the most beautiful and talented actress of her generation.

Jill Stanton’s proclamation of faith while accepting her second Academy Award would have been enough to interest tens of millions of Americans in the truth of Islam, but she had also chosen that moment in the international spotlight to announce her betrothal to Assan Rachman, power forward and MVP of the world champion Los Angeles Lakers. Celebrity conversions cascaded in the weeks after that Oscars night, and according to Sarah’s research, the newly married couple were feted on fifty-seven magazine covers over the next two years. Jill and Rachman had been divorced for eighteen years now, and it had been more than that long since Jill had been in a film, but she remained a revered, if reclusive, personality. Her interview with Sarah was one of the few she had given since retirement, and Sarah had taken pains to safeguard her privacy.

Jill stepped out onto the porch as Rakkim’s car approached. She waved as he pulled up, walking down the steps to meet him.

“Where is she?” said Rakkim.

Jill put her hands on her hips. She was almost sixty years old, still lean and beautiful, radiantly healthy, her long, braided hair salted with gray. She wore boots and jeans and a chamois shirt the color of butterscotch. “You’ve lost your manners, Rakkim. A pity.”

Rakkim stepped up onto the porch and threw open the door. “Sarah!”

Jill was beside him. She smelled like horses. “She’s not here.”

Maybe it was the movie star voice, or the face, but Rakkim knew that she was telling the truth. He had no idea what it would take to make her lie. Jill had turned down multimillion-dollar offers to write a tell-all book about her marriage. She had never advertised a product or endorsed a political candidate. He had only met her that one other time, but if Jill Stanton said that a great white whale was swimming up her driveway, Rakkim would look for a harpoon. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Come on in.” Jill took his hand in her rough grip, led him into the living room. Knotty-pine interior, thick antique carpets, plush sofas and easy chairs. Clean and comfortable. “She left a half hour ago. I’m worried about her too.”

“Call her.”

“She always keeps her phone turned off. She says a cell phone can be used to pinpoint your position. Is that true?”

Rakkim nodded. “Call her anyway.”

Jill didn’t like being told what to do, but she did it. A guest, even a boorish one, had certain privileges. She was right though. Sarah’s phone was off.