None of it made much sense.

"You mean to tell me," he said when the priest had finished, "that they had this kid in their home for weekends, whole weeks at a time, and never laid a finger on him?"

"Treated him like a king, according to Danny."

"And then as soon as the adoption is official the guy slices the kid up. What's the story there? What's it mean?"

"It means I screwed up, that's what it means."

Renny saw the tortured look in Father Ryan's eyes and felt for him. This guy was hurting.

"You did all the routine checks?"

The priest jumped up from the sofa and began pacing the length of the small room, rubbing his hands together as he moved back and forth.

"That and more. Sara and Herb Lorn came up as white as that snow falling outside. But it wasn't enough, was it?"

"Speaking of Sara—any idea where she is?"

"Probably dead, her body hidden somewhere back at that house. Damn! How could I let this happen?"

Renny noticed that he wasn't passing the buck, wasn't blaming anyone but himself. Here was one of the good guys. Weren't too many of those around.

"No system is perfect," Renny said in what he knew was a pretty lame attempt to console the poor guy.

The priest looked at him, sat back down on the sofa, and buried his face in his hands. But he didn't cry. They sat that way in silence for a while until a doctor in surgical scrubs barged in. He was graying, in his fifties, probably robust-looking when he hit the golf course, but he was pasty-faced and sweaty now. Looked like he'd been on a week-long bender.

"I'm looking for the man who brought Daniel Gordon in. Which one of you—?"

Father Ryan suddenly was on his feet again, in the doctor's face. "That's me! Is he all right? Did he pull through?"

The doctor sat down and ran a hand over his face. Renny noticed that it was shaking.

"I've never seen anything like that boy," he said.

"Neither has anyone!" the priest shouted. "But is he going to live?"

"I—I don't know," the doctor said. "I don't mean his injuries. I've seen people mangled in car wrecks worse than that. What I mean is, he should be dead. He should have been dead when he was wheeled in here."

"Yes, but he wasn't," Father Ryan said, "so what's the point of—?"

"The point is that he lost too much blood to have survived. You found him. Was there much blood there?"

"All over. I remember thinking that I never knew the human body could hold so much blood."

"That was a good thought. Was he bleeding when you found him?"

"Uh, no. I didn't think about it then, but now that I look back… no. He wasn't bleeding. I guess he'd just run out of blood."

"Bingo!" said the doctor. "Exactly what happened. He ran out of blood. Do you hear what I'm saying: There was no blood in that boy's body when he got here! He was dead!"

Renny felt the skin at the back of his neck tighten. This doc was sounding crazy. Maybe he'd been on that bender after all.

"But he was conscious!" Father Ryan said. "Screaming!"

The doctor nodded. "I know. And he remained conscious through the entire operation."

"Jesus!" Renny said, feeling like someone had just driven a fist into his gut.

Father Ryan dropped back onto the sofa.

"We couldn't find any veins," the doctor said, talking to the air. "They were all flat and empty. You see that in hypovolemic shock, but the child wasn't in shock. He was awake, screaming in pain. So I did a cut-down, found a vein, and canulated it. Tried to draw a blood sample for typing but it was dry. So we started running dextrose and saline in as fast as it would go and took him upstairs to start suturing him up. That was when the real craziness started."

The doc paused and Renny saw a look on his face that he'd occasionally seen on older cops, thirty-year men who thought they'd seen everything, thought they were beyond being shocked, and then learned the hard way that this city never revealed the full breadth of its underside; it always held something in reserve for the wiseguy who thought he'd seen it all. This doc probably had thought he'd seen it all. Now he knew he hadn't.

"He wouldn't go under," the doc said. "Hal Levinson's been my anesthesiologist for twenty years. He's one of the best. Maybe the best. He tried everything he had—from pentathol to Halothane to Ketamine and back and nothing would put that kid under. Even a high-level spinal block wouldn't dent him. Nothing worked." His voice began to rise. "Do you hear me? Nothing worked!"

"So—so you didn't… operate?"

The doc's expression became even bleaker.

"Oh, I 'operated.' I 'operated,' all right. I went into that kid and put everything in his belly back the way it was supposed to be, then I closed him up. And I closed up the holes in his hands and feet too. And he jerked and writhed with every suture and so we had to tie him down. Yeah, he's all back together. He's up in Recovery now but I don't know why. He doesn't need to recover from the anesthesia because none of it took. He's got no blood and I can't give him any because we can't get a sample to type. He should be dead but he's up there screaming with pain but making no sound because his vocal cords are all shot to hell from all the screaming he's already done."

Renny watched in shock as tears began to form in the doctor's eyes.

"I sewed him up but I know he's not going to heal. He's in pain and I can't stop it. The only thing that's going to help that child is dying and he's not doing it. Who is he? Where did he come from? What happened to him? Are there any medical records on him anywhere?"

Father Ryan snapped his fingers. "Here! He had a full neurological workup right here just last year—through the child study team."

The doc dragged himself wearily to his feet. His expression was even bleaker than before.

"You mean I'm going to find this kid in medical records? That means he really exists and this isn't just a nightmare." He sighed heavily. "Maybe they typed his blood."

As he turned to leave, Father Ryan grabbed his arm.

"Can I see him?"

The doc shook his head. "Not now. Maybe later. After I see if I can get some blood into him."

As he stepped out the door, Kolarcik stepped in.

"They just brought in the guy from the house."

"Lorn!" The priest leapt forward. "Let me—"

Renny put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. Gently.

"You stay put for now, Father. I'll want you to ID him, other-wise you stay here for the time being."

"If he looks like Teddy Roosevelt, you've got him. But tell me something. Am I under arrest?"

"No. But you're up to your neck in this, so for everybody's sake, stay put."

"Don't worry about that. As long as Danny's here, I'm here."

Renny had no trouble believing that.

The handcuffs spoiled the picture, but this guy Herbert Lorn really did look like Teddy Roosevelt. Only the glasses were missing. And he was either completely whacked out or was putting on the best damn show Renny had ever seen.

Renny seated himself opposite Lom. The guy's eyes were focused somewhere off in space, like on Mars maybe.

"Your name is Lom? Herbert Lom?" Renny said.

"Don't waste your breath, Sarge," said the uniform who had brought him in, a cocky brat named Havens. "No one could get a word out of him over at the station. His wallet says he's Lom, though."

"Were you at the house?"

"Nah. Wasn't my shift."

"Anybody tell you about the scene."

Havens shrugged. "Said the upstairs bedroom was practically painted with blood."

Just like Father Ryan had said. Renny gave Lom's clothes a careful visual going over.

"These the clothes he was wearing when they found him?"

"Yeah. You don't think we changed him, do you?"

Havens's mouth was going to buy him big trouble someday, but not from Renny. Not tonight. He was too concerned with why there was no blood on Lom's clothes or hands.