Byrne had only meant to explain to Diablo the wisdom of leaving town. He now knew that would not happen.

Diablo sprang to his feet, Uzi in hand. Without a word, he spun and fired the weapon. The first twenty or thirty rounds tore up the old sofa that sat less than three feet from Byrne’s right leg. Byrne dove to his left, mercifully landing behind an old cast-iron bathtub. Another two-second burst from the Uzi nearly cut the sofa in two.

God no, Byrne thought, his eyes shut tight, waiting for the hot metal to rip into his flesh. Not here. Not like this. He thought about Colleen, sitting in that booth, watching the door, waiting for him to fill it, waiting for him to return so she could continue her day, her life. Now he was pinned down in a filthy warehouse, about to die.

The last few slugs caught the cast-iron tub. The ringing hung in the air for a few moments.

Sweat stung his eyes.

Then came silence.

“Just want to fucking talk, man,” Byrne said. “This doesn’t have to happen.”

Byrne estimated that Diablo was no more than twenty feet away. Dead center in the room, probably behind the huge support column.

Then, with no warning, came another burst from the Uzi. The roar was deafening. Byrne screamed, as if he’d been hit, then slammed his foot on the wood floor, as if he’d fallen. He moaned.

The room was again silent. Byrne could smell the burned ticking from the hot lead in the upholstery just a few feet away. He heard a noise on the other side of the room. Diablo was on the move. The scream had worked. Diablo was coming to finish him off. Byrne closed his eyes, remembering the layout. The only path across the room was down the middle. He would have one chance, and the time to take it was now.

Byrne counted to three, leapt to his feet, spun and fired three times, head high.

The first shot hit Diablo dead center in his forehead, slamming into his skull, rocking him back on his heels, exploding the back of his head into a crimson blast of blood and bone and brain matter that sprayed halfway across the room. The second and third bullets caught him in his lower jaw and throat. Diablo’s right arm jerked upward, reflexively firing the Uzi. The burst threw a dozen rounds into the floor, just inches to the left of Kevin Byrne. Diablo collapsed, a few more rounds smashing into the ceiling.

And in that instant it was over.

Byrne held his position for a few moments, weapon out front, seemingly frozen in time. He had just killed a man. His muscles slowly relaxed and he cocked his head to the sounds. No sirens.Yet. He reached into his back pocket, retrieved a pair of latex gloves. From his other pocket he removed a small sandwich bag with an oil rag inside. He wiped down the revolver, then placed it on the floor, just as the first siren rose in the distance.

Byrne found a can of spray paint and tagged the wall next to the window with JBM gang graffiti.

He looked back at the room. He had to move. Forensics? This would not be high priority for the team, but they would show. As far as he could tell, he was covered. He grabbed his Glock off the table and ran for the door, carefully skirting the blood on the floor.

He made his way down the back stairs as the sirens drew nearer. Within seconds he was in his car and heading toward the Caravan Serai.

That was the good news.

The bad news was, of course, that he had probably missed something. He had missed something important, and his life was over.

The main building of the Delaware Valley School for the Deaf was an early American design, constructed of fieldstone. The grounds were always well groomed.

As they approached the grounds, Byrne was once again struck by the silence. There were more than fifty kids between the ages of five and fifteen, all running around, expending more energy than Byrne could remember ever having at their age, and it was all completely quiet.

When he had learned to sign, Colleen had been nearly seven and already proficient in the language. Many times, at night, when he tucked her in, she had cried and decried her fate, wishing she could be normal, like the hearing kids. Byrne had just held her at those times, not knowing what to say, not being able to say it in his daughter’s language even if he had. But a funny thing happened when Colleen turned eleven. She stopped wishing she could hear. Just like that. Total acceptance and, in some odd way, arrogance about her deafness, proclaiming it to be an advantage, a secret society composed of extraordinary people.

It was more of an adjustment for Byrne than it was for Colleen, but this day, when she kissed him on the cheek and ran off to play with her friends, his heart almost burst with love and pride for her.

She would be fine, he thought, even if something terrible happened to him.

She was going to grow up beautiful and polite and decent and respectable, despite the fact that one year, on Holy Wednesday, while she sat in a pungent Lebanese restaurant in North Philadelphia, her father had left her there, and gone off to commit murder.

52

WEDNESDAY, 4:15 PM

She is summer, this one. She is water.

Her white-blond hair is long, pulled back into a ponytail, fastened with an amber cat’s-eye bolo. It reaches the middle of her back in a glistening waterfall. She wears a faded denim skirt and a burgundy wool sweater. She

carries a leather jacket over her arm. She has just emerged from the Barnes & Noble at Rittenhouse Square, where she works part time.

She is still quite thin, but it looks like she has put on weight since the last time I saw her.

Good for her.

The street is crowded, so I am sporting a ball cap and sunglasses. I walk right up to her.

“Remember me?” I ask, lifting the sunglasses momentarily.

At first, she is not sure. I am older, so I belong to that world of adults who could, and usually do, mean authority.As in—the end of the party.After a few seconds, recognition alights.

“Sure!” she says, her face brightening.

“Your name is Kristi, right?”

She blushes.“Yep.You have a good memory!”

“How have you been feeling?”

The blush deepens, morphing from the demure demeanor of a confident young woman to the embarrassment of a little girl, her eyes ringed with shame. “I’m, you know, a lot better now,” she says.“That was—”

“Hey,” I say, holding up a hand, stopping her.“There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of. Not one single thing. I could tell you stories, believe me.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” I say.