standing behind Chase.

Jessica had to blink twice, just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She wasn’t.

FRIDAY, 10:15 PM

In all his years in law enforcement, Byrne was always surprised to finally see the size and shape and demeanor of the people he sought. Rarely were they as big or grotesque as their deeds. He had a theory that the volume of someone’s monstrousness was often inversely proportional to his or her physical size.

Without debate, Andrew Chase was the ugliest, blackest soul he had ever encountered.

And now, as the man stood in front of him, not five feet away, he looked small, inconsequential. But Byrne would not be lulled or fooled by this. Andrew Chase was certainly not inconsequential in the lives of the families he had destroyed.

Byrne knew that, even though Chase was severely wounded, he did not have the drop on the killer. He did not have the upper hand. Byrne’s vision was clouded; his mind was a mire of indecision and rage. Rage over his life. Rage over Morris Blanchard. Rage over the way the Diablo affair had played out, and how it had turned him into everything he fought against. Rage over the fact that, had he been a little better at this job, he might have saved the lives of a number of innocent girls.

Like an injured cobra, Andrew Chase sensed him.

Byrne flashed on the old Sonny Boy Williamson track “Collector Man Blues,” on how it was time to open the door, because the collector man was here.

The door opened wide. Byrne fashioned his left hand into a familiar shape, the first one he learned when he began studying sign language.

I love you.

Andrew Chase spun around, red eyes ablaze, the Glock held high.

Kevin Byrne saw them all in this monster’s eyes. Every innocent victim. He raised his weapon.

Both men fired.

And, as it had once before, the world fell white and silent.

For Jessica, the twin explosions were deafening, stealing the rest of her hearing. She folded to the cold basement floor. There was blood everywhere. She could not lift her head.As she fell into the clouds, she tried to find Sophie in the charnel house of torn human flesh. Her heart slowed, her eyesight failed.

Sophie, she thought, fading, fading.

My heart.

My life.

EASTER SUNDAY, 11:05 A M

Her mother sat on the swing, her favorite yellow sundress accentuating the deep violet flecks in her eyes. Her lips were claret, her hair a lush mahogany in the summer sun.

The aroma of just-lit charcoal briquettes filled the air, carrying with it the sound of a Phillies game. Beneath it all—the giggles of her cousins, the scent of Parodi cigars, the aroma of vino di tavola.

Softly came forth the scratchy voice of Dean Martin crooning “Come Back to Sorrento” on vinyl. Always on vinyl. The technology of CDs had not yet moved into the mansion of her memories.

“Mom?” Jessica said.

“No, honey,” Peter Giovanni said. Her father’s voice was different.

Older somehow.

“Dad?”

“I’m here, baby.”

A wave of relief washed over her. Her father was there, and everything was going to be fine. Wasn’t it? He’s a police officer, you know. She opened her eyes. She felt weak, fully spent. She was in a hospital room but, as far as she could tell, she was not hooked to machines, nor an IV drip. Memory plodded back. She remembered the roar of the gunfire in the confines of her basement. It did not appear that she had been shot.

Her father stood at the foot of the bed. Behind him stood her cousin Angela. She turned her head to the right to see John Shepherd and Nick Palladino.

“Sophie,” Jessica said.

The silence that followed exploded her heart into a million pieces, each one a burning comet of fear. She looked from face to face, slowly, dizzyingly. Eyes. She needed to see their eyes. In hospitals, people say things all the time; usually the things that people wanted to hear.

There’s a good chance that...

With proper therapy and medication . . .

He’s the best in his field . . .

If she could just see her father’s eyes, she would know.

“Sophie’s fine,” her father said.

His eyes did not lie.

“Vincent’s down in the cafeteria with her.”

She closed her eyes, the tears now flowing freely. She could survive

whatever news came her way. Bring it on.

Her throat was raw and dry. “Chase,” she managed.

The two detectives looked at her, at each other.

“What happened...to Chase?” she repeated.

“He’s here. In ICU. In custody,” Shepherd said. “He was in surgery for

four hours. The bad news is, he’s going to make it. The good news is, he’s going to stand trial, and we have all the evidence we need. His house was a petri dish.”

Jessica closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the news. Were Andrew Chase’s eyes really burgundy? She had a feeling they would be in her nightmares.

“Your friend Patrick didn’t make it, though,” Shepherd said. “I’m sorry.”

The insanity of that night seeped into her consciousness slowly. She had actually suspected Patrick of these crimes. Maybe, if she had believed him, he wouldn’t have come to her house that night. And that meant he would still be alive.

An overwhelming sorrow ignited deep within her.

Angela picked up the plastic tumbler of ice water, brought the straw to Jessica’s lips. Angie’s eyes were red and puffy. She smoothed Jessica’s hair, kissed her on the forehead.

“How did I get here?” Jessica asked.

“Your friend Paula,” Angela said. “She came over to see if your power had come back on. The back door was wide open. She went downstairs and she... she saw everything.” Angela teared up.

And then Jessica remembered. She almost could not bring herself to say the name. The very real possibility that he had traded his life for hers tore at her from the inside, a hungry beast fighting to get out.And, in this big, sterile building, there would be neither pill nor procedure that could ever heal that wound.

“What about Kevin?” she asked.

Shepherd looked at the floor, then at Nick Palladino.

When they looked back at Jessica, their eyes were grim.

CHASE ENTERS PLEA, RECEIVES LIFE SENTENCE by Eleanor Marcus-DeChant,

The ReportStaff Writer

Andrew Todd Chase, the so-called Rosary Killer, pleaded guilty Thursday to eight counts of first-degree murder, bringing to a close one of the bloodiest crime sprees in the history of Philadelphia. He was immediately remanded to the State Correctional Institution in Greene County, Pennsylvania.