Byrneand Lucy had coffee at a small restaurant on South Street. Lucy told him thestory. Or, it seemed to Byrne, the part she could bring herself to tell. Shehad been detained by security personnel at a kids'-clothing boutique on South.They said she'd attempted to walk out of the store with a pair of children'ssweaters. The electronic security tags had been removed and were foundunderneath one of the sale racks, but Lucy had been observed walking aroundwith the items, items which had not been returned to the racks. She had nosales receipts on her. Lucy had not resisted in the least.

    'Didyou mean to walk out with these items?'

    Lucyburied her face in her hands for a moment. 'Yes. I was stealing them.'

    Frommost people Byrne would have expected vehement denials, tales of mistakenidentity and dastardly set-ups. Not Lucy Doucette. He remembered her as a bluntand honest person. Well, she was not that honest, apparently.

    'Idon't understand,' Byrne said. 'Do you have a child? A niece or a nephew thatthese sweaters were for?'

    'No.'

    'Afriend's child?'

    Lucyshrugged. 'Not exactly.'

    Byrnewatched her, waiting for more.

    'It'scomplicated,' she finally said.

    'Doyou want to tell me about it?'

    Lucytook another second. 'Do I have to tell you now?'

    Byrnesmiled. 'No.'

    Thewaitress refilled their cups. Byrne considered the young woman in front of him.He remembered how she had appeared in their therapy group. Shy, reluctant,scared. Not much had changed.

    'Haveyou been back to any kind of treatment?' Byrne asked.

    'Sortof.'

    'Whatdo you mean?'

    Lucytold him a story, a story about a man called the Dreamweaver.

    'Howdid you find this . .. Dreamweaver guy?'

    Lucyrolled her eyes, tapped her fingers on her coffee cup for a few seconds,embarrassed. 'I found his card in the trash bin on my cart. It was right there,staring at me. It was like the card wanted me to find it. Like I wassupposed to find it.'

    Byrnegave Lucy a look, a look he hoped wasn't too scolding or paternal.

    'Iknow, I know,' Lucy said. 'But I've tried everything else. I mean everything.And I think it might actually be doing me some good. I think it might behelping.'

    'Well,that's what counts,' Byrne said. 'Are you going to see this guy again?'

    Lucynodded. 'One last time. Tomorrow.'

    'You'lllet me know what happens?'

    'Okay.'

    Theystood on the corner of South and Third. The evening had grown cold.

    'Doyou have a car?' Byrne asked.

    Lucyshook her head. 'I don't drive.'

    Byrneglanced at his van, then back. 'I'm afraid I'm going the other way.' He tookout his cellphone, called for a cab. Then he reached into his pocket pulled outa pair of twenties.

    'Ican't take that,' Lucy said.

    'Payme back someday, then.'

    Lucyhesitated, then took the money.

    Byrneput a hand on each of her slight shoulders. 'Look. You made a mistake today.That's all. You did the right thing calling me. We'll work it out. I want youto call me tomorrow. Will you promise to do that?'

    Lucynodded. Byrne saw her eyes glisten, but no tears followed. Tough kid. He knewthat she had been on her own for a while, although she hadn't brought up hermother this time. Byrne didn't ask. She would tell him what she wanted to tellhim. He was the same way.

    'Am Igoing to prison?' she asked.

    Byrnesmiled. 'No, Lucy. You're not going to prison.' The cab arrived, idled. 'Aslong as you don't carjack this guy on the way home you should be fine.'

    Lucyhugged him, got into the cab.

    Byrnewatched the cab drive away. Lucy's face was small and pale and frightened inthe back window. He couldn't imagine the burden she carried. He'd had the sameexperience of not knowing what had happened to him or where he had gone forthat short period of time when they had declared him dead. But he had been anadult, not a child.

    Thetruth was, Lucy Doucette had a bogeyman. A bogeyman who had kidnapped her andheld her for three long days. Three days of dead zone in her life. A bogeymanwho lived in every shadow, stood waiting around every corner.

    Byrnehad gotten a vision when he hugged her, a sparkling clear image that told himabout a man who—

    —dateswomen with young daughters and comes back years later for the girls. . .something about red magnetic numbers on a refrigerator door. . . four numbers .. .

    1 ...2...0...8.

    Byrnemade a mental note to call Lucy the next day.

Chapter 42

    Jessicalooked around the bedroom. At least they hadn't broken any lamps. They had,however, knocked everything off one of the night stands. She hoped her mother'sHummels were okay.

    Jessicarolled over, gathered the sheets around her. Vincent looked as if he had beenhit by a car.

    'Hey,sailor.'

    'No,'Vincent said. 'No, no, no.'

    Jessicaran a finger over his lips. 'What?'

    'Youare a devil temptress.'

    'Itold you not to marry me.' She snuggled closer. 'What, are you worn out?'

    Vincentcaught his breath. Or tried to. He was coated with sweat. He pushed the coversoff, remained silent.

    'Boy,you macho Italian cops sure talk a good game,' Jessica said. 'Try to get youinto round two? Fuggetaboutit.''

    'Dowe have any cigarettes?'

    'Youdon't smoke.'

    'Iwant to start.'

    Jessicalaughed, got out of bed, went down to the kitchen. She returned with twoglasses of wine. If her calculations were correct - and they usually were attimes like these, she had managed to get new appliances over the past two yearsby playing these moments just right - she would start her maneuvers in tenminutes.

    Onthe other hand, this was not about a new washer or dryer. This was about alife. Their life. Sophie's life. And the life of a little boy.

    Whenshe slipped back into bed, Vincent was checking his messages on his cellphone.He put the phone down, grabbed his glass of wine. They clinked, sipped, kissed.The moment was right. Jessica said: 'I want to talk to you about something.'

Chapter 43

    Theman was stabbed twenty times by his lover. The killer, whose name wasAntony - a bit of Shakespearean irony - then proceeded to cut open his ownstomach, finally bleeding out on the parkway, not two hundred feet from thesteps leading to the art museum. The papers ran stories for nearly a week, thehigh drama too much for them to resist.

    Iknow what really happened.

    Themurder victim had simply made a meat dish on Good Friday and Antony, being thedevout Vatican I Catholic he was, and this being 1939, could not take the shameand guilt. I know this because I can hear their final argument. It is still inthe air.

    Thevoices of the dead are a shrill chorus indeed.

    Considerthe man stabbed over his Social Security check, his final pleas lingering atFifth and Jefferson Streets.

    Orthe teenager shot for his bicycle, forever crying at Kensington and Allegheny,right in front of the check-cashing emporium where the regular customers passby with smug indifference.

    Orthe grandmother bludgeoned for her purse at Reese and West Dauphin, her voiceto this day howling her husband's name, a man dead for more than thirty-fiveyears.

    Itis becoming harder to keep them out. When I bring one to the other side, itquiets for a while. But not for long.