Maggie laughed without humor. "Again and again. But there are degrees of evil, just like anything else. The lesser face of evil is… the man who kills a bank guard in cold blood to get the money. The man who rapes his own wife every single night because he thinks he has the right to. The woman who poisons her child because she craves the sympathy and attention it brings to her. The minister who molests the boys who come trustingly to him. The nurse who murders her patients because she thinks the resources being used to care for them could better be used somewhere else."

"Christ," John muttered. "Lesser evil? Maggie, are all those examples of past investigations?" Yes.

"Investigations you were involved in?"

"Yes."

He couldn't even imagine what she must have gone through, and even as that realization crossed his mind, he suddenly understood what she meant about experiencing evil. Even with the skills of an artist, he couldn't have drawn it. Not even a knowledgeable and imaginative mind could wrap itself around some things enough to understand them, simply because they were beyond all knowledge and comprehension, beyond even the imagination's ability to transcend understanding.

Some things literally did have to be felt to be understood.

He gazed across the width of the island at her calm face with its haunting eyes and finally understood why compassion and perception were literally stamped into her regular, not quite beautiful features. Because she suffered. Because she understood the worst men and women could do to themselves and each other and their children in a way that he would never, could never, comprehend.

It was a long moment before he could speak, but finally he said, "If all that is… lesser evil, then what in God's name is greater evil?"

"Evil that doesn't die."

John shook his head. "I don't understand. Everything dies, eventually."

Maggie hesitated for a minute, obviously struggling, though whether for words or the decision to go into this with him he couldn't have said. "If the universe is… balance… then evil is the negative force, always opposed by a positive force, always kept in check, at least to some extent. But what if a particular positive force in a particular place and a particular moment doesn't do what it's supposed to do, what it's intended, designed to do. There's a… glitch somewhere, a hesitation, a mistake. And that evil isn't balanced, isn't negated by anything positive. Nothing stops it from growing, and growing more powerful, more sure of itself."

"Until?"

"Until not even the death of the flesh can destroy it."

"The body dies-but the negative force within it survives? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes. It survives. Finds itself another vessel so that it's reborn in the flesh. And destroys again. It becomes an eternal evil. So the universe fights to restore the balance, because balance is its natural state. The positive force meant to negate that evil is reborn as well, sent once again to do what it was meant to do the first time around."

"You're talking about reincarnation."

She shrugged very slightly, her eyes never leaving his. "I'm talking about balance. A negative force has to be opposed by a positive force in order to maintain- or restore-that balance. We see it in science all the time. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction."

John nodded. "I remember that much. And it makes sense. But we were talking about evil."

"Yes. We were."

"Eternal evil. That's the greater evil you have to draw? An evil that won't die?" John really hoped disbelief didn't echo in his voice, but he was very much afraid it did. This was just a bit more than he had bargained for.

Hell, who was he kidding? It was a lot more than he had bargained for.

Maggie looked at him for a long moment, then set her cup down on the island. "I can't show you the face of that evil, because I can't see it yet. But I can show you… what it sees. What it does."

This, he realized, was what Maggie had brought him here to see. "Okay."

She came around the island and gestured for him to follow as she led the way to her studio. It was a very large room, obviously though skillfully added to the original house, and it looked the way most artists' studios looked, with a big worktable holding supplies, and shelves on one wall containing various props and bolts of material. There were bins holding canvases of various sizes, a number of completed paintings leaning against the walls but angled so that they weren't clearly visible to him-and one on an easel in the center of the room.

She didn't warn him. And the shock he felt when he looked at that painting was cold, overwhelming, visceral.

"Jesus Christ," he heard himself say hoarsely.

"I wish I could destroy it." Leaning back against the worktable, arms folded tightly as if she were cold, Maggie stared at the painting with a fixed intensity that was almost painful. "I want to destroy it. But the ironic thing is, it's the best work I've ever done. I seem to be too much an artist to destroy my best work. No matter how horrible it is."

He tore his gaze from the painting to look at her for a moment, then moved closer to the easel and forced himself to study it as calmly as possible.

Maggie was right, it was horrible. But she was also right in saying the work was technically superb, with an extraordinary, savage power he'd never seen equaled. It was almost impossible to believe such force had come from Maggie, had emerged from that slender body, from a spirit so sensitive it could literally feel the pain of others.

Trying to get past that, he concentrated on studying the dead woman, barely able to ignore his nausea at what had been done to her.

Maggie said, "This is how I knew she was dead, John. You wondered about that, didn't you? This is how I knew. Because I painted this. Last night, I painted this."

He looked at her quickly. "Who is this, Maggie?"

"Samantha Mitchell. And I've never seen her, so how could I have painted her if this wasn't real?"

John studied the painting again, this time more carefully, then turned and went to Maggie. "It isn't her."

"What?"

"I saw the photograph of Samantha Mitchell, remember? In the case file. Maggie, she looks completely different from this woman. She has short reddish hair and freckles, an upturned nose."

Maggie stared at him. "Not- Then who is she?"

"I don't know. But I think we'd better find out."

It was already dark by the time Jennifer got to the Fellowship Rescue Mission, and since the night promised to be a wet and chilly one, half the available beds had already been claimed by people in need. She only glanced into the two large dormitory-style rooms downstairs, one for men and one for women, where cots were lined in neat rows literally wall-to-wall; with the poor description of the man she was looking for, she doubted her ability to recognize him by sight and so went in search of somebody in charge.

She found Nancy Frasier, the surprisingly young and extremely placid director of the mission, just coming out of an upstairs room with an armful of blankets.

After peering shortsightedly at Jennifer's badge, the director listened to what she had to say and frowned. "David Robson? It's not a name I know, but then most of them don't offer names, especially if they're just passing through. You say he was arrested the other day?"

"Yeah, for causing a disturbance, but nothing serious. He was out within twenty-four hours." She offered the brief description that was all she had.

"And you're trying to find him-"

"Because he may have witnessed a crime or seen something that could help us solve one."

"I'd like to help, Detective, but I couldn't say if he'd even been here before, not by the name or description. You're welcome to ask other staff members, or even some of our regulars-though I will request that you not disturb those already resting for the night."