Stuart Kaminsky - Deluge

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you weren't doing it for the money he was paying you."

"I didn't do it at all," he said. "I just like talking, imagining that- "

"Detonators?" she said. "You purchased detonator caps through a low-level drug dealer named DJ Riggs. He can identify you."

"A drug dealer," Custus mused. "They make fine witnesses, I'm told."

"This one's a hero. Saved a baby's life this morning."

"You have the imagination of Rabelais. Down a dark and winding road into a forest wherein dwells an avatar, an avenging angel by the name of Stella. Now, if you would, I'd like that medication and a long sleep. And in the morning, I should like to open my eyes and see not your beauty but the face of an attorney assigned to defend me. In any case, much as I love talking, I'm going to close my eyes and dream of you."

"Connor Custus," she said, "you are under arrest for the murder of…"

And even without the comfort of medication, he closed his eyes and was asleep.

Ellen Janecek went to the door of the hotel room.

She checked the dead bolt and resisted the urge to look through the small glass circle in the door. She had seen a movie in which a man had put his eye to one of those peepholes. A single shot had come through the hole and burrowed into his brain. She had also seen a television episode in which a man had gone to a door after someone knocked and was torn to pieces by a shotgun volley through the thick wood panels.

Ellen stood at the side of the door and said, "Who is it?"

"Message from the front desk," came a male voice.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. An envelope dropped at the desk. Man asked that it be delivered to you."

"What man?"

"I wasn't on the desk when it came."

"Slip it under the door," she said.

"I don't think it will fit."

She looked down at the bottom of the door. There was about a quarter of an inch opening.

"Try," she said. "If it doesn't fit, just leave it in front of the door."

"I can't do that," he said.

"Then take it back to the desk."

Something scuttled by the door and a thin, white envelope poked under the small opening.

"Anything else I can do?" he asked.

Maybe he was just waiting for a tip. He wasn't going to get one, not if it meant opening the door.

"Nothing," she said.

"Right," said the man.

She pressed against the wall and listened. The thin carpeting masked his footsteps. She thought she heard a slight jingle, maybe keys in his pocket. The sound moved away. She reached down, pulled the envelope in and quickly pressed herself back against the wall next to the door.

She did not panic. Panic was not part of her being. Caution was. He had almost tricked her. She should have known that the call had not come from Jeffrey. She should have known it wasn't his voice no matter how much the caller had tried to hide the truth. But she loved Jeffrey. There was no question about that. She was no child molester, not like the others in the group. This was unfair, but she had grown used to life being unfair.

She tore open the envelope.

The note inside read: "Ellen, Another time. Another place. Adam."

"Mr. Sunderland. Police."

Paul Sunderland had been reading a book, Thomas Friedman, The World Is Flat. Well, he had been trying to read it, but he kept imagining the mutilated bodies of the three people who had been in his group only two days ago. He kept imagining the man he had known as Adam, the quiet, calm man who listened thoughtfully as other people talked. He could imagine Adam standing over Patricia Mycrant with a knife in his hand. What he could not imagine was what the police had said Adam had done with the knife.

Paul got up, put the book aside. The hotel room smelled musty. He hadn't brought his inhaler. It would be a long night, a sleepless night.

"Yes?" he called.

"We think Adam Yunkin is in the hotel," said the policeman. "He just left a note for Miss Janecek."

"How did he-?" Sunderland began.

"He called her cell phone. She told him where she was. We've got to move you both to another location. Detective Flack is on the way."

"Oh shit," mumbled Sunderland.

"Let's go," the policeman said urgently. "Leave your things. We'll have someone bring them."

Sunderland was still dressed but barefoot. He moved to the door and said, "I've got to get my shoes and then…"

He opened the door.

Somehow he wasn't surprised. Did he know, suspect at some level that he would be facing Adam Yunkin? Paul was at least as big as the man he knew as Adam. Paul was also in good shape. Forty minutes each morning at the gym, twenty of those all out on the stationary bike. The man he had known as Adam didn't appear to be armed, but Paul knew that was certainly not the case.

"Come in," Paul said calmly.

Keith limped into the room, closing the door behind him. Could Paul lure him farther in, away from the door? If he could just get him away from the door, Paul could beat him into the corridor. Where the hell was the real cop, the cop who was supposed to be guarding him?

"Let's talk," said Sunderland.

"About what?"

"You," said Sunderland.

"Nothing to say," said Keith.

They stood facing each other. Keith stood between Paul and the door.

"I didn't molest that boy," said Sunderland.

"You're lying," said Keith evenly.

Sunderland shook his head and said, "No. The boy lied. That lie changed my life, almost ruined it."

"In the sessions, you said- " Keith began.

"I needed the confidence of everyone in the group if I was going to help them. I needed your confidence. I never got it."

Keith Yunkin hesitated.

"You're lying to save your life," he said.

"No, I'm telling the truth."

Sunderland's eyes met Keith's. He was convincing. Paul Sunderland made his living by being convincing. Keith was not convinced. He took the knife out of his pocket and flipped it open.

Sunderland played it out, eyes meeting Keith's with sympathy he really felt and with fear, which he hid.

Paul made his dash for the door. Paul didn't make it.

Mac got to the hotel lobby just before Flack arrived. When they got off the elevator on the sixth floor, they found Mike Danielson, the uniformed officer who had been guarding Paul Sunderland, kicking against the door of a linen closet in which he sat, hands tied behind his back. His head was a hood of blood.

"Didn't see him," Danielson muttered as Mac pressed a gauze pad from his kit against the wound. "Did he…?"

Flack untied Danielson quickly. Then he joined Mac, who was headed for Sunderland's room. The door was closed but not locked.

Paul Sunderland lay on the musty carpeting, pants and underwear pulled down, shoeless, head turned to his left, looking at nothing.

"What do you see?" asked Flack.

"Rage," said Mac, wiping blood away from the dead man's thigh. "And this."

Flack looked over the kneeling Mac's shoulder, saw the letter M cut deeply into the flesh, checked his watch and said, "He got it done in one day, the anniversary of his brother's death, A-D-A-M. "

"One question left," said Mac.

"What?" asked Flack.

"Is he done spelling?" asked Mac.

MORNING. THE MAN KNOWN as JIM PARK, whose name had been Jung Park before he legally changed it, was late for work. He had never been late, not in the six years he had worked for Sunstar Digital Service Laboratories. Damned subway. He would explain the situation to Walter Parasher, whose name before he legally changed it was Akram, which meant "most generous," which Jim sincerely hoped would be his guiding principle when Jim walked tardily into the office.