David Morrell - The naked edge

"That's quite a theory," the lieutenant said.

"Help me prove it," Cavanaugh said.

"You suggested I look at places where Carl Duran lived," Rutherford interrupted, "including where he was stationed in the military. We searched for a pattern of cats and dogs that disappeared. Or maybe they didn't disappear. Maybe they showed up in alleys or ditches, with their guts sliced open and their heads cut off. The police and the humane societies had records of clusters like that. In Iowa City, just before Duran moved away. In Nashville, Tennessee, just before he moved from there. In Columbus, Georgia, next to Fort Benning, where he started his Ranger training. In Tacoma, Washington, next to Fort Lewis, where he got more Ranger training. In Fayetteville. North Carolina, next to Fort Bragg, where Delta Force is trained. Especially just before Duran moved to another base or when he left Delta, there was a high incidence of mutilated animals." Rutherford paused. "Then the bodies started turning up."

"Bodies?" Russell asked.

"Winos and homeless people. All of them stabbed to death. Other winos and homeless people spread a rumor about a man who stalked them at night. Under bridges. In storm culverts. In parks and alleys, in abandoned buildings and junk-filled lots. The rumors were about this man kicking drunks awake or knocking cardboard boxes over and making homeless people crawl out. He gave them a knife and told them to fight. Then he went to work. But the patterns of the cuts showed that he took a long time to finish them off."

"Yeah," Russell said. "The prince of darkness."

Kim threw up again.

After the doctor left, Cavanaugh and Jamie studied Kim where she lay on the bunk.

"An ambulance is coming," Jamie assured her.

Pale, Kim managed to nod.

"The doctor says you're in stress from withdrawal."

"What time is it?"

"Two in the morning."

"Longest time I've gone without Oxy since last spring. At least, I'm not shitting my pants yet."

"The doctor says he's taking you to a detox clinic," Cavanaugh said.

Kim nodded weakly again.

"He says you asked to be taken there," Cavanaugh added.

"Hey." Kim ran her tongue along her dry lips. "I'm into withdrawal this far. I might as well go all the way."

Cavanaugh noted that Kim didn't qualify her statement by saying she would try to go all the way. "Don't worry about your job. It'll be there when you come back."

Kim crossed her arms over her chest and shivered. "I'm not worried about me. It's the two of you…" She shivered harder, asking Jamie, "Do you remember the computer codes?"

"You bet," Jamie said. "Your security's so brilliant, I can't get in otherwise."

"Nail the bastard who's doing this."

Lt. Russell arranged for numerous cruisers to leave the precinct at the same time, so many that Carl's operators couldn't follow them all. But if any tried, the sparse traffic of two a.m. would make the surveillance obvious and easily intercepted.

Cavanaugh and Jamie hid in the back seat of one of those cruisers. They got out at Central Park's West Drive, slipped into the trees, and headed north. From time to time, they paused among murky boulders and bushes to check if they were being followed. Only the park's usual predators stalked them, but Cavanaugh and Jamie gave off such strong don't-screw-with-us vibrations that just four kids made a move, and what happened to them was so swift and decisive that word spread quickly-stay away.

Confident that they'd eluded Carl and his men, Cavanaugh and Jamie crossed Eighth Avenue and proceeded along West Seventy-Third Street. They reached a modest apartment building, outside which a man with a beer can in his hand seemed asleep behind the steering wheel of a car. Farther along, a man walked a dog. Still farther along, a van had a small air vent in its roof, the vent actually an aperture for a surveillance camera.

Outside the front door, Cavanaugh studied a list of tenants. He pressed the intercom button next to the name Zimbalist.

After a moment, a man's voice said, "This better be good. It's the middle of the night."

"Jimmy Lile sent us," Jamie said, mentioning a famous knife maker whose name they'd selected as a code.

A buzzer sounded. Cavanaugh opened the door and stepped into a warm, pleasantly lit vestibule. Halfway along a hallway, a door was ajar. A security camera looked down from a corner. They went up one flight of carpeted stairs and prepared to knock on door 2-C when it opened and Rutherford smiled.

"You two don't look so good."

"You don't need to seem so cheery about it," Jamie said.

"I'm just glad you're all right." He locked the door after they entered.

"What about William?" Cavanaugh asked. "Did he get back to his safe site okay?"

"Nobody followed the car."

In the living room, two men in white shirts had their suit coats draped over chairs, their holstered handguns visible on their belts. They watched a row of closed-circuit TV monitors that provided views of the street, the door to the building, the vestibule, and the stairs leading up.

"You ought to feel flattered," Rutherford said. "The Bureau maintains this place only for prized informants."

"The park." Cavanaugh rubbed his arms. "Cold."

"You've got your pick of two bathrooms to take a hot shower."

"Hungry," Jamie said.

"The pizza's already here," Rutherford said. "With pepperonis, right?"

"And anchovies and black olives."

"And salad and garlic bread. Everything you ordered."

"Are you okay?" Cavanaugh asked in the darkness of a bedroom

"A few bumps and bruises. Nothing serious." Jamie lay next to him.

"I mean, are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be? It's just the usual, isn't it? Fear and trembling."

"You were talking awfully fast in the kitchen. You sound as if you're on speed."

"Adrenaline will do that."

"It should have worn off by now." The darkness seemed to compress around him.

"I guess I'm resistant," she said.

"I just want to make sure nothing's wrong." The darkness got even thicker.

Jamie lay unmoving next to him. Finally, she said, "You mean because I killed somebody?"

Cavanaugh exhaled."Now that you mention it."

"He was trying to kill us."

"Best reason in the world to pull the trigger," Cavanaugh agreed. "You didn't panic. You didn't let the heat of the moment make your hands waver. You acted precisely. You saved our lives."

"Is this what the military calls an 'after-action report'?"

"It's useful to talk. To sort out your emotions."

"In other words, a cheap form of psychotherapy." Jamie remained motionless beside him.

"Imagine that you didn't raise your pistol fast enough. Imagine him firing the rifle, full auto, bullets tearing into us, blood and flesh and bone flying, you and Kim and me dropping."

"Trying some neuro-linguistic programming on me?"

"It's nothing I haven't used on myself."

"When was the first time…"

"First time?" Outside the curtained, bullet-resistant window, a car drove by, its lonely drone echoing in the night. "You mean, the first time I killed someone?"

Jamie didn't answer.

"Twenty years ago," Cavanaugh said. "In Peru."

Jamie turned toward him. "Isn't that where you told me Duran was held prisoner by revolutionaries?"

"They called themselves the PCP. The Partido Comunista del Peru. American soldiers were down there, helping prop up the government. Carl and I and some other Delta Force members were sent to teach the Peruvian soldiers how to put together their own version of Delta. Lord knows, enough officials had been kidnapped that the local government needed experts in hostage retrieval. We accompanied Peruvian soldiers on a mission to rescue a high-ranking politician. The PCP was threatening to kill him if the government didn't release some PCP members the army was interrogating. But somebody leaked the details of the mission to the revolutionaries, and we walked into an ambush. Carl was knocked unconscious by an explosion. The government soldiers he was with ran away. Later, we received photographs showing that Carl was alive, with a message that gave the government three days to release the PCP agitators."