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  “They wasn’t really nuns,” Kimble mumbled.

  “That’s sure as hell how I’d play it,” Dolan assured him.

  Kimble turned his angry face back in Dolan’s direction. Glared at him with a single bloodshot eye. “Wasn’t really women neither,” he said.

  Dolan maintained a straight face as he liberated his notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped to a blank page.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Roberta Reeves stared down at her ex-husband. He sat, looking at the floor, with his hands manacled behind his back and a storm trooper hard by each elbow.

  “My God, what have you done?” she demanded of him.

  Paul Reeves looked up and grinned. “Joseph’s conscious.”

  “Don’t be ridic—”

  Mercifully, something in the collective consciousness prevented her from launching into an all-too-familiar tirade. She stopped herself. Stiffened. And then looked questioningly down the hall toward her son’s room.

  “Mrs. Reeves,” a familiar voice called.

  She turned toward the sound. It was Pamela, a registered nurse she knew well.

  “It’s true,” Pamela said. “He’s awake.”

  Roberta’s lower jaw began to quiver uncontrollably.

  “I don’t remember who,” her ex-husband said, “but somebody once said that, in the end, we’re defined by our sins.”

  Without another word, Roberta Reeves hurried across the floor. The sound of her jackhammer heels filled the air. She disappeared into the room.

  What seemed no more than an instant later, she came rocketing back out, clicking over the tiles, carrying a little burned book out in front of her, like an offering. She kept her nose in the air and her eyes locked in the forward position as she marched from the room and disappeared into the elevator.

  “What’s her problem?” someone asked in a low voice.

  They’d suckered him. That much was obvious—even to a dim bulb like Donnely Kimble. First couple of times he’d showed up at the Women’s Transitional Center, the “lesbo central” staff had been patient with him. They’d buzzed him in, offered him a seat and a beverage, and explained that, although Grace’s mother Eve was indeed the center’s founder and executive director, Grace Pressman herself was in no way affiliated with the center. They explained that they’d necessarily developed a rather draconian method of ridding themselves of adventurers, a method to which they would prefer not to resort, as it diverted resources from the valuable work they were doing on behalf of battered women. So nice to see you. Don’t call us; we’ll call you.

  True to their oath, they’d been calling the cops on him for the past two weeks. Every time their security cameras captured his image, they’d lodge a formal stalking complaint with the city police department, who’d dutifully send a cruiser down to cuff him and stuff him, and drag him to the station house for a couple of hours of slap and tickle before dumping him back on the street.

  So, by the time the cops dropped him on the same corner for the fifth or sixth time, the dykes were ready with Plan B. No sooner had his shoes hit the pavement when the elusive Grace Pressman came walking out the front door of the place, turned left, and started hoofing it up South Harvey Boulevard in a light rain.

  At least Donnely Kimble thought it was her. As far as he knew, there was only that one photograph. The one where she was being led out of court by a couple of corrections officers; she was staring at the pavement, with her pure white hair hanging down over her face like a bridal veil. But, you know—how many six-foot albino women could there be in one town? Had to be her. He figured for once in his life, he’d gotten lucky.

  He crossed the street, bobbing and weaving among the parked cars, trying to stay unobtrusive, as she hurried up the street. The neon green outline of a crouching cat adorned the soles of her tennis shoes, blinking in and out of view, as she strode along.

  By the time they’d covered three blocks, and turned left onto North Winslow Street, Kimble was beginning to suspect that stealth wasn’t necessary. She never once looked back to see if she had a tail. And, as nearly as he could tell from that distance, she wasn’t checking her back in the store windows either. That’s when his internal dive-horn should have sounded, when some alarm should have assaulted his consciousness and refused to let him continue. Anybody with as many people looking for her as Grace Pressman should have been warier than a Haitian chicken, but she wasn’t. She and the cats were just bopping along the sidewalk, like they were out for a Sunday stroll.

  Two more blocks, and the rain began to thicken just as Grace Pressman slid between cars and slipped out into the street. Kimble watched as she walked through the ornate wrought-iron gate and started across the wet parking lot toward Union Station.

  The train station was hopping, the parking lot jammed beyond capacity. A steady stream of vehicles crept along the aisles, joined hood to trunk like elephants, brake lights casting long red arrows across the wet pavement as they crawled along, hoping to be johnnie-on-the-spot should someone abandon their much-coveted parking slot. Above it all, the big brass clock in the tower read four-o-seven.

  He hit the big set of brass doors at the north end of the building in time to see Grace Pressman duck into the ladies’ room. He breathed an inward sigh of relief and found himself a seat about twenty yards away, over by the newsstand, where the damp gray light never ventured.

  By the time twenty minutes had passed, Kimble had worked himself into a lather. Thinking maybe there must be another way out of the ladies’ john. That he’d somehow lost her, and once again fucked up his big chance. That’s when they came out of the ladies’ room. The nuns, a pair of them, like they were joined at the hip or something. He watched as the long black robes and ornate headpieces made a beeline for the great outdoors. His first thought was that they must have been in the john a hell of a long time, ’cause they hadn’t gone in since he’d been sitting there, and that was the better part of twenty minutes now.

  Then he figured taking a leak in those nun getups was pretty much bound to be a pain in the ass. Probably had to get right down to their skivvies before they could do their business, which got him to wondering what nun skivvies looked like. Probably had padlocks on them, and that’s how come they were in there so long.

  They were about halfway across the polished stone floor when those neon green cats began flashing at him from beneath the robe on the left. That’s when they set the hook. Got him thinking what a smart guy he was to have noticed such a thing. How a regular guy would have let them march right out the door, but not Donnely Kimble. No sir. Ol’ Donnely was way too slick for that.

  The air smelled of transience and wet gravel. He hung back and watched as the sisters of mercy marched single file down the metal walkway that ran parallel to the train tracks, watched until they disappeared into the black mouth of the railroad maintenance tunnel that ran under Tremont Street, and then slipped off his shoes and followed them inside.

  He still had his loafers pinched between his fingers when he reached the far end of the tunnel. Instinctively, he stopped in his tracks, then sidestepped quickly to his left, pressing his body behind a humming electrical transformer. The vibrating cylinder of metal was cold and damp against his cheek.

  Ten yards ahead, one of the sisters stood with her back to him. Just standing there. Doing nothing. Like she was praying or something. Kimble held his breath and frowned. Why had she stopped there? Where the hell was the other one?

  Donnely Kimble had just begun to wonder how anybody could get lost in a tunnel when sister number one suddenly took off her nun hat and dropped it onto the sidewalk. Her pure white hair seemed to glow in the gloom.

  Donnely Kimble smiled. It was her all right. And it was then, in that final self-congratulatory moment, when things went completely to shit.

  The nun now reached up and pulled the white hair from her head, revealing
a shiny bald pate, with some kind of geometric tattoo at the crown of the skull. As Kimble was busy collecting his lower jaw and trying to process the information, the scrape of a shoe jerked his attention back toward the tunnel entrance.

  That’s when somebody kicked him in the nuts so hard his ears popped. Just like on an airplane. One second, everything was a dull, muddy roar and then bingo—everything crackled, crisp and clear. The hiss of the rain. The buzz of the electrical transformer. All of it. Except, on this unfortunate occasion, every muscle in his body cramped simultaneously. He blurted out a great whoosh of breath, bent at the waist and tried to gulp oxygen, all in the half second before something metal hit him flush in the mouth, and the force of the impact turned his world to red.

  He felt his front teeth drop onto his tongue, but couldn’t bring himself to remove either hand from his crotch. He bubbled out a mouth-breather groan, spit his bloody teeth onto the ground, and dropped to one knee. After that, they were on him like wolves, punching and kicking him from all directions at once.

  Next thing he remembered, a couple of firemen were loading him onto a stretcher. Donnely Kimble still had both hands welded to his crotch when they closed the ambulance doors and rolled off down the alley.

  “Arrest him for what?” the Deputy Assistant DA asked. “Negligent Barricading?”

  “He had himself locked in there—”

  “The clinic’s not pressing charges. He’s the kid’s legal guardian. He has his son’s medical power of attorney.”

  “What about the mother? I’m telling you, she was none too happy about this whole goddamn—”

  “They share custody. They both have medical power of attorney. It was part of their divorce settlement. As I understand it, they were in the process of settling the matter this week in court.”

  “He put a lot of people in danger.”

  The Assistant DA leaned in close to the officer’s ear. “Have you thought about the political component of this thing?”

  “What political component is that?” the cop sneered.

  “Guy finds a way to bring his son out of a coma—where the kid’s been for nearly a year—and what do we do? We arrest him? How’s that scan?”

  “What about the woman?”

  “What woman?”

  The officer turned toward the chair where the blond woman had been seated. The chair was empty.

  “She was right there,” the cop said.

  “The operant word apparently being was.”

  The officer clamped his mouth so tight, the muscles along his jawline writhed. “What do you want us to do?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Turn him loose,” the DA said.

  “It’s the cops,” Indra whispered. She was tall, sturdy, and quite dark-skinned, for a Sikh woman.

  Eve Pressman stopped writing, snapped the top back onto the fountain pen, and frowned. “Officer Quinton?” she asked.

  “Uh uh. A new guy.” Indra flashed a rare smile. “Real good-looking.”

  “Send him in,” Eve Pressman said disgustedly.

  Indra was right. The lead cop was good-looking. Early thirties. Six three or four. Even features, wavy ginger-colored hair, and the sort of solid build that made him either a football coach or a cop. A trio of uniformed officers fanned out on either side of the front door, checking the place out and awaiting further orders.

  “Good morning,” the cop said as he crossed the room and stuck out his hand. Eve met his hand with hers. “Sergeant Michael Dolan,” he said.

  “Won’t you sit down?” Eve said, nodding at the nearby leather chair. She knew he’d rather stand; cops were like that. They liked to loom above you in the power position.

  “I prefer eyes on a level with mine,” she said evenly. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Thank you,” he said as he folded himself into the chair.

  “Where’s Officer Quinton?” Eve asked.

  “He’s been reassigned.”

  “What can we do for you, Sergeant?” Eve asked, after an uncomfortable moment.

  “I have a warrant to search these premises.”

  “Search away,” she said. She held out her hand. Dolan leaned forward and dropped the warrant into her palm.

  Dolan waved the uniforms forward, then sat back as the room slowly filled with the sounds of the search. Metal file drawers rolling in and out. Rifled folders and the clunk of furniture being turned upside down, as the uniformed officers checked to see if anything was taped to the bottom.

  The better part of ten minutes passed, until the officer in charge aimed his upturned palms at the ceiling. “The place is wired for sound and pictures. Other than that, it’s cleaner than Nancy Reagan’s ass. Not a scrap of paper. Not a matchbook. Nothin’.”

  “Alright,” Dolan said. “I’ll meet you back at the precinct.”

  By the time Indra had locked the front door behind them and returned to her desk, Eve Pressman had finished reading the search warrant.

  “Who’s this Donnely Kimble?” she asked finally.

  “A local creep you or someone in your organization has repeatedly had arrested for stalking and criminal trespass.”

  “Really? When was that?”

  He checked his notes.

  “Last Friday. Three p.m.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “The previous Wednesday. The Monday before that.” He rolled his wrist as if to say, “and so forth, and so forth.”

  “You’ve quite obviously done your homework, Sergeant.”

  Dolan suppressed a smile. “Yeah—the homework. Now that’s where this got interesting.” He waved a hand. “Usually you do a little work on people’s pasts, you come up with pretty much the same old mundane stuff. Love, hate, lust, greed, stupidity. But with you . . .” He waved the hand again and chuckled. “With you, it’s more like a soap opera. Like something straight out of the movies.”

  When she remained silent, Dolan segued.

  “The Women’s Transitional Center is quite unpopular in certain circles.”

  “What circles are those?”

  “Social Services circles.”

  Eve gave a nearly imperceptible shrug. “Like most governmental bodies, they’re a least common denominator, Sergeant Dolan. They do the best they can, for as many as they can.”

  “Child Protective Services asked me to inquire as to the whereabouts of”—he checked his notes again—“the Royster family. They seem to think your organization had something to do with their disappearance and subsequent failure to appear in family court on Tuesday.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea,” she said.

  Dolan snapped his notebook closed. “They think you do. They think you’re running your own little underground railway system here.”

  She gave him a razor-thin smile.

  “Edwin Royster isn’t somebody you want for an enemy,” Dolan said.

  “Edwin Royster is a homicidal, wife-beating alcoholic and sexual predator who has put his wife Cassie in the emergency room on four separate occasions.” Dolan started to speak, but Eve cut him off. “But because he was very well off, and knew how to work the system, and because Cassie was being treated for bipolar disorder, Child Protective Services awarded custody of their two daughters, Maddy and Tessa, to Mr. Royster, who continued to beat and sexually assault the girls for the next eighteen months.”

  She anticipated Dolan’s next question. “Cassie reported the abuse to every social service organization in the city. To the police. To the mayor’s office. And you know what happened?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Nothing. That’s what happened. When Royster put Cassie in the hospital again, CPS sent the girls to foster homes. Royster and his legal team demanded their return. The law says that unless and until Mr. Royster was proved in court to be an unfit parent, he retained custody of the girls. So, when the system returned his d
aughters to him for the umpteenth time, Cassie Royster did what she had to do.”

  “I take it the girls reported the alleged sexual abuse to Social Services,” he said.

  “Under oath. In court,” she said. “At which point the powers that be concluded the girls had been coached by their unstable mother and sent them right back to live with their father. Since then, they’ve been too terrified to talk about it.”

  An uncomfortable moment passed.

  “Royster’s a city councilman,” Dolan said. “He’s got a lot of juice. Friends in high places. People who owe him favors.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  Dolan abruptly changed the subject again.

  “I understand you were a victim of domestic violence,” he said.

  “My ex-husband threw me down a flight of stairs,” she said, after a pause.

  “Put you in a coma for twenty-seven months.”

  “You have done your homework,” she said with mock admiration.

  “You have a daughter, Grace.” He phrased it as a statement rather than a question.

  “I thought you were here about this Kimble fellow,” Eve countered.

  “There seems to be a persistent piece of urban folklore that says your daughter has . . .” He chose his words carefully. “They say she’s got special powers. That she can pull people out of comas. People the medical establishment says aren’t going to come around. That she figured out how to do it by waking you up. They’ve even got a name for her. They call her the Silver Angel.”

  “How prosaic.”

  “Mr. Kimble claims he was assaulted while following your daughter”—Dolan made a pained face—“or what he thought was your daughter.”

  “I fail to see how we can be held responsible for Mr. Kimble’s delusions.”

  “He’s not the first guy to be deluded like that,” the cop said.

  Eve Pressman looked away.

  “I checked Officer Quinton’s field notes, and made a few of my own,” Dolan said. “Over the past three years five different individuals claimed to have been assaulted while trying to make contact with your daughter.” He read a list of names and dates and injuries. “And that’s just the people who filed a complaint. And considering what slimeballs most of them are, it kinda makes me wonder how many others there might be.”