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  Part of her work took her into jail cells and courtrooms, where she ran tests and conducted interviews to determine whether or not a man was legally sane or medically insane, competent to stand trial or not.

  “So, why couldn't I have seen the truth about Stonecoat?” she wondered aloud.

  Like any man who faced extreme trauma, pain, and suffering, he had a right to the armor he had built up around himself, his protective coat. Stonecoat was an apt name for the man. Trauma permanently changed a man, any man. Why should Lucas Stonecoat be any different? Nowadays, he naturally leaned more toward a conservative and safe lifestyle. Naturally he did not want to go out of his way to risk himself. Unfortunately, his reaction to her and her offer was all too normal.

  In her profession, she saw all the wide spectrum of machismo in the male cop—and in many a female cop as well. She saw the gung-ho, anxious to face down death and prove some private code of valor, and she saw those who feared not only the street and the job they had committed themselves to, but their own shadows after a brush with death. She saw some ruthless cops, some reckless cops, and others who were careless and foolish, while some were careful and cautious to a fault, a fault that could get a partner killed.

  Every man reacted to the streets differently, and little wonder, given the variety of experience of each new recruit.

  So maybe the Cold Room was easy for Lucas Stonecoat, a haven of a place to spend his second career as a cop in absolute safety, without risks and far removed from the trauma of his past in Dallas. She had thought the Cold Room her ally in fetching him to her side. The Cold Room, with its walls closing in on his Indian soul, she had believed, must convince Lucas that if he did not join forces with her, his spirit would wither and die.

  But perhaps that spirit she had heard about had already died, back in Dallas.

  She knew the Cold Room might easily drive any man crazy, but once more, Lucas was not just any man.

  Despite it all, despite his turning her down, there remained a gentle intrigue surrounding this man, with his tough guy exterior and hidden hurts. There was a mystery about the pained expression—the knowing eyes that seared another's soul. There was a fire, like embers that might burn on forever, deep within the luminous brown eyes of this man, and this mystery had leapt out at her like a cougar and had touched her as she had not been touched by anyone in a long time. He was, clinically speaking, a fascinating case study.

  At the same time, she knew she could not allow this man too close. He was nothing if not dangerous; he was, rightly or wrongly, filled with paranoia and phobias, not to mention his physical problems and the abuse of alcohol and drugs that were all too often the aftermath of a yearlong hospital stay. Besides, she had Conrad McThuen to think of. She and Conrad had been working up to a total commitment now for too long, and she loved Conrad, who was a real estate acquirer and market analyst for the University of Texas at Houston, a man who was outside police and legal circles— and she thanked God for that.

  Conrad's duties with the university had sent him on an extended trip to Italy, of all places. Conrad had pleaded with her to take some time, come away with him, but she had been too obsessed with her recent discoveries to back off now, and so she had declined a romantic getaway with her lover in favor of beating her head against the stone wall of Captain Lawrence's prejudice and attempting headway with Stonecoat, and nothing guaranteed.

  “So what does that say about you, Doctor? Maybe the redskin was right: 'Heal thyself?” she muttered to the empty bed.

  Maybe she needed to soften the Indian up, but how? She could fix him up with a girlfriend. He did great with the zoo animals; maybe he could be half as charming toward Carrie or Dana? Or perhaps the more exotic Abigail?

  She lay back against her pillows, contemplating her role as Cupid, soon allowing sleep to reclaim her, the thought of playing matchmaker to Lucas Stonecoat swirling about her brain like a whirling dervish, perhaps determined to find an alternative to the idea of matchmaking—maybe blackmail?

  It wasn't an idea she relished, and it certainly wouldn't enhance her already shaky beginning with Stonecoat, but if it was all she had... maybe...

  FIFTEEN

  A fire raged in the gaping, open mouth of the giant incinerator, the resultant heat singeing the hair on the thick arms of the man standing before it. With a grunt, he lifted a final shovelful of black coal and tossed the black rock and ash to feed the fire even further. He stared at the gauge, which was nearing nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

  “Close enough,” he told himself.

  The room was hot with the furnace's maw. The fire inside the furnace licked out at the surrounding world like a living creature in search of prey.

  Carefully placing the now-hot shovel against the ancient stone walls of his dungeon, the big man reached next for one of two black polyethylene Hefty bags that had been left against the wall as well. With friends looking on, the bare-chested fire-feeder lifted one of the bags and slowly approached the furnace mouth. But before he could fully swing the bag and its deadweight contents into the raging fire, the heat melted the facing side of the bag, causing its heavy and bulky contents to spill out over the filthy bare concrete floor here, creating a kind of sticky gruel of the ancient dust on the stone floor and bodily fluids spilling from the human body parts that the fire-feeder had spilt.

  The man stared down at the head, eyes, nose, ears, hair and the left leg once attached to Timothy Kenneth Little.

  “Damn you, Little,” cursed one of the other men looking on, whose face was hidden in shadow, lit now and again by the licking flames from the incinerator. “You'll not escape so easily as that. You're in Helsinger's Pit now...”

  “Toss the bastard in, eyes directed at the flames,” said another of the onlookers. “So the evil bastard can see the flames as they lick him up.”

  The others agreed with a hearty alcoholic cheer, and the bare-chested, sweating fire-feeder did as instructed.

  The leg followed.

  The second bag was pushed into the fire-feeder's hands after this, and he was told, “Be a little more careful with the rest of him.”

  The booming voice of their leader, still in shadow, called out, “Sure beats burying his parts all over the country, wouldn't you say, gentlemen?”

  The others laughed and agreed.

  “And stoke that fire up to a thousand. I want nothing left to chance; not a trace of Little's head or privates or limbs or bones is to be left. Only ashes.” The second bag, containing Little's private parts, his other leg, and his two arms, was tossed into the inferno. The flames spit out at the men surrounding the furnace as the feeder began shoveling more coal into the mix.

  The dark dungeon was alight with a warm glow, and this glow filled the small ministry, who together began a mantra: “Helsinger... Helsinger... Helsinger... sing. Sing for me... sing for we... We provide you with this demonic and foul creature. Banish him forever to the pit. We do your bidding, our God...”

  “Some things you can't do on-line,” muttered their leader through clenched teeth.

  Lucas was already late for roll call, and he knew he'd be in trouble with Sergeant Kelton, because Lucas's absence had caused a gaping hole in Stanley Kelton's log entry, and Stan didn't like big holes in his little square boxes. However, since he was already late, he swung by Renquist Laboratories, Inc., an independent biochemical and DNA lab in downtown Houston.

  He walked in with the two Waterford crystal goblets in their cellophane wraps, each labeled with dated evidence labels which he had snatched from his detective's kit at home. They looked official enough, and he signed as Det. James Pardee, giving them a number where he couldn't possibly be reached, since it was the number for the Houston Rockets ticket office. His plan was to check back with them hourly until they had some results for him, so he would be doing the calling.

  “Where is your paperwork on this?” asked the clerk.

  “It'll be coming.”

  “Coming? We need it with the
item to be analyzed.”

  “It's forthcoming. My partner'll bring it over this afternoon. Trust me.”

  “This is highly irregular.”

  “I didn't want to waste any time.”

  “We'll at the very least have to tag it.” She typed up a label and placed it over the plastic covering each goblet. 'There's no way I can assure you that these items, without the proper paperwork, will not be lost in the... along the system here. You'll have to sign here to release the items into our custody and sign this waiver form, which relieves Renquist of any responsibility for loss or damage.”

  “Understood.” He signed everything as James Pardee.

  “Then the City of Houston Police Department precinct number that will be paying for these tests?”

  “The Twenty-second Precinct,” he replied, giving them Amelford and Pardee's precinct number. “Paper's on its way; you'll get paid.”

  She stared back at him, an owl of a woman, her glasses larger than her face. “All right, Detective—ahh—Pardee. We'll begin to process your request, but without the paperwork, it could get held up. I warn you in advance.”

  “It's been a while since I've done this. Can you give me the blank forms? Maybe I can speed up the process at our end if I have them.”

  She frowned and her eyes sent shards into him, but finally she relented, nodded, thinking this a sound idea, and with the speed of a Musketeer whipping out a sword, she presented the forms to him.

  They exchanged pleasantries and Lucas was on his way, the staid clerk staring suspiciously after him, marking him.

  He could feel her eyes on him all the way out the door.

  As soon as Lucas stepped inside the precinct house, Stan Kelton was on him like a tick, asking him, “Mister, who do you think you are? Mister, what gives you the right to waltz in and out of here anytime you feel like? Mister, tell me this: What rank are you, mister?” Kelton's eyes grew ablaze.

  Kelton never called an officer an officer when he was angry with the officer.

  Lawrence burst forth from his office, shouting for Stonecoat to come into his sanctuary immediately. He'd obviously heard Kelton dressing him down, and now it appeared Lawrence wanted the privilege himself.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” said Lucas. “You'll have to get in line.”

  “Now,” ordered Lawrence.

  When Lucas stepped through the door and saw Meredyth, he assumed that Dr. Sanger was once more driving Lawrence up the wall. But Commander Andrew Bryce, seated at Lawrence's desk, suddenly shredded Lucas's assumptions when he held up a police fax alert, saying, “I got this on my machine this morning.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some disturbing news out of Oregon, a carbon copy killing in the style of our Judge Mootry. Some poor slob named Little, Timothy Little.”

  Stonecoat stared at the fax and then across at Meredyth. “Arrows?”

  “Two recovered at the scene this time,” she replied.

  “And the body?”

  “One torso, clothes and all identity taken off, along with arms, legs, head and private parts,” began Commander Bryce, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. “And damned if this isn't beginning to make us look a bit bad, gentlemen, Dr. Sanger. And since it appears you, Dr. Sanger, have shown a hell of a lot more initiative and gumption than some people around here”—he viciously raked Lawrence with his eyes—”I'm having Phil here send you up to this place... Medford, Oregon, to have a look. And as for you, Stonecoat, or should we call you Jack? Jack Plumber?”

  “Sir? Plumber, sir?” Lucas feigned ignorance.

  “We got a pretty good description on the intruder at the Mootry crime scene, Officer Stonecoat. I don't think we need to play games, do you?”

  “Well, sir... no, sir,” stammered Lucas, unsure what to say next.

  “At any rate, what we have up north may just be one of those damned copycat things or...”

  “Or the same guy at work,” Meredyth eagerly finished for Bryce.

  Captain Lawrence interrupted. “Commander Bryce seems to feel that we should send someone up to investigate, Stonecoat, and he suggested that it be you. I have to say, I haven't approved of the way you and Dr. Sanger have gone about this, and I certainly wouldn't send you two to cover traffic at the rodeo, but—”

  “But, hell, Phil,” cried Bryce. “You didn't think there was much to this serial killer conspiracy thing. What'd you call it, a cum laude conspiracy angle that Dr. Sanger has put together with earlier cases from the Cold Files, and now this thing in Oregon. Hell, man, it puts a whole new kink into the starch.” Andrew Bryce was boiling over, filling the room with his large, commanding form. He had sharp gray eyes, flinty and hard. Lucas thought him direct and energetic and a leader of men. He liked him. “Now, I want you, Stonecoat, to accompany Dr. Sanger to Medford. See what the two of you can find out up there. See if it has any bearing on us here.”

  “You want me to go have a look at what they've got in Oregon?” He wondered why the brass were being so generous to make such an offer. Did they expect it to be a wild-goose chase? Did they expect, even want Lucas to fail along with Dr. Sanger on this?

  “Well, sir, if you want me to go, then I'm on my way.” He thought of the crystal goblets and cringed inside.

  “Good, then it's settled. Dr. Sanger, Officer Stonecoat, there's a military transport waiting for you at Houston Intercontinental Airport. Pack a bag out of your locker and be on your way,” Commander Bryce replied. “They won't hold on to this guy Little's body long up there. They've already held off a day, trying to decide what in hell they've got. Apparently, they've got their hands more than full and haven't had much experience with such problems in the past. For that matter, neither have we.”

  Meredyth added, “They contacted VICAP, reported what they had to the FBI, everybody, in hopes someone would come in and give them a hand.”

  Stonecoat nodded. “And we're it?”

  “Sanger here put out a nationwide alert on anything resembling Mootry,” grumbled Lawrence.

  Lucas countered with, “I'd have thought the detectives on the case would've done that.”

  “No, they hadn't got round to it, it appears!” bellowed Bryce, his darting eyes finding Lucas.

  “Meanwhile, these hicks in Oregon want to call out the National Guard,” added Lawrence.

  “Why the over reaction?”

  Meredyth explained. 'Turns out he's a millionaire two or three times over, something to do with jet airline appliances and solutions.

  I don't know, but the family'll be wanting to feel some closure as soon as possible, and that'll mean releasing the body—or what's left of it—over to them.”

  “I see.” Murder always left more victims than the dead one. “And if it is connected to Mootry and Palmer and Reynolds,” she added, “the man's immediate family could also be in danger.”

  “Mootry didn't have any immediate family, but if what Dr. Sanger has uncovered has any validity, apparently family members of victims have also been targeted by this creep, so we're letting authorities in this guy's hometown know what's going down as well. Meantime, Stonecoat, you're our guy in Oregon, along with—”

  “Yes, sir, Commander.”

  “—Dr. Sanger here, and I want you two to report directly to Phil. Anything I need to know, he will in turn report to me.

  No more going over Phil's head, either, young lady. I'm not in the least impressed by that sort of thing, you understand? I want you three to work together!”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, obviously happy with having been vindicated, but Lucas wasn't yet sure. It might well be that what had occurred in Oregon had next to nothing to do with Palmer or Mootry or the other cases they had examined. He would keep his counsel and withhold judgment.

  Together, Lucas and Meredyth left Lawrence's office, and when the door closed behind them, she gave him the high-five sign, but he only frowned, refusing to return it.

  She was surprised by his reaction. “What's wrong with you? Don't you
get it? This assignment gets you out of the Cold Room.”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as it takes; hopefully for good, if we do well in Oregon.”

  “Well, I've got a smoldering little problem of my own right here,” he replied, taking her aside, locating the stairwell.

  “Are you crazy, Andrew?” asked Lawrence, the moment Sanger and Stonecoat were out of the room.

  Bryce remained impassive, silently moving about the room, lifting little knickknacks and items from Lawrence's shelves, staring at the other man's family photos, pictures of Lawrence as a much younger man in a football uniform and then a Marine Corps uniform. Bryce then stated the obvious. “You were a marine, once, I see.”

  You know that from my goddamned record, Lawrence's mind screamed. “Wellllll, yeah... but what's that got to do with anything?” he replied.

  “Put in for the Marine Corps once myself, but had trouble getting in. I was too young at the time. Moved on from there... A boy grows up... puts wild notions aside...” What's that supposed to mean? wondered Lawrence. It wasn't like Bryce to wax philosophical. “You going to answer me, Commander?”

  “Oh, about sending those two to Oregon? It seems the logical thing to do, wouldn't you agree? I mean, what'll they find in Oregon? Meanwhile, it might keep them out of the way of the Mootry investigation.”

  'Then you don't believe they'll find any connection in Oregon? You're hoping that they'll become discouraged with this serial killer notion?”

  “Maybe... Meantime, Pardee and Amelford aren't hindered.”

  Lawrence wondered about the wisdom of this, but he kept silent on that, merely replying, “Yes, sir.” God, he had to bite back bile to show this man respect, he thought. What had Andrew Bryce done to earn anyone's respect? Yes, he had come up through the ranks, but when was the last time he was on the street, the last time he risked a hair on his politically correct head? Bastard.