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Wade was comfortably ensconced in his favorite chair, engrossed in reading, Metallurgy: Unsolved Mysteries. When he sensed a movement at the top of the stairs, he looked up. Yolanda was cautiously making her way down, her first venture in three-inch heels. He smiled; it softened the chiseled look of his features. She was doing great. He’d tell her so when he got the chance.

Cynthia, perched on the edge of the couch, seemed more nervous than usual. Maybe there’d been a snag in the fundraising project; Judy and two other women would be by later to do more planning. But Jim was due any minute to take Yolanda to the school dance. This seemed a more likely cause.

Wade had a hunch they were intensely involved. Although Cynthia hadn’t brought it up, he sensed she felt the same way. And that she approved, as he did. Rachel, his youngest, was ignoring the scene, totally focused on the tube.

Contented as he could ever remember being, Wade turned back to his book. He paused to gaze through the slider at the lighted pool. He leaned back into the chair; his light gray eyes set deeply under heavy brows reflected quiet contentment.

Heavy rain was slanting in from the north. Each drop hit hard, bouncing high enough to create a smaller splash. Beautiful, he decided.

Chunks of oak burned in the fireplace behind him, adding a cozy warmth. Combustion, he thought. Molecules being rearranged. In this case, most of the energy being generated was rising up and out the chimney.

When the doorbell rang, Cynthia rose quickly. Over her shoulder she called out to Yolanda, "Take your time, honey. I’ll get it."

Wade noted that despite the advice, Yolanda was moving more quickly. As he turned his attention back to the book, Cynthia opened the front door.

He had never heard the sound of a fist smashing into a face. But as he lunged to his feet, whirling toward the door, he knew he now had.

Cynthia, her face twisted in agony, was falling with one hand clutching her jaw and cheek. One of the three young men was rushing toward Rachel. Wade recognized the muzzle blast from the gun for what it was, caught the look of abject terror on Rachel’s face, felt a white, blinding explosion of pain, then nothing at all.

Judy Dolan parked in front of Cynthia’s home. Since she didn’t recognize the two cars in front of her, she knew Jean and Kelly had not yet arrived. She glanced at her watch in light from the dash. Three minutes to eight. She smiled as she turned the lights off. She knew it was silly, but she took pride in being on time.

She reached for the door handle, then froze when the front door to the house was suddenly thrown open and a young man dashed outside, followed by two others. Watching intently, she eased down in her seat as she unzipped her purse and lifted out the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

Terrified, she nonetheless studied each young man in the faint light from the street lamp beyond. But the rain made it difficult to see clearly.

Moments later, two car doors slammed closed and the older gray car pulled quickly from the curb and accelerated down the street. Something was wrong with the left taillight for she could see only the bulb glowing. There was no light above the license plate, but as it passed under the street lamp, she did see that the second character was an X.

When the car turned and became lost to her view, she glanced at the light flooding the yard from the open front door to the house. Involuntarily she shivered.

Determinedly she opened the car door and stepped outside, the .38 clutched in her fist. She glanced down at it as if seeking reassurance. Her knuckles were white.

As she made her way around the front of the car to the sidewalk, she cocked the pistol. Raindrops collected quickly on her neatly groomed sandy-colored hair; she ignored trickles down her back. As she turned up the walkway leading to the open door, few would have dared challenge the squared shoulders, the grim features, or the pistol which seemed huge gripped in her small hand.

Her pulse rate was increasing rapidly. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might be able to hear it, except for the rain.

At the open doorway, she did not hesitate. She took one step into the room, another to the left, then pressed back against the wall. The minutes passed slowly; her dark brown eyes seemed still as she stared at the bloodied remains of three people she had come to love. There was nothing she could do for them; their throats had been slashed with a savagery she had never seen before.

When she saw a leg beyond the chair, she took two quick steps to the right. It was Wade, near the slider, lying on his stomach with one shoulder twisted upward in an odd manner. Even with his Mediterranean complexion, she could see his cheek had been embraced by a deathly pallor.

She rushed to him and knelt on one knee with the .38 aimed at the open doorway. With her other hand, trembling, she reached down and placed her fingers against his neck. She shook her head in disbelief. Then checked again. She put her cheek to the floor to examine what she could see of the wound. Blood was still oozing from it.

She dashed into the kitchen, grabbed the phone and dialed 911. "My name is Judy Dolan," she said with snap. "I’m at 1415 Mayfield Drive. There’s a man here who’s been shot. His pulse is steady but weak. I’m an experienced RN who has seen this often. If we can get him into surgery soon enough, he may have a chance."

For a few moments it was if the line had gone dead. Then the dispatcher said, "An ambulance is on its way and a cruiser has been dispatched."

"Tell the officers there are also three dead women here. Nothing can be done for them."

She laid the phone on the counter and moved to the corner of the room near the slider, now gripping the .38 with both hands. Every ounce of her being demanded she rush to help Wade; anything at all could make the difference. But years of experience had taught her well; this task must be left to those trained to do it.

The sound of running feet brought her back to now. A tall man with a camera and shoulder bag burst into the room. He paused long enough to take in the scene, then said, "Put the gun away, lady."

"Who are you?" Judy demanded, the pistol steady in her fist.

As the man moved to position himself and began snapping pictures he said, "Estes Viafanna. The lab team is right behind me. I need to get some shots before this guy is moved." The burst of light from the flash on each shot bounced about the walls, lending an uneasy, psychedelic sense to the stillness of the scene.

She didn’t believe him, but she couldn’t just shoot. She was still pondering the dilemma when two uniformed officers stepped into the room. Both had their weapons at the ready.

"Who the hell are you?" Officer Branson demanded.

"Estes Viafanna. LA News."

"Get the hell out of here."

"Or?" he replied, snapping a close-up of Cynthia whose nipples had been slashed off.

Branson returned his pistol to its holster in a deliberate manner. As a continuation of the motion, he drew his baton. As he took a step forward, he said, "If I beat on you long enough, I can figure a charge."

"The public’s got a right to know," Estes said, easing toward the door.

Branson took two more steps; Estes fled. As Branson tucked his baton away, he turned toward Judy. "Your name, please?" he asked, eyeing the .38.

"Judy Dolan. I called this in."

"We’ll need a statement," he said, then added softly, "You won’t need that pistol now."

Judy nodded. "Two other friends are due any minute. I don’t want them to see this."

For the first time, Branson looked down at the bodies. Judy could see the shock that stiffened him, that he was holding his breath. The ripple of the muscles in his burly arms was visible beneath his shirt.

As Judy started toward the door, Branson shook his head slowly, then said, "I’ll tag along."

She tucked her pistol away and together they stepped out onto the porch and started toward the sidewalk. Branson had again drawn his weapon. Judy noted the safety was off and it was cocked. His eyes were in constant motion. It was if he wanted to shoot somebody. As if almost anybody would do.

Lt. Harv Dunstun double-parked in front of the house just north of 1415 Mayfield Drive. He stepped out of the unmarked sedan into the rain and slipped on a plastic raincoat to cover his well-worn charcoal gray suit. He ignored the hood, letting the rain have its way with his silvery-gray hair and olive-black features. A tall man with a broad, burly chest. Drops of water collected on the military-styled toes of his spit-shined shoes.

He watched for a few moments as the ambulance sped away, its flashing red and blue lights reflecting back from windows they passed. A high-class neighborhood, he decided, glancing again at the homes across the street. As he started toward the sidewalk, he knew those behind these windows weren’t ready for this. But nobody in Los Angeles could be. As he strode up the walkway to the house, he muttered, "Neither am I."

To the right, three members of the lab team were examining the body of a young man, half hidden by shrubbery just off the porch. Another victim, unnoticed initially.

He nodded to each of the two uniformed officers at the door, then stepped inside. He tucked his hands into his pockets and let the grotesque scene etch itself into memory. The younger woman with part of a white sock shoved up to her knee. The older woman, probably the mother, with a few inches of her bra and a strap still clinging to one shoulder. The older daughter with the remains of her dress bunched above her hips in bizarre fashion.

Six men and two women from the crime lab were working intently with the bodies, most crouching, the tools of their trade scattered about them. "Joel," Dunstun said to the man on his knees and elbows taking a sample of hair. "Don’t miss anything."

Joel nodded. Only when he’d finished his task, did he look up.

"Need more people?" Dunstun asked.

Joel nodded again. "We haven’t even been upstairs," he said. "But I couldn’t find anybody else available."

"I’ll deal with that," Dunstun said quietly, then turned to face Sgt. Manny Garcia who had stepped up beside him. "Who’s in the ambulance?" he asked.

"Wade Turklen."

"Doctor?" Dunstun demanded sharply.

"Yeah. An orphan who made it big time. Physics, I think. Got his BS from Cal Tech at eighteen, his PhD not much later. And a Nobel Prize before he was thirty. Owns half of Sturm Engineering. Saw a piece in the paper about him just the other day. He gets lots of coverage."

"Will he make it?"

"Nobody’s saying."

"Christ," Dunstun muttered. That poor son of a bitch. If he did make it, how could he live with this?

"A guy from the LA News with a camera got here first. Gave his name as Estes Viafanna," Garcia said. "All those newshounds live with a scanner these days, set to listen in on 911 calls. He must have been close when he picked up on this. Ms. Dolan says he got here in minutes after her call. Our team ran him off, but he got lots of shots."

Dunstun knew what kind of pictures he had taken. There hadn’t been this kind of butchery since Charlie Manson had hit town. The media would jump all over it. There’d be nationwide coverage. The city would be shaking by tomorrow evening as if struck by a major quake. God alone knew how long the aftershocks would continue.

"If we don’t clear this one, Manny, butts are going to get kicked. Hard. Some right off the force." He knew, as Manny did, he might be the first to go. There were those who claimed he was too old. He hadn’t been assigned a major case in over a year.

"I’ll get with Hendersol," he said. "He may want to wake up the chief. We don’t want those pictures in a newspaper," he said, scowling. "Where’s the woman?"

"At the station, working up some sketches. But she didn’t see much. They were moving fast and the rain didn’t help."

When Garcia turned abruptly to face the open door, Dunstun did the same. Together they watched a truck from KTTS pull up.

"Got uniforms out back?"

"Two."

"Send them out front and order up six more."

"You’ve really got a thing for media types."

"Hate those mothers, butting in the way they do."

As Garcia started toward the back, Dunstun said, "Find Branson, then the boss at the LA News. If that asshole, Viafanna, won’t give you the negatives, bust him. Photos of carnage like this don’t belong in a newspaper."

Garcia nodded and walked quickly to the back slider as Dunstun stepped into the doorway. Standing between the two officers, he said, "Hold ten feet from and behind me. If I look at the sky and shake my head, draw your batons and be ready to use them."

"Yes, sir," both men replied almost in unison. They followed Dunstun down the walk, falling back and to the side as they watched people with their gear hastily abandon the truck, rudely shoving spectators out of their way. Dunstun stopped inches from the yellow tape that now surrounded the entire lot. He tucked his hands into his pockets and squared his shoulders. His regal stance and features showed nothing of his inner feelings about those approaching.

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Wade was attuned to fear, more so than most. While it often brought a change of course, he never allowed it to divert him from his goal. Now the intensity of his focus frightened him in a way he’d never known. There was something he needed to remember. Something that mattered. He noticed his right arm trembling with reaction. He had to know what was being blocked. He had to.

It might help to open his eyes, but he couldn’t seem to get it done. He felt chilled even with the fine layer of sweat accumulating.

Finally he made it happen. The room was dimly lit, but there was no mistaking where he was. He could smell it. The scents of antiseptics were pronounced. There were others he couldn’t identify. He clung to that of soap; it seemed easier to deal with somehow. He reached across with his right hand and discovered his throbbing left shoulder and arm were bound tightly to his body. His shoulders and gut were strapped to the bed.

He knew part of it then. He was in a hospital. Why? Despite his struggle, he couldn’t come up with an answer. It added to his pending sense of dread.

When his eyes focused, he realized he was staring up at the ceiling. Battleship gray. Did that matter? With better light, it might be a pale blue. Could that mean anything?

As if a magician of mythical proportions were at work, the ceiling abruptly became a tabletop of dark wood. Scattered upon it were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. But that couldn’t be so, for there were no curves, no way to interlock one piece with another. Only oddly shaped triangles. Small ones. Large ones. Some had a greater height than base. Some were short, squatting on bases seemingly too wide.

Mentally he reached for one of the pieces. It moved as he directed it. The shades of white to gray to black were difficult to compare, but he was able to match it with another.

As he continued moving pieces about the dark surface, individual images began to emerge. A hand and an arm fit properly. Then he found a shoulder to which the arm attached. A top of a head matched another piece he found.

He closed his eyes tightly; he wanted no more of this absurdity. But the tabletop only shifted from the ceiling to his mind. He continued to move pieces to match others.

What he saw evolving began to slow the process. He knew he didn’t want to see the ending of it. His rising fears assured him of that.

Abruptly another force began moving pieces rapidly. Blocks of fitted pieces were shifted about the tabletop. Suddenly there was no motion. The tableau was complete. A picture of motionless beings about to collide with monstrously brutal consequences.

Yolanda on the third tread of the stairway about to step into a hell she’d never even imagined. Cynthia, clutching her jaw and cheek, falling. Three young men, one lunging at the face twisted with abject terror that was Rachel’s. The cone of fire exploding from the barrel of the gun. The searing white pain of the bullet ripping into his chest.

A primordial scream began at the center of his being. It rapidly increased in intensity while growing louder. A screeching wail he could not hear. The cry of a man who has lost everything, even himself. Mercifully the drugs flowing into his arm from the IV brought relief, a form of sleep that wasn’t sleep at all.

He became aware of someone at his bedside. He opened his eyes and stared at the woman in a nurse’s uniform. Compelled by overpowering inner needs, he reached out and grabbed her arm. "Are they all dead?" His voice was faint, scratchy.

As she sought to remove his hand from her arm, she said, "Yes. I am sorry. I thought you’d been told."

His grip didn’t falter as he gazed at her. Was she sorry his family was dead or that he hadn’t been told? When he decided it didn’t matter, he let his hand fall free, turned his head away from her and began crying.

Tears quickly wet the pillowcase. Heaving sobs ripped at his gut making it difficult to breathe. And each lanced upward to add to the agony that had replaced his shoulder.

Moments later, he felt a needle inserted into his arm. And he didn’t care. Even as he felt his eyes close and sleep approach, he didn’t care. He had time to wonder if he cared about anything. Then he wondered about nothing at all.

Someone was beside him. It didn’t seem worth the effort, but he opened his eyes and gazed up into the face of the man wearing a white jacket.

"I’m Dr. Langsford," he said. "You’re an extremely fortunate man."

Wade turned his head away.

"I wasn’t speaking of the loss of your family," the doctor said as a friend might speak to another. "For that, I have no remedy."

Wade sensed he had meant what he said and turned back to face him.

"I was speaking of your shoulder," he said with a touch of sadness. "A wound such as yours is generally fatal. In your case, the bullet slightly fractured one of your ribs, diverting its course. There was muscle and cartilage damage, which we mended effectively. And we repaired a lesser artery. You’ll be fine, Dr. Turklen, given time. That is . . ." He paused, shaking his head. "That is, your shoulder will heal completely."

"When can I begin moving about?" Wade asked in a raspy whisper.

"We need some pictures in the morning. If they’re good, we’ll begin a rehab program tomorrow afternoon."

Wade examined the doctor’s eyes. Yes, it was sadness he had noted. "Thank you, Dr. Langsford. And for your concern."

"Judging from the volume of calls received, there are many who are. I hope that helps." He turned and left the room. A nurse who had been hovering near his arm with a hypodermic ready, followed him.

As he drifted back deep within himself, he noted a corner of the tableau on the edge of consciousness, he tugged it gently onto center stage. As was his habit, one by one he blanked out external sounds, scents and motion. He focused totally upon the three men, only faintly defined.

He had great confidence in the unconscious mind. He’d used it effectively for years. Become angry at it. Scream. Even curse it. Demand it do your bidding. And bit by bit it reveals its secrets.

As he studied what he could see, he realized he was once again alone as he had been when he had met Cynthia. Still, he did not look at her image; he focused on those of the three young men. A towering hatred dominated. A hatred he’d never known.

There was no hurry. He had time. The rest of his life. The initial task was to clearly define these three animals.

Oh God, Wade thought as he heard someone enter the room. Another needle. But the step was hesitant.

When he opened his eyes, he saw it was Mama. Her broad face, usually a complex map of past smiles, seemed flattened, gray, ashen. She paused a moment to gaze at him, worry and sorrow fighting for equal time in her lovely dark eyes. When he reached out his hand, she tucked hers into it and moved slowly to the edge of the bed.

He wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and pulled her down to him. "I’m so sorry, Mama."

He felt her tears on his chest, his own flowing off his cheeks onto the pillowcase.

"We mustn’t upset him," a nurse said gently.

Mama lifted her head and stood, nodding acceptance. She reached for a tissue in the box beside the bed, dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose, then balled it up in her hand. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked hesitantly.

Mama was like that; she had an inexhaustible desire to help as she could. "Our mail maybe?" he suggested.

"I should have thought of that," she said, scolding herself. "I’ll have the post office hold it." She dabbed at her eyes with the crumpled tissue. "Anything else?"

He gazed at her for several moments. She reached again for his hand and gripped it firmly. "Would you call Morrie?" he asked.

"What on earth for?"

He looked up at the ceiling. "Cynthia and the girls can’t spend a dime now." He turned back to her. "I need a new will."

"But the doctor said you’d be fine."

Watching her eyes, he said, "He’s probably right."

"You’re not expecting another attack?" she demanded in a rush.

He glanced again at the ceiling, then back at her. "I don’t know, but I’d feel better if what we had didn’t go to the state."

Her tears had vanished; she was staring at him intently. "I’ll call him," she said speaking slowly.

"That’s enough for now," the nurse said. "He’ll be much stronger tomorrow."

Mama nodded, gave his hand a firm squeeze, then started to leave. She turned back and said with a familiar snap, "Get well, Wade."

He nodded faintly. "I must," he said, still scratchiness in the words. "There are things to be done."

Mama studied him for several moments, then turned and left, her step uncertain.

At the sound of voices in the entry, Wade awakened from a doze. The male voice was commanding; the female voice unyielding. He wondered which would win out. "This is official," the man stated with emphasis on the last word. "I’ll check with the doctor," the woman said, apparently unfazed by the man or his demands.

Moments later a nurse entered and inserted yet another needle into his arm. As usual, it smarted, but the procedure now only bored him. The man had followed her inside. "What’s that?" he demanded.

"A sedative," the nurse announced, walking toward the entrance. "You have ten minutes," she said haughtily.

Wade watched the glare on the black man’s face as he stared after her. Apparently he was unaccustomed to being stonewalled in such fashion.

He was tall, over six feet. His height and regal bearing minimized his portliness. His silvery-white hair was neatly trimmed. As he turned and stepped to the edge of the bed, he showed his credentials. "Lt. Harv Dunstun," he said in a monotone. "Homicide." Without a thought as to how to respond, Wade said nothing.

Gazing at the shoulder wrapped securely, Dunstun laid a small recorder on the edge of the bed and said, "Tell me what happened."

Wade glanced at the ceiling, then back at Dunstun. "I was shot, then three animals savaged and butchered my family."

Dunstun sighed. He tucked his hands into his pockets and said, "I was at your place last night. What happened earlier?"

"It was raining," Wade said finally. "Hard. Drops were bouncing off the pool."

"You were sitting in the chair facing the slider?"

"If you were there, you know that."

Dunstun sighed. "Why did you stand up?"

Wade stared at the ceiling for a long while. The man’s just doing his job, damn it. And I want him to get it right, don’t I?

"Dr. Turklen?" Dunstun asked. "We need your help."

"It’s just all so . . ."

"That was the ugliest scene I’ve ever seen," Dunstun said softly, leaning onto the bed with his huge hands. "To nail those mothers, I’ll need help."

"Yolanda was coming down the stairs," Wade began in a dull, scratchy monotone. "Rachel was watching TV. At the knock on the door, my wife said she’d get it. I heard the door open, then what sounded like a fist hitting flesh. I lunged up, whirling toward the door and was shot."

Dunstun straightened and tucked his hands back into his pockets. "There were three?"

He nodded, examining the tableau in his mind. "Young. Hispanic," he said. "I saw only the one gun."

"What else?"

"How long does it take a bullet to travel thirty feet? A second maybe?"

"Much less."

"How much do you expect me to recall?"

"Will you work with a police artist? It often helps reveal things you don’t remember just now."

Wade sighed. "If you can keep that nurse with a needle away, I’ll try."

"When will you be able to sit up? We need that."

"The doctor might know."

"I’ll check," he said, starting to turn away.

"Can you find those animals?"

"Nine of our very best are working it now."

"They should be destroyed like rabid dogs."

"That wouldn’t be civilized," Dunstun said, turning back to the bed.

"Their behavior was civilized?"

"If we do the same, we’re no better than they are." He leaned closer. "The law is flawed, Dr. Turklen. Anybody with half a brain can see that. But it’s what separates us from the likes of them."

Dunstun straightened, examining Wade’s features with care. "There’s a bleakness in your eyes that bothers me. You’ll do better backing away from this."

"You can . . ." Wade began, then his head collapsed heavily into the pillow.

Lt. Dunstun had never worked a case such as this. He would as soon have passed on it. But he felt he was the best man for it. Any other cop would press the right buttons, rip this fellow into shreds, and possibly suggest he’d shot himself. Dr. Wade Turklen needed a keeper, not a cop.

He sighed tiredly as he parked and started toward his office at Foothill Division. He hadn’t seen a bed since night before last. He wasn’t sure about tonight.

Inside the building, he nodded to those he met and most added a smile to their nod of acknowledgement. Time in grade had advantages, he decided. He knew everybody in the division and many throughout LAPD.

Once inside his cubby-hole office, he closed the door quietly, moved to the swivel chair, settled into it, and leaned back. He’d admitted to Turklen the scene had been ugly. He lacked the words to adequately describe it. Two of the lab team had spent time face down over a toilet and they’d all looked a bit gray about the gills.

So what were the options? Had it been a random thing? A group of crazies passing through? If so, an arrest was unlikely. Three lovely people, dying in that way? He shook his head. Such wanton total destruction. Could it be anything but a random act? He couldn’t recall having heard of such bestiality elsewhere. If there had been, the FBI would have an MO. And they’d jump in here with all available resources.

But if it had been members of a local gang, it would be up to him. And his chances would be close to nil. The city overflowed with loosely knit sub-cultures devoted to violence. Drug sales were their principal source of income. Turf wars were commonly drug-related, a matter of capturing more customers within the net, thus sales and profits.

Still a contract was accepted, if the bucks were high enough. Could that be the case here? But who in their right mind would request this kind of action? If he hadn’t anticipated the media coverage, he’d be in a state of shock by now. The event was not only the talk of this city, but of the nation, the first item on all TV news broadcasts, one of the leads in every newspaper.

He sighed. The enormity of the task overwhelmed him. The chances of clearing it were slim to none. It would make sense for the captain to leave it in his hands. For if it was botched, it would be easier to announce his resignation, than to do so for a popular, successful, younger officer.

Slowly he tilted the chair to its upright position. He stared at the manila folder. A neatly typed label had been attached to the tab. Turklen: Background.

He thought back over what he already knew of the man. An orphan, abandoned on the porch of a small church when only two days old. An internationally acclaimed physicist and Nobel Prize winner twenty-six years later. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. He opened the folder and began reading what six people had spent the day gathering.

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