"Well, there you go. Guy helped himself to a few scent markers. Any well-trained attack dog would take it from there."

D.D. definitely didn't like that thought. She turned, regarding the body of the dog on the ground. Big, black, powerfully muscled. She touched its flank. The look on her face was not so much rage as regret.

"My uncle used to have a Rotty. Her name was Meadow. Biggest, sweetest dog you can imagine. She used to let me ride on her back." D.D.'s hand moved, found the twisted wire around the dog's neck, the kind of collar favored by drug dealers and dog fighters. "Asshole," she suddenly growled. "Dog was probably trained from birth. Never had a chance."

Bobby couldn't look at her anymore. After all, he was the one who had taken out the four dogs that attacked her. And while he couldn't feel bad about it, given the circumstances, he couldn't feel good about it either.

"I don't get it," D.D. muttered. "Making me wear the locket made a crazy kind of sense. Gave the guy a cheap thrill. But why go through all that for this kind of setup? It's like attacking via remote. Except I don't think our subject is a remote kind of guy. I think he's up close and personal."

"It's sophisticated," Sinkus commented. "Allows him to show off his intelligence. Something Eola would do."

D.D. didn't comment. Neither did Bobby. He was thinking of what she'd said. The note had been personal, left on the windshield of D.D.'s car. The choice of trophies for each body they'd found had been personal, too, same with the MO of stalking Annabelle by leaving gifts. The setup here had involved stealing D.D.'s underwear-no doubt, the subject had enjoyed that-so why not stick around for the show? D.D. was right. The subject had invested heavily in foreplay, then denied himself the main event.

That didn't feel right. It wasn't the way this sicko worked.

"Keep searching the grounds," D.D. was saying now. "In addition to a trespasser, have the techies look for signs of video equipment, listening devices. Maybe our subject decided to stage the show, something he could record and watch from the safety of his home. Wanted a little action or a clip he could share on the Internet."

"We'll keep looking," Sinkus assured her.

"We need choppers," D.D. continued crossly, impatiently waving away the hovering EMT. "And dogs. Hell, let's call in the National Guard. Fucking nearly two hundred acres. Fucking loony bin. He could hide out for days without us seeing a thing."

Sinkus was nodding, making notes, preparing to blow the department's annual budget for a one-night search.

Bobby was still not liking it.

Why so elaborate? They were looking for a pedophile, a man accustomed to preying on small children. Now, suddenly, he had his sights set on a grown woman? A female police sergeant who was bound to be smart, armed, and prepared?

Did pedophiles change their preferences so easily? Transition from small children to authority figures?

Unless…

It came to him all at once. Unless the man had never changed focus. Unless the man still had his eyes set on the same target. A target who since recently resurfacing had spent the past two days surrounded by police protection. Until tonight, when by virtue of this operation…

Bobby whirled back toward his fellow detectives. "Annabelle!"

I WOKE UP hard, hands fisting my sheet, muscles tense. For a second, I felt wild-eyed with alarm. Run, fight, scream. But my thoughts were sluggish, dream-soaked. I couldn't fill in the blanks.

I forced myself to sit up, dragging in ragged gulps of air. Bedside clock glowed 2:32 a.m. Bad dream, I thought. Rough night.

I climbed out of bed, wearing a pair of men's cotton boxer shorts and a faded black tank top. Bella lifted her head, considering the matter. She was used to my restless ways by now. She put her head back down; one of us might as well get some sleep. I padded alone into the kitchen, where I banged on the faucet and poured myself a glass of city water. If that didn't wake me up, nothing would.

I was standing there, staring at the faint line of hallway light glowing beneath my chained and bolted door, when the front ringer buzzed noisily. I jolted, water spilling down my shirt, while Bella came bounding out of the bedroom, scrabbling across the kitchen and barking madly at the door.

I didn't think anymore, I moved. Tossed the plastic cup in the sink. Ran back into the bedroom. Flipped over my pillow, grabbed the Taser I kept tucked beneath it. Go, go, go.

Back in the kitchen now. Bella barking. My heart thudding. Did I hear the creak of the downstairs door? Footsteps on the stairs?

I finally grabbed Bella by the collar and forced her onto the floor. "Shhhh, shhh, shhh," I murmured, but my own tense state kept her agitated. She growled low in her throat as I stared at the sliver of light beneath my apartment door, waiting for the dark shadows of footsteps to appear, the enemy to come into sight.

And…

Nothing.

Minute slid into minute. My breathing slowed. My composure transitioned from fight-or-flight to just plain bewildered. Belatedly I thought to move over to the bay windows, peer down at the street. No strange cars were parked below. No person loitered in the shadows.

I collapsed in the window seat, Taser still clutched to my chest. I was overreacting but couldn't give up my vigil. Bella was more practical about things. With a huff, she left her post in favor of the living room dog bed. In a matter of seconds, she was curled up and back asleep, doggy nose tucked on doggy paws. I remained an over-hyped sentinel, trying to talk myself down.

Buzzers go off in the middle of the night, I tried reminding myself. It had happened before. Would happen again. Drunks wander by or even invited guests of another tenant who get the unit numbers confused. My fellow renters were security-conscious. None of us randomly opened doors for unknown buzzers. Which probably only increased the odds that the outside person was going to keep punching buttons until he got results.

In other words, there were a million and a half logical explanations for a doorbell to sound in the middle of the night. And none of them were working for me.

I got off the window seat. Returned to my front door. Pressed my ear against its painted surface and listened for sounds coming from the stairs.

The problem is, there's no soundtrack for real life. In the movies, you know when something bad is going to happen, because the heavy bass tells you so. There isn't a person alive whose heart doesn't race upon hearing the theme song from Jaws, and frankly, that's a comforting thing. We like our markers. It gives the world a sense of order. Bad things may happen, but only after the background picks up with da-dah, da-dah, da-dah-da-dah-da-dah.

The real world isn't like that. A young girl comes home on a sunny afternoon, climbs the same old stairs, listens to the same old hum of ancient air conditioners, only to enter the apartment and find her mother dead on the sofa.

A man goes out for a walk in the city. Listens to the rush of cars, the honk of horns, the bustle of his fellow pedestrians chatting away on their cell phones. Steps off the curb an instant too soon, and next thing you know, his face is a pulpy mess, shattered against a lamppost.

One little girl goes out to play in her grandparents' yard. Birds chirping. Fall leaves crunching. Breeze rustling. And winds up screaming in the back of an unmarked van.

Life changes in an instant, with no soundtrack to be your guide.

Which leaves someone like me, jumping at all noises because I don't know how to tell the difference.

I wanted to be like the rest of my urban neighbors, who, when awakened in the middle of the night by their front buzzer, could heartily declare "Fuck off!" before rolling over and going back to sleep. Now, there was a way to live.