"It's a hundred," she said, and suddenly stood back from the car. "Y'okay with that? 'Cause if you're not -"

Shafer continued to smile. "If they're real, a hundred is fine. It won't be a problem."

The girl opened the door and hopped into the car. She was wearing way too much perfume. "See for yourself, sweetheart. They're kind of small-like, but they're soooo nice. And they're all yours."

Shafer laughed again. "You know, I like you a great deal. Remember what you said, though. I'll hold you to it." They're all mine.

I was on duty again at midnight, and I felt as though I was back in Homicide. I arrived in a familiar neighborhood that was mostly white clapboard row houses, many of them deserted, on New Jersey Avenue in Southeast. A crowd had already gathered at the murder scene, including some local gangbangers and little kids on bikes still up at that late hour.

A man in a Rastafarian hat full of dreadlocks was shouting at the police from behind the yellow crime-scene tape. "Hey, ya hear dat music?" he called in a loopy, wheezy voice. "Ya like dat music? Dat mah people music."

Sampson met me outside one of the dilapidated row houses, and we went in together.

"Just like bad old times," John said, shaking his head. "That why you're here, Dragonslayer? Are you nostalgic for the old days? Want to come back to the Washington PD?"

I nodded and gestured around. "Yeah. I missed this. Bad homicide scenes in the middle of the night."

"Bet you do, too. I would."

The building where the body had been found was boarded up in front, but it was easy enough for us to get inside. There was no front door.

"This is Alex Cross," Sampson said to the patrolmen standing just outside the open doorway. "You heard of him? This is the Alex Cross, brother."

"Dr. Cross," said the man as he stepped aside to let us enter.

"Gone," said John Sampson, "but not forgotten."

Once we were in, the scene was sadly familiar and reprehensible. Garbage was strewn in the hallways, and the smell of decaying food and urine was overpowering. Maybe it was because I hadn't been inside one of these vacated rattraps in a while, over a year now.

We were told that the body was on the top floor, the third, so Sampson and I began to climb.

"Dumping grounds," he muttered.

"Yeah, I know. I remember the drill pretty well."

"At least we don't have to visit the goddamn basement," Sampson grumped. "So, why did you say you're here? I didn't catch that part."

"I just missed hanging with you. Nobody calls me Sugar anymore."

"Uh-huh. You Feebies aren't into nicknames? So why are you here, Sugar?"

Sampson and I had made our way to the third floor. There were Washington PD uniforms everywhere up there. This really was déjà vu all over again. I put on plastic gloves, and so did Sampson. I did miss working with him, and sadly, this brought it all home, the good and the bad.

We stopped outside the second door on the right just as a young black patrolman was leaving. He had his hand over his mouth, a white handkerchief wrapped over the fist. I think he was going to be sick any second. That part doesn't change, either.

"Hope he didn't barf all over our crime scene," Sampson said. "Goddamn rookies."

Then we went inside. "Oh man," I muttered. You see things like this over and over in Homicide, but you never get used to it, and you don't forget the details, the sensations, the smells, the taste it leaves in your mouth.

"He called it in to us first," I told Sampson. "That's why I'm here."

"Who's he?" he asked.

"You tell me," I said.

We walked over closer to the body that lay on the bare wooden floor. Young woman, probably still in her teens. Petite, pretty enough. Naked except for one platform hanging off the toes on her left foot. Golden ankle charm on her right foot. Her hands were tied behind her back with what looked like plastic cable. A black plastic bag had been stuffed inside her mouth.

I'd seen this kind of murder before, exactly this kind. So had Sampson.

"Prostitute." Sampson sighed. "Patrolmen seen her around on South Capitol. Eighteen, nineteen years old, maybe even younger. So who is he?"

It looked to me as if the girl's breasts had been sliced right off her chest. Her face had been attacked, too. A checklist of deviant behavior ran through my head, the kind of things I hadn't thought about for a while: expressive aggression (check), sadism (check), sexualization (check), offense planning (check). Check, check, check.

"It's Shafer, John. It's the Weasel. He's back in Washington. But that's not the worst of it. I wish to hell it were."

We knew a bar that was open, so Sampson and I went for a beer after we left the slaughter scene on New Jersey Avenue. We were officially off duty, but I had my beeper clipped on. So did John. There were only two other guys drinking in the gin mill, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.

Didn't matter one way or the other. It was good just to be with John. I needed to talk to him. I really needed to talk to Sampson about something.

"You sure it's Shafer?" he asked me once we had our beers and some nuts in front of us. I told him about the disturbing tape I'd seen from Sunrise Valley. But not about the other threats, or the ransom. I couldn't, and that bothered me a lot. I'd never lied to Sampson, and this felt like a lie.

"It's him. No doubt about it."

"That's messed up," John said. "The Weasel. Why would he come back to Washington? He almost got caught here the last time."

"Maybe that's why. The thrill of it, the challenge."

"Yeah, and maybe he misses us. I won't miss him this time. Put one right between his eyes."

I sipped my beer. "Shouldn't you be home with Billie?" I asked.

"It's a work night. Billie is cool with it, with my job. Her sister's staying with us for a while, anyway. They're both asleep by now."

"How's that working out? Married life? Billie's sister at the house?"

"I like Trina, so it's okay. Funny, things I couldn't imagine getting used to aren't a problem. I'm happy. First time, maybe. Floatin' on a cloud, man."

I grinned at Sampson. "Ain't love grand?"

"Yes, it is. You ought to try it again sometime."

"I'm ready," I said, and smiled.

"You think so? I wonder about that. Are you really ready?"

"Listen, John, there's something I need to talk to you about."

"Figured that out already. Something about that bombing. Then the murder of Thomas Weir. Shafer back in town." Sampson looked into my eyes. "So what is it?"

"This is confidential, John. They've made a threat against Washington. It's pretty serious. We've been warned about an attack. They demanded a huge ransom to stop it."

"Which can't be paid?" Sampson asked. "The United States doesn't negotiate with terrorists."

"I don't know about that. I'm not sure if anybody does, except maybe the president. I'm on the inside, but not that far inside. Anyway, now you know as much as I do."

"And I should act accordingly."

"Yeah, you should. But you can't talk about this with anybody. Not anyone, not even Billie."

Sampson took my hand. "I got it. Thank you."