He knew that he had come to that long-gone but so familiar edge, where too much of what lay behind was pain and nothing ahead mattered, where black rage ruled him, and one little step would put him over. The last time he had been there was the night he had almost strangled Alison Chapley with her own scarf. He had never let himself get that close since.

He realized that the phone was ringing. He picked it up and said hello.

"Hello," a woman's voice said. For those first seconds, he assumed it was Martine's. Then she said, "You probably don't remember me. It's Gwen Bricknell."

Monks was more than surprised. He made a hard effort to change realities.

"Indeed I do, Ms. Bricknell," he said.

"Gwen. Please." Her voice had a confiding tone.

"All right. Gwen. I'm Carroll."

"Am I interrupting you?"

"Not at all," Monks said. "Glad to chat. Or is there something I can do for you?"

"Maybe. Maybe I can do something for you, too."

"Oh?"

"I have a soft spot for men in pain."

Monks blinked, taken off balance again.

"Am I in pain?"

"Oh, yes," she said gently.

"How do you know?"

"Sometimes I can just feel things. Sort of like reading minds."

"Really? What am I thinking right now?"

"You're wondering what I'm wearing."

This was not true, but Monks said, "Well? What?"

"Not very much. Let's leave it at that." Several interesting images of the superb Gwen appeared in his mind. "But before, a minute ago – you were thinking something very different," she said. "Dark, dangerous. There was someone in the past, that you had a terrible moment with."

Monks held the phone away and stared at it, trying to be sure he had just heard what he thought he had. Hairs had lifted on his neck.

"Am I right?" she said.

"Yes," he said shakily.

"That's why I called. To help you out of that."

"Thank you."

"I can do more, much more. But there is something I want to ask you."

"Of course," Monks said. He was still trying to get grounded.

She hesitated. "This is confidential, in terms of the clinic."

"I'll do my best with that."

"We got a phone call this afternoon. It was Eden Hale's father. He said you'd come to his house, claiming she'd been murdered."

This time, Monks was not entirely surprised. Tom Hale had called Baird Necker to complain, too. Apparently, he had grabbed the phone and broad-sided his outrage.

"That's somewhat distorted," Monks said.

"He wanted to know what we knew about it. I told him it was the first we'd heard of it."

"Sorry to put you in an awkward spot."

"Will you tell me why you think that, about Eden?" she said.

"I don't think it. It's just a possibility."

"What if I told you – this sounds crazy – what if I said I've been thinking about it, too? It won't go away."

Monks pushed aside everything else that was running through his head.

"You must have a reason," he said.

"It's one of those things I feel."

"Like you just did with me?"

"Like that, yes. But – I don't know exactly how to put it. It's almost like it's a different color, except it's not a color at all. With you, it was pain and anger. This is hate. Someone who wanted her gone."

Monks was not as skeptical as he would have been a few minutes earlier.

"Who?" he said.

"I don't want to plant anything in your mind. I'd rather have you come watch – this person – for yourself. If you notice something, too, then I won't think I'm crazy."

"I'm the farthest thing from psychic, Gwen." Although Monks had often noticed that he had an uncanny ability to make stoplights turn red just as he got to them.

"You don't need to be," she said. "I'm talking about a possessiveness you can see. It's creepy."

Possessiveness of whom? Monks wanted to ask. Why did you tell me that Julia didn't know Eden? Did you know about Eden's affair with D'Anton?

But she had gone from hostile to friendly to offering information. He decided to let her keep moving at her own pace, at least until the time came when it might be necessary to push.

"All right," he said. "Where do I see it?"

"Welles and Julia host events." She pronounced the word like it began with a capital E. "Like parties, but more – focused. There's going to be one tomorrow night. Will you be my date?"

It seemed that there was not going to be any mourning period for Eden at the D'Anton household.

"I'd be honored," Monks said.

"Will it feel awkward to you? Being with a woman who's – well, you know. Been exposed a lot."

"My guess is I'll like it fine."

"You do say the right things," she said, and now her tone was sultry. "Let me give you directions."

He got a pen and wrote them down. The place was near the Marin coast, south of him – a private, very choice area of real estate.

"My God, I hope it cools down," she said. "I'm beaded all over with sweat. What about you?"

"It's actually not bad here. I'm up in the redwoods."

"I meant, is there anyone you suspect?"

"Everyone," Monks said.

She laughed. "You must stay very busy. I'll see you tomorrow, Carroll."

Monks put down the phone, still trying to process what had just happened. The guns lying on the picnic table brought back the enormously different reality of a few minutes before. He felt like he had been walking down the hall to a familiar room, but suddenly found himself in another city. Abruptly, he feared it might be the onset of a malaria attack. But they almost never came anymore, and he had not felt any warning symptoms.

He tasted his drink. It had gotten watered from melting ice. He dumped it over the railing, went inside, and poured another one. The vodka bottle was past the half-empty point.

When he walked back out, a man's voice said, "Doc?"

Monks jerked around, spilling the drink.

"Hold your fire," the voice said. "It's Emil."

"Emil," Monks said, opening his arms expansively. "Come on up."

The voice's owner came into view, a thickset grizzled man in his late sixties. This was Emil Zukich, a neighbor from a couple of miles up the road, the master mechanic who had given Monks the Bronco, then rebuilt it when it had been savaged by gunshots.

"I didn't see your lights," Monks said.

"Mrs. Fetzer called me about some shooting down here. Thought maybe I'd better come in quiet."

Shame touched Monks. Mrs. Fetzer was his closest neighbor, a reclusive middle-aged widow. He had not considered that the shooting might alarm her or drag Emil out to check on him.

"Everything's fine," Monks said. "Just a little target practice."

"Target practice? This time of night?"

"I've got some fine vodka."

I can't stay. How about if I help you put those away?" Emil nodded toward the guns.

Monks was suddenly very tired. He walked to a chair and sat down heavily. "I'm sorry, Emil," he said.

"I ain't going to ask if you're all right, 'cause I can see you're not. That's a bad mix, Doc. Booze and guns."

"I know."

"Maybe I should take them with me."

"I'm all right now."

I'll just check them, then."

Emil cleared the weapons one at a time, making sure they were unloaded, not forgetting to open the Beretta's chamber. A Korean War vet, he had fought at Pork Chop Hill. When he finished, he put them back on the table.

"Anything I can do?" Emil said.

"No. I just need some sleep. Sorry again."

"Not to worry. Things can get that way, I know." Emil faded into the night like a bandit.

It came home to Monks, with force, that he was alone again.

He went into the kitchen and swilled vodka from the bottle. It was warm and its fine flavor was lost to his taste, but he drank it anyway. He pulled food from the refrigerator, salami and cheese and bread, and tore off chunks with his teeth, aware as he bolted it down that he was ravenous.