Carlisle eased his way through the milling riot squad, making for the single elevator door that would take him down to Sb4. Their excitement was infectious. He could feel their adrenaline rising. They were working themselves up to bust heads. A food riot inevitably turned ugly.

The elevator was guarded by a junior deacon in black combat fatigues. He carried an Uzi slung under his right arm, and his face wore an expression of blank, all-encompassing hostility. "There's no admission."

Carlisle was not going to stand for that attitude. "There is for me, sonny boy."

"You think so?"

Harry took out his ID plate. "Run by this."

The deacon took the card, making clear his obvious contempt for the ordinary police department ID. He stuck it into the slot. The green light immediately came on. The deacon shrugged. "It looks like you can go on in."

Harry Carlisle gave the young man a hard look. "You should watch those manners of yours, kid. I seriously outrank you."

The deacon came to approximation of attention. "I'm sorry, sir. It's hard to tell."

Carlisle shot him a bleak look as the elevator door opened. At the bottom of the shaft there was another guard.

"Can I help you?"

"The man they brought in after the Eighth Street bombing, where have they got him?"

"ID?"

Carlisle handed over his card for a second ID check. The deacons were very particular about whom they let into their torture chamber. Again the light flashed green. The card was handed back.

"Interrogation room five. Along to your right. You can't miss it."

The headcase was doubled over with his arms pulled up hard behind him. His manacled wrists were secured to an overhead pipe by a short length of chain. Blood was dripping from the tip of his nose, creating a spattered puddle on the floor. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the interrogation room were covered with hard, washable plastic, so the place could be hosed down after use. The prisoner was surrounded by three deacons in gray sweatsuits that were also spattered with blood. The word 'Zealots', along with a clenched-fist symbol, was silkscreened across the back of each sweat top. The Zealots were the New York deacons football team. They had won the interdepartmental championship for four years running. They also turned football into a bloodsport.

One of the interrogators lifted the prisoner's head by the hair so he could look into his face. "Shall we try that again?"

The headcase spluttered. Blood ran down his chin. "The Devil was in me. The Devil was in this body."

"And how did you recognize the Devil?"

A second interrogator joined in. "Confess it all and save your soul."

Carlisle looked on in disgust. "What exactly do you three expect to achieve by torturing a loony?" he asked.

"This is none of your concern, Carlisle. This is a devotional matter. It's moved from the temporal to the spiritual."

"Yeah, sure. That old-time religion."

The loony's head was allowed to drop. The three interrogators turned to face Carlisle. He knew all three of them. Baum, Bickerton, and Kinney. The trio had a reputation throughout the CCC for extreme brutality. Although they all held the same rating, Bickerton was the apparent leader of the holy trio. He was also the Zealots' quarterback.

"You just stepped out onto very thin ice, Carlisle."

Baum joined in. The linebacker, he tended to be the blunt one. "Your own state of grace could be investigated."

Kinney brought up the rear. He played tight end. "What do you want here, Carlisle?"

"I was hoping that I could question this witness about the bombing. There was just a chance he might have seen something." Carlisle looked around coldly. "I can see that I'm wasting my time. You've made him altogether too spiritual."

"I'm glad you recognize you're wasting your time."

Baum was holding a short, leather-covered billy. He prodded the prisoner with it and grinned. "A soul that has become so complex in its sin requires a great deal of saving."

Carlisle shook his head. "I hope you manage it."

"All it takes is a comprehensive confession and an acceptance of Jesus."

The loony's bloody mouth was moving slackly. "Jesus… Jesus…"

Harry Carlisle turned on his heel and left. The guard at the bottom of the elevator shaft called after him as he passed.

"See enough, did you, Lieutenant?"

Carlisle had to contain his fury until he was in the privacy of his own office. The bastards thought what they were doing was amusing. They tortured a harmless mental case and thought that they were funny. When he reached his cubicle on the tenth floor, he roared in like an express train, slamming the door as hard as he could. There was a pint of Wild Turkey with an inch left in it in the bottom drawer of his desk. He swallowed the bourbon in three angry gulps and then hurled the bottle into the waste-basket with enough force to shatter it. Then he stood and glared up into the watching lens of the surveillance camera.

It was only when his anger had subsided a little that he realized what he had missed. And then he was mad at himself.

He opened the door and yelled. "McNeil, I want the bomb-squad audio from this afternoon. The last dialogue between Vargas and Massey, immediately before the bomb went off."

Winters

Winters' phone startled him. He grabbed for it as if it were dangerous. "Winters," he said abruptly.

"This is Lieutenant Carlisle. Will you come up to ten, please, Winters? I think I may have found something."

"Perhaps you could tell me over the phone."

"Just get your ass up here."

Winters swallowed. He wanted to tell the flatfoot to take a jump, but once again he reminded himself that, in his position, he could not afford a conflict with the PD. Carlisle could easily make him look bad at a progress inquiry. He hung up the phone and logged himself out to the tenth floor. When he arrived at Carlisle's office, the lieutenant had a small audioplayer on the desk in front of him.

Carlisle hit the play button. "I want you to listen to this."

His voice was soft, but there was a certain built-in menace. Winters noted that the PD had not invited him to sit down. The tape was from earlier in the afternoon. Vargas, the bomb-squad coordinator, was talking on the radio with one of his men, Massey, the one who had blown himself up trying to down the bomb.

"Give me the bomb location."

"It's under the seat in one of the booths."

"Which one?"

"Hang on, I can't read the number… it's seven. Booth number seven."

"Just look in the bag. Don't touch a thing."

"I'm looking."

Carlisle cut it off. "Notice anything?"

"What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"The bomb was in booth number seven."

"Right."

"So what does that tell us?"

Winters was aware that he was being tested, but he could not imagine what Carlisle was driving at. The detective had hard, tired blue eyes with lines fanning out from the corners as if he had spent too much of his time squinting at things that did not please him. They were eyes that could produce the illusion that they were looking directly into his soul. Winters had heard that there was some kind of scandal in Carlisle's past, but he had never been able to access the details. Sweet Jesus, if only he could prove that the man was an agent of Satan.

"I don't know. What does it tell us?"

"That the bomber must have activated the booth in order to get into it and plant the bomb. He would have had to act like any other confessee."

Carlisle's tone indicated that he believed he was talking to a simpleton. Winters again reminded himself that one day he would get the man. "So?"

"So the bomber must have used either cash or plastic to get into the booth, and there's an outside chance that he may have said something while he was in there. Every prayer booth in the country is wired into deacon central. There must be a record of it somewhere in the Virginia Beach facility, and I want you to access it."