"Look at this, Ace," Cross said, handing over a leather–bound book, diary–sized.

The man called Ace opened the book, his own hands encased in black leather gloves. Each page was meticulously covered in thin block letters.

VITAL STATISTICS – SCHOOL SCHEDULE – BABYSITTER – DUAL MEETS – DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENTS…every page devoted to exhaustive data–gathering on Angel Andrews. The back of the book held photos, some posed, some candid. A photocopy of the girl's birth certificate (the space for "Father" was blank). Copies of report cards, even a vaccination record. Every movement was documented: Wieskoft knew when she was scheduled for dental checkups, the date her report card was to be issued, what time she was dropped off at the babysitter's…

"This motherfucker's on the job 24–7," Ace said. "I know pimps don't know half this much 'bout they ho's."

"It's more than that," Cross said. "The man has a plan." He was holding a set of leather handcuffs in one hand, pouring through a whole drawer full of restraints: a leather bondage mask, various–length chains, dog collars, ball gags.

Cross stood up, opened the single closet. Inside he found a wooden yoke designed to hold a person in an impossibly uncomfortable position, leather wraps at each end for the victim's hands. Casually stored in a corner of the closet, he found an electronic stun gun, several cans of Mace, and a cattle prod.

He carefully replaced all the items in the exact position he found them, then walked over to a computer standing on a small wooden desk. He removed the dust cover, turned it on.

"Not even passworded," he muttered to himself, calling up a list of documents. He used the cursor to scroll down the list…past TAXES past REAL ESTATE. When he came to MY SLAVE, he hit the keys, opened the document onto the screen.

You will learn to obey me. You will find true happiness through obedience. We were meant to be together, you to serve me. Forever. The pain will be a learning experience. The path to liberation. Your freedom. The program will take approximately one year. Then I can allow you some freedom. When you can be trusted. I…

Cross exited the document, went back to REAL ESTATE, studied the screen for several minutes, nodding to himself. "You hear anything on the phone yet?" he asked Ace, speaking over his shoulder.

"No, man. And I be surprised behind it, to tell you the truth. Once that monster–mutant starts playing Junior G–man, there's no turning off his mouth."

"That's it!"

"What, home?"

"You just put it together for me, Ace. Locked and loaded. Let's get the hell out of here."

12

He's going to kidnap the child," Cross told his crew. They were in the basement of the Red 71 poolroom, as removed from prying eyes as if they had been on another planet.

"Ransom?" Rhino asked.

"No," Cross said. "Torture. He's got it all laid out. First he snatches the kid, probably use that stun gun he's got to take her down. He's got this cabin, way out in the sticks. Owns it outright, no mortgage. The plan is to bring her up there. And keep her, see? He's got this whole conditioning program worked out. Like he was a coach. Only it's a POW thing. Pain conditioning. He's got a library of bondage–torture books. You know how it plays…all those freaks think the same way…he's gonna train her, right? Own her the same way he owns the cabin. He's just waiting for the right time. And he's getting near critical mass."

"We got a plan too, right?" Rhino said.

Cross looked around the room. "Any ideas?" he asked.

"Get the motherfucker and turn off his lights?" Ace offered;

"I got it," Princess said, barely able to contain his excitement. "How about this? I knock on his door, tell him I'm selling high–tech surveillance equipment…like night scopes and all, see? That'll get his motor running. So he lets me into his apartment and I wait for the right moment–then I snap his neck like a fucking twig and throw him out the window. Okay' Then I write a suicide note and split. Is that slick or what?"

"What," Ace said sourly.

"Princess," Cross said patiently, "he takes one look at you and he starts screaming. Come on…."

"Hey, that's the beauty of my plan–I'll wear a disguise."

Rhino gazed at the ceiling as if it had some answers.

Buddha said, "Jesus H. Christ." Very quietly.

Cross shot the pudgy man a look.

"How about a car accident?" Buddha asked, trying to divert Princess. "You know…drunk driver, leaving the scene of the smash. I could take him out soon as it gets dark."

"How do we get paid, then?" Cross asked.

"I dunno," Rhino replied. "Isn't the woman–?"

"Yeah, she's in for a piece. But we need to score at both ends, cover our nut with this one," Cross told him. "I got an idea. Okay, you guys all have a clear sight picture, right? Just take a look at the video Princess made if you need a refresher. Keep on him like a blanket…I don't know when he's gonna blow, but it has to be soon."

13

The white telephone buzzed. Wieskoft looked up from his computer, surprised–the number was unlisted–he only used it to make outgoing calls–take–out food and 900 numbers. His favorite was 1-900–LOLITAS.

He reached for the receiver cautiously.

"Hello…?"

"Good evening, sir," a clear, distinct voice came over the line. "My name is Morgan…I'm in the private delivery business. I thought you and I could meet, maybe discuss my services."

"I don't want any deliveries. Who gave you my…?"

"Sure you want a delivery, pal. A live one, if you get my meaning. My prices are very reasonable, and I guarantee I'll deliver the package right to your door…or any place you say. Remember, it's a guarantee. And no risk to you. None whatever."

"Leave me alone!" Wieskoft screamed, slamming down the phone.

14

Cross strolled away from the pay phone and climbed into the passenger seat of the Shark Car. Buddha threw the car into gear and made the vehicle disappear into a clot of city traffic.

"That should do it for the pressure cooker. We mailed him a copy of the video Princess took, too. Maybe he'll move before he was ready to–he'd be easy then."

"What if he just lays there? What's the backup?"

"You still in touch with that researcher? Cheryl?"

"Sure," Buddha replied. "What you need?"

"Tell her everything she can get on the President's kid. The daughter, what's her name, Chelsea or something?"

"Yeah, that's right. What you want to deal with that draft–dodging weasel for?"

"What difference would that make, brother?"

"Hey, come on, Cross. We was both in the Nam–how you feel about guys that slicked their way out of it?"

"I wish I had," Cross said, looking out the window.

15

Two days later, the cellular phone rang in the basement of Red 71. Cross looked up from a stack of clippings on a door laid across a pair of sawhorses he was using as a desk.