"Do you now? Okay, two questions. How much' And where is it?"

"It's mostly in mutual funds. I could–"

"There's the phone," the man told him. "And here's your list," another man said, handing Wieskoft a computer printout of all his financial holdings.

22

It was late afternoon by the time Wieskoft's Lincoln steamed up to the curb in front of his building. He slammed on the brakes, jumped out of the car and charged for the stairs. "Maybe there's still time…stop payment on the currency transfer orders, pack some bags, take Angel, get out of…"

"Freeze!" several voices yelled simultaneously. Wieskoft looked around, seeing only a river of handguns pointing at various parts of his body.

23

Let me get this straight," McNamara was saying. "We find a stalker's journal in your apartment, okay? Detailed plans for kidnapping and torturing a little girl. All kinds of equipment to do the job. Piles and piles of newspaper clippings about the President's daughter. Magazine articles, photographs…even her school records, the name of her cat…everything. We know you own this cabin out in the sticks. Nice of you to set the trip odometer before you made the last run…the round–trip mileage is just perfect. And pasted over every picture of this little girl, you got the word 'Angel' too. I'll bet when we search the cabin, we find her name all over that place too.

"And your story is you were kidnapped by a gang of devil–worshipers who made you clean out your bank accounts, is that it?"

"I…"

"You're a sick bastard, aren't you? Well, you're going down for this one. Down deep. Maybe if you get lucky, you'll end up playing cards with John Hinckley."

"You don't…understand," Wieskoft muttered. "I don't even know that girl. I never…"

"So who's this 'Angel,' then?" McNamara asked.

"I…I…"

"He's all yours," McNamara told the waiting feds.

Epilogue

"I can't believe it," Reba told Cross, sitting at her kitchen table." All this time, he was after the President's daughter…God!"

"His lawyer is pleading him NGI?"

"NGI?"

"Not Guilty by reason of Insanity. He's going with a public defender…looks like he's broke, too."

"Will he go to prison?"

"A mental hospital, most likely. But, those places, the thing is, they don't let you go until you admit what you did…so they can 'cure' you, right? This Wieskoft character, he keeps telling this crazy story…they're never gonna buy that one."

"I can't buy it myself."

"That's not what you bought," Cross said, holding out his hand.

Value Received

I waited for him in the warehouse, standing back in the shadows.

The midnight–blue Mercedes sedan purred through the open door. He climbed out, adjusted his shirt cuffs so they showed just past the sleeves of his suit coat, patted his hair. Tapped his fingers on the sleek fender.

I stepped out of the shadows.

"I see you're on time."

"Like I said."

"I don't have much time for this. I have a lot to do."

I didn't say anything. The phone in his car chirped. He nodded in its direction, making no move to answer.

"They think I'm already on my way to the Bahamas."

I watched his hands. Waiting.

"I have the money. Right here," tapping his breast pocket. "All in fifties, no sequential serial numbers."

I watched his eyes.

"I know the way you guys work. We have a deal. I'm paying good money for this. It's still a lot cheaper than a divorce, but I still expect value received."

I nodded.

"It has to happen before midnight tonight."

"It will."

"Make it happen slow, okay? I want that fucking little cunt

to hurt first."

"I don't do that."

"I'm paying you…"

"You're paying me for a body. You'll get a body. On time."

His face played with a sneer. "You're supposed to be the best. Like my car. Like my clothes. I pay for the best."

I watched him.

"You're a machine, right? A death machine. And you work for whoever pays you."

"Whoever pays me first."

Head Case

1

The woman was so impossibly beautiful it hurt to look at her. The old man did it anyway–it was his job.

"Nobody named Cross here, lady," he said, glancing up from behind the counter at the entrance to the basement poolroom.

"Is that right?" the woman challenged. "Then maybe I'll just play some pool."

"There's no tables available," the old man said.

The woman shot a glorious hip, her orange silk sheath rippling in appreciation. She swiveled on spike heels, taking in the scene behind her. Most of the room was in shadow, broken up by low–hanging shaded bulbs over the tables. Only a few of the bulbs were lit, and even those were shrouded in a thick haze of yellowing smoke.

"I see plenty of empties," she said, her voice fiat.

"Those ones are broken, lady."

"I guess I'll just wait, then," she said, walking away from the counter to an old–fashioned red–and–white Coke machine. She perched on a nearby stool, crossed her marriage–wrecker legs, and took out a cigarette.

A wooden match flared just past her cheek. She leaned forward, caught the light. She leaned back, took a deep drag, her breasts threatening the silk. She looked up at the man holding the match, veiling her eyes under butterfly lashes. His head was shaved, sitting on a thick, corded neck. The earring in his right ear was a long chain attached to a ball, like a convict's shackles. His upper body was grotesque: so outrageously ripped and heavily veined it looked artificial. The flesh sculpture was barely covered with a pale purple tank top.

"Thank you," the woman whispered, photographing his face with her turquoise eyes, recording the mascara and eyeliner, the thin coating of lip gloss.

"Can I help you with something?" the massive creature asked her.

'You're not femme," the woman said. It wasn't a question. "Why all the makeup?"

"It helps get me into fights," the man said.

The woman nodded like she'd just heard common sense. "I want to see Cross."

"Not here," the bodybuilder said, leaning forward as his voice dropped. The woman cocked her head, listening. Finally, she nodded.

The ivory balls seemed to click along with the rhythm of her hips as she walked out.

2

The woman on the street corner was all in black, a deeper, darker shade than the surrounding night. A big sedan slid to a stop–it was gunmetal gray with darkened windows, generic and anonymous. The front door opened and the bodybuilder stepped out, nodded to her, opened the back door like an usher. She climbed inside. The door closed behind her. Another door slammed, and the car was in motion.

"You wanted to talk to me?" A voice from the far recesses of the back seat.