The man reached behind him and dragged a tan canvas backpack around so it lay between him and Tucker. He shoved it forward so it was only inches from Tucker, and grinned again, though he looked afraid and serious.

“This,” he said, “is the favor. Take it to England with you. There is a note inside with a London address on it. And a name. There will be money for you at the other end.” He reached forward and nudged the backpack even closer to Tucker. “Jeanette saved your life, no? Yes. So, a favor returned.”

Tucker hoisted the backpack and found it surprisingly heavy.

“Is what I’m doing legal?” he asked.

Mustache laughed. The woman, Jeanette, smiled.

“We have to trust you,” the man said.

Sirens in the sky began yowling. Jericho sirens. The Stukas were back, diving toward the beach. Tucker knew they would soon flatten out their dives and trigger their machine guns.

But these were different planes and hadn’t yet dropped their bombs. One of them attacked the already shot-up troop carrier that probably looked intact from high above.

The screaming sirens grew deafening and there was a tremendous explosion. Shrapnel, something, slammed into the remains of the cottage’s walls. Something flew over Tucker’s head. He thought it might be the woman who’d invited him to share her shelter.

Henry Tucker placed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

When Tucker opened his eyes he was alone. He would think what just happened was a dream, a hallucination brought on by all he’d seen during the three weeks he’d spent in France. The madness on the beach whenever a boat of any kind might be boarded for an escape across the channel to England.

Tucker looked all around him. What had happened to the woman, child, and man? Had they been blown to bits? Had they simply run from the bombers and were now cowering somewhere else? They must have left him here, alone. Maybe they thought he was dead.

He started to sit up higher to peek over what was left of the cottage’s only remaining wall. And his arm bumped the backpack.

His hearing, which had been temporarily blocked, returned. There was a commotion on the beach, voices yelling.

Tucker raised himself higher to look toward the beach.

Amazing! There were two small boats at the dock. That they’d made it across the rough, gray channel was unbelievable. The larger of the two looked like somebody’s personal yacht. It was listing badly. The other was a small fishing boat. It had SONDRA painted in black letters on its bow.

There didn’t seem to be any planes in the sky at the moment.

Tucker got shakily to his feet and started to run toward the nearer of the boats, the little fishing boat Sondra. Then he stopped and turned back, grabbed up the backpack, and continued his dash toward the small boat. It was in close enough that he wouldn’t have to try to swim. As he ran, he tossed aside everything other than his rifle and the backpack.

Miraculously, he made it to the dock when the boat was only about half full of British and French troops. He splashed through water up to his waist, then was grabbed by people already aboard and hauled up onto the deck. On the way up, he dropped his rifle into the water. But he hung on to the backpack.

On deck, he scrambled away from the rail and leaned sitting against the wheelhouse. The boat smelled like fish, like the open sea. It smelled great to Tucker.

Voices kept shouting for everyone, for everything, to hurry, hurry. Move faster, faster, so they could get the boat away from the dock, where any German bombing or strafing attack would be concentrated.

It seemed impossible to Tucker that Sondra would ever make it back across the channel to England before everyone on board was killed.

But the boat did reverse its engines and did turn its bow toward open water. As it left the dock two men were clinging to the rails, trying to scramble aboard the already teeming deck. One of them made it, the other fell into the water. Tucker thought the exhausted man was too far from shore to make it back.

Poor bastard ...

Tucker pressed the back of his head against the sun-warmed wheelhouse, closed his eyes, and thought of England.

There was no talking now, no sounds other than the steady thrum of the engines and the waves slapping against the hull.

Tucker finally dared to admit it to himself. It was possible, maybe even probable, that he would again see home.

Just past mid-channel, German planes appeared on the horizon.

8

New York, the present

The media went bonkers, and why shouldn’t they? Six dead women, five of them still in their teens. It was a grisly sensation.

National news picked up on the story. Fox News did a special. The media argued with itself over who was covering the story too much or not enough. The muddled and misguided came forward and confessed to the horrible crime at the rate of a dozen a day. A man in Oregon sent Quinn a written confession complete with photographs. That one was taken seriously until the police lab determined that the grisly photos were shots of published NYPD photographs. Surprise, surprise. Someone in the department was leaking.

That was Renz’s problem.

The rest was mostly Quinn’s. He knew that if there wasn’t another D.O.A. murder the papers and TV news eventually would stop running photos of him and bits of the video of his only press conference. But only if the killer ceased in his gruesome harvest.

And of course there were some who would never stop.

Quinn’s answers to the media wolves’ barrage of questions hadn’t been satisfactory, and he knew they’d be after him for more. Minnie Miner, whose talk show Minnie Miner ASAP ran daily on local television, was the most persistent of the media types. And the call-in segment of her show was keeping New Yorkers not only interested, but afraid. Minnie was to New York what a mixer was to a milk shake.

Quinn did owe Minnie a favor. But then almost everyone newsworthy in New York owed Minnie a favor. She saw to that. Favors were the currency of her realm. Hers and Quinn’s.

Renz held his own press conferences, often defending his decision to pit Quinn and the killer against each other a second time. It hadn’t worked out so well the first time, which only added to this time’s dramatic impact. Yet Renz’s press conferences weren’t as lively and well attended as Quinn’s. Quinn, with his bony thug’s countenance and perpetually shaggy haircut, simply made for better television than Renz, and that was that. Renz had to live with it.

Which Renz did for a while. Then he forbade Quinn to waste any more time on the media; he was to concentrate on the investigation. He, Renz, would be the link between the investigation and the media. If he needed more charisma he would grow some.

“ ’Bout time,” Pearl said, when she learned of Renz’s instructions.

Quinn thought so, too. “You know how he is,” he said.

“Yeah. Renz waited for you to take all the heat and test the waters. Now he’s ready to jump in and hog the publicity and whatever glory might come to pass.”

“That’s Renz,” Quinn said, in his mind seeing Renz do a cannonball into a small pool.

Quinn and Pearl were sitting in the Q&A office on West 79th Street. It was arranged almost like a precinct squad room, with desks out in the open, some of them facing each other. There were fiberboard panels that could be moved around when privacy of a sort was required, but right now they were stacked back near the half bath.

Both Quinn and Pearl knew what the other was thinking. If Q&A didn’t locate or apprehend the killer this second time around, it might result in losses of reputation and business. In no more Q&A.