I thought about Riley Ward, and the woman and two children in the pictures in his office. I thought that maybe he had been blindsided, too, and suddenly the inconsistencies in his and Dersh's version of events at the lake, and why Riley Ward seemed evasive and defensive in his interview, made all the sense in the world, and none of it mattered a damn with the theories of cops and private operators with too much time on their hands.

Dersh and Ward had left the trail in thick cover to be hidden from other hikers. They had not wanted to see; they had wanted to be unseen.

They went down to the water's edge because of its impassable nature, never guessing that Karen Garcia's body was waiting in a manner that would force them to cook up a story to explain how they had come to be in such an unlikely place.

They had lied to protect the worlds each had built, but now a greater lie had come to feed on their fear.

I sat in my car, feeling bad for Riley Ward with his wife and two kids and secret gay lover, and then I left to call Samantha Dolan.

The office was filled with a golden light when Dolan returned my call. I didn't mind. I was on my second can of Falstaff, and already thinking about the third. I had spent most of the day answering mail, paying bills, and talking to the Pinocchio clock. It hadn't answered yet, but maybe with another few beers.

Dolan said, "She sounds like Scarlett O'Hara, for Christ's sake. How can you stand it?"

"I went to see Ward this morning. You were right. They were lying."

I finished the rest of the can and eyed the little fridge. Should've gotten the third before we started.

"I'm listening."

"Ward and Dersh left the trail because they're lovers."

Dolan didn't say anything.

"Dolan?"

"I'm here. Ward said that? He told you that's why they left the trail?"

"No, Dolan, Ward did not say that. Ward's got a wife and two kids, and I would think he'd do damned near anything to keep them from knowing."

"Take it easy."

"I picked it up from someone who works in his office. It's all the talk, Dolan, and it took me about twenty minutes to find out. I guess you people didn't exactly break your asses doing the background work."

"Take it easy, I said."

I listened to her breathe. I guess she listened to me.

She said, "You okay?"

"I'm pissed off about Dersh. I'm pissed off that all of this is going to come out and hurt Ward's family."

"You want to go have a drink?"

"Dolan, I'm doing okay on my own."

She didn't say any more for a while. I thought about getting the next beer, but didn't. Pinocchio was watching me.

She said, "I was going to call you."

"Why?"

"We found Edward Deege."

"He have anything?"

"If he had anything, we won't know it. He was dead."

I leaned back and stared out the French doors. Sometimes the gulls will swing past, or hover on the wind, but now the sky was empty.

She said, "Some construction guys found him in a Dumpster up by the lake. It looks like he was beaten to death."

"You don't know what happened?"

"He probably got into a beef with another homeless guy. You know how that goes. Maybe he was robbed, or maybe he snatched somebody's stash. Hollywood Division is working on it. I'm sorry."

"What are you going to do about Ward?"

"I'll tip Stan Watts and let him follow up. Stan's a good guy. He'll try to go easy."

"Great."

"It's the only chance Dersh has."

"Great."

"You sure about that drink?"

"I'm sure. Maybe some other time."

When Dolan finally spoke again, her voice was quiet.

"You know something, World's Greatest?"

"What?"

"You're not just mad about Ward."

She hung up, leaving me to wonder what she meant.

That Day

The pain burns through him the way his skin burned when he was beaten as a child, burns so hot that his nerves writhe beneath his skin like electric worms burrowing through his flesh. It can get so bad that he has to bite his own arms to keep from screaming.

It is all about control.

He knows that.

If you can control yourself, they cannot hurt you.

If you can command yourself, they will pay.

The killer fills the first syringe with Dianabol, a methandrostenolone steroid he bought in Mexico, and injects it into his right thigh. The next he fills with Somatropin, a synthetic growth hormone also from Mexico that was made for use with cattle. He injects this into his left thigh, and enjoys the burning sensation that always accompanies the injection. An hour ago, he swallowed two androstene tablets to increase his body's production of testosterone. He will wait a few more minutes, then settle onto the weight bench and work until his muscles scream and fail and only then will he rest. No pain, no gain, and he must gain strength and size and power, because there is still murder to be done.

He admires his naked body in the full-length mirror, and flexes. Rippling muscles. Cobblestone abs. Tattoos that desecrate his flesh. Pretty. He puts on the sunglasses. Better.

The killer lies back on the weight bench and waits for the chemicals to course through his veins. He is pleased that the police have finally found Edward Deege's body. That is part of his plan. Because of the body, they will question the neighbors. Evidence he has placed will be discovered, and that is part of the plan also; a plan that he has crafted as carefully as he crafts his body, and his vengeance.

He cautions himself to be patient.

The military manuals say that no plan of action ever survives first contact with the enemy. One must be adaptable. One must allow the plan to evolve.

His plan has already morphed several times – Edward Deege being one such morph – and will morph again. Take Dersh. All the attention on Dersh annoyed him until he realized that Dersh could become part of the plan, just like Deege. It was an epiphany. One sweet moment when, through Dersh, the plan changed from death to lifelong imprisonment. Humiliation. Shame.

Adaptability is everything.

He himself is morphing. Everyone thinks him so quiet. Everyone thinks him so contained.

He is what he needs to be.

The killer relaxes, letting his thoughts drift, but they do not drift to Dersh or the plan or his vengeance; they drift back to that horrible day. He should know better. He always goes back to that day as if to torture himself. Better to play the constant chess game of his plan than wallow in hurt, but for so many years hurt was all he had. His hurt defines him.

He feels the tears which he has never allowed anyone to see, and clenches shut his eyes. The wet creeps from beneath the sunglasses, leaving a trail of acid memories.

He feels the beating. The belt snaps against him until.his skin is numb. Fists pound his shoulders and back. He screams and begs and cries, but the people who love him most are the ones who hate him most. There's no place like home. Running. Walking. A trip on a bus. He escapes from a place where kindness and cruelty are one and the same, and love and loathing are indistinguishable. He is outside a diner when a man approaches. A kindly man who recognizes his pain. The man's hand touches his shoulder. Words of consolation and friendship. The man cares. Comfort. The rest follows so easily. Love. Dependence. Betrayal. Revenge. Regret.

He remembers that day so vividly. He can see every image as if the movie of his life were broken frame by frame, each picture stark and clear, colors brilliant and sharp. The day the hated ones took the man from him. Took him, destroyed him, killed him. That day, after all these years and all these changes, burns so deeply that every cell is branded.