Indianapolis, Saturday, December 2, 2:15 a.m.

You'd think a realtor would have better home security, he thought as he let himself in through Tyler Young's patio door. His loss, my gain. Shouldering his heavy load, he crept up the stairs, listening, but there was no sound except for the pounding of his own heart. Finally.

He would finally face the one who'd killed Shane, as an adult now, not the helpless kid he'd been. Two people slept in the bed, one a woman. A ceiling fan turned above the bed and along with Tyler's snores, covered his steps as he moved to the woman's side. One stab of his knife and she painlessly gurgled her last.

Tyler still snored heavily and this close, he could smell liquor on his breath. Good. Drunk people made such easy targets. Tyler would be that much easier to subdue.

He had dreamed of this as a kid, in the Youngs' house of hell. Every night he'd fantasized his revenge as Tyler… He swallowed, the memory making his stomach churn even now, ten years later. As Tyler did what Tyler did. The fantasies had kept him sane then. Now, those fantasies were about to come true. Now he'd do what Tyler did. Every single step. Quietly he fixed the chain he'd brought to the head of the bed, down at the floor. At the end of the chain was a cuff and with a click he snapped it around Tyler's beefy wrist. And held his breath.

But Tyler's snores continued. The rag for Tyler's mouth was soaked in urine, another little trick he'd learned from the man who was now his captive. But he had his own tricks now. With great care he took out the third of the knives he'd treated with his curare paste. How easy to do, and how… exotic. His gun in his left hand, he quickly opened one of

Tyler's veins with his right. Tyler's eyes surged open, but the gun was already aimed between the man's eyes. Horror filled Tyler's eyes by degrees as he took in the gun, the chain, his bleeding arm.

But there was no recognition and that pissed him off. "It's Andrew." He knew the moment Tyler remembered and laughed softly. "In about two minutes you won't be able to move, but you'll feel every little thing I do." He leaned in close. "This time you'll count to ten, Tyler. This time you'll go to hell. But first, you'll answer to me. I'm going to take out this rag. If you scream, you will die. Understand?"

Tyler nodded, sweat beading on his forehead.

He removed the gag with distaste. "Where is Tim?"

Tyler licked his lips nervously. "If I tell you, will you let me go?"

He hadn't even asked about his wife. "Sure."

"New Mexico. Sante Fe." He drew back a fraction of an inch. "Now let me go."

Before Tyler could react, he shoved the rag back in his mouth. "You grew up stupid, Tyler. Let me help you. One, two, three…" And as he counted Tyler's body went stiff and rigidly still. "Ten. It's showtime."

He knew he didn't have much time. Under normal circumstances, Tyler would lose consciousness in under ten minutes. But after ten years, he wanted more than ten minutes and he wanted Tyler Young fully aware. He wanted Tyler Young to feel pain. He wanted Tyler Young to pay.

So he'd planned ahead. Placing his gun on Tyler's night-stand, he unpacked his kit. As usual he carried his sharp knife and lead pipe and his remaining plastic eggs, but tonight he'd brought a little extra along. He pulled an oxygen tank and mask from his pack. He'd be able to extend Tyler's conscious minutes by three times by forcing oxygen into his lungs. Tyler might just pass out from the pain first.

The thought made him smile.

"So, Tyler," he said conversationally, placing the mask over the man's frozen face. "How y'been? Molested any children lately?" Tyler and his wife had no children, at least no children that lived with them. He'd checked all the bedrooms before finding the master, and there were no children in this house. No pets either. So he could fully concentrate on his work. "Can't talk? Too bad. You'll just have to listen to me. Don't worry, I'll keep you informed, every step of the way. First, I'll break your legs, just because I can."

And he did, enjoying the way Tyler's eyes crossed with pain. He then rolled the pipe from one hand to the other. "Normally I'm finished with the pipe by this point," he said, still casually. "But I have another use planned for you. See, I don't like men. Just women. But I'd hate to let that keep me from giving you the same pleasure you gave me." He could tell Tyler understood. "Excellent. Oh, and the knife? Normally I just slit throats with it, but again, I have a special use planned for you." He grinned down at his victim, kept alive because he wished it. Tyler would die when he wished it. "You called us dickless pussies back then. I guess you'll get to find out what that term really means. So let's get this show on the road, Tyler. Before the oxygen runs out."

Chicago, Saturday, December 2, 6:35 A.M.

Murphy watched as Mia approached his car. He was alert, but eyed the coffee cups in her hand with appreciation. He got out and stretched, then took one. "Thanks."

She leaned against the car, looking up at the house. "Anything?"

"White never came back, but the kid's been watching. There he is now."

Once again the blinds bent and little fingers appeared. Once again Mia gave him a warm smile and a wave. Once again the kid disappeared. "I say we try to get a warrant. We've certainly gotten them on less before."

"I'll call a cruiser to watch while we're in meeting. We'll coordinate with the others."

The others. Which would include Reed. She would do her job.

"Spill it. kid." Murphy ordered in his mild way. "What did pretty boy Solliday do?"

She smiled, surprised she could. "Nothing. He made no promises, Murphy, and broke none. And I got a couple of nights of really good sex out of the deal."

Murphy winced. "Rub it in, why don't you?" He tilted his head. "Let me know and I'll mess up that pretty face of his for you."

"My hero." Abruptly she sobered. "Look what we have here."

The front door opened and the kid came out, dressed for church in a dark suit and a clip-on tie. He paused on his front porch, then sucked in a breath and started walking, not stopping until he'd crossed the street to where they stood. He was holding the flyer they'd given his mother. It was flattened, but someone had crumpled it. His swallow was audible.

He was only about seven or eight. Reddish blond hair was carefully wet and combed. Freckles covered his face. She'd always been a sucker for freckles. Soberly she held out her hand. "I'm Detective Mitchell. This is Detective Murphy."

He shook her hand. "I'm Jeremy."

"Jeremy Lukowitch?" Murphy asked and the boy nodded.

"Where's your mom, Jeremy?" Mia asked.

"Still asleep. I think we should go to the station," Jeremy said gravely.

"And maybe we will," Mia said, then went down on one knee. "Tell me, Jeremy, have you seen the man in this picture?"

"Yes."

"When?"

He swallowed again. "Lots of times. He lives here sometimes."

Oh. sweet bingo. "Do you remember the last time you saw him, honey?" she asked.

"Thursday morning before I went to school, but he came home late that morning."

"Do you remember what time?"

"Five forty-five. I looked at my clock." Jeremy lifted his chin. "You should get a warrant to search our backyard."

Mia's heart was knocking, but she kept her voice calm. "What will we find?"

"He buried stuff there." Jeremy started counting on his fingers. "Thursday, Tuesday, Sunday and last Friday."

Mia blinked. "Last Friday?"

Jeremy nodded soberly. "Yes, ma'am. Now I'll agree to testify if you give me and my mother witness protection. We'd like to change our names and move to… Iowa."