The little girl's reflection stared back at hersel?
'Look what I've got,' said sevenyearold Teresa, and she picked up the handgun in both hands, straining to lift it.
Teresa gasped in horror at the speed with which this happened. She had no time to speak, only to make a futile grabbing action towards the gun. The movement distracted the little girl, who jerked around in surprise, and somehow those tiny hands managed to pull the sensitized trigger. Teresa ducked as the gun went off-a shattering explosion in the confines of the room and saw the mirror on the wall smash into a dozen crazed pieces. The gun flew out of the child's hands, crashing on the floor. The pieces of broken mirror slid heavily to the floor, revealing the dirty wooden board that had been behind the glass.
'Tess?!'
From the other end of the apartment there came the sound of something heavy and metallic being dropped, then
footsteps rushing down the corridor towards her.
Little Teresa was staring in disbelief at the shattered mirror, holding her hurting wrist, her face rigid with shock and fear and pain.
The door burst open, but before her mother appeared Teresa recalled the LIVER mnemonic.
She was in Cleveland, 1962. East 55th Street, outside a bank. She knew what was coming, and there was no need to allow it to happen. Six seconds went by, and the door she was standing next to began to open quickly. LIVER. Two hours' wait for Charles Dayton Hunter in the dimly lit interior of a San Antonio bar had no more attraction. LIVER.
She was hiding behind a tollbooth at the northern end of a suspension bridge thrown high across a river. She was wearing a bulletproof vest, a hardened helmet and silvered shades.
Around her were twenty or thirty other cops dressed
Identically. They were all carrying rifles of a make she could not identify. A helicopter was moving snappily overhead.
'Who we waitin' for?' Teresa gritted to the man next to her.
'It's Gerry Grove,' the man snarled, spitting a jet of orange tobacco Juice. 'He's on the rampage in Bulverton, England, and we gotta stop him, and stop him now! There he is, boys!
He's comm' our way!'
With several of the others, Teresa took up position in the narrow roadway that ran between two of the tollbooths. The other cops disposed themselves similarly. A man was running down the centre of the carriageway towards them. At intervals he loosed off a stream of bullets at passing vehicles, causing them to skid and crash. One caught fire, and rolled slowly backwards down the incline towards the booths, leaving a trail of burning oil.
From the helicopter came a loudly amplified voice, screeching down at the gunman from above:
'We know you're in there, Grove! Throw down your weapon or weapons, and come out with your hands up! Let the hostage '
Gerry Grove rolled on his back, took aim, and pumped a dozen bullets into the belly of the helicopter. There was a mighty explosion, and shattered glass, engine housing and rotor blades flew in all directions.
'Let's get him, boys!' yelled the police captain.
With the others, Teresa raised her rifle and started to fire. A deafening fusillade roared out.
Grove stood his ground with a calm expression on his face, firing back with deadly effect. In quick succession, policemen were thrown violently backwards by the impact of his bullets.
Teresa, staring at the man, said aloud, 'That's not Grove!'
She took off her shades to see better, then removed her helmet and shook out her long black tresses. She stepped forward. The man they had called Gerry Grove stared at her in amazement.
He was not Grove but Dave Hartland, Amy's brotherinlaw.
Shit, thought Teresa. I'm wasting a lot of time on this!
LIVER.
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'What?' said Teresa, as darkness abruptly fell.
She was in Bulverton Old Town on a cold winter's morning. It was her first full day in England, and she had gone for a walk to see the place. A frisson of recognition ran through her; recognition not from now, as she returned via the hyperlinked scenario, but from then. Why had she felt so at home here? lt could hardly matter now. She was impatient to get on. LIVER.
She was in a hotel room, late one afternoon, daylight fading. A woman sat at a laptop computer that rested on a small working surface jutting out from one wall. She was typing slowly, and she looked tired. Her shoulders sagged. Teresa thought, This is how my life slipped away, trying to figure out the problems created by others, trying to investi gate, detect, make sense of chaos. The woman stopped typing, pressed her hands down on the work surface, beginning to stand up; she looked ill and exhausted. She was about to turn, and would see herself there, so Teresa recalled the LIVER mnemonic and slipped away.
She was in AI's Happy Burgabar, standing by the brightly lit salad bar. The restaurant was full of families, and a cheerful noise filled the huge room. Teresa remembered the fruitless hours she had spent trying to
