Beyond Recognition

through the treetops Ben paused briefly, waiting for them to reach him and pass.

That was when he saw the man perched in a nearby tree.

If he had been in better control, he might not have gasped the way he did, but he lacked any such control, and his release of air brought him to the man’s attention. The guy was right at the same height, maybe thirty feet off the ground. He was three trees away, braced comfortably in the first main crotch.

Ben recognized him immediately. He wore a sweatshirt pulled up on his head, though he had ditched the sunglasses since the time Ben had seen him at the airport.

Another boy Ben’s age might have panicked and frozen in that tree, but Ben had Jack Santori to thank for his ability to move, and move quickly. The headlights swept past. The darkness washed the man out of the tree, and Ben out of his.

Ben moved faster than his legs had ever moved before. He swung like a monkey, one limb to the next, down, down, down. Faster and then faster still. As his eyes readjusted from the headlights, he glanced left and saw the other guy was descending too. And making better time.

Ben moved quickly, but the guy in the sweatshirt was superhuman the way he could climb. He was already halfway down his tree, checking on Ben the entire way.

It wasn’t going to be a social call. He had that same look Jack Santori had on a bad night. He intended to get up close to Ben, the way Jack did. To hurt him. To stop him from telling anyone-which was exactly what Ben had in mind.

Down … down … down….

Ben understood in another flash of headlights that he wasn’t going to win this race. And losers paid, as Santori was fond of saying. The guy had only a couple of limbs to go; Ben had fifteen feet.

The decision was not so much conscious thought as an act of survival. Had he reasoned, he would have understood the drop was too great, even given the soft damp earth below. He would not have gone with his instincts but instead would have descended further before jumping. But something propelled him off that limb, threw him right off it, into an open-armed jump, that began with a scream and ended with the solid impact of both legs striking the ground.

He hit hard, but no bones broke; he knew this instantly. And had his glass eye not popped out with the contact before he fully crashed and rolled through the wet leaves, his nose smashed, he might never have thought of what came next. But he had played this game too many times not to think of it, had scared the frost out of a dozen of Jack Santori’s playmates. He played dead.

He held his breath, popped both eyes wide open, and made no attempt to wipe the trickle of blood that oozed from his nose. Holding his breath was the hardest, but also the most important to the performance. To fool the girls his chest could not move at all.

The man from the tree was already down by the time Ben hit, and he ran to get a look at the boy. He cut through the dense underbrush and reached Ben’s silent body just as Daphne’s voice cut through the woods, calling, “Ben? Ben?”

The man glanced hotly in the direction of the voice, bent over, and looked directly into Ben’s face, wincing as he saw the pulpy red flesh of the open hollow eye socket. He tested Ben with the toe of his running shoe, checking for life. The trick to playing dead was just that: Gross them out with the bad eye, and they never looked at much else.

The two locked eye-to-eye, Ben getting a perfectly clear look at the man, who saw a fallen boy, dead of a broken neck.

The faceless man with eyes like a Halloween pumpkin-carved and artificial-hurried off through the woods as the back door banged shut: Daphne giving up.

Ben waited, hearing the man work back through the woods and up toward the small park, waited as he heard the distinctive sound of a bike chain, the pedals backing up.

As much as Ben tried to convince himself to leave it alone, he couldn’t; his system was charged with a small victory, his curiosity pumping like a drug. He sat up, the image of the man a silhouette through the woods as he pedaled away.

Wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve, Ben hurried to the shed behind his house. His bike was there. He had to do it. He had to follow the guy.

He did it for Emily-he told himself-and their chance for a future. He did it to help Daphne. But the truth of the matter was far more simple: He did it to erase the guilt of his earlier crime of climbing into that truck, of taking the money. To be a hero. This was his chance; he knew it instinctively. He would not let the opportunity pass him by.

He jumped onto the bike and went speeding out his driveway, leaving his glass eye far behind and the weight of his past right there along with it.

62

The rooming house was one block off Yesler Way in a racially mixed neighborhood that had both soul-food kitchens and acupuncture clinics. It was a brown-shingled two-story structure that looked more like a cheap motel.

In blatant disregard of Shoswitz’s orders, Boldt called in the services of Danny Kotch from the department’s Tech Services squad.

Rule number one, in dealing with a torch or a bomb maker, was never but never kick the apartment. Only experts entered such a place, and they went in gently and carefully, often through an opening in a wall they made themselves, rather than a door. Under no circumstances would Boldt attempt to pick Jonny Garman while the man was in the apartment. The pick would be on the street, with Garman out in the open and totally surrounded. But as far as Boldt was concerned, the pick would come later, and for two reasons: Boldt would need additional manpower, and he wanted another chance to size up the suspect and follow him if possible- to connect him to hard evidence.

They drove separately, Gaynes parking two blocks west on Washington but with a clean view of the front of the rooming house, Boldt taking up a position on 18th Avenue South near a battered dumpster, with a slightly obstructed view of what he took to be the building’s back door.

Boldt hung up from Kotch, called Domino’s Pizza, and placed an order for a medium sausage and mushroom, giving Garman’s address-always the easiest way to test if a suspect was home. Kotch and the pizza arrived nearly at the same time, with Kotch first. As ordered, he parked at 19th and Jackson and walked to Boldt’s car. He wore blue jeans and an NPR sweatshirt advertising Morning Edition.

When the pizza man had come and gone, an incident Kotch watched with great interest through a small pair of binoculars, the Tech Services man detailed his plan. “So no one answered. He’s not home or, if he is, not interested. You want me in the back or you would have set this up different. Am I right?”

“The back. Definitely. If you hear my car start, you’re out of there.”

“It’s dark enough that I’m okay with that,” the man replied. “I go fishing fiber-optic under that back door. That’s all?”

“Booby traps, condition of the interior, anything stored you see. Labels if possible.”

“But it’s our torch, right? The Scholar? What we’re thinking is fire, correct?”

“Correct.”

“How many minutes?” he asked. “I can go twenty, twenty-two feet inside. A goddamned nickel tour, Sergeant. How much do you want?”

“If he’s in there, you’re gone. If not, then three to five minutes. Short and sweet. Can it record?”

“You bet. Camera goes direct to a camcorder with an LCD display. Camera is black-and-white, but it’s good quality.”

“If his lab isn’t in there, and I don’t think it is, I’d take any clues you happen upon.”

The pizza man tried a second time, apparently having checked his delivery list in the car or used a car phone to call the store. They couldn’t see him at the door, but they heard him pounding. He walked around back carrying the pie, gave up, and drove away a few minutes later.