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Watching the ducks and geese on the pond in Mather Park, I decided they thought they held the deed to it. They were certain the red skiff, rowed by the slender man facing two toddlers, was much too close. Their noisy complaint was pleasant counterpoint to the shrieks and yelps of youngsters romping about the grassy slopes.

Weather in Los Angeles confounds even experts. Today was no exception. It was only May, yet sun bathers abounded. It would have been summer-hot, except for the Santa Ana winds, hustling the smog on out over the Pacific. To top it all, I'd just found the engine I needed for the dozer, a Caterpillar D8H. All in all, a glorious day.

I caught the faint scent of gardenias. As the staccato snap of heels faded, I turned. I was headed that way. I fell in step behind her. It wasn't lechery, really. It was merely aesthetic appreciation. At least that's what I told myself.

A lovely young woman is one of nature's finer creations. This one had long black hair, tumbled by the breeze. The sky-blue jacket matched the pleated skirt that danced about her knees. The hips might be a bit too wide, the legs, short for the torso, but the whole was delightful.

The bullet slapped at air an instant before the spherical frosted light globe shattered, then came the muted explosion from the rifle. The woman stopped, turning to watch tumbling shards of glass, randomly reflecting the sun's rays. She wasn't frightened, only puzzled. Alertness accented the delicate structure of the chin, nose and brow. The large bright brown eyes overflowed with questions.

"Get down!" I yelled, lunging toward her.

She turned further, toward the source of my words. When she saw me charging, a touch of fear interfered with puzzlement. The second round pummeled the air. Its scream ended abruptly in a sullen thunk.

It was as if someone had yanked her hair, hard, dragging the body after it. For an instant, the fine features seem to swell grotesquely. Then they became pinched, the eyes dull and sunken, as a cone of bone and blood and pinkish tissue erupted from her head.

I dove for the grassy slope beside the walk, trying to ignore the dull thud of her body crumpling onto concrete. My thoughts overflowed with the image of the delicate ear. And the smallish wound below it, oozing a trickle of blood. Crimson, bordered by black hair.

I hit hard. Air deserted the lungs. I tucked and somersaulted on down the slope, crashing into the flowering peach that offered no cover at all. The image of her face faded into that of another, with leaner, Latin features. These bright brown eyes had been much the same as those. I hadn't been much help then, either.

The scream came from my right, then the thump of the rifle again. Before the next cry of anguish, I had the gunman spotted. He was on the roof of the apartment house, six hundred yards away.

The few scattered trees in the park offered little cover. Each wail of pain was further away. Some faces showed only bewilderment. Many were marred by terror. People were running in pure panic. Maybe. Just maybe.

I couldn't. Determinedly I dug stubby fingers into the ground, burying them to the first knuckle.

It wasn't the rifleman. I'd be unnoticed among those fleeing the carnage. Inside the building, the rifle would be no advantage. There was time. I dug deeper into the soil, trying to ignore the wide screen image of bright brown questioning eyes.

I couldn't remember lurching upward, or beginning to run. But I was moving now. Straight for the apartment building. Pressing harder off each foot, I ignored complaining lungs. A middle-aged man, his face flushed, saw me closing. He whirled, stumbled, then ran back the way he'd come, as if I were the source of death. Sweat drenched my shirt.

It had been at least six seconds since the last shot. I broke into the open between two elms. I couldn't see the shooter. There was still two hundred yards to go. How long would it take him to scramble down three flights of stairs? I had to be inside the lobby ahead of him. I had to be, else this would end badly.

I took a fix on the front corner of the building, moving faster across the flat expanse of grass. It was only when I gave greater thought to the stride, the pumping arms, that I noticed I still clutched a chunk of soil and grass in each clinched fist.

I'd have moved better without the heavy steel-toed boots. But they'd be useful. First, I had to get inside. People gawked. Several pointed toward me. I didn't need that. I needed time, rapidly slipping away.

I rounded the front corner of the building with only a slightly shorter stride. In front of the open doors to the building, a car was parked, the engine idling. I reached deeply for even greater effort.

A tall black man, wearing a stylish tan gabardine suit, strode nonchalantly out the doorway. He carried the rifle case in his left hand.

There might still be a chance. The boots. He was thirty feet from the car and seventy feet from me. And I was flat moving. Remember the god damned boots!

The unconcerned look in his eyes when he saw me carried a message easily understood. I was in no-man's land, without vestige of cover. There was nothing as large as a rose bush. With cat quickness, his long delicate fingers snagged out the nickel plated forty-five auto. He paused, casually bringing the gun to bare.

I dove for the clump of calla lilies beside the building wall. The gun fired. Lead screamed off the concrete foundation. The lovely faces of two women, mixed, becoming intertwined. Still falling, I heard the roar of the next shot as a deafening crescendo. A brightness burst forth within my head, expanding at lightning speed.

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I couldn't be sure for a time, and then I was. The brightness was receding. I didn't like what was taking its place. A freaky demon was pounding on a snare drum inside my head. And putting the wood to it. Between slashing surges of pain, I became aware of the bandage wrapped tightly about my head. Antiseptic. A hospital. An IV needle in the left arm. When I tried to open my eyes, the lids felt as if they'd been glued together.

When I finally managed, it seemed a futile effort. Everything was fuzzed out, like a surrealistic painting examined too closely. Through the blur, there slowly emerged the figure of a man, seated in the chair facing the bed. And another, uniformed, standing by the door.

I concentrated, trying to bring details into focus. The man seated beside me was about forty, I decided. The chocolate brown skin glistened in the dim light, as if thinly coated with wax. The face was gaunt, the flesh drawn tautly down as far as the chin. The hairline was receding prematurely, exposing the dome shaped skull. The moustache failed to compensate for the missing hair. Lusterless eyes sleepily studied me. He seemed as concerned for me as he would for a drowning fly.

His legs were crossed, longs hands and fingers draped over the ends of the chair's arms. The cuff links were diamonds set in gold. They were out of sync with the light green off-the-rack suit and the darker green tie striped boldly in red. The smooth toed shoes glowed with a military shine.

He leaned forward, settling his foot to the floor. Gracefully, the long hands came to rest on his knees. "Can you tell me who you are?" he asked softly.

"Nick Boshard," I replied, surprised at the effort it took, and the wooden feeling of my tongue. "Can you give me the what, where, and like that?"

"You're in Marlin Hospital. The bullet creased your forehead." He glanced at his watch. "You've been unconscious for about two hours."

I started to lift my head. The explosion of bright white pain abruptly ended that idea. One at a time, I examined my hands. The arms felt heavy. A blade of grass was jammed up under one blunt nail. Odd. It didn't fit with the antiseptic and whiteness. "How am I doing?" I asked.

"They say you'll be fine, Mr. Boshard, unless you're dying from internal bleeding." The slight smile lacked warmth.

"Great."

"Let me introduce myself. I am Lt. Bobby Lee Jackson." He stretched out his neck, then settled back, leaving the chin slightly elevated. "I head up a team of the LSF," he said, even more softly. "The Logistical Strike Force." He seemed to be expecting applause.

"Never heard of it."

"We were organized in preparation for the 1984 Olympics to provide immediate, rapid response to any terrorist act."

"Terrorists are into nasty little autos and explosives, not selected targets at range."

"The woman was unlucky. The others were only wounded."

"Who was she?" I asked, looking back at the blade of grass, remembering lovely large bright brown eyes.

"Ms. June Rhondell. A senator's daughter, unfortunately."

I looked up, "That she was a senator's daughter? Or that she was killed?"

He leaned toward me. "Senator Rhondell is a power in Washington. Pressure can be expected, Boshard."

"Why don't you go away?" I asked, wondering when and how I'd decided that was exactly what I wanted him to do.

"Mister, I am facing the PFF, the Peoples Freedom Front. Do you have any conception of what that means?"

"Some. They blow up things and people so everybody in the world will be free. Lately they've been keen on getting the Sandinistas out of Nicaragua."

"I must stop them," he said, as if nobody else could hope to get it done.

"Then get to it."

"I need information."

"Such as?"

"What sort of man attacks another who is armed, without a weapon of his own?"

"Why's it matter?"

"A police officer must understand those he faces." He leaned back in the chair. The eyes were no longer empty. The look of disdain emerging was not encouraging. "It was a foolish move. Are you a fool?"

"One of us might be."

The eyes bulged, as he hunted for a reply that would suit him. He took a deep breath, then demanded, "Tell me what happened, as you saw it."

"I heard a round, tried to take the woman down, then went for the shooter."

"That's not much help."

"Tough."

"Don't get smart, man." He lurched forward in the chair. "Describe the rifleman."

"I was trying to hide."

"You saw enough to duck. Cut the crap."

The demon with the snare drum had laid it aside. Now he was playing with blasting caps. I waited for the pounding of another explosion to fade, then said, "He was big and black and he had a gun."

"Beautiful. Would you recognize a photo?"

"No."

He leaned further forward, placing a hand on the bed. His breath was overdosed with Scope. "All us niggers look alike. Is that it?"

There seemed no point in trying to answer, so I said nothing.

"And this here honky ain't gonna talk to no nigger cop. Right?"

"I know one black cop I don't want to talk to."

He stood, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, glaring down at me. "Until your memory improves, you'll be held as a material witness."

I closed my eyes and listened to him leave, wondering about the source of my own anger. Was it only this vain, racist cop? Or was it my Don Quixote bit, trying to take down that sniper. I couldn't decide. Either way, I wished to hell I'd stayed right there on the ground, digging up more grass.

But I hadn't. Now there was really no choice. I tensed, waiting for another surge of hurt to subside, then opened my eyes.

The cop on the door was watching me. "You sharpened that stick real good," he said, "before you went to poking that dude."

"I didn't catch the name."

"Officer Courtney," he said, grinning. "But you don't want to talk to me."

"Why's that?"

"I'm the blackest dude on the force, man."

"So?"

Officer Courtney shrugged, a grand massive ripple of shoulders, flowing down into his arms.

"Is Jackson for real?" I asked.

"He's a lieutenant," he said, grinning.

"And that's it for you?"

"At the station, we call those dudes in the LSF our Little Shitty Farts."

"Asshole fits Jackson better."

"Count on this, man. He'll have your butt, if he can. You dig?"

"Yeah." The searing surges of pain made it tough to hold my thoughts in any recognizable pattern. "Courtney, find me some painkiller and get an artist in here. I can put together what you need."

"Why me? The Lieutenant's in charge."

"I changed my mind. You're handy."

"Are you jiving me, looking to get off the hook some way?"

"The pistol was a nickel plated .45 auto, most likely a Colt. The rifle had a twenty-four inch barrel. It had..."

"The bastard was carrying it?"

"It had been broken down and packed in a beige buckskin case, about fourteen by twenty-six inches."

"Can you do that good with the shooter?"

"Six-two. One-ninety. Lots of shoulders. Late thirties, with hair beginning to recede. A faint semicircle, dime-size, a scar or birth mark, under the left eye, near the nose. He was headed for a light blue '88 Ford Thunderbird, California plate, 34YTR. Now get me something for this head, will you?"

"You should have laid it out, man."

"I'm hurting, Courtney."

He nodded, studying me, unable to still cop skepticism. He closed the door firmly behind him.

He was right. I should have laid it out for Jackson. But maybe I shouldn't have agreed to do it at all. A witness who can't identify a killer tends to live longer than one who can.

I sighed. Even that hurt. I've never been real good at walking away. I couldn't see myself doing so now. I lifted my left leg a bit, then the right. My head protested fiercely, but I kept at it. I couldn't say when I'd have to move. It could be soon.

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It came out of misty emptiness, the hand reaching toward me. I lunged for the wrist and came fully awake, ignoring surging brightness that threatened to explode inside my head. I was clutching an arm clothed in Scotch plaid. The hand had not yet touched my shoulder.

I squinted, trying to make out this new face, highlighted by the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. It was nondescript, a face that would go unnoticed in a crowd. Unless somebody looked closely at the pale gray eyes. They were expressionless at first glance, but hard bright intensity lay deep within them.

There was lots of black hair much like my own. No smile. The head rested on shoulders that would have made a pro linebacker proud. About two inches over six feet, I decided. I had an inch on him in height, so likely a tad more reach. Still, he might be able to take me. I seldom think along such lines. I wondered why I was doing so now. "You're a light sleeper," he said, returning his hand to his side.

"And you're a doctor," I said, my voice sounding scratchy. "That stethoscope under your coat is probably .44 caliber."

"Magnum. Eight inch barrel."

"Who in hell are you?"

"Frank Keller. Mr. Starr sent me."

"Shit."

"He wants to see you."

I thought about that for a moment, then realized the process was easier. The sharp stabbing pains had faded to a sullen pounding. And I could see clearly. No blurs. I lifted my arms, then my legs. Better. Definitely better. I still didn't want to see Wilson Starr. "Crank the bed up, will you?"

Keller did, with an economy of motion that demonstrated he knew a good deal about moving. Quickly. Silently. Efficiently. It made me feel strangely uneasy.

"How'd you get past the cop on the door?" I asked.

"He went to the john."

"Christ. They call that cover."

"I can put a man in here."

"I don't owe Starr one damned thing. I like it that way."

Keller shrugged. His unconcern was at least equal to that of Lt. Jackson. "Mr. Starr is looking into what happened this morning," he said. There was no inflection. No emotion.

"And he wants to hear from me."

Keller nodded. "What do I tell him?"

"That I'll be busy for a time."

"He said to tell you he was kidnapped eight years ago by the PFF. He paid a million dollars to get loose."

"Hell. He makes that in a day. There's something sick and sorry about his obsession with the PFF. Like he was studying a new business technique."

"He's the man. He can do as he likes."

"And you do whatever he says."

"I wonder about people who don't. I can't see why he even wants to see you. What kind of nut tackles a shooter unarmed? You wouldn't last a week on my team."

"You may be right."

"What do I tell Mr. Starr?"

"To fuck off."

"I'll do that."

As Keller turned toward the door, that familiar feeling swept over me. I know what fear is. And I've hated a time or two. This was a mix, somehow, with other ingredients I'd never defined. "Keller," I said. "After you tell him to fuck off, tell him I'll be along."

Keller nodded without pausing. He came to a stop as the door opened, facing another man, older, shorter, with stern drawn features that brought to mind a fire-and-brimstone preacher. Both men were still for several moments, as wary of one another as two scrappy dogs, then Keller slipped out and disappeared from view.

Finally, my new visitor turned from watching after him, and entered the room. A melancholy preoccupation filled what little I could see of light brown eyes, peering out between lids at half mast. I had the feeling he had cataloged everything in the small room, within two steps of the door.

He was tired, and not bothering to hide it. Ruddy features faded the strain of a sleepless night, but not the fact that there'd been many others. The dark gray hair was cut short, neatly trimmed. The coat of his tan suit was a size too large for a good fit. The dark brown tie was double knotted and snugged up tightly. His faint smile of greeting straightened the dour droop to his lips I'd seen as he'd studied Keller. He came to a stop beside the bed, his glance drifting from the needle in my arm, up to the suspended IV bottle. "Mr. Boshard?" he asked, in a studied solemn bass.

"The last guy who started that way, ended up with honky. Try Nick."

"Ah," he murmured, a trace of amusement in the smile now. "When I saw him earlier, Lt. Jackson did seem upset with you."

"Sorry to hear it."

"Yes. I'm sure." He reached into his pocket and showed the badge I was expecting. "Agent DeWitt. FBI," he said.

"Swell."

"You don't approve?"

"Maybe it's that smile of yours. It doesn't get up as far as your eyes."

"I'll have to work on that." He pulled the chair closer, asking, "Mind if I sit down?" He did so without waiting for my reply.

"If Jackson's in charge, what's your play?"

"The jurisdiction is muddied. If it's local, Lt. Jackson has the lead. Otherwise, it's mine. We're supposed to cooperate." He chuckled. It sounded as if he was still trying to learn how. "Why didn't you give him that sketch when he asked for it?"

"I didn't want to get involved."

"You should of thought of that in the park," he said, as if lecturing a small child who had misbehaved. "Now the Lieutenant believes you only put together something to get out from under."

"How do you see it?"

"I've got that sketch on the way to places you've never heard of."

"You'll come up empty."

"Not if the sketch is accurate."

I could do without the look in those eyes, peering at me through lids half closed. "Guys this good don't get their pictures taken."

"We'll make him, but it won't do much good. He's probably already out of reach, back in Libya, or some such place."

"I think he's still close." Upon saying the words, I felt sweat begin to break out in the small of my back. There didn't seem to be enough air to breath.

"Why?" DeWitt asked.

I didn't know. I hadn't a guess. "Maybe because he wasn't in a hurry."

"You're not making much sense."

"I guess not."

"Along that line, I don't understand why you attacked. You knew the man was a professional." He was watching me closely.

"Jackson thinks I'm a fool. That guy you met at the door claims I'm a nut. Me? I'm still trying to figure it." I wasn't up to explaining anything about puzzled bright brown eyes. Not to this man. Or anybody else.

"If you'd been a little quicker, you'd have had a chance."

The bright brown eyes and delicate features were deeply embedded in the memory cells. And it was easy to remember the ugly thud of the body against the walk. "Maybe not," I said, remembering the casual quickness with which the man had brought the .45 auto into action. "This guy is total pro. At six hundred yards, he took out a light globe, then nailed June Rhondell in the ear."

"How long between rounds?

"Three, four seconds at the most."

"He used an auto-load."

"With a good sized clip. He fired without a break."

"How many rounds?"

"Twelve."

"Eleven hits." DeWitt shook his head. "He is good."

"How often does the PFF kill?"

"Seldom. It's the threat that works best for any terrorist. The object is to grab headlines."

"Killing a senator's daughter could bring down heavy heat."

"Senators don't have the gift of immunity," he said in preachy fashion. "Or do their children. Ten other people were shot. A male victim died from complications."

"Have you got anything yet?" I asked, having heard enough of the sermon.

"He used a sandbag to steady the rifle. The sand came from the Mojave Desert." DeWitt practiced his chuckle again.

"That narrows it down to several hundred square miles."

"What will you do?" His eyes were locked on mine, unblinking. The corners of his mouth broke sharply down.

"Duck," I said.

"Really?"

"I'm not into volunteering these days."

"You reenlisted this morning." He laid a business card face down on the bed. A phone number was scrawled across the back. "I want to hear from you."

"Don't wait up."

"I'm expecting no more than I would of any good citizen."

"Sure."

"I'd also like to know what Wilson Starr wants of you."

"How'd you connect me to him?"

He leaned back into the chair, disapproval narrowing the lips, drawing them steeply down at the corners. "Frank Keller. He says Starr hired him away from the CIA. But I heard he'd broken too many rules and was about to be dumped. To a man like Starr, the Kellers of this world are valuable assets."

"You think Starr is a national threat?"

His shoulders straightened as if about to step into a pulpit. "The man owns land measured in square miles in a dozen countries, all that's grown on it, processing plants, distributors, even retail chains. Powerful secretive people are not to be trusted."

"What in hell do you figure he might do?"

"Consider his extensive holdings in Latin America. He'd support a government to protect his interests. Or help topple one that threatened them. So why not a terrorist group that supports positions he approves of?"

"You have lost it, DeWitt."

"Possibly," he admitted. "But why is he so preoccupied with the PFF?"

"Maybe he figures they owe him."

"For?"

"Eight years back, he paid them a mil in ransom."

"There's no mention of that in our files."

"Look. I know this guy. He only wants to make more bucks, faster."

"His interest in the PFF amounts to a fixation."

"Maybe. But Starr believes terrorism is out of hand, that the PFF is the most dangerous group, and growing."

"We don't even know how large an operation it is. Only six have been taken. And none had information beyond the cell they were working with."

"You must have something."

"Not much. They have links with the Shi'ite Moslems based in Libya, which in turn have ties to Moscow. Key cadre have been trained in the Middle-East, and in Russia and Cuba. We know places they've been but not where they are. At present, we have only two subjects under surveillance."

"What's got you so talkative?"

"I know a little about you."

"I figured that."

"I need all the help I can get."

"Not mine."

"I think I ought to do it."

"What?" I asked cautiously.

"Let you hang."

"What am I guilty of?"

"People across the land are gazing at television sets, listening intently to your exploits even as we speak."

"Damn."

"There are a dozen reporters outside. Three have television crews with them. You're a hero, so they say."

"Shit."

"I know one of them, a young woman, Kate Vanshelt. I've read some of her work. She knows how to write without hurting people."

"She doesn't sound like a reporter."

"She's not. But she does some freelance work. She's studying and teaching at USC. And it will soon be Dr. Vanshelt. Her thesis, 'The Dynamics of Terrorism,' is being published now. I understand it's a definitive work. What's more, she's the prized disciple of Dr. Gayland Ulmann."

"I've heard of him."

"Most people have and most rate him highly."

"An exclusive might work."

"Do you want me to arrange it?"

"From the goodness of your heart?"

"Why do you mistrust me so?"

"It's not personal. It's the club behind that badge you carry that bothers."

"Something to remember, isn't it?" He stood up, steadying himself on tired legs. "Ms. Vanshelt is your best option."

"She'll likely do more damage than that shooter." I thought it through once more. But DeWitt was right. There was no better choice. "Do it," I said. "But no photos."

He nodded, then turned toward the door, saying, "I expect a call."

"Like I said, don't wait up."

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I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't anything close to the woman who strode through the door with long graceful strides. Dark rose colored glasses hid her eyes, separating the broad forehead from long rosy cheeks that seemed to extended down under her chin. Her nose was narrow at the top, broadening heavily.

Mousey brown hair covered her ears; it looked to have been cut at different lengths at different times, but overall, it was longish. Taken separately, each feature was lacking. But the whole of it worked very nicely.

She made straight for the chair, aware of my scrutiny. And interest. The long denim wrap-around skirt was knotted in front. The brightness of the yellow blouse, thinly striped vertically in a dozen different colors, had been dulled by many washings. She wore a choker of green stones and a necklace of white beads that hung down to her navel. They clashed with the two gaudy rings.

She settled into the chair, dug into the suitcase-sized shoulder bag, and came up with a steno pad and pen. She looked up, smiling broadly, showing lots of teeth, all white and sparklely and even. There was no trace of makeup. Or any need for it. Her full lips stood out boldly against the Mediterranean complexion. "Why me?" she asked brightly, in a mellow soothing contralto.

"You do have a way, don't you?"

"I've been told that." The smile fascinated me. I'd have bet she had precisely gauged the impact she'd made and was thoroughly enjoying it. "Why?" she asked again.

"DeWitt likes your credentials."

"You don't seem convinced."

"I had to pick somebody."

"And you thought a woman would be easier to deal with?"

"Not hardly. DeWitt claims this Dr. Ulmann of yours is a big deal. I was hoping you might have latched onto something extra."

She regarded me thoughtfully. But I sensed a smile close by. "You'll have to decide about me for yourself. But this big deal you speak of is much more than that. Many feel he's the greatest statesman of our time. His diplomatic missions under three presidents have been notably successful. And his writing is powerfully persuasive."

"It's simplistic."

"You're knowledgeable in the field?" She glanced down briefly, writing rapidly.

"I read 'Liberty Or Death.'"

"And you didn't like it?"

I wanted to see her eyes. "What did you like that was assigned reading in the tenth grade?"

"You decided then it was simplistic?"

"That came later."

"But wasn't unilateral disarmament a bold plea, twenty years ago?"

"It still is."

"How do you feel about it?"

"Like I said, it's simplistic."

"Do you lack confidence in our government?"

"Maybe. Folks seem to keep dying while politicians talk about the right and wrong of it."

Yet again, long slender fingers flew across paper. She flipped to a new page. When she looked up, she settled her lips into a polite smile and said, "We seem to have drifted away from the subject."

"I was hoping you'd forget that."

"Let's begin with your background."

"What would it take to end this?"

She leaned back in the chair, tapping the pen gently against the note pad. She reached up and slipped the glasses off, then went to gnawing on a template.

The eyes were dark brown, so dark they seemed to be black. They were large and bright and filled with mischief. "You could ask me to leave," she said finally.

"You'd do it?"

"Of course. But I'd have to fill in some gaps. I couldn't be certain of the facts."

"You'd lie?"

The dark eyes overflowed with merriment. "Call it literary speculation," she said sweetly.

"You're taking advantage of a guy tied to a bed, in pain to the point of fainting."

"You've been shot, silly. And in the head. Be glad you're alive to hurt." She slipped the glasses back on and said, with a distinct hint of malice, "Shall I bring in the photographer now?"

I took a slow deep breath. I'd known it wouldn't be easy. But I hadn't expected to face a blackmailer. "What have you got so far?"

She flipped back in her notes and scanned rapidly. "Your parents are dead. You quit school and spent five undistinguished years with the Marines. Then, you washed out of the Los Angeles Police Academy. Next, there are four years I can't account for. The last three, you've been working on heavy equipment, a business in which you've had little success. You've never married so you have no children to be mentioned."

"You have a pleasant supportive approach."

"Where and how did you spend those missing four years? In jail?"

"You really are sweet."

"Would you like to give me your version?" she asked with an impish grin.

"On a couple points. Mom died when I was five. I know nothing about my father."

"Was your mother married?"

"No."

"Interesting." Her fingers flew across the page.

"Not to me, it wasn't."

"I suppose not. What else would you like to add?"

"I took a job with Tate Miller three years back. I wasn't looking for anything except a paycheck. But I got to liking the work. And Tate was a very special guy. Two years later, a heart attack did him in. Sally, his wife, asked me to take over. I did, and she gets a cut every month.

"I've a lot to learn, so I depend heavily on guys helping me out. But I'm getting there. It's Tate's rep that brings in the work. But my own rep is coming along."

"Anything else?"

"Not that matters."

"And the previous four years?"

"A Marine buddy hooked me up with a job selling used cars in Seattle. It didn't last, but I kept trying other things. Nothing grabbed at me until I came back to L.A. and met Tate."

She took off the glasses again and went to chewing on a template. She either did it often, or the bright white teeth were sharp; the ends of both were deeply scarred. "That's all of it?"

"Not real exciting, is it?"

"Why are you camera-shy?"

"I've always been that way."

"Uh huh," she murmured. She slipped the glasses back on, flipped to a new page and said, "Moving right along, let's consider your personal life."

"Mostly, that's personal."

"We'll keep it simple," she said brightly. "What are your hobbies."

"I keep pretty busy."

"There must be more to your life than grease and steel."

"I like beer and the Dodgers. And I shoot a little pool."

"Are you good at it?"

"Not really, but I like it."

"Listen. Give me something I can write about."

"I like to watch trees grow."

She whipped the glasses off and leaned toward me.

"There's nothing to tell. Really. I've had my share of good times. Why not leave it there?"

Her eyes flashed danger signals. "And bad times?"

"Those, too."

"Do I detect a note of bitterness?"

"I don't like folks poking into my life, is all."

"You haven't hinted at romance."

"I'm available. How about you?"

"Not at the moment. But thanks all the same." She wasn't making any notes. The eyes held a speculative look I could have done without. "What do you think about terrorism?" she asked quietly.

"I don't."

"I mean, do you feel it's a growing danger, overstated, or what?"

"I haven't any idea."

"Does it frighten you?"

"Any fanatic does, but there's more anger than fear."

"Anger?"

"I don't like the crippling and killing."

"Don't you sense a rising fear among the general population?"

"I haven't thought about it."

She tilted her head down and made a few notes. She didn't need her glasses. When she looked up, a quiet determination had settled into the eyes. "I need answers I'm not getting. If I'm forced to, I'll find them elsewhere."

"Literary speculation."

"Now look, you've given me nothing, really, that explains your actions yesterday."

"I wasn't trying to."

"You must. First you tried to save June Rhondell, then you tried to stop the man who killed her. Barehanded. That is news, Mr. Boshard. But it's already been printed. I need more."

"Like?"

"Why did you first say you could not identify the sniper, then provide an excellent description?"

"I didn't want to get involved."

"That doesn't sound heroic."

"I don't suppose it does."

"How could you have stopped an armed man when you were unarmed?" The pen flew across the page. "Did you have special training in the Marine Corps?"

"Some."

"Then you believed you could overcome the rifleman?"

"Yeah. I did."

"What prompted the move in the first place? Were you overcome with anger? Did you simply lose control? Or was it a conscious decision?"

"I'm reasonably sane."

"But don't we all experience moments of madness? Don't some such moments result in heroic action? Would that explain what happened to you?"

"Next time you see somebody get their head blown apart, stop by. We'll compare notes about feelings."

"What did you feel?" she asked, studying me intently.

"She was young and lovely and I watched her die. Let's say I lost my head and leave it there." She wasn't satisfied with the answer. She paused between notes, thinking about it.

"How did you feel while under attack?"

"Terrified."

"At least that makes sense."

"Anybody would be."

"Fear should have forced flight. Instead you tried to save June. Isn't that the essence of courage, to act in the face of fear?"

"Anybody will throw a rope to somebody drowning."

"Not when they're drowning, too."

"Don't make too much of that."

"Then explain it."

"Not to a newspaper."

She leaned back in the chair, laid down the pen and folded her arms. "Just for me?" she asked.

My head was pounding fiercely. What I wanted was to end this. But I couldn't figure how to get it done. A persistent type, that was certain. And those eyes. Bright. Questing. Full of life.

It surprised me to find I was speaking. "This probably won't make much sense." I reached up and scrubbed at the chin whiskers, looking for the right words.

"I'm a lousy shot, but I know shooting. The first round served two purposes. The marksman made sure he had the range and the exploding light globe brought June to a halt. She was the target. When I realized each new hit was further from me, I was free to move."

"You're not seriously telling me she was deliberately killed?"

"I'm not into telling."

"But that's what you've implied, isn't it?"

"I said it probably wouldn't make much sense."

"It doesn't seem to. The way of the terrorist is to create fear. Killing is more often inadvertent than planned."

"You'd know more about that than me."

"I suppose I would," she said thoughtfully.

"Look. You've flat worn me out. How about letting me get some rest?"

"I didn't get what I came for."

"You got a bunch more than I intended to give."

"When I've sorted out the questions, I'll find the answers."

"Good luck."

She stood, tucking her pad and pen away. She smiled sweetly. This time the hint of malice was in the lilt to the words. "Persistence will do, thank you."

I watched her walk to the door, enjoying every movement. But I hadn't liked the questions. I didn't want to be close when she decided to ask more. Within seconds of her disappearing, the eyelids closed of their own accord.

It didn't last long. People kept waking me and poking about, asking questions. Another twenty-four hours, the doctor said, then he'd cut me loose. The IV would come out in the morning.

It was nearly nine, when a burly nurse bustled in and removed the turban-like bandage from my head. When she'd cleaned away the mess, I could see the row of sutures across the center of my forehead. A good piece of craftsmanship. Kate Vanshelt had been right on the mark. I was damned lucky to be alive. All I had to do was stay that way.

I didn't really see the man's features, only the large press camera. The flash exploded before I could cover my face. Then he was gone. He'd gotten a good shot, full face. If he printed it right, he'd be able to count the stitches. Son of a bitch! "And you, woman," I growled after the dark, dark eyes long gone. "Go to hell!"

"Watch the mouth, mister," the nurse growled back.

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When the two pairs of bright brown eyes merged into one, I knew I'd been dreaming. And that it was good that I couldn't remember much about it. Strange, though, how the two shots had sounded so close together. They'd in fact been years apart. I heard the faint rustling beside me and appreciated the effort of whoever it was to be quiet.

Suddenly I felt cold. I struggled to hold the breathing constant in the strangely heavy air. A fine misty sweat began to envelop me. Nurses don't bother much about quiet.

I opened one eyelid a crack. White gown. Silver name tag. Stethoscope dangling from the neck. There was nothing unusual about a doctor checking an IV. But doctors don't carry .22 revolvers. The silencer looked like the barrel of a cannon. It was pointed at my ear, eight inches from it.

Every fiber of my being urged attack. It was several moments before my mind took control. I was in no shape to beat anybody, let alone a bullet. I concentrated on remaining perfectly still, on ignoring the growing dampness of the sheet, fighting desperately at the urge to shiver. I didn't even want to risk closing the eyelid. Wait. That was the key. Be still. Wait.

The shadowy figure finished his chore at last. I couldn't see much, except that he was watching me. I put every last bit of effort into holding the calm even breathing of sleep. When he finally turned toward the door, I began trembling, despite all efforts to fight it off. The door was not yet fully closed, when I reached across and ripped the IV needle from my arm. The walls of the room began to ripple. Then everything blurred out into nothing at all.

"On his author page, Bob commented there is a bit of a lull in this tale as characters are introduced above. Perhaps he is right. But Nick's effort above to save his own life is only the first of many. From this point on, Strike Terror is a continuing crescendo to the last word on the last page of the book." -- ActionTales.com

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