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"You've dialed 9-1-1; what's the address of the emergency?"

"City of Oakfort. Not sure where."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that, Sir."

"There's a church on one side and... I'm in some kind of shop."'

"You're calling from a shop, sir?"

"Vacuum cleaners. They have vacuum cleaners here."

"Why would you be in a shop past midnight."

"I drove too fast... Missed the turn and crashed my damn Pontiac into this place. Oh God, I'm bleeding bad."

"I've traced your call to the corner of East Mason and Rose St."

*Cough*

"OK, I've got an officer on the way. What is your name, Sir?"

"Tell the police, they gotta stop them..."

"Sir, I need your name."

"It's Scanlon, Chad Scanlon. I'm bleeding out... I gotta warn you."

"Now Sir, If you will only take it easy, a patrol car will..."

"Listen! they're HERE... in Oakfort! I've seen them."

"Please calm down, Sir. All will be taken care of."

" For the love of God, you have to stop them."

"Are you still with me Sir?

.....SIR?"

Inspector Quinn stopped playback of the _9-1-1_recording when Chad Scanlon's words turned into intelligible moaning.

"You don't need to hear the last seconds," he said." They're not pretty."

I nodded, knowing the sound of a death rattle all too well.

"He was on the lam?"

"You don't crash your car into a vaccu-fix for a pack of Camels," Quinn grunted.

"Let's see what was so important, our victim was ready to die for it."

He put Scanlon's leather briefcase on the desk. It was new, expensive and secured with a three-tumbler clasp lock. Quinn slid an angled razor blade into the groove right of the third tumbler and watched it sink in, one eighth of an inch before it met resistance. He turned the dial, one digit at a time, letting out an annoyed sniff every time the razor blade scraped against the locking pin.

"Can't you just crack it open with a screwdriver?"

Quinn paused for a moment to scratch his red beard.

"Very likely, but it's against regulations to destroy evidence."

He gave the dial another notch and the razor sunk half an inch.

"Ha! Found the groove; the last digit is... TWO."

Quinn focused on picking the lock. He was quiet, and I was growing restless and edgy. The sound of traffic pouring in from the window, the clicking of cops typing their reports, the roar of the air conditioning units, all were growing louder and intrusive, my senses sharpening by the half-life of the _Olanzapine_in my bloodstream.

"Why am I here?" I asked. "You said you had a murder case for me, not some daredevil whose luck ran out."

"You don't do one-fifty down Mason in a rented Pontiac for kicks," replied Quinn. "Something scared the crap out of Scanlon. Something he wasn't ready for."

Quinn returned to picking the lock while I rewound the 911 recording. This time I let it play to the end. Quinn was right -the last ten seconds were unpleasant. They brought back memories of my encounters with military intelligence MI-16, who decided our country would be a better place without me in it. But I never gave their agents enough time to call 911.

"Scanlon didn't ask for help," said Quinn. "He was trying to warn us." Quinn placed a small cardboard box on the table; light brown with no markings or writing of any kind. "Open it," invited Quinn. The box contained fifty caliber 357 rounds, hollow point and neatly stacked. The bullets were heavier than I expected, and had a strange, metallic sheen to them.

"He died with forty boxes of these in the boot of his car. That's two thousand rounds in total."

"All no-name brands?"

"Of course," said Quinn. "Mag-tech don't make silver bullets."

"Silver, huh? Scanlon was a werewolf-hunter?"

"Well he ain't the Lone Ranger."

If Scanlon had started a solo war with werewolves, I was not going to blame them for responding in the way they knew best. I would have done the same thing if some vigilante showed up at my door with an Uzi.

"Three-one-two, there ya' go!" grinned Quinn when the lock sprang open. "That's the combination - and you're wrong, by the way.

I shrugged." I wasn't suggesting..."

"Werewolves don't chase down humans. Not in packs of thousands," said Quinn.

"Maybe a gang of weres went rogue?" I suggested." They would have the upper hand in a street war?"

Quinn went quiet for a moment. I knew the thought had already crossed his mind.

"We're two weeks from the annual were-con in Idaho," he said. "The last thing we need is public exposure."

I knew werewolves was a sensitive subject to Quinn. What I didn't know, was how many of his kind were left in the world, let alone here in Oakfort, but I was pretty sure a loose cannon with sixty pounds of silver in his trunk could put one hell of a dent in their population.

"How's your coffee?" he asked, as if trying to change the uncomfortable subject.

I shrugged. "It's okay, I guess."

He opened the book of matches that came with the carry-out coffee from_Cray-Z Cup_and scribbled 6/10 on the flap of the matchbook.

"I'll give it a six," he said and turned his attention back to the suitcase. It contained a wide selection of banknotes; English pound sterling, US Dollars, Euros, Israeli shekels, Swedish Kroner, gold Krugerrand... Scanlon was loaded. Maybe not to the point of checking in at the Waldorf every night, but enough to get by in every major city. Enough for a hotel room, a couple of drinks and a hooker to keep him company on a cold night in Moscow. In this respect, Scanlon was much like any traveling sales representatives I've met. Only, Scanlon had more passports than samples in his suitcase, all issued to different names: Tommy Greene, William Doyle, Fred Wills, Bernard Schwartz; this guy had more aliases than the Jackal.

"The city has CCTV that covers every inch in the downtown area," I said. "Maybe we can see who was chasing him?"

Quinn lifted one eyebrow and browsed through a folder of files on his hard drive.

"Already been there. Don't you think I would have told you, if we'd found something?"

There was nothing to see on the CCTV footage, apart from Scanlon screeching down Mason at breakneck speed and out of control. Even a pro driver like _Bernard La Salle_could not have made that turn in the rain. We let the footage run for minutes, in case Scanlon's invisible pursuer needed time to develop. But the street remained empty and wet, long after Scanlon had left the frame.

"He must have shaken them off," I said.

"Are you on meds?" Quinn asked suddenly.

"I stopped taking _Olanzapine_the moment you called."

"The voices back yet?"

I shook my head. "No... but my chicken went bad last night."

"Bad chicken?"

"Bad, as in e-v-i-l."

"That's great!" beamed Quinn. "Then you'll solve this case in a flash."

He unscrewed a plastic vial and several tablets rolled onto the desk.

"Dexies?"

"Our friend Scanlon had expensive habits," said Quinn. "We found enough road-dope in his blood to keep him awake till Christmas."

"He'd go paranoid," I said." Now, paranoia... that's my turf."

If Scanlon was hallucinating from amphetamine psychosis, at least we had one thing in common.

I've been hearing voices and seeing things for the better of ten years. I check everything I see against my "reality list." If it's on that list, it's probably for real. Dead babies crawling across the supermarket floor are not on the list, so I step over them. I feed my cat until he scales the wall. Then I get a broom, because hallucinations don't eat Purina.

The human brain is not without its flaws. But even when it invents unwanted company, I can only see things my mind can imagine. The people I see are always male, they wear long trench-coats and dark fedoras. Their faces are gaunt and malevolent, and they are always tall and slim. Imagine an army of _Aristide Bruant_clones that want to strangle you with their scarves. That's how limited an imagination I have.

"Let me guess...You want me to track where Scanlon got the silver bullets?" I asked, but Quinn waved me off.

"Scanlon was hunting down MY people. That makes him MY case."

Quinn took out three envelopes of crime scene photos from his desk drawer.

"Now,_HERE_is your case." The pictures all looked the same, simply showing the charred remains of living rooms, and of the people who had lived there. There wasn't much left of either.

"I want you to hunt down the guy they call the desk-light bomber."

"He's got a name, already?"

"The nickname is all we have," sighed Quinn. "The MO is always the same: he loads C4 into desk lamps and waits. He waits for his victims to buy the lamps, waits for them to turn them on, waits for them to die. Then he moves on."

There are many ways to bump someone off, with guns being the most popular. Blades come in at a close second. Booby-trapped reading lamps had to be way down on the how-to-kill-list, alongside murder by trained gorilla. The idea was so insane, I almost laughed out loud, but managed to twist my improper outburst into a strangled cough.

"Gesundheit!" Said Quinn.

Apart from living in Oakford, the victims didn't seem to have anything in common. The murderer had already blown up a writer and a part-time postal worker. And last night, a flight attendant by the name of Sarah Lillison returned home early, when her plane was canceled. Like the others before her, she found out somebody had checked her in for the long haul, when she turned on the lights. The _Desklight bomber_had claimed three lives, and Quinn was growing frustrated. He guzzles coffee by the gallon when he's working on a case, but now he was worked up to the point of eating dry grounds by the spoonful. Three murders down, most serial killers would have contacted the newspapers to brag about their ingenuity and how they brilliantly escape the cops. Or a dozen terrorist groups would claim every victim a victory for their case.

But so far the killings had attracted only radio silence.

The bomber sent no ransom notes, no blackmail, no political manifestos, no calling card... in short: no contact and no clues. The _desklight bomber_was a predator, patiently stalking his prey. He wasn't looking for money or fame.

He was in it for the kill.

He had already committed three murders in as many nights and tonight was the fourth. I checked my watch. It was half past eleven and the sun would set around nine. If the bomber had another murder planned, I had less than ten hours before some fourth victim would flick the switch.

"You're giving me nine hours to find a victim and his would-be killer!" I groaned.

"That's not humanly possible."

"Exactly!" said Quinn, and for the first time today, I saw him smile.

"That's why I'm making it your case."

---

I once shared a train ride with a crazy guy.

He had seven people inside his head and he talked to himself in seven voices.

People talk to themselves all the time, but that don't make them crazy. Not until that day, the voices won't leave you alone and you lose yourself in that crowd and you disappear. One of his personalities was dimwitted and spoke in a throaty whisper, another taught himself Swedish. The others berated him for being a_traitor to his country_. One personality tried to calm the waters - with little success. Two personalities argued over football. They loved the game, but hated each other and each other's team.

The conductor came by to check our tickets, and for one brief moment, the arguing stopped. The man resurfaced, snapped for air and presented his ticket, exchanging a few pleasantries with the conductor in his normal voice. Then the bickering returned with undiminished force. I don't now which of his personalities was an alcoholic. Maybe they all were. The man sucked on a half-gallon bottle of vodka between bouts of arguing and chain-smoking. It was a non-smoking train, but nobody said nothing; not even the train conductor. The harder he drank, the louder the voices screamed at each other, and one by one the other passengers got up and left. By the time we reached Oakfort Central, only the two of us were left in the railcar.

I inched closer, one seat at a time, watching him drink and smoke and argue, with vodka and saliva making trails down his shirt. Suddenly he doubled over and puked into the brown paper bag that came with the bottle. He kept puking and retching into the bag before looking up. His eyes were red and bloodshot, but now his gaze was calm and steady.

"That's it," he sighed with relief. "It's over."

The vodka soaked through the bloated paper bag, coloring it dark brown.

"That bag's gonna rip." I said.

"I know."

The crazy man was quiet now. He held the bag between two fingers, watching it drip. Moments later, the bag tore open, releasing a pukefall of vodka and vomit that spread out on the linoleum floor.

"This is me," said the man, holding up the deflated paper bag.

"Will they be back?" I asked.

The man nodded. "Yeah, In a month or so."

"A whole month?" I was dumbfounded. Just imagine: a month without voices, at the cost of a single day of searing hangover.

"Want some?" The man offered me his bottle. There was perhaps a quart left.

Thinking maybe the man wasn't so crazy after all, I wiped saliva off the neck of the bottle and drank greedily.

It's been four years and I'm still drinking. I drink myself into a stupor, I drink until I drop to my knees, I drink until hallucinations take over my every sense.

And that's when I solve murder cases.

---

I was back in the _Phantom Cat_at noon, with nine hours till sunset. Nine short hours to catch the serial bomber before he struck again. I decided to start my investigations in the apartment belonging to Dianne Walsh, the first victim. She'd been a writer of romantic novels but there was no glorified marriage in her own life, and no happy ending on her last page. I took two bottles of _Farvale Bourbon_from the bar, when I noticed a woman sitting alone on a bar stool with her back turned.

"Who does a lady have to arrest to get a drink around here?" She asked.

I didn't recognize her back, but her voice sounded strangely familiar.

"We're not open yet, lady." I called out from behind the bar.

The guest turned around slowly and I stood face to pretty face with agent Evelyn Dakota of the MI-16.

"Maybe you could make an exception for an old friend?" she asked.

"I'd make an exception ...for a friend," I replied. "But when it comes to the MI-16, this place is still closed for business."

"Don't make this any harder than it is." Dakota said." Coming to you for help is awkward already."

I shrugged. "Can't be too careful. Your agents tried to kill me."

"Relax," she said. "We scratched you off our hit-list months ago."

With the Olanzapine out of my system, my every sense was razor sharp, my every nerve screaming for stimulus. I caught agent Dakota's eyes darting from side to side, checking out the nightclub and the street outside. I followed her glance across the street where a gray van held parked.

"Tell your people to scram," I said. "And I might just return the favor."

Evelyn's green eyes narrowed, her mouth tightened into a grimace. She tapped a button on her wristwatch and spoke directly into it.

"It's AOK, Schorr. You can call it off."

The van across the street flashed its headlights and drove away.

"How did you know?" asked Dakota.

"Birdshit," I replied. "We're in lower East Oakfort. When you see a car that's not all covered in pigeon shit, you know it doesn't belong in this part of town."

"You're just as sharp as I remember from Hotel Kisanti. [* in Cry me a Murder.]"

Dakota walked around the counter to pour herself a tumbler of liquor with goldflakes swirling around. For a government agent in street clothes, Evelyn sure had refined tastes.

"Let's get down to business," she said. "You need money and I need you to take on a case for me..." she paused, as if she was about to say something painful.

"...for us."

I stuffed the two bottles into my knapsack. "I have eight hours and forty to stop a murder from happening, and your_Goldschl__äger_is killing my time."

"Daniel, I know you have mixed feelings towards the MI-16, but right now you're the only one I can trust."

"You must have hundreds of agents in your organization," I growled. " What makes me so damn trustworthy?"

"-because you hate us," replied Dakota bluntly.

"Plus, I'll make it worth your while."

She took out a checkbook. I didn't catch the first digit she wrote, but the trail of zeros was as long as her legs. Both put the concept of infinity into perspective. It was the kind of zeros that paid bills, the kind of zeros that would get the fire department off our backs, the kind of zeros that make people change their allegiances.

"Oh!" I said.

"We're not hiring you because you're special," replied Agent Dakota.

"But because you're predictable."

---