Sitting in the backseat with his hands cuffed together with zip ties was Dennis Farman, covered in blood and staring blankly straight ahead.

They drove directly to the hospital. Hicks got on a phone to call Dixon. Mendez watched the medical team working frantically on the boy. The same doctor who had worked on Karly Vickers barked out orders the staff jumped to carry out. There was blood everywhere. Too much blood to have come from so small a patient—and have him live, Mendez thought.

Jesus. He had already known Dennis Farman was a disturbed child, but who the hell could have predicted this? Kids beat each other up on the playground; they didn’t pull knives and go berserk.

What could drive a child to that kind of violence?

There had to be a lot more to the story of the Farman household than a mother who drank a little and a drill sergeant for a patriarch. Dennis hadn’t gone off this deep end because he got spanked for cutting school.

Suddenly the doctor was shouting at his staff to GO! and half a dozen people bolted into action, wheeling the gurney out of the exam room and down the hall. Mendez had to jump back out of the way.

The doctor pulled off his bloody gown and gloves and threw them on the floor in disgust.

“How does it look for him?” Mendez asked, holding up his shield.

“He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s still bleeding. I think the blade might have nicked his spleen.”

“Will he make it?”

“He’s on his way to surgery. He can live without a spleen. He can’t live with less than half his blood supply. We’ll know within the hour. Do you have any idea who did this to him?”

“Another kid,” Mendez said. “Where’s the other victim?”

“Room three. Another kid? What’s the world coming to?”

“Nothing good. Have you had any word on Karly Vickers?”

“She’s up in ICU. Stable.”

“Conscious?”

“Don’t get greedy. She’s in a coma. She should be dead.”

The big glass doors whooshed open and a panicked couple—Renee Roache and her husband—rushed in, Mrs. Roache sobbing hysterically.

“That’ll be the Roaches,” the doctor said. “I’d better go talk to them.”

Mendez turned to go down the hall.

“Frank’s not working today,” Hicks said, joining him. “Dixon’s got everyone looking for him. How’s the kid?”

“We’ll know within the hour. He’s on his way to surgery. The other vic is down here.”

Wendy Morgan sat on the table looking like a refugee from a horror movie with blood on her face, on her clothes, on her hands. Mendez showed his badge to the nurse standing beside her, holding her hand.

“Wendy,” he said with genuine concern. “How are you, sweetheart? Are you hurt?”