Reaching into the wig, she pulled something out. Small and white and capsule-shaped, pincer-grasped between thumb and forefinger.

Still smiling, she opened her mouth, popped the white thing. Swallowed.

Her smile spread. Her breathing quickened.

Boxmeister said, “Oh, shit.”

Milo was already up, rushing for the door.

Maria Thomas looked up from her BlackBerry. “What’s going on?”

Milo ran past her, let the door slam shut.

Inches away, blocked by glass, Helga Gemein wobbled. Clutching her abdomen, she let out a gasp.

Retched.

Something green and slimy trickled out of her mouth.

Slack mouth, the smile was gone.

Thomas said, “Omigod,” and ran out of the room. Boxmeister hustled after her.

I stayed in my chair. No reason to crowd the space.

Helga began convulsing. Her breath grew labored. Staggering closer to the one-way, she panted raggedly. Filmed the glass. Flecked it with glassy spit, then pinpoints of pink.

The massive convulsion began at her eyes, raced downward as her entire body was seized.

Rag doll, shaken by an unseen god.

Foam began pouring out of her mouth, a Niagara of bile. Chunks of slime coated the glass, clouded my view. But I managed to make out Milo rushing in, catching her as she fell.

Laying her down gently, he began chest compressions. Thomas and Boxmeister stood by, transfixed.

Milo’s technique was perfect. Rick insists he recertify every couple of years. He gripes about the colossal waste of time, homicide is brain-work, when would he ever have the opportunity to get heroic.

Today, he did.

Today, it didn’t matter.

CHAPTER

34

The police chief’s face is pocked more severely than Milo’s. A lush white mustache does a pretty good job of camouflaging a harelip.

He’s a lean man with no discernible body fat. The lack of spare flesh stretches the skin that sheaths his skull, highlighting pit and crater, glossing lump and scar. The skull is an oddly shaped triangle, broad and unnaturally flat on top, coated with silky, blond-white hair, and tapering to a knife-point chin. His eyes are small and dark and they alternate between manic bounces and long stretches of unblinking immobility. When he turns his head a certain way, patches of taut, tortured dermis give him the look of a burn victim.

He turns that way a lot and I wonder if it’s intentional.

Take me on my terms.