When he woke up inside his locked bedroom, he wasn’t finished yet and in agony. It was awful. Please Lord, why couldn’t it be true? But it decidedly was not. It was a fact that he had sat in the tiny park staring at Hammer’s house and she had come out to drift on her swing. It was not a fact that any of the rest of it had occurred, except in fractured dreams. She did not know that he was there in the dark, hearing her North Carolina flag snap in the wind, over her porch. She did not care. He had never touched his lips to hers, he had never caressed soft skin and never would. He was terribly ashamed. He was frustrated and confused. She was probably thirty years older than Brazil. This was sick. Something must be terribly wrong with him.

He had played the messages on his answering machine when he had come home at quarter of three in the morning. There had been four, all of them hang-ups. This had only worsened his mood. He could not help but think that the pervert was after him because he, too, was some sort of deviant. There had to be a reason a sick person would be drawn to him. Brazil was angry as he yanked on running clothes at dawn. He grabbed a tennis racquet, the hopper of balls, and trotted out the door.

The morning was wet with dew, the sun already making its potent presence known. Magnolias were dense and heavy with waxy white blossoms that smelled like lemon as he passed beneath them. He cut through the Davidson campus, sprinting along the small road winding behind Jackson Court, heading to the track. He ran six fast miles, and furiously served tennis balls. He worked out with weights in the gym, sprinted several laps, and did push-ups and sit-ups until his body’s natural opiates kicked in.

Hammer was preoccupied with her ruined morning. This was what she got for altering her routine and having lunch with West, who clearly could not keep out of trouble. Hammer had worn her uniform this day, which in itself was exceedingly unusual. She had not found it necessary to argue court dates with the district attorney in fifteen years and wanted no problem here. She believed in the power of personal confrontations and determined that the D.A. was about to have one. By nine A.M. Hammer was inside the big granite Criminal Court Building, waiting in the reception area of the city’s top prosecutor.

Nancy Gorelick had been reelected so many times she ran unopposed, and most of the population would not have bothered to go to the polls were there not other officials to vote for or against. She and Hammer were not personal friends. The D.A. certainly knew very well who the chief was and in fact had read about Hammer’s heroics in the morning paper. Batman and Robin. Oh please. Gorelick was a ruthless Republican who believed in hanging first and sorting out later. She was tired of people who thought special excuses should be made for them, and there was no doubt in her mind about the reason for Hammer’s impromptu visit.