“He’s suffering from acute withdrawal,” he said as the handcuffed man sat shivering in a seventy-degree room. “I could administer a small dose of methadone. That would stop the symptoms for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Do it,” Sandy said.

“If you have a little more time—”

“We don’t. Give him the methadone. We’ve got to get the next lineup in here.”

When the doctor was done, Sandy and a detective led White from the interrogation room back to the cramped space behind the two-way mirror where the lineups took place.

Sandy was tired from the rigors of the morning and frustrated by the fact that none of the men from the three previous lineups looked vaguely familiar to either of them. Not that it truly mattered what Sandy thought. White was the one who knew the angel of death. He was the one who’d followed the man. His was the identification that would matter in the end.

White knew that, and as he stood next to Sandy and waited for the next lineup to be presented, he reached up and ran his hands over his wilting, sweat-soaked Mohawk and contemplated what had become of his friends. He knew that Steven shot Phillip at the angel’s behest, and he had learned from the police that Gabe died by his own hand. White knew he could identify the angel if he saw him, but he wondered if the price would be his life.

“They’re bringing in the three guys from the profiler’s list,” said the detective who was running the lineup. “Are you ready?”

Sandy looked at White, and for the first she saw the remnants of what he’d been. Beneath the tattoos and piercings, under the wilting Mohawk, and behind the drug-induced stupor, there was a frightened little boy trying to escape a scary world. Instead of escaping, however, he’d stepped into a realm more frightening than anything he’d ever known. Now he was stuck there, and he wanted nothing more than to get out.

“You okay?” she said.

He nodded.

“I think we’re ready,” Sandy said to the detective. “Bring them in.”

A door opened, and the men walked onto a small stage. Each of them held a card bearing a number, and each of them resembled the others.

Number 1 had pasty white skin and dirty-blond hair. Number 2 had brown razor stubble and eyebrows to match, with hair bleached almost white. Number 3 was a natural blond, and his blue eyes were fearful in a way that the others weren’t. It was obvious he’d never been arrested before.

The detective pushed a button that connected to an intercom. “Number 1, step forward and turn to the right.”

James looked at the man and indicated that he wasn’t the one.

“Number 2,” the detective said, “take one step forward and turn to the right.”

The man did as he was told, and James said no again.