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her crazy."
    I lit a cigarette. Lily made a face. Storm smiled. She smokes too. One cigarette a day, usually right after supper. No more, no less.
    "What's the rest of it?" I asked Lily.
    "How do you know there's more? Don't you think Storm's question was important?"
    "
Storm
doesn't even think it's important," I said. Watching her eyes, knowing I was telling the truth. "And Max wouldn't have a tight time limit for what I just did."
    "I'll show you," Lily said.

19
    T he small playroom has a window of one–way glass—it's a mirror on the inside. I looked through it and saw Immaculata, her long hair done up in a severe bun, wearing a bright orange smock. Max's woman, part Vietnamese, part she'll–never–know. I was there when they met. In the fallout from combat. A chubby baby crawled on the carpet in one corner. Flower, their little girl. Named for another little girl. One who hadn't survived. A tribute to Flood, the little blonde
karateka
who fought to avenge the baby's death. And left when her work was done.
    Left me.
    Half a dozen kids in the playroom. Running, jumping, scrawling with crayons on a giant piece of white poster board.
    "That's him," Lily said at my side. "He's talking to Mac now. Luke, his name is."
    The boy looked about eight. Light brown hair, thin face, dark eyes. He was holding a pocket calculator in one hand, pointing at the display window, like he was explaining something.
    I felt Storm slide in next to me on my other side. "The police found him. In a room with his baby brother. Two years old. The baby had been hacked to death with a butcher knife. There was blood all over Luke, but he hadn't been touched, just a few surface scratches."
    "His parents?"
    "They weren't home. Left him in charge of his brother. Said they were only gone a few minutes."
    "Anyone popped for it?"
    "No. No arrests. No suspects, even."
    "We don't treat only direct child abuse victims here," Lily put in, anger edging her voice, like I was a politician questioning her program. "Children who've witnessed horrible violence to a loved one…a rape, a murder…they're as traumatized by it as if it happened to them. That's why Luke's here."
    "He lives at home?"
    Storm answered me. "No. His parents were convicted of inadequate guardianship. Turns out they were gone almost two days, not a few minutes like they'd said. And they were very secretive, hostile. Wolfe's unit found out the dead baby wasn't really theirs. Not legally theirs. One of those private placement adoptions, but it never went to a court. The lawyer who handled it got indicted for baby–selling. Luke's been in foster care for about two months."
    "And you still don't know who killed the baby?"
    "Wolfe says she knows." Something in Lily's voice.
    "So what's for me?"
    "Last week, we had a TV crew here. They were filming a documentary about child abuse. We gave them permission, under strict conditions. Told them which rooms they could work in, which rooms to stay out of. One of them, this real smart young man, some producer–something–or–other, he took a cameraman into the back, where Luke was playing. When Luke saw the camera, he went catatonic. Froze. The paramedics stuck a hypo in his arm and he didn't even flinch."
    "What happened?"
    "He came out of it. Maybe an hour later. When I told him he'd been in a trance, he got very angry. Denied the whole thing. Even told us what he'd been doing during that time. Like it never happened."
    I watched the kid, adding it up.
    "Burke, you know what it means, don't you?" Lily asked.
    I ignored her question. "Can I talk to him?"
    "Let's try," she said, opening the door to the playroom.

20
    T hey worked it like a drill team. Lily flashed something to Immaculata, who immediately drew Luke close to her as Storm muscled the other kids out of the room.
    "Hi, Mac," I said. "Who's your pal?"
    "This is Luke," she said gravely, one hand on his shoulder, the long, lacquered nails spilling against his chest. Talons, guarding.
    The kid's