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side street, then another, feeling trapped in the narrow confines. The address where he had left McKittrick’s father was only a half block farther when Decker stomped his brake pedal, swerving, nearly hitting a tall, burly figure who suddenly appeared in the glare of his headlights. The figure was drenched, his face raised to the storm clouds; he was shaking his fists, screaming.
    The figure was Brian. Decker’s windows were closed. Only when he scrambled out of the Fiat, racing through puddles to restrain Brian, did he hear what Brian screamed.
    “Liars! Bastards!”
    Decker had left his headlights on, their illumination reflecting off the rain streaming down Brian’s face.
    “Cowards!”
    Lights came on in windows.
    “We have to get you off the street,” Decker said.
    “Fight me!” Brian screamed inexplicably toward the darkness.
    More lights came on.
    “FIGHT ME!”
    Cold rain soaked Decker’s hair and chilled his neck. “The police will be looking for you. You can’t stay here. I have to get you out of here.” He tugged Brian toward the car.
    Brian resisted. More windows became illuminated.
    “For God sake, come on,” Decker said. “Have you seen your father? I left him here.”
    “Bastards!”
    “Brian, listen to me. Have you seen your father?”
    Brian wrenched himself free of Decker’s grasp and once more shook his fists toward the sky. “You’re afraid!”
    “What’s going on down there?” a man yelled in Italian from an upper apartment.
    Decker grabbed Brian. “With the commotion you’re making, your father couldn’t help but know you’re here. He should have joined us by now. Pay attention. I need to know if you’ve seen him.”
    At once a premonition chilled Decker. “Oh, Jesus, no. Brian. Your father. Has something happened to him?”
    When Brian didn’t respond, Decker slapped him, twisting his head, sending raindrops flying from Brian’s face.
    Brian looked shocked. The Fiat’s headlights reflected off his wild eyes.
    “Tell me where your father is!”
    Brian stumbled away.
    Apprehensive, Decker followed, seeing where Brian led him—to the address that Brian’s father had intended to watch. Even in the rainy gloom, Decker could see that the door was open.
    Trying to restrain his too-quick breathing, Decker withdrew his pistol from beneath his leather jacket. As Brian entered, Decker pushed him to a crouch and stooped to hurry after him, his eyes adjusting enough to the darkness to make him aware he was in a courtyard. He saw a wooden crate to his right and shoved Brian toward it. Kneeling on wet cobblestones, Decker aimed over the crate, scanning indistinguishable objects, peering up toward the barely detectable railings of balconies to the right and left and straight ahead.
    “Brian, show me,” Decker whispered.
    For a moment, he wasn’t certain that Brian had heard. Then Brian shifted position, and Decker realized that Brian was pointing. As Decker’s vision adjusted even more to the darkness, he saw a disturbing patch of white in the far right corner.
    “Stay here,” he told Brian, and darted toward another crate. Aiming, he checked nervously around him, then hurried forward again, this time to what might have been an ancient well. His wet clothes clung to him, constricting his muscles. He was close enough to determine that the patch of white he had seen was hair—Jason McKittrick’s hair. The elderly man lay with his back propped against a wall, his arms at his sides, his chin on his chest.
    Decker glanced once more around him, then ran through the rain, reaching McKittrick, crouching beside him, feeling for a pulse. Despite the gloom, it was obvious that an area on the right breast of his gray suit coat was darker than the rain would have caused. Blood. Decker kept checking for a pulse, feeling McKittrick’s wrist, his neck, his chest. Inhaling with triumph, he found one.
    He whirled to aim at a sudden approaching figure.
    It was Brian, scrambling across the