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Harris shook his head. “No way we could get that kind of manpower. We may as well put in a request for a magic wand to wave.”

Payne sighed audibly. He said, “So, Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“What they say to do when nothing goes right.”

Harris shook his head.

“‘Go left.’”

Harris looked at him a long moment, then said, “Back to square one.”

Payne nodded. “And looking under the rock under the rock.”

VII

[ONE]

2408 N. Mutter Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 4:08 P.M.

Driving up North

Mutter Street, a narrow one-way lane that ran through Kensington, Will Curtis thought that this godforsaken section of Philadelphia looked not only like time had forgotten it, but also like it had suffered curses worse than all the biblical plagues combined.

Lice, disease, death of firstborn, hail and fire . . . hell, it’s all here and more.

Finding the row house at 2408 had been no problem whatsoever.

It’s the only damn house standing in the entire 2400 block!

Curtis bumped the tires of the rented white Ford Freestar over the curb. He stopped the minivan opposite the house where a set of marble steps was all that remained of one row house, and threw the gearshift into park.

He was still sweating profusely despite having had the windows down to let the chilly November air flow inside. He dropped his head back against the top of the seat and let out a long sigh.

Never thought I’d get here.

He was only a little more than three miles from the Mays row house on Wilder Street. But after leaving the Mays house, he had barely made it six blocks down Dickinson Street before his stomach had twisted into a nasty knot.

Curtis wasn’t sure if the cause of his distress was the chemotherapy treatments for his prostate cancer or his confrontation with Kendrik Mays. Or both.

While the physical exertion of tracking down the bastard in that basement had worn him out, the mental aspects had taken a genuine toll on him, too. He’d been deeply disturbed by the filthy living conditions and by seeing that poor teenage girl being held captive in the basement and sexually abused.

Which of course had made him think of Wendy, and her being bound and attacked by that pervert John “JC” Nguyen.

Who now will never harm another.

He and Mays and all the others are in that corner of hell reserved for such miserable scum.

What had not bothered Will Curtis—either mentally or physically—was the actual killing of Kendrik. He’d found that shooting vile perverts troubled him less and less each time. Especially when he saw that eliminating them forever freed others—such as the young girl and Shauna Mays—from their awful abuse.

Whatever the cause of Curtis’s distress, it was the effect that he was more concerned about right now.

And if he didn’t do something fast, it was going to get ugly.

Speeding down Dickinson, he desperately looked for someplace that was open on a Sunday morning and would have a toilet he could use.

But in this residential stretch of Dickinson, there was no gas station, no fast-food restaurant.