Mania. Craig Larsen

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      The swirling red lights of a police cruiser were visible from a distance, silky in the brackish mist being swept into Seattle by the approaching storm. Nick slowed down. The way the lights were shifting and dancing in the dark air, he understood that more than one cruiser had answered the call. The police had gathered in force, treating the parking lot like a crime scene. Something terrible had happened to Sam. He listened, trying to make sense of the voices squawking over police radios and the scratch of footsteps in the gravel. Confusion overwhelmed him. He wished he could recall what had happened.

      Nick slid backward on the pavement as the man approached. The grit of the asphalt was sharp on his fingers. When his brother rose up behind the man, Nick’s hopes rose with him in his chest. Sam wasn’t going to let this happen. He would grab the man, wrestle the knife from his hand. When Sam took a step forward, though, he stumbled uncertainly on his feet, unable to find his balance. The man had stabbed him. The knife had already done its damage. The man turned around to face him.

      “Look out, Sam!”

      Sam seemed barely conscious. The man took his time. He gripped the knife, weighing it deliberately, tightening his filthy fingers around its handle. Bending his knees, he swiveled his hips and shoved the knife into Sam’s stomach. Blood splattered Nick’s face. Sam lurched forward, momentarily suspended on his toes above the man’s powerful upward thrust. His face was a study not in terror but surprise. He wasn’t afraid. He wasstunned. He hardly seemed to react. Then he fell away from the knife. The sharp steel blade scintillated evilly in the dark night.

      Nick scrambled to his knees, fighting to reach his brother.

      Three squad cars were parked askew, the closest one with its doors wide open, as though it had screeched to a stop and the police officers had jumped out. An ambulance waited nearby. Several orange cones had been planted on the ground, yellow tape pulled around them. Despite the late hour, a few people had collected at the edge of the scene, gawking at the policemen. Nick hurried forward as he saw three men dressed in white picking up a large black body bag, heaving it onto a waiting stretcher. He stepped over the yellow police tape and fought through the gathering of policemen, unable to reconcile their relaxed attitude with the image of his brother’s body in a zipped bag.

      “Let me through!”

      Someone seized him from behind. Nick tried to wrestle himself free, but the man holding him was strong. His fingers dug into Nick’s biceps. Nick took in the faces of the policemen surrounding him. One of them was smiling. Another was speaking about the Seattle Seahawks, a football team. Light glinted off the brass badge pinned to an officer’s uniform. The blur in front of him resolved itself into a face.

      “Whoa there,” the policeman said. “What’s the rush, buddy?”

      Several other policemen turned to look, their faces impassive. The plainclothes policeman in front of Nick—a tall, young man with a slightly pudgy face, dressed in a rumpled jacket and tie—alone appeared concerned. He held Nick by the shoulders, cataloging the cuts and bruises on his face.

      “My name is Detective Adam Stolie,” he said. “Hey—don’t I know you?”

      Nick shook his head. His throat was thick, and he couldn’t seem to find his voice.

      “Slow down there,” the detective said. “You’re Nick Wilder, aren’t you? The photographer from the Telegraph. You’re so beaten up, I almost didn’t recognize you.” The detective glanced behind him at one of the other policemen. “Hey, Brady,” he said. “You want to come over here, give me a hand?”

      A patrolman, shorter and thinner, broke free from the group of incongruously chatty policemen. Detective Stolie was studying Nick. “You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

      Nick looked over at the long black bag on the stretcher. The orderlies were strapping it down with wide blue polyester straps, latching them closed with steel buckles. His eyes filled with tears.

      “That’s my brother,” he heard himself say. “That’s Sam.”

      He twisted to one side, trying to free himself. Stolie released his grip and let him go, and Nick fell to his knees next to the stretcher. The orderlies stopped what they were doing and took a small step backward.

      “Open it up,” Stolie said. Hesitating, one of the orderlies reached across Nick and unzipped the top of the bag.

      Sam’s eyes were open, unseeing. Nick couldn’t make sense of his brother’s face. It had been badly slashed. His cheek was hanging in a flap off the bone. His mouth was a bloody pulp, nearly unrecognizable. His teeth had been kicked into his throat. His hair was plastered to his forehead with a dark black, bloody scab. A gelatinous goop was oozing from his ears.

      Nick hardly noticed. He was staring into Sam’s open, lifeless eyes, crying uncontrollably. “What the hell are you doing?” Nick heard the wild shout. He didn’t understand, though, that the voice belonged to him. “Why’d you put him in this bag?” His hands were ripping at the heavy black polyester, trying to pull his brother out from the body bag. “Can’t you see? You’re going to suffocate him.” He turned on the orderlies, then, holding his bloody hands up toward the officers in supplication, found Detective Stolie with his eyes. “He can’t breathe. Damn it, help me!” His voice rose into a scream. “You’re going to kill him. Please, help me get him out of here!”

      chapter 2

      One month earlier, at the beginning of November, Nick had been woken up just before dawn by the buzzing of his cell phone. Despite how wintry it was outside, the building’s heat was set too high, and Nick’s cramped studio was hot and stuffy. He woke up disoriented, not certain what was happening. When the phone buzzed again, the dim light from its LCD screen gave shape to the dark room. Nick shielded his eyes and, raising himself onto an elbow, picked up the phone, becoming vaguely aware at the same time of the staccato rattle of the wind against the thin window panes. Recognizing the number, he settled back into bed and closed his eyes, then at last brought the phone to his ear.

      “Officer Tyler.”

      “My man, Nicholas.” The policeman sounded wide awake. No doubt he had been at the station through the night. “Sorry to wake you.”

      Nick ignored the apology. He was used to these calls.

      “I thought you’d want to know. I’m just about to dispatch a couple of units out to Kent. You know the Peck Bridge?”

      “Sure.”

      “There’s a body there. They say it’s a pretty bad sight. Something to see.”

      Nick was pushing himself up onto the side of his bed. “Has it gone out on the radio yet?”

      “You know I always call you first, my man.”

      “What time is it?”

      The police dispatcher didn’t answer. He was laughing without mirth as he hung up the phone.