trailer like him, but Payne wanted his privacy. Frederick had to admit that Payne's privacy had come in handy, time to time.
Frederick bumped along the long private drive over potholes and erosion cuts until he reached Payne's cabin. The dusty white house was still. Frederick slipped the shotgun from under the seat, then climbed out of his truck. Payne used to have a real nice place, but now the eaves were heavy with cobwebs, and the house was streaked with dirt like mascara when a woman cried. "Payne! Hey, buddy, you home?"
Frederick stood absolutely still, listening. He sensed the house was deserted, but stepped up onto the covered porch, keeping an eye on the windows. He unlocked the dead bolt, and pushed open the door. Inside, twelve Christs stared down at him from twelve crucifixes nailed to the walls. More Christs stood on the TV. Christ bore witness from the entertainment center, the bookcase, and the end tables. Frederick knew that even more Christs waited in the bathroom and kitchen and bedroom.
"PAYNE??"
Calling, just for show. If Payne had betrayed him, a policeman or reporter might be anywhere.
Frederick felt the Jesuses watching him, and closed his eyes. A buzzing started in his head, and if he didn't make it go away the buzzing would grow into voices.
"Make them stop, Payne. Make them go away."
The buzzing gradually faded, and Frederick pulled himself together. He hurried into the kitchen to check the message machine, and found two new messages, but one was from Elroy and he had left the other. Frederick had checked the house twice a day every day since Payne disappeared, hoping to find a message that would give some clue about Payne's fate, but all he ever found were the messages he left expressing concern for Payne's well-being (also for show), and the messages from Elroy.
Frederick deleted the messages, then scrounged a box of trash bags from the cupboard, relocked the house, and returned to his truck for the shovel. He hurried around the side of the house into the woods, then followed a dry creek bed until he was at the base of a large rock. Frederick considered the trees both ways along the gulley, but wasn't sure if he was in the right spot or not. He felt confused and fuzzy, but also excited.
Frederick moved with increasing strength.
He climbed uphill behind the rock, then suddenly recognized his surroundings with a precision that made every leaf as familiar as old friends. He felt a rush of confidence.
"Yes, it is," he said, smiling. "Yes, it is."
He put his weight into the shovel, and levered up the earth. Frederick Conrad, which was the name he now used, worked with great purpose. The shovel struck something hard. He clawed away the dirt, and uncovered the first skull.
7
Six hours earlier, the streets had been empty, but now pedestrians churned the sidewalks, bike messengers whipped between cars like tweaked-out hummingbirds, and the shops along Grand and Hill had become an open bazaar. The police were gone. The yellow tape, area lamps, criminalists, and patrol cars had vanished, erasing all evidence that a murder had occurred. To the untrained eye, it was another flawless day in the City of Angels.
I drove back to the crime scene, pulled to the curb outside the flower mart, and studied the mouth of the alley. I couldn't do any more than the police, and wasn't sure why I wanted to try. I never once-not then at the beginning-believed that John Doe #05-1642 was or could be the father I had never known. He was more like a client who had hired me, and the person I had been hired to find. Maybe I was bored after so many weeks not working; maybe I didn't want to go back to a house that felt pointless without Lucy and Ben. It was easier to lose myself in murder; it was merciful to focus my anger at someone else.
The Big Empty was a moldering area east of the convention center and south of the business district, unclaimed by the homeless, who tended to gather several blocks north at the parks and missions of Skid Row. The streets were lined with wholesale outlets, cut-rate office space, garment resellers, and businesses that closed at dusk; the bars, hotels, apartments, and missions were ten blocks or more to the north, and not an easy walk from the alley. John Doe #05-1642 either lived in the area or had been seeking a destination, though there wasn't