Saturday, 4:00 p.m., to Saturday, 10:15 p.m. 7 page

Why not that pipe?

Then she understood.

“He doesn’t want ... I don’t want to leave just yet because I want to keep an eye on her.”

“Why do you think that?” he inquired, echoing her own words just moments before.

“There’s another pipe I could’ve chained her to but I picked the one that was in the open.”

“So you could see her?”

“I think so.”

“Why?”

“Maybe to make sure she can’t get away. Maybe to make sure the gag’s tight. ... I don’t know.”

“Good, Amelia. But what does it mean? How can we use that fact?”

Sachs looked around the room for the place where he’d have the best view of the girl without being seen. It turned out to be a shadowy spot between two large heating-oil tanks.

“Yes!” she said excitedly, looking at the floor. “He was here.” Forgetting the role-playing. “He swept up.”

She scanned the area with the bile glow of the PoliLight wand.

“No footprints,” she said, disappointed. But as she lifted the light to shut it off, a smudge glowed on one of the tanks.

“I’ve got a print!” she announced.

“A print?”

“You get a better view of the girl if you lean forward and support yourself on a tank. That’s what he did, I’m sure. Only, it’s weird, Lincoln. It’s ... deformed. His hand.” She shivered looking at the monstrous palm.

“In the suitcase there’s an aerosol bottle labeled DFO. It’s a fluorescent stain. Spray that on the print, hit the PoliLight and shoot the image with the one-to-one Polaroid.”

She told him when she’d finished this and he said, “Now Dust-bust the floor between the tanks. If we’re lucky he scratched off a hair or chewed a fingernail.”

My habits, Sachs thought. It was one of the things that had finally ruined her modeling career—the bloody nail, the worried eyebrow. She’d tried and tried and tried to stop. Finally gave up, discouraged, bewildered that a tiny habit could change the direction of your life so dramatically.

“Bag the vacuum filter.”

“In paper?”

“Yes, paper. Now, the body, Amelia.”

“What?”

“Well, you’ve got to process the body.”

Her heart sank. Somebody else, please. Have somebody else do it. She said, “Not until the ME’s finished. That’s the rule.”

“No rules today, Amelia. We’re making up our own. The medical examiner’ll get her after us.”

Sachs approached the woman.

“You know the routine?”

“Yes.” She stepped close to the destroyed body.

Then froze. Hands inches from the victim’s skin.

I can’t do it. She shuddered. Told herself to keep going. But she couldn’t; the muscles weren’t responding.

“Sachs? You there?”

She couldn’t answer.

I can’t do this. ... It was as simple as that. Impossible. I can’t.

“Sachs?”

And then she looked into herself and, somehow, saw her father, in uniform, stooping low on the hot, pitted sidewalk of West Forty-second Street, sliding his arm around a scabby drunk to help him home. Then was seeing her Nick as he laughed and drank beer in a Bronx tavern with a hijacker who’d kill him in a second if he knew the young cop was working undercover. The two men in her life, doing what they had to do.

“Amelia?”

These two images bobbed in her thoughts, and why they calmed her, or where that calm came from, she couldn’t begin to guess. “I’m here,” she said to Lincoln Rhyme and went about her business as she’d been taught. Taking the nail scrapings, combing the hair—pubic and head. Telling Rhyme what she did as she did it.

Ignoring the dull orbs of eyes ...

Ignoring the crimson flesh.

Trying to ignore the smell.

“Get her clothing,” Rhyme said. “Cut off everything. Put a sheet of newsprint under them first to pick up any trace that falls off.”

“Should I check the pockets?”

“No, we’ll do that here. Wrap them up in the paper.”

Sachs cut the blouse and skirt off, the panties. She reached out for what she thought was the woman’s bra, dangling from her chest. It felt curious, disintegrating in her fingers. Then, like a slap she realized what she held and she gave a short scream. It wasn’t cloth, it was skin.

“Amelia? Are you all right?”

“Yes!” she gasped. “I’m fine.”

“Describe the restraints.”

“Duct tape for the gag,--two inches wide. Standard-issue cuffs for hands, clothesline for the feet.”

“PoliLight her body. He might’ve touched her with his bare hands. Look for prints.”

She did. “Nothing.”

“Okay. Now cut the clothesline—but not through the knot. Bag it. In plastic.”

Sachs did. Then Rhyme said, “We need the cuffs.”

“Okay. I’ve got a cuff key.”

“No, Amelia. Don’t open them.”

“What?”

“The cuff lock mechanism is one of the best ways to pick up trace from the perp.”

“Well, how’m I supposed to get them off without a key?” She laughed.

“There’s a razor saw in the suitcase.”

“You want me to cut off the cuffs?”

There was a pause. Rhyme said, “No, not the cuffs, Amelia.”

“Well, what do you want me to ... Oh, you can’t be serious. Her hands?”

“You have to.” He was irritated at her reluctance.

Okay, that’s it. Sellitto and Polling’ve picked a nutcase for a partner. Maybe their careers’re tanking but I’m not going down with them.

“Forget it.”

“Amelia, it’s just another way to collect evidence.”

Why did he sound so reasonable? She thought desperately for excuses. “They’ll get blood all over them if I cut—”

“Her heart’s not beating. Besides,” he added like a TV chef, “the blood’ll be cooked into a solid.”

The gorge rising again.

“Go on, Amelia. Go to the suitcase. Get the saw. In the lid.” He added a frosty, “Please.”

“Why’d you have me scrape under her nails? I could’ve just brought you back her hands!”

“Amelia, we need the cuffs. We have to open them here and we can’t wait for the ME. It has to be done.”

She walked back to the doorway. Unsnapped the thongs, lifted the wicked-looking saw from the case. She stared at the woman, frozen in her tortured pose in the center of the vile room.

“Amelia? Amelia?”

Outside, the sky was still clogged with stagnant, yellow air and the buildings nearby were covered with soot like charred bones. But Sachs had never been so glad to be out in the city air as now. The CU suitcase in one hand, the razor saw in the other, the headset dangling dead around her neck. Sachs ignored the huge crowd of cops and spectators staring at her and walked straight toward the station wagon.

As she passed Sellitto she handed him the saw without pausing, practically tossed it to him. “If he wants it done that badly tell him he can damn well walk down here and do it himself.”

II

LOCARD’S

PRINCIPLE

In real life, you only get one shot

at the homicide crime scene.

—VERNON J. GEBERTH,

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER (RET.)

NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT

NINE

Saturday, 4:00 p.m., to Saturday, 10:15 p.m.

“I’VE GOT MYSELF INTO A SITUATION HERE, SIR.”

The man across the desk looked like a TV show’s idea of a big-city deputy police commissioner. Which happened to be his rank. White hair, a temperate jowl, gold-rimmed glasses, posture to die for.

“Now what’s the problem, officer?”

Dep Com Randolph C. Eckert looked down his long nose with a gaze that Sachs recognized immediately; his nod to equality was to be as stern with the female officers as with the male ones.

“I’ve got a complaint, sir,” she said stiffly. “You heard about that taxi kidnapping case?”

He nodded. “Ah, has that got the city in double dutch.”

She believed that was a schoolchild’s game of jump rope but wouldn’t presume to correct a deputy commissioner.

“That damn UN conference,” he continued, “and the whole world’s watching. It’s unfair. People don’t talk about crime in Washington. Or Detroit. Well, Detroit they do. Say, Chicago. Never. No, it’s New York that people thump on. Richmond, Virginia, had more murders per capita than we did last year. I looked it up. And I’d rather parachute unarmed into Central Harlem than drive windows-up through South East D.C. any day.”

“Yessir.”

“Understand they found that girl dead. It was on all the news. Those reporters.”

“Downtown. Just now.”

“Now that’s a pity.”

“Yessir.”

“They just killed her? Like that? No ransom demand or anything?”

“I didn’t hear about any ransom.”

“What’s this complaint?”

“I was first officer in a related homicide this morning.”

“You’re Patrol?” Eckert asked.

“I was Patrol. I was supposed to be transferring to Public Affairs today at noon. For a training session.” She lifted her hands, tipped with flesh-colored Band-Aids, and dropped them in her lap. “But they shanghaied me.”

“Who?”

“Detective Lon Sellitto, sir. And Captain Haumann. And Lincoln Rhyme.”

“Rhyme?”

“Yessir.”

“Not the fellow was in charge of IRD a few years ago?”

“Yessir. That’s him.”

“I thought he was dead.”

Egos like that will never die.

“Very much alive, sir.”

The dep com was looking out his window. “He’s not on the force anymore. What’s he doing involved in this?”

“Consultant, I guess. It’s Lon Sellitto’s case. Captain Polling’s overseeing it. I’ve been waiting for this reassignment for eight months. But they’ve got me working crime scene. I’ve never done crime scene. It doesn’t make any sense and frankly I resent being assigned to a job I’ve had no training for.”

“Crime scene?”

“Rhyme ordered me to run the whole scene. By myself.”

Eckert didn’t understand this. The words weren’t registering. “Why is a civilian ordering uniformed officers to do anything?”

“My point, sir.” She set the hook. “I mean, I’ll help up to a point. But I’m just not prepared to dismember victims ...”

“What?”

She blinked as if surprised he hadn’t heard. She explained about the handcuffs.

“Lord in heaven, what the hell’re they thinking of? Pardon my French. Don’t they know the whole country’s watching? It’s been on CNN all day, this kidnapping. Cutting off her hands? Say, you’re Herman Sachs’s daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“Good officer. Excellent officer. I gave him one of his commendations. The man was what a beat cop ought to be. Midtown South, right?”

“Hell’s Kitchen. My beat.”

My former beat.

“Herman Sachs probably prevented more crime than the entire detective division solves in a year. Just calming everything down, you know.”

“That was Pop. Sure.”

“Her hands?” Eckert snorted. “The girl’s family’ll sue us. As soon as they find out about it. They sue us for everything. There’s a rapist suing us now ’cause he got shot in the leg coming at an officer with a knife. His lawyer’s got this theory he’s calling the ‘least deadly alternative.’ Instead of shooting, we’re supposed to taze them or use Mace. Or ask them politely, I don’t know. I better give the chief and the mayor a heads-up on this one. I’ll make some calls, officer.” He looked at a wall clock. It was a little after four. “Your watch over for the day?”

“I have to report back to Lincoln Rhyme’s house. That’s where we’re working out of.” She thought of the hacksaw. She said coolly, “His bedroom really. That’s our CP.”

“A civilian’s bedroom is your command post?”

“I’d appreciate anything you can do, sir. I’ve waited a long time for that transfer.”

“Cut her hands off. My good Lord.”

She stood and walked to the door and out into one of the corridors that would soon be her new assignment. The feeling of relief took only a little longer to arrive than she’d expected.

He stood at the bottle-glass window, watching a pack of wild dogs prowl though the lot across the street.

He was on the first floor of this old building, a marble-clad Federal dating to the early 1800s. Surrounded by vacant lots and tenements—some abandoned, some occupied by paying tenants though most by squatters—this old mansion had been empty for years.

The bone collector took the piece of emery paper in his hand once more and continued to rub. He looked down at his handiwork. Then out the window again.

His hands, in their circular motion, precise. The tiny scrap of sandpaper whispering, shhhhh, shhhhh ... Like a mother hushing her child.

A decade ago, the days of promise in New York, some crazy artist had moved in here. He’d filled the dank, two-story place with broken and rusting antiques. Wrought-iron grilles, hunks of crown molding and framed squares of spidered stained glass, scabby columns. Some of the artist’s work remained on the walls. Frescoes on the old plaster: murals, never completed, of workers, children, angst-ridden lovers. Round, emotionless faces—the man’s motif—stared blankly, as if the souls had been nipped out of their smooth bodies.

The painter was never very successful, even after the most ironclad of marketing ideas—his own suicide—and the bank foreclosed on the building several years ago.

Shhhhh. ...

The bone collector had stumbled across the place last year and he’d known immediately that this was home. The desolation of the neighborhood was certainly important to him—it was obviously practical. But there was another appeal, more personal: the lot across the street. During some excavation several years ago a backhoe had unearthed a load of human bones. It turned out this had been one of the city’s old cemeteries. Newspaper articles about it suggested the graves might contain the remains not only of Federal and Colonial New Yorkers but Manate and Lenape Indians as well.

He now set aside what he’d been smoothing with the emery paper—a carpal, the delicate palm bone—and picked up the wrist, which he’d carefully detached from the radius and ulna last night just before leaving for Kennedy Airport to collect the first victims. It had been drying for over a week and most of the flesh was gone but it still took some effort to separate the elaborate cluster of bones. They snapped apart with faint plops, like fish breaking the surface of a lake.

Oh, the constables, they were a lot better than he’d anticipated. He’d been watching them search along Pearl Street, wondering if they’d ever figure out where he’d left the woman from the airport. Astonished when they suddenly ran toward the right building. He’d guessed it would take two or three victims until they got a feel for the clues. They hadn’t saved her of course. But they might have. A minute or two earlier would have made all the difference.

As with so much in life.

The navicular, the lunate, the hamate, the capitate ... the bones, intertwined like a Greek puzzle ring, came apart under his strong fingers. He picked bits of flesh and tendon off them. He selected the greater multangulum—at the base of where the thumb had once been—and began to sand once more.

Shhhhh, shhhhhhh.

The bone collector squinted as he looked outside and imagined he saw a man standing beside one of the old graves. It must have been his imagination because the man wore a bowler hat and was dressed in mustard-colored gabardine. He rested some dark roses beside the tombstone and then turned away from it, dodging the horses and carriages on his way to the elegantly arched bridge over the Collect Pond outlet at Canal Street. Who’d he been visiting? Parents? A brother? Family who’d died of consumption or in one of the terrible influenza epidemics that’d been ravaging the city recently—

Recently?

No, not recently of course. A hundred years ago—that’s what he meant.

He squinted and looked again. No sign of the carriages or the horses. Or the man with the bowler hat. Though they’d seemed as real as flesh and blood.

However real they are.

Shhhhh, shhhhhh.

It was intruding again, the past. He was seeing things that’d happened before, that had happened then, as if they were now. He could control it. He knew he could.

But as he gazed out the window he realized that of course there was no before or after. Not for him. He drifted back and forth through time, a day, five years, a hundred years or two, like a dried leaf on a windy day.

He looked at his watch. It was time to leave.

Setting the bone on the mantel, he washed his hands carefully—like a surgeon. Then for five minutes he ran a pet-hair roller over his clothes to pick up any bone dust or dirt or body hairs that might lead the constables to him.

He walked into the carriage house past the half-finished painting of a moon-faced butcher in a bloody white apron. The bone collector started to get into the taxi but then changed his mind. Unpredictability is the best defense. This time he’d take the carriage ... the sedan, the Ford. He started it, he drove into the street, closed and locked the garage door behind him.

No before or after ...

As he passed the cemetery the pack of dogs glanced up at the Ford then returned to scuffling through the brush, looking for rats and nosing madly for water in the unbearable heat.

No then or now ...

He took the ski mask and gloves from his pocket, set them on the seat beside him as he sped out of the old neighborhood. The bone collector was going hunting.

TEN

SOMETHING HAD CHANGED ABOUT THE ROOM but she couldn’t quite decide what.

Lincoln Rhyme saw it in her eyes.

“We missed you, Amelia,” he said coyly. “Errands?”

She looked away from him. “Apparently nobody’d told my new commander I wouldn’t be showing up for work today. I thought somebody ought to.”

“Ah, yes.”

She was gazing at the wall, slowly figuring it out. In addition to the basic instruments that Mel Cooper had brought with him, there was now a scanning electron microscope fitted with the X-ray unit, notation and hot-stage ’scope setups for testing glass, a comparison microscope, a density-gradient tube for soil testing and a hundred beakers, jars and bottles of chemicals.

And in the middle of the room, Cooper’s pride—the computerized gas Chromatograph and mass spectrometer. Along with another computer, on-line with Cooper’s own terminal at the IRD lab.

Sachs stepped over the thick cables snaking downstairs—house current worked, yes, but the amperage was too taxed for the bedroom outlets alone. And in that slight sidestep, an elegant, practiced maneuver, Rhyme observed how truly beautiful she was. Certainly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in the police department ranks.

For a brief instant he found her immeasurably appealing. People said that sex was all in the mind and Rhyme knew that this was true. Cutting the cord didn’t stop the urge. He remembered, still with a faint crunch of horror, a night six months after the accident. He and Blaine had tried. Just to see what happened, they’d disclaimed, trying to be casual. No big deal.

But it had been a big deal. Sex is a messy business to start with and when you add catheters and bags to the equation you need a lot of stamina and humor and a better foundation than they’d had. Mostly, though, what killed the moment, and killed it fast, was her face. He saw in Elaine Chapman Rhyme’s tough, game smile that she was doing it from pity and that stabbed him in the heart. He filed for divorce two weeks later. Elaine had protested but she signed the papers on the first go-round.

Sellitto and Banks had returned and were organizing the evidence Sachs had collected. She looked on, mildly interested.

Rhyme said to her, “The Latents Unit only found eight other recent partials and they belong to the two maintenance men in the building.”

“Oh.”

He nodded broadly. “Only eight!”

“He’s complimenting you,” Thom explained. “Enjoy it. That’s the most you’ll ever get out of him.”

“No translations needed, please and thank you, Thom.”

She responded, “I’m happy I could help.” Pleasant as could be.

Well, what was this? Rhyme had fully expected her to storm into his room and fling the evidence bags onto his bed. Maybe the saw itself or even the plastic bag containing the vic’s severed hands. He’d been looking forward to a real knock-down, drag-out; people rarely take the gloves off when they fight with a crip. He’d been thinking of that look in her eyes when she’d met him, perhaps evidence of some ambiguous kinship between them.

But no, he saw now he was wrong. Amelia Sachs was like everybody else—patting him on the head and looking for the nearest exit.

With a snap, his heart turned to ice. When he spoke it was to a cobweb high on the far wall. “We’ve been talking about the deadline for the next victim, officer. There doesn’t seem to be specific time.”

“What we think,” Sellitto continued, “whatever this prick’s got planned for the next one is something ongoing. He doesn’t know exactly when the time of death will be. Lincoln thought maybe he’s buried some poor SOB someplace where there’s not much air.”

Sachs’s eye narrowed slightly at this. Rhyme noticed it. Burial alive. If you’ve got to have a phobia, that’s as good as any.

They were interrupted by two men in gray suits who climbed the stairs and walked into the bedroom as if they lived here.

“We knocked,” one of them said.

“We rang the bell,” said the other.

“No answer.”

They were in their forties, one taller than the other but both with the same sandy-colored hair. They bore identical smiles and before the Brooklyn drawl destroyed the image Rhyme had thought: Hayseed farm boys. One had an honest-to-God dusting of freckles along the bridge of his pale nose.

“Gentlemen.”

Sellitto introduced the Hardy Boys: Detectives Bedding and Saul, the spadework team. Their skill was canvassing—interviewing people who live near a crime scene for wits and leads. It was a fine art but one that Rhyme had never learned, had no desire to. He was content to unearth hard facts and hand them off to officers like these, who, armed with the data, became living lie detectors who could shred perps’ best cover stories. Neither of them seemed to think it was the least bit weird to be reporting to a bedridden civilian.

Saul, the taller of them, the frecklee, said, “We’ve found thirty-six—”

“-eight, if you count a couple of crack-heads. Which he doesn’t. I do.”

“—subjects. Interviewed all of them. Haven’t had much luck.”

“Most of ’em blind, deaf, amnesiacs. You know, the usual.”

“No sign of the taxi. Combed the West Side. Zero. Zip.”

Bedding: “But tell them the good news.”

“We found a wit.”

“A witness?” Banks asked eagerly. “Fan-tastic.”

Rhyme, considerably less enthusiastic, said, “Go on.”

“ ’Round the TOD this morning at the train tracks.”

“He saw a man walk down Eleventh Avenue, turn—”

“ ‘Suddenly,’ he said,” added no-freckle Bedding.

“—and go through an alley that led to the train underpass. He just stood there for a while—”

“Looking down.”

Rhyme was troubled by this. “That doesn’t sound like our boy. He’s too smart to risk being seen like that.”

“But—” Saul continued, raising a finger and glancing at his partner.

“There was only one window in the whole ’hood you could see the place from.”

“Which is where our wit happened to be standing.”

“Up early, bless his heart.”

Before he remembered he was angry with her Rhyme asked, “Well, Amelia, how’s it feel?”

“I’m sorry?” Her attention returned from the window.

“To be right,” Rhyme said. “You pegged Eleventh Avenue. Not Thirty-seventh.”

She didn’t know how to respond but Rhyme turned immediately back to the twins. “Description?”

“Our wit couldn’t say much.”

“Was on the sauce. Already.”

“He said it was a smallish guy. No hair color. Race—”

“Probably white.”

“Wearing?” Rhyme asked.

“Something dark. Best he could say.”

“And doing what?” Sellitto asked.

“I quote. ‘He just like stood there, looking down. I thought he gonna jump. You know, in front of a train. Looked at his watch a couple times.’ ”

“And then finally left. Said he kept looking around. Like he didn’t want to be seen.”

What had he been doing? Rhyme wondered. Watching the victim die? Or was this before he planted the body, checking to see if the roadbed was deserted?

Sellitto asked, “Walked or drove?”

“Walked. We checked every parking lot—”

“And garage.”

“—in the neighborhood. But that’s near the convention center so you got parking coming out your ears. There’re so many lots the attendants stand in the street with orange flags and wave cars in.”

“And ’causa the expo half of them were full by seven. We got a list of about nine hundred tags.”

Sellitto shook his head. “Follow up on it—”

“It’s delegated,” said Bedding.

“—but I betcha this’s one unsub who ain’t putting cars in lots,” the detective continued. “Or getting parking tickets.”

Rhyme nodded his agreement and asked, “The building at Pearl Street?”

One, or both, of the twins said, “That’s next on our list. We’re on our way.”

Rhyme caught Sachs checking her watch, which sat on her white wrist near her ruddy fingers. He instructed Thom to add these new characteristics of the unsub to the profile chart.

“You want to interview that guy?” Banks asked. “The one by the railroad?”

“No. I don’t trust witnesses,” Rhyme said bombastically. “I want to get back to work.” He glanced at Mel Cooper. “Hairs, blood, bone, and a sliver of wood. The bone first,” Rhyme instructed.

Morgen ...

Young Monelle Gerger opened her eyes and slowly sat up in the sagging bed. In her two years in east Greenwich Village she’d never gotten used to morning.

Her round, twenty-one-year-old body eased forward and she got a blast of unrelenting August sunlight in her bleary eyes. “Mein Gott ...”

She’d left the club at five, home at six, made love with Brian until seven ...

What time was it now?

Early morning, she was sure.

She squinted at the clock. Oh. Four-thirty in the afternoon.

Not so früh morgens after all.

Coffee or laundry?

It was around this time of day that she’d wander over to Dojo’s for a veggie-burger breakfast and three cups of their tough coffee. There she’d meet people she knew, clubbies like herself—downtown people.

But she’d let a lot of things go lately, the domestic things. And so now she pulled on two baggy T-shirts to hide her chubby figure and jeans, hung five or six chains around her neck and grabbed the laundry basket, tossed the Wisk onto it.

Monelle undid the three dead bolts barring the door. She hefted the laundry basket and walked down the dark staircase of the residence hall. At the basement level she paused.

Irgendwas stimmt hier nicht.

Feeling uneasy, Monelle looked around the deserted stairway, the murky corridors.

What’s different?

The light, that’s it! The bulbs in the hall’re burned out. No—she looked closely—they were missing. Fucking kids’ll steal anything. She’d moved in here, the Deutsche Haus—because it was supposedly a haven for German artists and musicians. It turned out to be just another filthy, way-overpriced East Village walkup, like all the other tenements around here. The only difference was that she could bitch to the manager in her native tongue.

She continued through the basement door into the incinerator room, which was so dark she had to grope her way along the wall to make sure she didn’t trip over the junk on the floor.

Pushing open the door, she stepped into the corridor that led to the laundry room.

A shuffling. A skitter.

She turned quickly and saw nothing but motionless shadows. All she heard was the sound of traffic, the groans of an old, old building.

Through the dimness. Past stacks of boxes and discarded chairs and tables. Under wires caked with greasy dust. Monelle continued toward the laundry room. No bulbs here either. She was uneasy, recalling something that hadn’t occurred to her for years. Walking with her father down a narrow alley off Lange Strasse, near the Obermain Brücke, on their way to the zoo. She must have been five or six. Her father had suddenly gripped her by the shoulder and pointed to the bridge and told her matter-of-factly that a hungry troll lived underneath it. When they crossed it on their way home, he warned, they’d have to walk quickly. She now felt a ripple of panic rise up her spine to her crew-cut blond hair.

Stupid. Trolls ...

She continued down the dank corridor, listening to the humming of some electrical equipment. Far off she heard a song by the feuding brothers in Oasis.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 625