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He was so messed up he couldn’t talk, could only point. I opened the pantry door and grabbed the extinguisher. A minute or so later, the fire was out. But the kitchen was a mess. As was Darcy.

He crumpled on the floor, hunched over the linoleum, rocking back and forth, babbling incoherently, hitting himself in the face.

“I called and asked Dad about dinner but Dad couldn’t fix dinner so I thought that’s fine I’ll fix my own dinner and I did but the oven was mad at me and it started a fire and I didn’t know what to do and…”

On and on and on. He hit himself so hard he made bruises.

I had to do something. I reached around him with my good arm and grabbed both hands, restraining him. Becoming his human straitjacket.

“All I wanted was something to eat but there was no one here and there’s never anyone here anymore and I was all alone and I didn’t know what to do and did you know that sixty-seven percent of all domestic fires begin in the kitchen but I opened the microwave and the flames just leaped out they just leaped out like they were trying to get me they wanted to punish me because I did a bad thing a really really bad thing…”

I hugged him tighter and tried to speak in a soft, soothing voice. I figured it didn’t really matter what I said. He just needed to hear someone. It was hard, because I had one arm in a cast and the other ached at the wrist, but I held on to him.

“It hurt so much and I was all alone and I didn’t know why the Bad Man came why the Bad Man always comes when I’m asleep I didn’t want to hurt him I didn’t want to hurt anyone I didn’t hurt Mommy I really didn’t but he was going to hurt Susan because I wanted to ask you about babies and I couldn’t let him hurt Susan…”

God, my heart ached for him. He couldn’t be left on his own like this.

I whispered into his ear. “It’s all right, Darcy. Susan is here. Susan is right here.”

“And sometimes it’s dark and I hear these noises and I don’t know what the noises are and I don’t like it when people touch me why do people always want to touch me I want to be touched but when they touch me it makes me want to run away and I don’t want to be here by myself anymore I don’t I don’t I don’t…”

I felt myself choking, feeling his pain, wondering what it must have been like for Chief O’Bannon, raising this boy by himself all those years, dealing with this kind of panic attack not just once when you happen to drop by but every day, every day of your life.

The words tumbled out of me. I didn’t even think before I spoke. This boy had done so much for me, had supported me throughout this whole horrific case. Maybe it was time I returned the favor. “It’s all right, Darcy. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I held him like that for more than an hour before he calmed down. I didn’t mind. Even though it hurt, I didn’t mind. Once he was calm again, I fixed a proper dinner, then cleaned up the kitchen mess and made myself a place to sleep on the couch.

I took a shower, and when I stepped out of the bathroom with-thank God-a towel wrapped around myself, I found Darcy standing outside the door.

He was gasping for air and dripping with perspiration. And he was holding a frozen custard in each hand.

“I hope that you are in the mood for custard. I thought that you might be in the mood but I wasn’t sure so I ran all the way to Third Street. And back.”

“Just because you wanted me to have a bedtime snack?”

His face was like a shimmering sheet of tinfoil. “Because any day you have a custard is a Very Excellent Day. And I thought that maybe you could use a Very Excellent Day.”

That night, before I fell asleep, I cried. Streams of tears, endless flows of salt water, cascading down my face. But it was a good cry. One I’d been saving up for a long time.

Guess I won’t be going to L.A. after all.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

No writer can ever tackle anything so large and daunting as a novel without getting a lot of help, and I’m certainly no exception. I want to thank everyone who helped me during the time I spent creating Susan and Darcy’s world and who assisted with the enormous research required to bring the characters to life.

The United States is currently in the midst of an autism epidemic-and no one knows why. Autism Spectrum Disorders have increased over 500 percent in the last decade; the Department of Education reported an 18 percent increase in those seeking special services for autism from 2003 to 2004. In 2004, the Department of Health and Human Services issued an Autism Alert to the nation’s pediatricians in an effort to improve data collection to try to determine the cause of this epidemic and to aid in earlier diagnosis. I want to give special thanks to perhaps the leading pioneers in autism research, Ivar Lovaas and Bernard Rimland. Lovaas pioneered the use of behavioral intervention, which has been incredibly useful to many parents trying to recover a child who seemed lost to this neurological disorder. Rimland pursued biomedical research and, as a result, has produced a therapeutic protocol that many parents believe significantly assisted, or even cured, their children. Both approaches are most effective when instituted in the child’s life as early as possible. (In case you’re wondering, the only reason Rimland is not mentioned in the book is because his protocol would not have existed when Darcy was a child.) Those wanting to know more about Lovaas and his Institute for Early Intervention should visit www.lovaas.com. Those seeking more information about Rimland and the Autism Research Institute should visit www.AutismResearchInstitute.com or consider attending one of his periodic DAN (Defeat Autism Now) conferences (www.DANconference.com). Parents reeling from the shock of this diagnosis and wondering where to begin would do well to read Let Me Hear Your Voice by Catherine Maurice, the inspiring story of one parent’s successful battle against this strange and terrifying disorder.

It would be impossible to write a book about a criminal behaviorist without becoming familiar with the work of the two best-known names in the field: John Douglas and Roy Hazelwood. Douglas developed criminal profiling techniques during his twenty-five years with the FBI and subsequently wrote fascinating books based on his experiences, such as Mindhunter and The Anatomy of Motive. Hazelwood built on and expanded his work; his psychological insights are perhaps the best recorded in his book Dark Dreams. I also must thank my friend Dave Johnson for his insight and information about the inner life of a police station and those who work there. If the characters in this book do not always behave as model police officers, however, it’s not Dave’s fault; it’s because these characters, like most people I know, are not perfect.

And those who want to know more about card counting and other blackjack techniques developed at MIT and elsewhere may wish to read Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrich, and the classic Beat the Dealer by Edward Thorp. If you’re thinking card counting will allow you to go to Vegas and get rich quick, though, please think again.