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  Gleaming stainless steel and white tile was everywhere. Everything in his clinic was spotless and state-of-the art. He made sure of it from the start when he had personally supervised its construction. The leather sofas in the waiting room, the networked computers in the reception area and throughout the building, the latest advancements in sonogram videography and procedures — everything about the Lamberth Center spoke of excellence and competence. His patients deserved it. And more important, HE deserved it.

  As he passed the lobby area, he saw a tall figure bending over to empty a garbage can. The man’s back was to the doctor but Lamberth could see the man’s dark hair banded into a pony tail. It was the clinic’s disposal technician. The doctor greeted him “Morning, Brent” before going into his office. Once seated at his desk he called up the day’s schedule on his computer. The first procedure was scheduled for 8:00 a.m. and would call for the extra equipment in Procedure Room A at the other end of the clinic. He reached over and slightly rearranged the photo of his wife and daughter on the otherwise empty desktop. Mustn’t keep happiness waiting. Here comes the sun. It’s all right.

  In the prep room he donned his scrubs and stood at the sink scrubbing his hands. His patients deserved the sterile atmosphere his clinic offered. No back-alley butcher room here. The mirror above the sink had been mounted extra high so he would not have to stoop to see himself. He reached up to push an errant lock of brown hair back under the surgical cap, then leaned close to the mirror. The fine wrinkles at the corners of his light brown eyes only enhanced his good looks, women had confided in him. “You magnificent bastard,” he told his mirror image.

  The male operating room nurse came through the door and pulled on rubber gloves. He already had scrubbed in and had donned a surgical mask and cap. He knew the doctor’s insistence on a sterile environment. He picked up the doctor’s gloves and handed them to him, then carefully placed the doctor’s glasses on his face. Lamberth smiled vaguely but took little notice of his helper. “Thanks, David,” he mumbled. He was entering “The Zone,” as he called it. The Zone was a near-euphoric feeling that engulfed him just before a procedure such as this one. His assistants knew to remain silent unless he asked a direct question.

  He moved into the procedure room where his patient was in position with her feet in stirrups. The surgical blanket that stretched across her knees was designed to block her view of the small table beneath her legs. Tyson moved to her side and gently stroked her forehead. “Joyce, I’m Dr. Lamberth and I’m going to take care of you.” He made eye contact with her, his eyes friendly above the mask, then moved around the table and resumed his humming. Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun.

  The woman, a divorced stockbroker with a 13-year-old daughter, had startled at his touch before giving him a weak smile. She was grateful that the clinic had been able to schedule her so quickly. The breakup with her fiancé had come out of the blue. For six months the couple had talked about how it would be, how they would raise the new baby together. Now he was gone and she was left to make the right decision. It wasn’t fair, she thought, but when had life been fair? It was a struggle enough to keep Angie away from drugs and boys and… And everything else destructive that seemed to swirl around teenagers these days. Neither Angie nor the newborn would have gotten the attention they deserved. This was the best thing to do. Besides, deep down, Joyce knew that a mid-30’s woman with two children stood little chance of meeting someone new to share her life.

  The doctor would perform a D&X procedure, for Dilate and Extract. The anti-abortion nuts called it a partial birth abortion. Lamberth thought of the procedure in more clinical terms. The woman's cervix is dilated, and the fetus is partially removed from the womb, feet first. The surgeon inserts a sharp object into the back of the fetus' head to create a small opening into which he inserts a vacuum tube through which the brains are extracted. The head of the fetus contracts at this point and allows the fetus to be more easily removed from the womb.

  He had performed hundreds of D&X’s, some even in the third trimester. Dozens of women’s lives had been saved by the procedure, he believed. He had seen patients who would have surely suffered physically and emotionally from a continued pregnancy. He knew that many of the fetuses, if they had been delivered alive, never would have gained consciousness or ,worse, would have died shortly after birth from hydrocephalus.

  He held out his hand for the forceps, which his assistant gave him. Bending slightly, he lifted the edge of Joyce’s gown and inserted the instrument. Applying steady pressure, he opened the forceps and began to induce the breech delivery.

  His feeling of well-being had risen to the point that he imagined this was what drug addicts experienced. He had campaigned for women’s rights since his days in medical school and felt genuinely thankful that he could make such a difference in women’s lives. In his heart of hearts he considered himself a liberator. He had never shared that conviction with anyone else, but he felt called to his life as one was called to a mission. A mission of bringing freedom. Because of him, his patients were free from archaic practices and a ridiculous moral code. He had shared his gift with several girlfriends over the years, and even with his wife so she could devote herself to making a home for their daughter. Here comes the sun. Here comes the sun. And I say, it’s all right.

  Now he was giving this gift to Joyce.

  Reaching under the gown, he gently probed her abdomen to determine the placement of the head of the fetus. “Just relax,” he said soothingly. Pushing and guiding, he moved the fetus so that first one foot then the other appeared at the opening. Tugging gently, he slid out the small form until the legs, torso and arms appeared. He stopped so that the head of the fetus was still inside the woman.

  Everything was still now. It always seemed like a dream to him, but not an unpleasant one. Now for the next step. Time for the instrument to create the opening at the base of the fetus’ skull to insert the vacuum tube. The body of the fetus was supported in a small sling connected to a crossbar between the stirrups. He held it steady with his left hand and held out his right hand palm up.

  “Trachon,” he ordered.

  The doctor kept his head down. He heard a rustling noise. What was that sound… Velcro? But… no trachon. Nothing happened.

  Dr. Lamberth glanced up from his hands to look sharply at his assistant’s masked face. “Trachon!” He insisted on 100 percent efficiency in his clinic.

  He looked down at his helper’s hands. His brow furrowed. “Not a scalpel, you idiot. The incision would be too small for…”

  The doctor looked up into the blue eyes of his helper.

  But today David’s eyes were brown.

  The doctor’s brow furrowed, puzzled. Then he understood.

  Time froze and the room emptied of all sound.

  The woman’s voice broke the deathly quiet. “What is going…” She had tilted her head forward. She gasped and clutched at her stomach. “Oh no…”

  She heard a gurgling noise, then felt something heavy slump against her leg and thud to the floor.

  Then another voice. A calm voice.

  “Lie still, ma’am, and close your eyes. I want you to push. Now.”

  The woman gasped.

  More silence. Then a baby’s squeal.

  She felt a pressure on her chest and looked down.

  The tiny newborn squirmed. And screamed.

  Suddenly she heard another scream, even louder than the baby’s.

  She realized it was hers.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday, 10:30 a.m.

  Forte leaned back in the chair and kept very still. He could think of only a handful of people he would trust to hold a razor against his neck. Larue Hebert was on the short list. Near the top.

  He closed his eyes and breathed in the essence of the old barber shop as the man shuffled around to shave the other side of his face. The place smelled the same as it had when he first roller-skated off the brick street and through the door almo
st 30 years ago at age seven. Hair oil, cracked leather chairs, and freshly laundered towels. The small shop with its three barber chairs smelled clean and looked orderly. “Cost about nuttin’ to be clean, cher” Larue had intoned in his quiet Creole accent countless times in Forte’s hearing. The barber shop on Felicity Street was spotless if worn. Al knew that fact from experience; he’d swept up enough hair from the tiled floor to weave a carpet for the SuperDome.

  “And the man Poochie, he just sit there, him?” Larue leaned forward to guide the razor under Al’s neck.

  “He seemed to enjoy the show,” Forte said.

  “But le fillette, he want her back, huh?”

  “He thinks he can protect her better.” Forte opened his eyes and studied the fluorescent lights hanging from the stained ceiling. “Mostly he’s scared for her. He doesn’t know how to show it except with a threat of violence.”

  The rhythmic scraping of the razor was mixed with the white noise of the TV set on the wall. “And you show him some trouble back, eh.” The old man’s voice was quieter, almost as if he were talking to himself.

  Forte shifted his gaze and refocused his eyes to study the man’s café au lait features as he continued shaving him. Larue’s face was expressionless as always.

  “Not this time, Rue. It was just a little dance. Not the full mardi gras.”

  The barber silently busied himself wiping the excess hot lather off the younger man’s face before he turned and retrieved an electric razor from the counter behind him. He snapped on the No. 2 tool and clicked it on. The buzz of the razor preempted further conversation and drowned out the television. As the barber ran the clippers over his head, Forte let his eyes sweep over the familiar framed items on the wall above the mirror opposite his chair.

  A framed newspaper clipping and photo of Forte slam-tackling Lucky Battier in the 1981 Holy Cross-Jesuit High game. A picture of Al and the hulking Mack Quadrie in graduation gowns clowning it up while Larue stood by with hands folded solemnly in front of him. A photo of his Navy ceremony. The picture of Al, Ruth, and Larue in wedding garb in front of St. Louis Cathedral. The article about the opening of The Refuge. A photo of Forte’s grandmother with her dazzling smile framed by a 50’s beehive. A photo of Larue’s beautiful wife taken a decade before the cancer claimed her.

  The clippers went silent just as a burst of noise erupted from the barber chair next to Forte’s.

  “You don’t stop that squirming I’m gonna snatch you baldheaded before Bebo can cut your hair.” A woman in a waitress uniform lounged in one of the waiting chairs and pointed a thick black finger at the other barber chair. In the chair, a small head poked above the snap-on gown that covered his entire body and hung a foot past his toes. The boy froze and rolled his eyes toward the only other barber in the shop. Bebo, the barber, looked down at the boy and nodded. He rubbed a hand over his own slick ebony head. “That’s what happened to me wayyyy back when I was your age. Mmm hmm, shonuff. One minute I had a head full o’ hair. Next minute, whoosh, slick as a bowling ball. Mmm hmm.”

  Forte winked at the boy. The boy’s eyebrows rose but the rest of his face remained still.

  On the television screen a photo of a man’s face appeared. Bebo picked up the remote and turned up the volume. “This is what I told you about. Listen.”

  The television screen showed a woman holding a microphone, standing in front of a police barricade around a modern-looking building. “It was here that Dr. Tyson Lamberth was murdered this morning while performing an operation. Police say he was stabbed at the base of his skull by an unknown assailant using a sharp object. The murderer then fled the clinic on foot. Lamberth, a nationally-recognized proponent of women’s reproductive rights, had received death threats recently but police say they have no leads yet on the identity of his murderer.”

  Behind the reporter a group of protestors gestured at the TV cameras. A man thrust a sign with the words “Baby Killer” splashed in red paint. Another man grabbed the sign and the pair started grappling as the news report transitioned to another story.

  Bebo turned down the sound with the remote. “Rich white folks killing each other.” He winced and looked at Al. “No offense, Alvin.”

  Forte could feel the tickle of Larue’s brush as it slapped the black hairs off the back of his neck. “No problem, Bebo. I’m not that rich really.”

  The bald barber grinned. The phone rang and he picked it up and answered it. “Yes, he’s here.” He handed the phone to Forte. “It’s Verna.”

  To say Verna Griffey was his housekeeper or assistant always seemed like a laughable understatement to Forte. New clients visiting Forte Security were likely to be confronted with her hulking African-American form blocking the entrance to the interior offices if they showed up unannounced. But she had been a friend of Al and Ruth’s long before The Refuge had opened. Now she and her ex-cop husband Archie took care of practically all the details in his life, from cleaning his apartment to answering his e-mail when he was out of town. He had not asked for the help. It just seemed to work out, and now the Griffeys were on the payroll of Forte Security. He picked up the phone and spoke briefly. He listened for a moment then hung up.

  The barber shop was quiet now except for the drone of the television. Larue had stopped sweeping the floor and Bebo stood with his clippers poised above the boy’s head. The boy’s mother peeked over the top of a Cosmopolitan magazine that displayed a waif of a model on the cover.

  Forte took his jacket from the coat rack in the corner. He looked around at everyone. “So I’m supposed to give you an update now?” Everyone – Larue, Bebo, the boy, and his mother – kept looking at him. “Okay. Verna got a call at the office from Dr. Lamberth’s wife. His widow, I guess I should say. She wants protection for their 11-year-old daughter.” He shrugged into the jacket. “Now you have the latest update on my business. Happy?”

  Bebo nodded, serious. “Hell, Alvin. You know we ain’t got no lives around here. We gotta borrow some excitement any ways we can.”

  Forte shook his head, smiled, and looked down at Larue. They shook hands. “Thanks, Rue.”

  The old man tilted his face down slightly, still expressionless. “Take care, cher.”

  Forte smiled. “I’ll take as much as I can get.”

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, 11 a.m.

  Studying his dark eyes and long black hair in the mirror, the killer decided he definitely would not miss this look. It had served his purposes, but six months was long enough.

  That’s what the TV news had called him. The killer. The murderer. He had expected as much. But what would the hundreds, maybe thousands, of children say, those whose lives would be spared because of him? What would they call him?

  Of course, they would never know, he mused as he bent over the bathroom sink. He cupped his hand under his left eye and blinked hard. A brown-colored contact lens dropped from his eye into his hand. He repeated the process on his right eye. He straightened up, blinked again and looked into the mirror at his ice-blue eyes. Their natural color. Much better.

  The small rented house overlooked a quiet street in a respectable section of Gretna across the river from New Orleans. He had leased it months earlier and had stocked it with provisions and clothes during a couple of midnight trips. Everything had been bought from Wal-Mart stores in sleepy coastal towns like Waveland and Pass Christian across the state line in Mississippi. Under cover of night, he had unloaded the goods from his van to the back door of the small house from the driveway that wound around to the back of the building. No one in the neighborhood had seen him. But even if someone had, he would have seen a man in a long blond ponytail with a Fu Manchu moustache.

  After he had finished his business at the clinic, he had driven north across Lake Pontchartrain on the causeway, away from the river, in the old blue Pinto he had borrowed from his co-worker after taping the man’s mouth shut with duct tape and leaving him otherwise unharmed. After about 40 minutes of driving, he had stopped an
d bought gas deliberately with his Brent Garrison credit card. He then went directly to the bus station in a nearby town and tossed the credit card under one of the scarred wooden benches in the waiting area. He drove away from the bus station for a few more miles then guided the rickety car through increasingly smaller backroads until he reached the abandoned shack. No one had noticed the shiny new padlock on the creaking wooden doors of the shack. He had unlocked it, backed the van out and pulled the Pinto into the building and relocked the doors. He had driven the van back through New Orleans then taken the Huey Long Bridge across the Mississippi River and meandered his way to the house in Gretna. It had been risky but necessary. He wanted the police looking for a north-bound Pinto traveling toward Arkansas.

  He had nearly reached the last leg of a journey that had been a year and a half in the making. He had carefully made his contacts through an anonymous Internet chat room. He had searched for the new identity for months before finding the right one. A social security card was obtained, after which came a drivers license, library card, credit cards. Then another wait until the job at the clinic had come open. And finally the six grueling months at the clinic.

  The work at the clinic wasn’t tough physically. Just emptying the garbage, buffing the floors, vacuuming the carpet. It was the disposal of the remains that got him. The doctors and their assistants referred to it as “fetal tissue” that invariably was picked up by medical couriers and taken to research labs.

  He forced himself to think of it as “remains.”

  After a half-year of seeing the process close at hand, he knew he had made the right decision to begin with. Unlike Reverend Paul Hill in Pensacola, however, he never planned to hang around and be made a martyr. He had studied Hill’s writings and watched the TV interviews with Ted Koppel and others that Hill had conducted before the pastor had blasted an abortion doctor with a shotgun on July 29, 1994. He agreed with Hill’s writing to the core, which argued that lethal force was justifiable in the defense of an unborn child. He just thought the good reverend had not planned the actual operation very thoroughly.