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raisins and some peanuts out of a can. Careful not to spill anything, he scuttled into the laundry room where he took off his shoes and dark glasses, sat down on his folded sleeping bag and ate his meager picnic. As soon as he finished, he slid into the bag and covered his head with the flap.
    In the dark bag, feeling a lot like a rodent in a nest, he began to think scurrying, mouse-like thoughts. Is Robin dead or what? He couldn’t think of a way to find out without exposing himself to risk. He didn’t care if the other two men on the job were alive or dead. Except . . . could they ID me ? They didn’t know his last name. Might not even remember his first . . . Yes, they would. Robin had called him, tauntingly, Zeb-you-lon . They might not be mental giants but one of them was sure to remember that.
    His name was on the arrest record for the DUI. And how many Zebulons were likely to be living in Tucson at this moment? If some detective put it together, found his picture . . . he imagined Darrell-and-Darrell, nudging and leering as they picked his picture out of a line-up, the way people did on TV. Offered any incentive, maybe a little relief at sentencing, they would jump at the chance.
    He thrashed around in the bag for a few minutes, feeling as if he ought to get up, find a newspaper or turn on the TV – there must be some news by now about the shooting. But Janet might come home any minute and she’d throw a fit if she found him any place in the apartment but the laundry or bathroom. Fright had killed his hunger all day and the scanty feast he’d just eaten satisfied the little that had come back. He was comfortable for the first time in fourteen hours. It had been a long, hard day and the laundry room was dark and quiet. In a few minutes he was snoring.

FOUR
    T he first ten minutes after the third man opened his eyes were utterly crazy. Gloria ran and told the ME they had a live one, hold up a minute. Greenberg, cursing about gross ineptitude taking up his time, began rechecking vital signs on the other four bodies. Zimmerman placed a call to turn around the rescue squad he’d just sent away, and in less than a minute they heard its siren coming back.
    Zimmerman was indignant, insisting, ‘This man was dead before, I know he was dead.’ He leaned above the not-quite-dead victim, asking, ‘What’s your name, son?’ He got no answer and had to stand back, reluctantly, when the paramedic and driver came in with the wheeled cot.
    â€˜Wait a minute,’ Sarah said as they got ready to buckle the restraint straps, ‘I need to pat him down first.’
    The paramedic, whose ID tag said his name was Blake, was scrubbed, buffed up and impatient. He said, ‘Didn’t he just regain consciousness?’
    â€˜Yes. But now he’s not a victim, he’s a suspect, and I’m not letting him out of here without patting him down.’
    Sarah began groping under the big bloody shirt. ‘Come on, Detective,’ Blake said, ‘you trying to save his life or make love to him?’
    â€˜Just wait one damn minute.’ She searched on down to the ankles and stepped back. ‘OK, he’s yours.’ While Blake and his driver maneuvered through all the obstacles in the yard to get the gurney back to the rescue truck, Zimmerman recruited an officer out of the yard crew to escort the patient-prisoner. Sarah watched them, wishing she’d taken off his boots. But the big red truck was already pulling away.
    Well, we couldn’t let him die here. There’d be outrage, a scandal about the crew that let a victim die while they walked around him investigating a crime. So they’d given priority to speed. Get him to the hospital, let somebody there patch up whatever was wrong with him. Decide later if he was an attacker or a defender. It was certainly the right thing to do, but every single move while she did it felt wrong.
    Ollie Greenaway stepped in over