The kid nods, and I point to the other one. She looks as if she’s been doing this awhile, her eyes almost bored. But after our brief bout of exercise through the trees she ain’t breaking a sweat and I look like I went over Niagara in a barrel, so she checks out as my door buster. I note her nametag, wanting to respect her veteran status. “Shepard, I’m gonna find a way to sneak in the back, I want you to go around the front and knock, nice and loud, like you’re saving souls. I find it difficult to believe he’ll answer, but he might decide to light some firecrackers so keep to the side of the door, will ya?” I look at both of them. “No one gets shot today.”

The kid nods and heads for the dock, presumably to hide among the topiary. My Girl Friday heads for the front, and I start looking for weak links around the back of the structure.

I find one in the form of a small window just above the grass, leading presumably to a basement. I wrap a worn-out handkerchief around my pistol and wait.

Soon as I hear Shepard start banging holy hell on the front door, barking that it’s the police department and really giving him the riot act, I smash the window, silent but for the tinkle of glass to the floor below. I clear the sill of shards and slide through, feet-first.

The room is cold, dark, and empty but for some stored items—a dusty kayak, some boxes, an unloved set of chairs—and head for the stairwell.

I’m halfway to the upper level when—I’ll be damned—I hear the front door being opened. Muffled voices. I tip-toe to the top step and stick my ear to the wood, trying to pick up what’s being said.

The voices are closer, and I hear Shepard asking to “take a look around”, which doesn’t thrill me. I debate my next move: let her handle it and wiggle back out the way I came, look for a clean entrance? Or do I bust out of the basement like the boogie man and cuff the skippy bastard?

The voices continue, growing distant, then I hear footsteps on another set of stairs. They’re heading for the second floor, which makes my decision an easy one.

I slip through the door and make for the entrance, figure I’ll play it as if I let myself in after my associate made contact. We have him surrounded; he isn’t running anywhere—not this time—so I let myself strut a bit.

In the foyer I look to my left and see stairs going up. The front door is slightly ajar, which helps my fairy tale.

That’s when I hear a door slam upstairs, followed by a woman’s scream. Feet pound down the hallway above, coming right at me.

“God damn it!” I bark, furious at myself for being so careless and letting my cop get handled the way he handled me. I pull my pistol and head for the stairs when the screaming is replaced by a sound like nails on a chalkboard. My stomach cramps and my head sings with pain. I drop to my knees, gasping for air. Spots cloud my vision.

Couple seconds later, the sound stops.

What the Christ was that?

I get to my feet and stagger up the steps. As I reach the top a body plows into mine going full-speed and I instinctively clutch for limbs as I begin to tumble backwards. I find one but it’s useless because it’s falling as well, and we both go ass-over-teakettle down the stairs. Ten years later we hit the bottom and sprawl out like a couple of snow angels. I feel bruised but not broken. I turn my head and see exactly what I expect.

Gemini Harris is staring at me like I’m outer space, all glassy-eyed, mouth working like a fish in a canoe. I note the protrusion of a mystery bone pushing the skin at the base of his neck into a teepee, and know he’s a goner.

I get an elbow beneath me, forget about looking for my gun because it won’t be needed. I give the dying man my full attention.

“Where’s the cop?” I ask, curious if he’ll be able to answer. I’m pretty sure I know where the bored-eyed officer is, but keep it close to the vest for the moment, hoping I’m wrong.

Harris moves his tongue around, looks scared of what’s coming for him. But he’s passionate about our chat and manages to verbalize despite whatever that bone is saying hello from the wrong part of his neck. “Dead,” he says.

Damn it.

“Why’d you do it, Harris? Why kill Lee? What’s the setup with the sound?”

But Harris doesn’t want to play ball, and I can’t really blame him. His face is turning red as a cherry, and I figure the blood flow is all tangled up. His eyes bulge a bit, but he chokes out a final plea, one I don’t fully understand.

“Thought… she… sent you.”

“Who? Who Harris? Who’s ‘she’?”

“Never wanted… to hurt… anyone.”

I shake my head, not liking this new twist. This case is turning into one of those Russian Doll bits—you think you found your perp but then he pops open, falls apart, and you’ve got a whole new villain to track.

“Stop her,” he says in a final breath, then his face goes limp, and he clocks out.

AFTER TAKING A BEAT TO check my own bones are still following God’s blueprint, I click the earpiece, give the all-clear and tell someone to call an ambulance, and the morgue.

It’ll be a few minutes before my support arrives, but I need to see for myself.

I somehow make it back up all those stairs. The second floor has a short hallway with a few doors going, I suppose, to bedrooms and bathrooms, like any old house.

On my second try I pick a winner. Or, in this case, the big loser.

Harris’s bedroom has vaulted ceilings, crisscrossed by heavy wood beams. The floor and ceiling are wood-planked, the walls a pleasant cream. There’s art scattered around, a few throw rugs here and there, and a nice-sized bed.

My officer is splashed over all of it.

Like our first vic, she’s been blown apart. A blender couldn’t have done a better job. Just like Rose had said: liquified.

I decide there’s no need to investigate, knowing Rose and her team will do the job and work the room, the remains. I make a point to get the officer’s info and make sure the family, if there is one, knows she died heroically, doing her job. Working to save lives, to keep people safe in this Godforsaken city.

I’m still ruminating on the shame of it all when I see a blinking light from my peripheral. Appears there was a witness, after all. One the perp knew very well. Intimately, one could say.

“Hello, Beximo,” I say, knowing my face and voice pattern are stored somewhere in that vast, invisible brain of hers.

“Hello, Detective Merriweather,” she says, cool and sultry as ever. “How can I help you?”

I’M STILL HANGING AROUND THE crime scene when I get an incoming call from Jim Hernandez.

“Merriweather,” I say, as a couple medics make their way down the driveway, a crash cart between them, the sheet-covered corpse of Gemini Harris along for the ride.

“Detective, Jim Hernandez. Is now a good time? Have you found Mr. Harris?”

“Working on it, and yeah, now’s peachy. What can I do for you?”

“Well, my techs did some digging, and it turns out there has been some manipulation to the, uh, technical capabilities of the Beximo units, including the hardware itself. At least in the newest model. We don’t have all the facts, or the details of how it was done or, frankly, what it even means. But…”

“Let me guess, and you tell me if I’m close. Whatever you found, it lets someone command those units of yours to deliver a certain sound frequency, am I right? Maybe even something else you don’t fully understand, something to do with electromagnetic frequencies. Something outside of the specs you built into it.”

Hernandez coughs, then sighs. “That’s in the ballpark, yes. In layman’s terms, she’s been enhanced.”

I recall Harris’s last words and my bowels clench. Icy hands settle on the back of my neck, and I realize what I’m feeling is terror. “She?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, and even chuckles a little. “I mean, we call it a ‘she’, sure, like you would a boat, or a car. Beximo, that is. Her mind. It’s a ‘she’.”

It takes me a second to gather myself, put my wits back in their proper place.