No Mercy by John Gilstrap Page A

guys can give me some hard data."
    Max laughed. "Then I'm about to make your day. You ready to copy?"
    Gail opened her notebook to a new page, balanced it on the center console, and clicked her pen. "Couldn't be readier."
    "Okay, I got info on ground impressions you sent in. Footprints first, because they're going to be the least help to you. The boot prints are a standard Vibram sole that you can find on any one of dozens of different brands of shoes. Boots, most likely, the sort that you could find in a recreational equipment outfitter."
    "Or at a tactical supply store?"
    The pause told her that Max hadn't considered that. "You mean, gun nut stores? Where you can buy bulletproof vests for hunting? Yeah, I suppose you could buy them there. So, now you're thinking this guy is a cop?"
    "Nah, I'm just thinking out loud. What else do you have?"
    "Okay, let's talk about the tire prints. Somethin' weird about those, you know? We only got prints. No tracks. It's like it just appeared there. The tread's unusual, too--not typical of any car or truck in the database."
    Gail felt an excited flutter in her chest. "Are you thinking helicopter?"
    "Bingo. Given the wheelbase and the depth of the depressions relative to the weather conditions, we're looking at something pretty big."
    "Help me with 'big,' Max. We talking Vietnam-era Huey?"
    "Oh, God, no. Not that big. Probaby something more like the slick Aerospatial units they've got out there now. Besides, Hueys had skids, not tires. I've got a buddy of m theory on the dreams, as Dom had his own theory on every aspect of Jonathan's life: normal people woke up to escape their nightmares; for Jonathan it was the other way around--he sought sleep to avoid the reality of his days.
    Tonight, the telephone sounded ultra-amplified, and he knew before he moved that bad news was on the way. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember a time when a phone call had brought good news. Add the fact that it was the middle of the night, and the sense of dread trebled. As he swung his head to look at the clock, the ghosts of last night's eighth and ninth beers haunted him with bed-spins. The LED readout burned 9:10 into his retinas. Okay, forget the part about being the middle of the night.
    He snatched the phone off its cradle. "This had better be one hell of an emergency," he grumbled.
    It was Venice. "Digger, I'm sorry. I know how hard repentance is on your liver, but I had to call you. The police are looking for you."
    Wrong about the middle of the night, but dead-nuts right about the bad news. "What did I do?" He forced himself to sound even grumpier to cover for the knot that just formed in his gut. As much as he talked bravely to Thomas Hughes about being invisible, he did harbor a special fear of crossing swords with the law.
    "You didn't do anything," Venice said. "It's Ellen. They're at her house, and something bad has happened there."
    As if someone had thrown a switch, Jonathan came completely awake and his head was clear. "What happened to her?"
    "I don't know. They wouldn't tell me. They called the office looking for you and I told them that I'd be in touch the instant I hung up with them. I have a number for you to call."
    Jonathan swung his feet to the floor and stood. "You do it," he said. "Call them and tell them that I'm on my way. Without traffic I can be at Ellen's house in an hour." He didn't wait for her to confirm before he dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.

    The Rothman home--Ellen's home--sat on five acres atop a hill in Vienna, Virginia, a tribute to Tibor Rothman's ego. Serviced by a 300-foot driveway, the 5,000-square-foot colonial was so perfectly proportioned that from the road it looked a fraction of its actual size. It wasn't until you approached up that long driveway that you saw the grandeur of the place. Every time he saw it, Jonathan couldn't help but admire the three acres of front lawn--the very lawn that was now packed with all manner of police vehicles, most