Authors: Greg Dinallo
Lilah suppressed a smile, then tied a tourniquet around the inmate’s biceps and began swabbing the bend of his arm with alcohol.
“What about your victims?” Schaefer prompted. “Weren’t you concerned they would tell someone?”
“Always,” he replied, then paused, as if deciding whether to go on. “Years before I came to the academy,
one of the students drowned in the lake; and as so often happens, it became legend—replete with dark religious overtones, of course. A legend, which I’m ashamed to admit, served me well. I simply implied that anyone who revealed our little secret might suffer a similar fate—if God so decreed.”
“Yes yes,” Schaefer gushed haughtily. “This mode of psychoemotional terror is quite common in these situations. It’s a highly effective technique that—”
“Christ!” Lilah snapped, glaring at him. “This isn’t a lecture hall. The man threatened children with a horrible death to keep them from talking! Some of them are probably still mute!”
Schaefer recoiled, taken aback by the outburst. “Just an observation, Dr. Graham,” he finally said evenly. Then he leaned over and, through clenched teeth, whispered, “Come on, Lilah, lighten up.”
Lilah nodded contritely and sighed with fatigue. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.” She unwrapped a vacutainer, then looked up at the inmate and forced a smile. “You’re an only child, aren’t you?”
The old fellow had been visibly unnerved by her condemnation and just nodded grimly.
“Would you happen to know if your father had a similar ‘calling’?” she asked, grasping his arm.
“Not to my knowledge. Though I have no way of—”
Lilah tightened her grasp and stabbed the needle into the inmate’s flesh, stabbed it hard.
He squirmed in pain and let out a yelp.
Schaefer gasped in astonishment.
“I’m sorry. I must’ve missed the vein,” Lilah said calmly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to try again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The lead on Eagleton had shifted Merrick’s focus from Lilah’s case to the Las Flores wildfire. Rene might’ve been spooky and weird, but if she was right, if Eagleton did have a postal box, Merrick was going to find it and bust him when he picked up his mail. He called T.J. and had him run a computer search of Santa Monica’s routes. T.J. came up with:
James D. Eagleton
P.O. Box 739
2231 Wilshire Blvd.
Santa Monica, CA 90403
Rene
was
right. The address turned out to be the Pack-Tel Business Center. It offered packaging and shipping services along with postal box rentals. The owner’s eyes brightened with recognition when Merrick showed him Eagleton’s photo. “Haven’t seen him for weeks,” the husky fellow said, explaining homeless people use postal boxes to receive unemployment checks and replies to job applications.
“Any idea when he might show?”
The owner shrugged, then checked Eagleton’s box for mail. “Couple of pieces in there. Hard to say.”
“Maybe I’ll get lucky,” Merrick said cynically. That was three days ago, and since then, from eight in the morning to seven at night, he’d been hunkered down in the Blazer, staking out Pack-Tel from various vantage points. But Eagleton hadn’t appeared.
Today, Merrick was parked in front of Madame Wu’s, a once classy Cantonese restaurant where Hollywood’s elite gathered in the sixties and seventies. Like Chasen’s and the Brown Derby, it had lost its clientele to cholesterol, and its cachet to the Wolfgang Puck craze for cuisine “Indochine.” Merrick slouched behind the wheel munching on a doughnut he’d have gladly traded for an order of moo-shupork. It was almost four o’clock when Fletcher arrived to relieve him. He had just enough time to buck Friday traffic, pick up Jason, and get to the Kings game before face-off.
“How goes it, boss?” Fletcher asked, settling next to him in the Blazer.
“I’m putting on a lot of weight,” Merrick joked, offering him a doughnut.
“Thanks, but Ellie would kill me.”
“Must be taking lessons from my ex.”
Fletcher chuckled, then handed him a sheaf of pink message slips. “Dispatch sends their regards.”
“Anything on that videotape yet?” Merrick asked, noticing one of the messages was from Lilah.
“Nada. I called over there a couple of times.”
“What about my prime’s alibi?”
“Ditto.” Fletcher produced his now well-annotated copy of Fiona’s list. “Three are still traveling and unreachable. I’m playing phone tag with three more in Europe
’cause of the nine-hour time warp; but I did get hold of the guy in Baltimore.”
“And?” Merrick prompted impatiently.
“Well, he confirmed Dr. Schaefer was at the workshop, but was foggy on the time. Said he doesn’t wear a watch ’cause it reminds him of his mortality.”
“His mortality?” Merrick cackled incredulously.
“Yeah, something to do with the erosion of the ozone layer. Don’t ask about the lady in Bombay.”
Merrick questioned him with a look.
“We had a conversation—in English—and I have absolutely no idea what she said.”
“Well, stay on it, Billy-boy,” Merrick said with a snicker. “Fiona Sutton-Schaefer is as prime as they get.” He briefed Fletcher on the stakeout, and headed for the freeway, thinking about Lilah. He owed her a call on the hockey game. He’d crossed a line into dangerous territory when he invited her. Half of him wanted to scurry back to safety, the other half wanted to explore it no matter how treacherous. After a few moments of reflection, be decided be could never have a thing for a brainy redhead, no matter how attractive—and promptly called her office. He got Lilah’s voice mail and sat there thinking about whether or not he’d leave a message.
About an hour and a half later Fletcher was still slouched in his car across the street from Pack-Tel. There was nothing more boring than a one-man stakeout, and be was glad to have Fiona’s list to keep him busy. He was dialing one of the numbers when a figure came loping through the darkness. The gaunt, shabbily dressed man was gnawing on a sparerib as he stepped off the curb. He paused and looked left and right for a break in traffic, sending a long ponytail sweeping across his shoulders.
Fletcher figured he’d gotten lucky; but Eagleton had been a regular at Madame Wu’s during the years be was employed, and was a regular still, stopping by the back entrance for leftovers prior to picking up his mail.
Traffic had eased and Eagleton was crossing the street. Fletcher resisted the impulse to dash after him, and took a moment to call the Santa Monica police for backup. There was no need to rush. No need to take him now. Merrick bad told him about the pieces of mail in Eagleton’s box. Eagleton would be preoccupied with them when he left, and Fletcher would be waiting for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
That same afternoon, in Sacramento, Lilah and Schaefer boarded United’s four-thirty shuttle to Los Angeles. She’d been shaken by her loss of composure, and hadn’t said a word during the drive from the prison to the airport. Barely a week had passed since the fire bomb erupted in her office. Considering the stress she was handling, it was more than possible that the incidents at Vacaville—the violent and degenerate behavior of those “fucking rapists and child abusers”—had put her over the edge. Still, she couldn’t fathom why she’d taken it out on an affable old man, and a subliminal awareness that she’d felt more threatened by him than the others kept nagging at her.
Schaefer had respected her silence until now, but his concern and curiosity finally got the best of him. “Want to talk about it?” he prompted gently as the plane climbed into a darkening sky.
She studied him as if considering it. “I think you’ve probed enough psyches for one day, don’t you?”
“I meant as a friend.”
Lilah’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Paul, I don’t think I’m up to it right now. Something to drink would be nice, though. Something alcoholic.”
Schaefer flagged a passing steward, and Lilah was soon
settling back with a glass of chardonnay. She was staring out the window when her eyes were drawn to the running light on the tip of the wing, which seemed to beckon in the darkness like a twinkling star. Suddenly it was joined by a second light. And then a third!
Three bursts of light, strobing in hypnotic cadence! Bursts of colored light! Blinding bursts of violet, yellow, and white! Violet, yellow, and white!
Faster and faster, they exploded across the suede-black canvas of sky, painting it with nightmarish images: images of neon-green tentacles threatening to ensnare her; images of her smooth naked body plunging headlong through the darkness, pale skin aglow with eerie holographic translucence as it raced alongside the jetliner.
Though a combination of exhilarating sex and trancelike slumber were usually required to unleash the nightmare’s full-blown fury, other stimuli were capable of setting off disturbing flashbacks. Until this moment, Lilah had no recollection of the one in her office the night of the fire; but now it came back in a series of fleeting bursts that further unnerved her. She finally tore her eyes from the window and lowered the shade. The entire episode lasted less than ten seconds, but its mind-numbing effect lingered as she slipped the phone from her briefcase and dialed a prestored number. “Hi, it’s me. Daddy there?”
“Of course. Where else would he be?” Marge Graham replied, sounding puzzled, as she always did whenever Lilah asked. “Just a sec, I’ll put him on.”
“No. No, it’s okay, I’ll—” Lilah looked up when a passing flight attendant pointed to the phone.
“I’m going to have to ask you to stop using that, immediately,” the stewardess said smartly, enforcing the announcement the captain had made prior to takeoff. “FAA regulations.”
The woman’s tone wrenched Lilah out of her stupor, leaving her embarrassed and confused. She’d heard the announcement, and had no idea why she disobeyed it; but whenever she had one of these episodes, she was on the phone when she came out of it. Lilah quickly ended the call, then drained the glass of wine and had Schaefer order her another. She drank the second glass even more quickly than the first, and it seemed to relax her.
The Los Angeles airport was teeming with the Friday evening crush of passengers when their flight arrived. Lilah had been forced to endure it without a single cigarette, and she exited the terminal digging in her briefcase for the pack of Virginia Slims.
“Well.” Schaefer said wearily as they crossed to the parking structure. “It’s been a very long day.”
“Now I know why I didn’t go into psychiatry,” she said in a voice that rang with renewed energy.
“Afraid you’d be crazier than your patients, huh?”
“You oughta know,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“My lips are sealed.”
Lilah held the match to her mouth and blew him a kiss that extinguished the flame, then exhaled seductively and said, “Call me if you want to chat”
Schaefer laughed good-naturedly at her allusion to phone sex and, as taken as ever by the rhythmic sway of her hips, watched as she walked to the Jaguar and drove off. She seemed spunky, more like herself, he thought; but the incident at the prison wasn’t the first time Schaefer had seen Lilah have difficulty modulating anger, nor the first time he’d seen what therapists referred to as inappropriate behavior. He’d experienced her insatiable sexual appetite firsthand; not to mention the risk-taking, impulsive extravagance, and sudden mood swings that sometimes
came over her. Most of the time they struck him as facets of a unique personality that had the potential for exceptional professional achievement and personal fulfillment. On occasion, as symptoms of a neurosis that had the potential to incapacitate her, and had resulted in his suggestion that she see someone. As of late, he attributed it to post-traumatic stress caused by the pyrotechnics that destroyed her office and had almost taken her life.
Lilah circled out of the airport and headed north on the 405. Traffic was heavy, and the twenty-minute drive took almost an hour. The Jaguar was approaching the Westwood exit when she pulled the phone from her briefcase and dialed Kauffman’s number. Lilah had no plans for the weekend, and was hoping they might spend it together patching things up. She was thinking about going directly to his apartment when she sighed with disappointment at the sound of his answering machine. She left a brief message, then called the lab for her phone mail. “Okay, Doc, listen up,” Merrick’s voice commanded. “Hockey game. Tonight. Inglewood Forum. Season box entrance. Seven-thirty sharp. Bring your appetite for violence.”
Not on your life, Lieutenant, she thought, put off by his last minute timing and cocky tone; but try as she might, she couldn’t deny she was drawn to him. The Jaguar accelerated up the off-ramp, then quickly slowed, merging into heavy traffic streaming along Wilshire. With a little luck she’d have just enough time to shower, get into some fresh clothes, and drive to the Forum.
A car was pulling away as she turned into her street. She whipped the Jaguar into the vacated spot, then dashed through the courtyard toward her condo. The bank of mailboxes went past in a blur. She didn’t glance at them,
let alone notice the slip of yellow paper taped to hers, indicating she had a package; and she wouldn’t have taken the time to fetch it from the receiving room even if she had. She wasn’t frightened; she wasn’t using time pressure as an excuse. She’d been getting mail at home and in the lab for almost a week, and there wasn’t a single piece that hadn’t been X-rayed and so labeled. She had no reason to think, nor any way of knowing, that this one hadn’t. Furthermore, Merrick’s call had buoyed her spirits; and a sense of security, a feeling that the pyro was his problem now, not hers, suddenly came over her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In Kings cap and prized Enforcer jersey, Jason Merrick was bouncing with anticipation as his father made the turn into Manchester, the main thoroughfare that led to the Forum. They were within sight of it when his cellphone started twittering. “Merrick.”
“Dan?” Fletcher said excitedly. “Dan, I got him. I got Eagleton.”
“Way to go, Billy-boy!” Merrick exclaimed, wishing he’d been there. “You take him downtown?”
“No, SMPD’s baby-sitting him for us.”
“Okay, have’ em keep him on ice till morning. We’ll get up close and personal with him first thing.” Merrick hung up and pumped a fist in triumph. To Jason’s relief, his father continued straight down Manchester. The Forum’s marquee proclaimed:
KINGS
vs.
DUCKS
8:00
P.M
. They parked in the reserved lot, then met Logan and T.J. at the season box entrance.
“Good news, guys!” Merrick bellowed jubilantly, briefing them on Eagleton’s capture as they headed inside. “Hey, hang on a sec,” he called out, realizing Lilah wasn’t there. “We have to wait for somebody.”
“Anybody I know?” Logan asked with a sly grin.
“Yeah,” Merrick replied grudgingly. “I think you met her once.”
“A girl?” Jason blurted in a tone that rang with equal amounts of surprise and disapproval.
“A woman,” his father corrected.
“Don’t stop now,” T.J. chided.
“Yeah, the world’s waiting for you to explain the difference,” Logan said with a smutty snort.
Jason scowled, looking at them with the wise-beyond-their- years disdain children have for adults who are acting like children.
By the time Lilah arrived, located a parking space, and made her way to the season box entrance, Merrick and the others were long gone and the game was in progress. She stood there forlornly, listening to the muffled roar that came from within the arena.
“Excuse me?” the guard at the security kiosk called out. “You wouldn’t be Dr. Graham, would you?”
“Yes,” she sighed hopefully. “Yes I am.”
“Thought so,” he said, handing her a ticket. “The lieutenant said to keep an eye out for a—a—” He realized he was about to say something he shouldn’t and paused. “To keep an eye out for you.”
“No, you said, keep an eye out for
a,”
Lilah prompted suspiciously. “For
a
what?”
The guard squirmed, wishing he’d never said it, wishing he was inside listening to the slap of stick against puck, the whisk of sharpened steel against ice, the thud of powerful men slamming into the boards.
The Kings had just scored when Lilah entered the arena. The fans were on their feet cheering wildly, bells were ringing, sirens screaming, and the red light behind the net that signaled a goal was strobing like crazy. Lilah’s eyes
went right to it. Less than four hours had passed since the light on the wingtip had triggered the episode on the plane. The nightmarish images had since receded, but they were still close to the surface, and it wouldn’t take much to unleash them again. She paused in the aisle and steeled herself against the onrushing wave until it subsided, then continued down the steps until she reached the front-row box.
“Hey, Doc!” Merrick exclaimed. Then, crushing any thought that she might be the cause of his exhilaration, he added, “You just missed a fantastic goal!”
“Just like a flaky redhead, huh?” she prompted with a knowing smile.
Merrick feigned puzzlement.
“Come on, fess up. You told the guard to keep an eye out for a flaky redhead, didn’t you?”
“He said that?” Merrick countered, thinking fast. “No no
—foxy.
I said foxy redhead—who kinda looks like Nicole Kidman. He left that last part out, huh?”
“Very quick on your feet, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”
“Foxy, flaky, whatever. He found you, right? I mean, what’d you want me to say?”
“Well,” she said, eyeing him flirtatiously, “fantastic would’ve been nice . . .”
Merrick was about to reply when a screaming shot on goal brought a roar from the crowd. The goalkeeper slapped the puck aside. Players from each team raced after it and slammed into the boards in front of the squad’s box. The local rivalry had them fighting for the puck with playoff-like intensity. One threw an elbow, another a punch, and sixteen-thousand-plus surly fans began chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
“Dad!” Jason exclaimed as a player vaulted onto the ice from the Kings bench. “Dad! The Enforcer!”
“The who?” Lilah asked.
“The most violent goon in the game,” Merrick replied pointedly.
The Enforcer came screaming across the ice, stick held high, and slammed one of the Ducks into the boards. Both benches emptied. Sticks and gloves were all over the ice. Everyone was throwing punches, everyone except the Enforcer, who was pinned by the mob, his face flattened against the glass right in front of Lilah, Merrick, and the others.
The officials finally broke up the free-for-all and began assessing penalty minutes, allowing the Enforcer to part company with the glass. Lilah’s eyes darted to the blood cascading from a gash over his eyebrow. The Kings’ feared hit man was a kid with innocent eyes and a peach fuzz beard. He was looking for his stick when he sensed Lilah’s gaze and winked. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, sending a spray of blood into the air, then skated toward the penalty box for his two-minute exile.
Lilah recoiled as the bright red drops spattered across the glass. A group of photographers were working in the adjacent box, and several drops had arched through the camera port nearest Lilah, landing on her bare arm. She stared at them for a moment, then rummaged through her briefcase for some tissues.
Jason watched curiously. “You really a doctor?”
“Sure am,” Lilah replied brightly.
“My mom’s a nurse.”
“Good for her,” Lilah enthused, noticing a line of glistening red spots on the youngster’s jersey. “Looks like the Enforcer got you too.”
“He did?” Jason blurted excitedly, pulling it away from his body so he could see them.
“Maybe we can get them off before they dry,” Lilah offered, reaching for the jersey.
“Wait,” Jason protested, backing away. This wasn’t an autograph, or a puck that had sailed into the crowd; nor was it something that could be purchased; no, this was a priceless souvenir. “Dad! The Enforcer’s blood!” Jason exclaimed in a tone that meant this jersey would never be washed again.
When play resumed, a series of blinding fast passes had the Kings swarming around the Ducks goal. Players poked and slapped at the puck as it ricocheted off skates and sticks until it finally streaked over the goaltender’s glove, tying the score.
The crowd went wild; the sound and light show erupted; and once again Lilah’s eyes locked on to the strobing red flasher that sent the wave of images rolling toward her. Once again she steeled herself against it; but this time it crested and broke over her, unleashing a deluge of flashbacks. As always, she was on her cellphone when she came out of it. By the time Merrick noticed, she had already called her mother, checked the messages at her condo, and was about to dial another number.
“What’re you doing, Doc?” he chided. “Take the night off, will you? Have some fun!”
“I
am
having fun,” she replied, concealing the episode’s aftermath. For the next hour or so she got caught up in the fast-paced action and was cheering and pumping her fist with the others.
The Kings had a man advantage and were mounting an attack when Merrick’s cellphone twittered. “Merrick . . . Don’t do this to me, Gonzo. The score’s tied, we’re on a power play, and . . . Yeah, yeah, I know I’m on call. Can’t you get somebody to cover me? I mean—”
“No can do,” Gonzalez interrupted. “We’re already handling a warehouse downtown and a nasty wildfire in Laguna Canyon. I sent my last crew up there a couple of hours ago. I’m fresh out of A.I.’s. This baby’s yours.”
Merrick arranged for Logan to take Jason home after the game, then turned toward Lilah. “Doc? Doc?” he called out over the crowd. “Sorry, I’ve got to split.”
“Another fire?”
Merrick nodded glumly.
“Guess I’m being relegated to the back burner again,” Lilah quipped. “Can’t someone else cover it?”
“Naw, I’m it. Besides, I’m on call.”
“Oh, we doctors know all about that. Well, thanks again for the invite.”
“Anytime,” Merrick grunted, turning to leave.
“Hey there?” she called after him. “It was really . . . fantastic.” She thought it was corny the instant she said it, and was relieved to see him smiling as he hurried off.
About a half hour later the Kings scored the winning goal with seconds to play. Jason, Logan, and T.J. were ecstatic as they headed for the exit.
Lilah remained and asked an usher for directions to the Kings clubhouse. He swept his eyes over her appreciatively, assumed she had an invitation from one of the players, and led the way to the entrance, where an odor reminiscent of Vacaville State Prison greeted her. She presented her UCLA identification to the security guard and explained she was there to see the team doctor. A clubhouse attendant directed her to one of the training rooms, where a natty man in shirt, tie, and suspenders stood at an examining table. He was working on a player who had a towel around his waist and sat with his back to the door.
“Dr. Spicer?” Lilah asked.
“You’re off-limits,” he replied sharply. “The media room is down the corridor to the right.”
“I’m not a reporter. I’m a doctor. Lilah Graham? UCLA Department of Human Genetics?” she prompted expectantly.
“Oh? Oh, of course,” Spicer said, waving her in. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. They’re always in here looking for an angle.”
“I should have called,” Lilah said, surprised to find herself face-to-face with the Enforcer, who grinned as Spicer took another suture in the gash above his eyebrow. “But I had a last minute invitation to the game and thought I’d introduce myself.”
“Good idea,” Spicer said brightly. “Your assistant, Dr. Chen—very sharp, by the way—she brought me up to speed on your study. Sounds intriguing. I brought it up at the players’ meeting yesterday.”
“And they’ve agreed to cooperate?”
“A majority of them,” Spicer replied. “I still have to run it past the front office. Maybe even the league. That’s where it could get dicey.”
The Enforcer eyed her knowingly. “So, like you’re the one who wants to tap our veins, huh?” he said, still sounding like the sophomore from North Dakota State who turned pro barely a year ago.
“I’m the one,” Lilah replied as Spicer tied off the last suture. “Nice work.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“That’s why we nicknamed him the Zipper,” the Enforcer joked, referring to the scar left by the sutures.
A trainer leaned into the room. “Doc? Doc, we need you next door ASAP.”
“Won’t be a minute,” he replied, taking a large adhesive bandage from his suture kit.
“Save you the time?” Lilah offered.
“Thanks.” Spicer handed it to her and packed up his gear. “I’ll be in touch.”
Lilah removed the wrapper and went about applying the bandage. “The Zipper, the Enforcer . . . you have nicknames for everyone around here,” she observed, trailing a finger across his cheek when she finished. “No doubt you’ll come up with one for me too.”
The Enforcer’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Let’s see, what if we called you the . . . the Blood Sucker?”
Lilah broke into a suggestive giggle.
The Enforcer grinned and slid off the table. He was standing right next to her now, his baby face inches from hers, his gentle eyes blinking vulnerably in contrast to his macho swagger, his bow-shaped mouth trembling in anticipation as Lilah’s fingertip traced over his lips. “So, like, maybe we could get into this study right now.”
“Crossed my mind,” Lilah replied in a sassy whisper, burying her hands in his hair and pulling his mouth to hers. He shuddered and soared with passion as she worked around to his ear. “But I don’t think the front office would approve of this phase, do you?”
“Who cares?” he moaned, losing control.
“I do,” Lilah replied, holding him off. “We can be at my place in twenty minutes.”
A short time later they were heading north in the Jaguar. The erotic nibble had given the Enforcer an insatiable hunger for more, and he was all over Lilah with childish impatience as she drove, nuzzling her neck, working his hand beneath her skirt, causing her to squeal and squirm like a hormone-charged teenager.
The freeway was moving at this hour, and the Jaguar was soon snaking through Westwood’s streets. It was on the hill
that led to the Spanish-style condominiums when his finger found its mark. Lilah was biting a lip in an effort to maintain her concentration, making the turn into her street at the same time. She saw something out of the corner of her eye, slammed on the brakes, and brought the car to a stop inches from a barricade adorned with emergency flashers that proclaimed:
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS
.
The Enforcer bolted upright and blinked in confusion at the scene. Lilah clung to the wheel, stunned by the fire trucks angling this way and that in the street, the rainbow of lights raking the putty-colored facades, the smoke curling into the darkness, the firemen dashing in every direction, the TV reporters and camera crews doing their live-at-eleven reports.
Moments later she was backing into a parking space when a familiar voice called out. “Doc? Hey, Doc!” Lilah turned to see Merrick lumbering toward her. He looked weary. Sweat rolled down his face and ringed his armpits. Smudges of ash and soot darkened his hands, face, and clothing.
She shuddered in disbelief. Hadn’t the odds been tilted in her favor? Hadn’t all her mail been X-rayed? Hadn’t the pyro become Merrick’s problem, not hers? She left the Enforcer in the car and ran toward Merrick hoping he had an explanation, any explanation, other than the one that had sprung to mind, but his somber eyes left no doubt what had happened. Her worst fear had come true—whoever had targeted her for a fiery death had struck again. She ran into his arms, nestling her head in the curve of his neck. “I’m scared, Merrick,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Hold me. I’m really scared.”