 
# MOSH PIT

### THE ROSE GARDEN ARENA INCIDENT

### Book 1

# MOSH PIT

### THE ROSE GARDEN ARENA INCIDENT

### Book 1

##### A Serial Thriller in Seven Part

# Michael Hiebert

Contents

* * *

Introduction

RIGHT NOW

Friday, April 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Coming Up Next

Book 2: MEDIA FRENZY

Sneak Preview

Acknowledgments

About Michael Hiebert
MOSH PIT

(THE ROSE GARDEN ARENA INCIDENT, BOOK 1)

Copyright © 2016 by Michael Hiebert.

All rights reserved.

Published by Dangerbooks, British Columbia, Canada.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblances to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Edited by Dawn James Walker

Book and cover design by www.professionalindie.com.

Cover image © Andrea Izzotti

ISBN-13: 978-1-927600-09-2

ISBN-10: 1-927600-09-X

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Dangerbooks Smashwords Edition

First Printing, September 2016.

RG1-024

# Also by Michael Hiebert

Sometimes the Angels Weep--Short Fiction

Nashville Beaumont (and The Hyperbole Engine)

DOLLS

### Alvin, Alabama Mystery Novels

Dream with Little Angels

Close to the Broken Hearted

A Thorn Among the Lilies

Sticks and Stones
To Karen,

for being all the right kinds of crazy.

# Introduction

WELCOME TO MOSH PIT, the first installment of The Rose Garden Arena Incident--a serial thriller in seven parts. You're coming in at the right place, this is indeed Book One.

This is a big story. It's far and away the biggest story I've ever written. I also think, for many reasons, it's the best thing I've ever written. The original idea germinated about seven years ago, and I did indeed write that book back then. It was around 100,000 words when it was complete. Pretty much a standard size for a normal novel.

Everyone who read it told me the same thing: "I hate it. I hate the characters. I hate the story. I hate everything about it."

Great. So much for that then.

But the idea wouldn't let go of my brain. It kept gnawing at the back of it, usually late at night when I was trying to sleep. And the reason was because I knew the idea was solid. Somehow, I just managed to screw it up on execution. So, six months or so later, I decided to write it again, completely from scratch. The first time around, the book had three main characters. The second time, it appeared much closer to the way it does now, with about two dozen characters, at least half of which could be considered pretty central to the plot.

That second book barely even resembled the first one. And it was longer, too. A lot longer. It wound up at about the 140,000 word mark. Writing it was exhausting but also exhilarating because this time, I knew when it was going down that I had it right. This time everything fell into place.

And sure enough, when I gave it to the same readers who had so tactfully panned my first attempt (not), I got a much better response. Now the characters had voices that rang true to the readers. The story felt somewhat complete. And yet . . .

And yet, it still felt like there was something missing, like I'd managed to create life, but in doing so, I'd somehow forgotten a piece of the heart.

So I shelved it. Or, more precisely, I retired it to a directory on my hard drive. And there it sat for another six years while I went on to carve out stories about angels and craft boxes and young witches and tooth fairies. I wrote about Abe and Dewey and Brandon Harris and the whole time, The Rose Garden Arena Incident just waited, knowing one day I would get back to it.

I finally did, in the fall of 2015. I pulled it out, gave it a read through and thought, You know, it's not half bad. But it was missing something. Something the less-experienced writer I'd been six years previous couldn't put his finger on. Only now, it was so obvious. With great fervor I wrote a new outline and a bunch of notes that I'm now using to pen the final draft of the book, a story I anticipate will wind out around 180,000 words, more than twice as long as my debut novel, Dream with Little Angels.

I know the story I'm writing now is the final one. It's complete. I've bounced the ideas off of beta readers--a few of which came back with some exceptional comments and ideas. Everyone so far has loved my final concept, although some definitely thought of ways to make it even better, to completely punch up the plot. And I listened to them because what they were saying made sense. So all those ideas have been folded into my notes and my working outline.

So, here I am in the summer of 2016, writing what is the final draft of The Rose Garden Arena Incident and doing it over seven parts. If everything goes as planned, the final two parts will be double the size of the rest. For now, I'm setting my sights at coming in between 20,000 and 25,000 an episode. From what I can tell, books six and seven should shape up to around 40,000 to 45,000 each. As I write this, it's August, 2016. The pre-orders for both this book and the second, Media Frenzy, have just gone on sale. Marketing and promotion has just started, and I am working book three, currently called 80 Proof. So far, everything's going as planned. The story's coming together exactly as I expected: a big, twisty tale with lots of surprises and some of the most enduring and memorable characters I've ever written.

The books are being made available as e-books and audiobooks because both those formats suit the serial-structure. Remember, you don't need to own a Kindle device to read a Kindle book, simply download the free app on your phone, tablet, or computer, and you're good to go. Each book will come out roughly a month after the previous, with the final installment slated for March 19, 2017. Also, tune into www.michaelhiebert.com at the beginning of each month for the title and cover reveal of upcoming books.

I hope you enjoy Mosh Pit, the first installment of The Rose Garden Arena Incident. I also hope you stick around for the upcoming books because each book is better than the last. Book three is a trip. The story's completely taking off and things are going off the rails in every direction.

More important than any of that, though, is that I take the opportunity to thank you for reading my work. I get quite a lot of fan mail, and each and every time someone takes the time to contact me, it seriously makes me beam. You guys and gals are the best group of readers any writer could ever ask for. I spend a lot of time by myself in front of a computer and it's so gratifying when I realize people actually appreciate what I do. And I appreciate y'all more than words can possibly say.

Michael Hiebert

British Columbia, Canada

August, 2016

# RIGHT NOW

PORTLAND, OREGON.

Stephanie Banner was twenty years old the night Dakota Shane stood center stage at the Rose Garden Arena while six bullets rang out through the stadium. Five deaths occurred from those shots, although only four would go on record.

All four were women.

Dakota was a superstar of magnificent proportions. People had camped out the two days before ticket sales started, trying to cop good seats. The show was a sellout. Twenty-thousand tickets in four hours.

Stephanie hadn't bought a ticket, but she'd managed to get one another way. She and her friend, Brenda Coleman, had floor seats. Good ones, too--close to the stage and everything. So close, they could see the cobalt blue of the superstar's eyes--part of the sex appeal that rocketed her to international stardom.

So close the police would later call the area where they stood dancing in front of their seats "Ground Zero": target point for bullet number one.

So many people. It could have been anyone, but it happened to be Stephanie and Brenda that initial shot hit. The round clipped Brenda first, grazing the side of her head, before moving on and giving Stephanie the worst of it. She took the bullet in her upper chest, slightly off-center above her right breast.

It took Stephanie a moment to notice. She was in shock. It wasn't until two more shots echoed through the arena that her mind managed to grasp the fact that there was a bullet inside her.

She wasn't the only one in shock. The whole audience seemed to catch a breath before reacting.

The first sound of gunfire ripped through Dakota's smash hit "Right Back Where We Started," and before Dakota even sang a word, a wave of panic rocked the stadium. The music stopped as screams burst from the lower sections, reverberating through the concrete mezzanine, a wailing shriek of frenzied bats.

One single thought played over and over like a skipping record in Stephanie's head: _I've been shot. I have a bullet in my chest_.

She touched the entry point, just above her pink wrap-around top. Her fingers came away bloody.

_I've been shot. I'm bleeding_.

Brenda turned toward Stephanie, her ashen face a blank look of horror. "Go," Stephanie yelled. "Go! Get moving!"

Taking Brenda's hand, Stephanie began pushing through the mob of people rushing for the stairs. Hysteria ran through the crowd faster than the latest Dakota Shane single "Stuck with Your Gun" had scampered to the top of worldwide billboard charts.

Stephanie's heart lifted as she caught a glimpse of the concrete steps. They were closer than she'd expected--maybe another twenty yards. She looked back at Brenda, wishing she could read her friend's face. She appeared so calm. Detached.

Not like the throng of arms and legs, pushing and pressing, tripping and tumbling.

It was then Stephanie realized a crowd has nothing to do with people. A crowd is a beast all its own. It lives. It's an entity with its own motivation, its own goals. This one had only one thought: _escape._

As Stephanie pushed forward, the crowd pushed back, rocking forward and back, forward and back. A wave pulled by the tide. Stephanie lost ground, almost stumbling. The crowd entity lunged desperately for the exits but, for all its force, it lacked rational thought. It had no capability of constructing an actual plan. The crowd was all about reaction. It didn't see the big picture.

Tightening her grip on Brenda's hand, Stephanie continued forward, momentarily forgetting the bullet inside her. The people in front of her became a tangle of arms and legs. They collapsed to the floor, forming a writhing hole. Whirling, spinning. A vortex in the abyss.

Stephanie scrambled to find a way around it as the rest of the crowd beast simply swallowed up the people falling to the floor.

They disappeared.

_Stay on your feet_ , Stephanie thought. _Stay on your feet and press ahead. Don't let go of Brenda_. This became her mantra.

Most of the chairs had been knocked over. They looked like dead birds. Stephanie stumbled over them, trying not to fall.

People clambered onto the few chairs still standing, thinking they may offer an expressway to salvation.

Then a loud _crack!_ sounded out from Stephanie's left. The folding metal seat right beside her bucked and bowed before collapsing under the weight of the cowgirl on top of it. The girl toppled to the floor, giving Stephanie a blurred glimpse of ponytail, boots, and vest before the girl's full weight landed hard on Stephanie's outstretched arm, the hand which desperately clung onto Brenda.

Stephanie lost her grip. Both their hands were too slippery with sweat for Stephanie to keep her fingers intertwined with Brenda's. Their hands gently slipped apart.

Time stretched as Stephanie looked back and watched the churning throng close up around Brenda who struggled desperately to stay on her feet. It was a losing battle, and the crowd's giant maw clamped down fast and hard, closing around her as she fell backward. Stephanie was helpless to do anything but watch her disappear.

"Bren!" Stephanie screamed. She glanced around on her toes, looking for any sign of her friend. All she saw was a morass of boots, buckles, halters, and hats. It was like losing someone at sea during a dark thunderstorm.

_Stay on your feet and press ahead,_ Stephanie's brain told her, modifying her mantra so it no longer factored in Brenda.

Stephanie took another glance at the churning mass of people behind her and then looked toward the concrete stairs. They were close now. By herself, Stephanie would have no problem reaching them. _Stay on your feet and press ahead_.

With a deep breath, she decided her brain was a selfish asshole. She couldn't leave Brenda behind. She wasn't about to go any farther by herself. She had a hard enough time living with herself already. She didn't need leaving Brenda behind thrown onto her conscience.

The image of the bullet lodged in her chest came back to her mind. Maybe none of this mattered anyway. Maybe, right now, Stephanie was slowly bleeding to death internally. Maybe she only had minutes left.

_If you get outside, you can get help. There will be ambulances._

Turning around, she dove against the current of everyone else.

Elbows hit her face, something hit her face hard, crunching her nose. She didn't care. It hardly mattered.

Blood dripped from her nostrils, running down and over the top of her lips. It tasted like buckshot. She sliced her way through the flailing hands and wailing arms.

"Bren!" she called out again, but it was pointless. Her voice couldn't be heard above the roar.

Then it happened. The impossible.

Somehow, she found Brenda. Stephanie stood a moment, letting the people spill around her. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. Brenda lay on the floor in front of her, sitting back on her elbows. Shoes and shins pummeled the back of her head. Her face was awash in confusion; she didn't appear to have any idea what was going on. Panic swelled in Stephanie's chest. The bitter taste of bile mixed with the blood in her throat.

_Something's wrong._ No, _everything_ was wrong. Brenda was hurt, and Stephanie had a bullet inside her.

Those thoughts weren't helping at all, but Stephanie couldn't shake them. Swallowing hard, she wrestled to stay in control. For the first time since she and Brenda met, Stephanie was suddenly in charge. She was responsible for their survival.

Stephanie reached out for Brenda. "Come on! Grab my hand!"

Brenda's eyes rose to Stephanie's face and Stephanie's panic almost took over. There was nothing in Brenda's eyes but a cold emptiness. All Stephanie knew was that none of this was good.

_Does she even recognize me?_

Now was not the time for questions. But there was no time for wondering.

"Move!" Stephanie yelled. "Take my hand! Now!"

Brenda heard her. Pulling herself up to a seating position, reached out and once again clasped Stephanie's hand.

Stephanie strengthened her resolve and yanked Brenda to her feet. "Okay! Let's get out of here!"

Pulling Brenda as close as she could, Stephanie asked, "Are you okay?"

Brenda either didn't hear or didn't process the question. She just stood there, her eyes fixed on some place in the floor.

"Tell me later!" Stephanie said, letting out a big breath. "We're almost to the stairs."

A new worry fell over Stephanie. It was hard enough getting through people down here. How hard would it be on those stairs? The steps up to the mezzanine were solid concrete. _What if I lose hold of Brenda halfway up . . . ?_ She didn't finish the thought. She couldn't finish it.

It all felt so _impossible_.

_Not impossible. Not today. Today there's no impossible. There can't be_.

They made the stairs with Stephanie managing to keep Brenda on her feet. She was far from stable, though.

_Something_ was wrong, but Stephanie didn't have the time to worry about it right now. She decided putting Brenda in front of her was the best way to tackle the stairs. Stephanie held tightly to her friend's waist. This way, Stephanie figured, if Brenda started to stumble, Stephanie might be able to stop her from falling. _Or she'll just knock us both down_.

Thankfully, the stairs turned out to be easier than the floor. The people here weren't as thick as the mob down below. People were climbing, not just pushing each other blindly.

They reached the mezzanine and Stephanie relaxed. Her heartbeat thumping in her eardrums slowed. The crowd was thinner up here.

Stephanie set her sights on EXIT E, the doors of which weren't more than fifty feet away.

That's when Brenda went down again, only this time not because of anyone stumbling into her. She just collapsed on her own, right in front of Stephanie. Luckily, Stephanie was able to catch her.

"Hey, whoa," Stephanie said, propping Brenda back onto her feet. "What's going on? You okay?"

Brenda said nothing, just looked back, her face flushed with confusion.

Stephanie put her mouth right against Brenda's ear. "You fell!" she yelled. "Are you okay?"

Brenda didn't seem to understand. Stephanie let it go, deciding instead to concentrate on just getting the hell outside. Pulling Brenda's arm up over her shoulder, Stephanie put her other hand around Brenda's waist. She walked her awkwardly like this the rest of the way.

It may have only been fifty feet, but the closer they got to those doors, the heavier Brenda became. By the time they made it to the exit, Stephanie was practically dragging Brenda across the floor. Luckily she wasn't too heavy.

The doors were all wide open. As Stephanie pulled Brenda through, six cops quickly ducked past them, entering the Arena. All Stephanie saw were uniforms, hats, and boots. Their eyes wide with anticipation, their guns snapped in their holsters on their hips.

Nothing in Stephanie's life ever felt as good as that chilly spring wind hitting her face. She relaxed into it, taking deep breaths. It almost felt sexual. The sensation tingled through her whole body, lingering in her hands and cheeks, a warm exhilaration. A feeling of exhaustion and success. _We made it. And we're still alive_. Despite everything, a small smile came to Stephanie's blood-cracked lips. She closed her eyes and let herself relax.

Sirens screamed out in the night, some nearby, others sounding more like alley cats screeching from far away. Stephanie decided the best thing to do now was to find somewhere to sit.

People gathered tightly in the area right outside the exits. Stephanie took Brenda away from the center of the crowd.

The landscaped areas outside the Rose Garden Arena were wrapped by concrete landings and walkways that curved around the stadium. The big landing in front of the door went on maybe a hundred feet or more as it fanned open to stairs leading down to the parking lot. Stephanie spotted an island of shrubs hugged by a three-foot retaining wall.

With her eye on that wall, Stephanie negotiated Brenda toward it. Rhododendron bushes, budding azaleas, and large hydrangeas spilled over from the raised garden on the other side. Beneath their heavy leaves, tulips and daffodils all pink and yellow, purple and orange, had already burst into bloom. Their leathery leaves gleamed beneath the Arena's outside lamps. They were a non sequitur in this, the most jagged and broken of nights.

Carefully, Stephanie set Brenda down on the wall's edge. Her hand came down in the dirt behind her, squashing one of the bright yellow tulips.

"Can you sit okay?" Stephanie asked. Her ears rang. It felt like she was under water. "You're not going to fall again are you?" she asked Brenda.

Brenda looked back with that same detached look she'd had ever since the concert went to hell.

The people outside the door had broken off into small groups. The wind carried the smell of marijuana and Stephanie couldn't help but be a little envious. Any escape would be good tonight. " . . . yeah, cops said we're not supposed to leave," she heard someone say. "We gotta wait till they clear us, in case they need a statement."

"Screw that," someone responded. At least a third of that group broke off and headed down the stairs.

Brenda's lack of response was starting to really worry Stephanie. "Bren? Seriously, are you okay?"

Brenda nodded slowly. "I'm good," she said quietly.

The Milky Way twisted overhead into a golden braid and the half-moon hung yellow and low in the east like a frozen bullet. The pounding of thick soles against stairs preceded five more cops coming up, almost in a jog. Again, Stephanie's attention was pulled to their guns. As they went past, she caught a wisp of conversation: "--has any idea what the fuck's going on. That's why it's important that we--" That was all she managed to catch.

Thoughts began converging on Stephanie's mind like an army of bark beetles scuttling an attack against a pine tree. Bad thoughts. She had to think it all through. She had to at least be able to answer one of the questions her brain wanted to understand. _What the hell just happened?_

Her brain had another question, but it was one she knew there was no point in asking yet. She was sure though, very soon, an answer would be forthcoming, even if it came from the tabloids. That question was: _Why? Why would someone just start . . . shooting people?_

Not just people. Stephanie. And Brenda. What were the odds? They weren't even supposed to be at this show. Another thought came to her: What if the bullet went _all the way through_? Her pulse sped back up as she reached behind her back, trying to touch the area she expected the bullet may have exited. She couldn't feel anything. She examined her fingers and found no new blood.

_The bullet's still inside me_.

Stephanie touched the entry wound again. There was still blood, but less than before, certainly less than she expected. Some ran down into her pink wrap around. It was drying fast now that they were outside in the cold.

Her eyes fell to the three cuts on her inside left forearm. They weren't from tonight. She'd made them on Wednesday, the day she and Brenda had concocted their plan to acquire tonight's concert tickets. Already, they had started to scab. Soon, they would be nearly invisible like the others beneath and around them.

She took a deep breath, trying to put her attention elsewhere. "Sure is nicer out here, hey?" she asked Brenda. "I mean not only because we aren't being trampled to death--although that's part of it--but also because it's really a nice night."

Brenda brought her arm up and wiped the sweat from her face. Then she ran her fingers gently along the side of her head where the round had grazed her. It was just above her right eye.

When she spoke her voice sounded hollow and quiet. "Is it raining?" she asked.

Stephanie thought she could make out blood under Brenda's hairline, but it was too dark to be sure. Slowly Brenda brought her fingers back and looked at them. There was blood. Not a lot, just a smear.

Confusion fell over Brenda as though she was unsuccessfully trying to figure out what the red on her fingers might be. She once again touched the side of her head. Her expression seemed almost dream-like as she pulled her fingers from her temple. This time, a large chunk of her skull fell along with them.

Stephanie held back a gasp as she brought her hands to her mouth. She felt a scream building up in her throat, but she was gagging on it. It wouldn't come out. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she looked on in horror at what had just happened.

Then someone from the crowd noticed. And, like a forest fire, awareness spread through all the people standing outside the exit doors. The night once again was split open by terrified shrieks, but still Stephanie made no noise. She just sat there, hands clasped over her mouth, staring as Brenda picked up the piece of skull from where it had tumbled into the dirt of the tulip and daffodil garden.

She turned it over in her hands, looking at the smooth inside and the dark outside where some of her hair had stuck to it. Still, she seemed more confused than anything else. Slowly she lifted her gaze to Stephanie, but the last thing Stephanie wanted to do was look into her eyes.

Stephanie's attention went to the people staring at Brenda. "Are there ambulances here yet?" she asked loudly. "Do any of you know if there's any ambulances? My friend needs to get to a hospital!" She'd already seen cops. Weren't they usually the last to arrive at a scene? After the fire trucks and the ambulances?

Sirens still sang from somewhere out on the edges of the night.

Finally, four more uniformed people ran up the stairs, these ones EMTs--a black woman and three white guys. The guys all had short cropped hair. One had a goatee.

"Take care of her," the woman said to the EMT with the goatee, nodding at Brenda.

He crouched down and examined her head with his blue-gloved fingers. He smelled vaguely of Axe deodorant.

The woman ordered the other two EMT guys to clear away all the people. Nobody bothered to tell her what the cops had said about taking statements. Then she squatted in front of Stephanie. Her name tag said DELRAY.

"You okay? Is it just your friend? Or you, too?"

Stephanie's hand went to her chest.

Delray, the EMT, immediately saw the bullet hole above Stephanie's top. "We've got two here," she called out. Pressing her fingers around the wound, she asked Stephanie, "Does this hurt?"

Stephanie slowly shook her head. "I . . . I don't know. I can't really feel anything right now." She wondered if Delray was the woman's first or last name.

"What about your extremities? Can you feel your legs?"

"No, I mean, everything's so . . . I'm a little overwhelmed. Will my friend be okay?" Delray didn't even glance to the other EMT tending Brenda.

Stephanie heard another ambulance pull into the lot. A moment later, four more technicians came up the stairs. Delray yelled to them. "I need a stretcher! Now!"

Two of them headed back down while the other two continued on into the arena.

"Are there a lot of people hurt?" Stephanie asked Delray.

Delray didn't answer. She continued pressing Stephanie's skin. "You sure you can't feel this? This doesn't hurt?"

Stephanie shook her head again.

Delray asked her to turn around. "Gently, now. Don't twist." She examined Stephanie's back, pressing there, too.

"My friend's going to be okay, right?" Stephanie asked.

"You just worry about yourself right now. We'll take care of everyone else," Delray softly said.

The two EMTs returned with the stretcher. They put it between where Stephanie and Brenda were seated. Delray looked up at one of the technicians. "Which ambulance?"

"Thirty-one."

"We cleared to go back right away?"

He shook his head.

"Shit," Delray said. "Why not?"

"Someone else is coming out. Should be any time. Pregnant. Shot in the abdomen."

"Jesus Christ, this is a mess," Delray said.

The EMT didn't reply.

"Can you stand okay?" Delray asked Stephanie.

Stephanie nodded and began to get up when the male EMT stepped forward and helped her. Before she knew what was happening, he and Delray had her on the stretcher.

"No," Stephanie said. She started telling them they were making a mistake. Brenda needed the stretcher more than she did. She told them to stop. She was fine. She wasn't critical. Half her skull wasn't missing. They needed to go back. Brenda needed to get in the ambulance first. Surely everyone could see that. Stephanie tried to sit up, but Delray gently held her down, her black hand pressing firmly on Stephanie's midriff. "Shh," she said. "Just stay calm, okay? You're going to be fine."

The two men began wheeling Stephanie away. "Try not to move," one of them told her.

Craning her neck, Stephanie looked back at Brenda. She'd been placed on her side on the walkway. She lay there on the cold concrete, her eyes wide open, watching Stephanie being wheeled away. Stephanie could see it in her eyes: she knew the stretcher was supposed to be for her.

A dark red pool of blood formed beneath Brenda's head, matting her auburn hair before forming tributaries that ran down the sloped walkway as though trying to catch up with Stephanie's stretcher.

Brenda got smaller and smaller until she finally disappeared behind a leafy lilac bush and some hydrangeas.

The stretcher went quickly down the wheelchair ramp and to the back of a waiting ambulance. Lifting Stephanie inside, the men then locked the stretcher in place as Delray appeared again at her side, this time wearing a stethoscope. She pressed the cold metal chestpiece against Stephanie's skin on the edge of her wound. "Deep breath," she said.

As Delray listened to her chest, Stephanie noticed her glance at the scars on Stephanie's forearm. She looked at Stephanie, the ambulance's interior lights glinting in her gray eyes, but all she said was, "Keep breathing. Just like that. Deep breaths."

Stephanie did as she was asked. Her heart pounded strong and fast as a realization poured over her. A memory of something she'd witnessed only moments ago was now registering in her mind. Just before Brenda had disappeared completely from Stephanie's sight, as she lay there staring with all that blood gathering around her head, an EMT had crouched down and, with two blue-gloved fingers, closed her eyes.

Stephanie swallowed hard. Her breath caught in her throat.

Brenda was dead.

A scream caught in Stephanie's throat. She could no longer breathe. "No," she said in a clipped whisper. "No."

Delray pulled the stethoscope's chestpiece away. "What's going on? What's happening?"

"Bren!" Stephanie said wildly. "She's . . . oh my God. She's . . . "

"Listen," Delray said. "You have to calm down."

Stephanie tried, but she couldn't. She fought to sit up again but, like before, Delray held her down.

"Bren!"

"Shh," Delray said. "Settle down. Try to relax."

The lights all blurred as tears welled in Stephanie's eyes. She began quietly sobbing, her chest heaving. "No," she said, her lips barely forming the word. "She wasn't supposed to die. Why does everyone keep dying?" Her hands clenched her pink wraparound, twisting it. She felt one of her breasts pop free but didn't care. Then, another thought struck her, this one full of irony. _Not everyone_ , she thought. _Just the people I love_.

The wheels of another stretcher skittered down the ramp. It was lifted inside and locked into place beside Stephanie. Stephanie continued staring up into the lights. She didn't need to look at the other victim, she knew it was the pregnant woman the other EMT told Delray they had to wait for. Stephanie knew this because the woman's husband refused to listen to anyone. He pushed his way into the ambulance behind her, screaming. "My wife's pregnant! Tell me if she's going to be okay! Tell me! I'm a cop! Tell me!"

He repeated this over and over. He yelled it at the EMTs, he yelled it at Stephanie, he yelled it at the oxygen tanks and face masks secured in the corner.

His voice was slightly accented. Italian, Stephanie guessed, only because he sounded a bit like Tony Soprano.

Stephanie turned her head to look at the woman lying beside her. She was motionless, her eyes closed, either asleep or unconscious. Judging from her bulge, she was _very_ pregnant. A tear ran over her nose and across her cheek.

"I'm a cop!" the man yelled. "I'm a cop, and my wife's pregnant!"

Stephanie continued quietly sobbing.

The ambulance doors slammed shut, leaving Delray and the loud cop inside.

"Tell me if she's going to be okay!" the man demanded. "I'm a cop! She's pregnant! Tell me if she's going to be okay!" Delray didn't respond, so he yelled it again.

Carefully, Delray pulled Stephanie's top back up over her exposed breast. She pushed a needle into the vein on Stephanie's left wrist, fully exposing the three scars on Stephanie's inside forearm. Again, she said nothing about them.

"Tell me if she's going to be okay!" the man repeated. "She's pregnant! I'm a cop! I'm a cop, and she's pregnant!"

The ambulance's siren sounded miles away. The liquid in the bag hanging on the metal tree beside Stephanie jostled as they began to move.

"Goddamn it!" the man snapped at Delray. "How long until we get to the hospital? I'm a cop, goddamn it!"

"Just calm down, sir," Delray answered calmly. "We're doing everything we can. Just calm down."

"She's pregnant!"

Delray snapped off her blue gloves and dropped them into a bin for hazardous waste. She lifted Stephanie's right hand, gripping it lightly with two fingers while she watched her wristwatch.

"Tell me if she's going to be okay!" the man yelled. "Tell me, Goddamn it! I'm a cop!"

"Please, sir, just calm down," Delray said with the same calmness. She placed her palm on Stephanie's forehead, pushing up her hair. "Do you feel hot?" she asked.

Stephanie had no idea. All she knew was the world had taken a bite out of her once again. No matter what she did, everything always wound up the same. _Sooner or later, everybody leaves._ One way or another. She wondered if the image of the EMT closing Brenda's dead eyes would ever go away. She didn't think so. That one would be burned in her mind forever.

Even though she knew, she had to ask. She had to hear it. "She was dead, right?" Stephanie asked Delray. "My friend?" The words came out quiet and broken, like her heart. Only her heart had come that way right from the beginning.

"Your pulse is a little low," Delray answered softly.

Stephanie tried again. "Tell me, please? I need you to. My friend . . . she's dead, isn't she?"

Delray's lips pressed into a thin line as she looked up into Stephanie's eyes with just the slightest nod of her head. "I'm sorry," she said.

Stephanie sobbed harder, her chest buckling as more tears came. _Brenda's gone. She's dead._ A crack had appeared in the world tonight and everything had fallen into it, leaving nothing behind except hopelessness, loneliness, and death.

# Eight Days Ago . . .

# Friday, April 2

# Chapter 1

THE YEAR STARTED OUT a cold one for Portland. East winds screamed from the Columbia Gorge, their teeth snapping as they blasted through the city. A bombardment of arctic rain followed on their tail, lasting four long days. Both major freeways in and out of the city were closed. Portland's famous light rail system, MAX, was shut down. The Portland International Airport grounded all flights for an unprecedented two and a half days. They called it the worst ice storm in seven years. Things changed as an exceptionally warm and dry spring unwrapped. March and April temperatures soared to record highs and the year would go down as Portland's hottest one ever, making it easy to forget the shaky start.

But on April the second, Karma Ackerman sat in the backseat of her friend Brenda Coleman's red Toyota, waiting for Brenda and Stephanie to finish coiffing their hair in the little mirrors on the back of the car's visors so the three of them could go to Uma, Portland's trendiest new dance club of the moment. They were currently parked in the club's lot. They had been for twenty minutes.

The car's windows were open and Karma could smell the Willamette River from where it ran beneath the Burnside Bridge two blocks away. She was antsy, because she was nervous, and she was nervous because of the brand new passport with the navy blue cover secreted in her oversized purse.

It was _her_ passport. Well, sort of.

More accurately, it _appeared_ to be her passport. In reality, it was the product of three days' work from a guy named Robbie who'd made it in his basement using a bunch of stuff he'd gotten from Office Max.

Robbie was a friend of Brenda's and, for just fifteen bucks, he'd lavished upon Karma a method of aging herself five years. For Karma, the passport had nothing to do with travel and everything to do with unlocking doors normally closed for a sixteen-year-old girl such as herself. That was assuming the document was convincing. Brenda had already assured her multiple times that it was.

Karma looked at the lineup snaking from Uma's front door. It continued down the stairs and out into the parking lot. "We really should get going, guys," she said, but her statement was ignored as Brenda messed with her hair and Stephanie touched up her eyeliner. "You guys look great," Karma said. "Come on."

"Patience," Brenda said. "You can't hurry art."

Karma pulled out her new passport and examined it yet again. As far as she could tell, it certainly looked official, but still a weird feeling settled in her stomach, like she'd swallowed a large stone or something.

It wasn't fear of being caught out, but more a nagging uneasiness that her moral compass might have lost its ability to find true north. _Is this_ , she wondered, _a sign that my life is perhaps headed in a bad direction?_ Was this how the homeless and the drug-addled started out? One day you give a geek living in his parent's basement fifteen bucks to fake a piece of government identification, and the next thing you know, you're falling uncontrollably into a life of crime sprees, heroin, and prostitution.

Karma huffed. "Seriously, you two. How much longer?"

Brenda cast Stephanie a sideways glance. "Have we really been sitting here that long?"

"Doesn't seem like it," Stephanie said. She was applying more mascara.

"It feels like days," Karma said. "I'm starting to sweat." The lights around the parking lot gleamed in the three tall letters on the building's roof, broadcasting its name: UMA. It was a weird name. Watching the doorman check every single person for a piece of ID, Karma's opened her passport to her photo. Did it _really_ look that good? Good enough to fool someone who knew what to look for? Stephanie also had a fake ID, but hers only had to add a year to her age.

Brenda put on lip gloss. "We good?" she asked Stephanie.

Stephanie was carefully adjusting her hair. "Almost."

Karma sighed. "You guys look exactly the same as when we got here. How long ago was that? A month? You do realize my makeup took about fifteen minutes."

"Yeah, but you're sixteen," Brenda answered. "You don't need makeup. Everything on you still lifts and separates."

Karma shook her head. "It's not like you guys are fifty or anything. Hell, Steph's only twenty, and you're what? Thirty?"

"Twenty-seven, thank you very much." Brenda looked at Stephanie who'd been rummaging in her purse for the last ten minutes. "What _are_ you looking for?"

Stephanie pulled a small blue tub from her purse. "Lip balm. Found it."

"So are we ready now?" Karma asked.

"I am," Brenda said.

Stephanie made sure her lips were balmed before answering. "Me too," she said at last.

Brenda made sure the windows were rolled up and they got out of the car. After walking across the parking lot, they joined the end of the line.

"Lots of people," Stephanie pointed out.

"There were only half this many when we got here," Karma said

Nobody said anything else. Brenda stood patiently in her red micro skirt and three inch pumps. Stephanie was anxiously going up on her toes, craning her neck to see the front door.

"That won't make it move any faster," Karma said.

"I have to pee," Stephanie said. Despite all the time she'd spent in the car, her blond hair still looked disheveled. The pearls in her ears matched the string on her neck. She clutched a little silver purse in front of her chest, somehow reminding Karma of a poodle.

Karma watched the doorman diligently check the IDs of another group of people as the line slowly crept forward. "Shit," she said quietly.

"What's wrong?" Brenda asked.

"I'm gonna get busted."

"No, you won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because Robbie makes these all the time. They always work."

"How old is he, anyway?" Stephanie asked Brenda.

"I don't know."

"He looks young," Stephanie said, bouncing a bit.

"He looks _twelve_ ," Karma said.

"He's not twelve," Brenda said. "He's old enough to go to clubs. I saw him at Cathedral a couple of weeks ago."

"Um," Karma said. "He _makes_ fake IDs. Surely he's made some for himself."

"Don't count on it," Brenda said. "It's a wise dealer who doesn't sample his own product."

Karma laughed. "That's drug dealers, not fake ID makers."

"Same thing."

Stephanie was staring at Karma's face.

"What?" Karma asked.

Stephanie reached out and flicked some of Karma's hair back over her head. "You'll be fine. You look old."

"Gee, thanks."

"She means mature," Brenda said.

Karma let out a big breath.

"What was that for?" Brenda asked.

"Just--what if they bust me?"

"You're not going to get busted," Stephanie said. "Robbie did my driver's license for me, and I've never had a problem."

"You're also twenty," Karma said. "It's a lot easier to fake one year than it is to fake five."

"You'll be fine," Brenda said and the line moved up again, bringing Karma that much closer to the doorman.

Turned out, Stephanie had to hold her bladder another hour before they finally made it to the door.

Brenda went in first, barely even flashing her driver's license. She didn't even need to. When Karma guessed her at thirty back in the car, she had purposely tried to guess low. She'd honestly thought Brenda was in her mid-thirties. Even now, Karma wondered if twenty-seven had been a lie.

Time was less than kind to some people.

Stephanie handed the doorman her license. He gave it a quick look over, handed it back, and she went inside, leaving Karma all alone with the doorman.

"All I have is my passport," she said, nervously handing it over, hoping her hand wasn't obviously trembling. And, not for the first time, she wondered why Robbie hadn't just made her a driver's license instead of a passport. It had to be less work. She outright asked him this very question. His answer seemed lame.

"You're sixteen," he'd explained. "They're going to suspect you're underage. Most bouncers know what to look for in falsified licenses. They rarely see passports, so they can't scrutinize them nearly so much."

The doorman's dark eyes were on the passport. "What's this?" he asked, flipping through the pages.

"It's . . . It's my passport. I don't drive."

He looked up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Why not?"

She shrugged. "Just . . . hadn't needed to." She fumbled the words even though it was the truth. She'd been sixteen almost half a year and hadn't even considered getting her license.

He turned the passport to her picture. Then looked up at Karma, comparing.

"What sign are you?" he asked.

The question caught Karma off guard. "Sorry, what?"

"Your birth sign. What is it?"

_Shit_. She had no idea what birthday Robbie used. It wouldn't be her _real_ birthday--he hadn't asked her for it, all she was told to supply was the picture. Her heart pounded behind her ribs. Her hand quivered. She tried to look past the curtain blocking the entranceway to alert Brenda and Stephanie, but there was no sign of them.

"Um," she decided her only choice was a stab in the dark. "I'm Aquarius? I . . . I guess?"

He handed the passport back, his eyes going to the couple in line behind her as he pushed aside the curtain so Karma could step through. "I actually have no idea what signs are which," he said. "Have fun."

Karma let out the breath she'd been holding and went inside.

The club was dark and large. Spotlights above and around the dance floor cycled frenetically as a remix of Madonna's "Love Profusion" pounded out a rhythm that filled the place, rising way up to the vaulted ceilings, invisible in the darkness. Short walls, trimmed in mirror and brass, separated the club into little areas where tables clustered, dimly lit by candles in their centers.

"Twenty bucks," said a voice from beside her. It startled her.

She turned and found a man in a black vest with a maroon paisley cummerbund and matching bow tie. A money belt hung around his waist.

"Sorry," Karma said. "What?"

"Twenty bucks. Make sure you show your stamp if you need to leave and come back."

"Oh . . . ok . . . " Her stomach tightened. She wasn't sure she even _had_ twenty bucks. She searched through her purse, looking for her wallet, stealing occasional glances around the club in hopes of spotting Brenda or Stephanie. Why hadn't they waited for her?

Finding her wallet, she snapped it open, relieved to find thirty dollars inside. She pulled out a twenty and handed it to the man who grunted something she assumed meant she was free to move on. He looked disappointed, as though he expected a tip. Well, sixteen-year-old girls currently pimping their resume out to find their first job aren't in a position to tip a guy whose clothes cost more than her entire wardrobe.

She walked down the two red carpeted steps and headed to the edge of the dance floor, on the lookout for Brenda and Stephanie.

Karma had worn a white micro skirt with matching two-inch pumps and a white halter that tied between her breasts and left her midriff naked. It was the sexiest outfit she owned but, under the club's black lights, her clothes took on an eerie incandescent glow. She didn't like it. It made her stand out.

"Nobody's looking at you," Karma murmured to herself.

She decided the obvious place to find Brenda and Stephanie was the bar and, luckily, the bar was pretty easy to find.

It stretched almost the entire distance along one of the club's walls. Other than the stage, it was the only other bright spot. Rows of bottles stood on glass shelves with a mirrored backsplash. Pot lights set into the lowered ceiling shone down, reflecting brightly from all the glass and brass. A smattering of people stood around the bar, some leaning against it while they drank, others just sort of "stationed there." After a quick search, Karma decided her friends weren't there.

There were two bartenders. Good looking guys, mid-twenties, styling hair, one dark, one fair. They were dressed the same. White shirts, black vests, red cummerbunds, and bowties. The dark one had a soul patch beneath his lower lip. He was busy pouring a tray full of double shots. Karma guessed they were going to be B-52s, based on the Kahlua and amaretto bottles in his hands. A waitress waited for the tray, her red top extremely low cut, her black skirt extremely high, her pumps matching her shirt.

The other bartender had "boy band" good looks. He was taking an order from a woman in a tight pink skirt. He set a tall glass in front of her and became a blur of grabbing bottles, flipping them in the air, pouring them into the glass, and returning them back to the shelf behind him. Karma watched, amazed, as he went from bottle to bottle, vodka, gin, white rum, tequila. Finally, he topped it all off with a splash of Cola and a slice of lemon. A Long Island iced tea.

Karma's dad was a DJ, and had worked for many different radio stations throughout Karma's life. But between those jobs, he did bartending work wherever he could find it. But nothing like these guys. Dad couldn't even flip a pancake. But he knew his drinks and, through some sort of osmosis, so did Karma. Of course, the fact that her mom was an alcoholic probably helped, too.

Her dad, Lewis Ackerman (or Lex the Axeman when he was on the air), was currently employed by KJZZ, The Fringe, a station that only occasionally chanced the odd popular song, preferring instead an almost unrelenting lineup of classic rock tunes. He'd been at KJZZ longer than any other DJ job Karma could remember him having. He'd recently lost his cushy spot opposite Juliette Jade on the station's _Crack the Dawn_ morning show, however, after showing up for work a little more than slightly stoned. Dad wasn't much of a drinker, but he made up for it with his penchant for hydroponics. Now, other than the odd special interview, he did the _Night Flight_ show, KJZZ's ten o'clock P.M. to six o'clock A.M. graveyard shift.

His pattern never changed. Anytime Karma's dad managed to land a half-decent job, Karma knew it was only a question of time before he sabotaged it, usually with some sort of incident involving cannabis. His marijuana problem and Mom's drinking had been worse than ever lately, ever since their breakup eight months ago.

"That feels better," Stephanie said from behind Karma. Brenda was beside her. The club got louder as the heavy bass line and drums of "Let's Get It Started" by the Black Eyed Peas filled the room.

"Where the hell were you guys?" Karma asked, straining to be heard above the music. "I looked everywhere."

"Obviously not everywhere," Brenda said.

"I had to pee, remember?" Stephanie said.

Karma looked to Brenda. "What about you?"

"I was wingman." Whatever that meant. "Hey, so I told you that you'd get in, didn't I?"

"You did. I almost didn't, though."

"What do you mean?"

"He asked me what my astrology sign was. I have no frigging idea what birthday Robbie put on my thing."

Brenda smiled. "You may want to fix that before next time. What did you do? Make a lucky guess?"

"Sort of. Turned out he didn't know birth signs from his ass. He was just happy I had an answer."

"Well, at least you're in. That's the main thing."

Karma looked around. "This seems like a pretty opulent place. It looks exactly like the kind of place I can't afford to be in. It already cost me twenty bucks. I've only got ten left."

Stephanie waved her statement out of the air. "Don't worry, we won't be buying any of our own drinks. That's why God invented men."

They all laughed. Karma's eyes went back to the curtain hanging behind the entrance. Then she saw the bouncer seated on the tall stool in the corner.

"Shit!" she said, quickly turning her head and pretending to fumble with her purse.

"What?" Brenda asked, looking around.

"Don't look," Karma said.

"Don't look at what?" she asked, still looking.

"The bouncer. By the door. On the stool."

"The black guy?" Stephanie asked.

"Yes, well, no. He's Latino, not black. Quit looking."

"Why?" Brenda asked. "He's cute." Karma saw her make a little girly wave at him.

"What are you doing? Don't _attract_ his attention!"

"Uh oh," Stephanie said.

"What?" Karma asked, frantically. "What's uh oh?"

"He's coming over."

"Shit."

"What?" Brenda asked.

"I babysit his daughter."

"Well, maybe he'll cover for you," Stephanie said.

"What's his name?" Brenda asked.

"Rodney Esquivel," Karma said resignedly.

"Better be ready, he's almost here," Brenda said.

"Shit." Karma's mind scrambled for something to say. She was caught, there was no point in fighting it. Looking up, she saw Rodney walking straight toward her. By his expression, she didn't think he'd be doing any covering for her. He looked downright miserable.

Then, someone ducked into the club, pushing aside the curtain and screaming out something about a fight and a knife.

Karma saw Rodney's eyes close and his expression change as he struggled between the knife fight or giving Karma the boot. A second later, he made his choice and turned around in a sprint toward the door.

"See?" Brenda said, "Nothing to worry about."

# Chapter 2

THE SCENE OUTSIDE WAS one Rodney Esquivel knew well. Already, a decent group of people had gathered around the parking lot altercation. "Call the cops!" Rodney shouted up to Carl, who was working the door. He saw Carl fish in his pocket for his cell phone.

The outside lights gleamed in Rodney's motorcycle boots as he approached the situation. The air was warm and carried the skunky smell of weed. Seeing him approach, many of the spectators broke away. That was one of the perks about being six foot five and two hundred and sixty-five pounds. Rodney stepped into the ring where two men were circling each other like tigers. One was Latino, like Rodney, the other white with at least two inches on his opponent. Rodney was relieved to know that neither of them had come from inside the club. They couldn't have. Neither the Latino's Levis and T-shirt nor the other guy's greasy wife beater and oversized cargo pants would've passed Uma's dress code.

Although smaller than the white guy, the Latino had substance and form that the other one severely lacked. Blood ran down the Latino's chin, welling from a fresh slash in his cheek. It didn't look too serious, though.

Rodney saw the source of the slash gripped in the white guy's right hand. The parking lot's sodium lights glinted off the five-inch blade. That knife was probably the only reason this fight hadn't ended almost as soon as it started. Without it, Rodney figured, the Latino would've mopped the parking lot with the other guy a long time ago. Whitey may have had a height advantage, but that was where the advantages came to an abrupt end. And it wasn't even the difference in their physiques so much as it was the look in each of their eyes.

Rodney was good at reading eyes.

The white guy was unsure of himself, maybe even a little scared, but not the Latino. He kept his eyes intensely locked on those of the other guy. Rodney could tell he didn't give two shits about that knife. He reminded Rodney of a cobra, just waiting for his chance to strike.

"Come on, fuckin' wetback," the white guy said, still circling. "I'll cut you again, then I'll cut your whore freak girlfriend." The words underscored Rodney's assessment. Anytime something like this happened, the guy doing the talking, without fail, was the guy eventually losing. There was a bruise on the side of his face. He'd already taken a punch.

The Latino kid didn't answer, just kept his gaze leveled.

"Kill him Matias. Don't take that shit!"

The words came from a white girl, slightly plump, standing at the front of the group of spectators. Rodney guessed she was the "whore freak girlfriend" the white guy had just referred to. She had dreadlocks dyed blue and pink. They reminded Rodney of cotton candy. Her makeup was black. Very black.

Another chick spoke up from the group of people gathered on the other side of the fight. "Get him Ricky! Come on, end this!" Tall and skinny, her dark hair hung straight down the sides of her face. She looked miserable standing there with her arms crossed.

"I will, baby," Ricky said back, his arms away from his body, that knife still locked in his grip. "Just waiting for my chance." He smiled, but it was all bravado. Rodney could tell.

Then Ricky lunged, swiping with the knife. Matias stepped in, spinning around with a backhand, but not managing to stay completely clear of the blade. A thin gash blossomed on his left shoulder as he threw a right cross, the knuckles of his fist connecting powerfully with the side of Ricky's head. Ricky staggered forward, nearly going down, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet. Rodney could see him trying to shake it off, but the blow had him reeling. The fight wouldn't be going on much longer. One more hit like that would end it; that would make Rodney happy.

Normally, he'd have just jumped between them already, but not with the knife in play. It made it too dangerous. His daughter, Lila, was waiting for him to come home from work; he would never chance disappointing her. Besides, the owners of Uma had strict rules about how he was supposed to deal with situations like this.

Ricky's girl piped up again. "Is this _really_ how we're spendin' tonight? Come on already, Rick. Just do it."

Sweat dotted Ricky's forehead and ran in rivulets down his face. He wiped at it with his arm, but it didn't help much. He was breathing deep, too. Matias, on the other hand, didn't even appear to have broken a sweat.

_Any minute now_ , Rodney thought. Ricky was going to make another move with that knife and, when he did, Matias would send him to either the hospital or the morgue.

Ricky's arm flexed. Rodney saw, so there was no question Matias did, too. It was a tell; he was about to lunge again. If Rodney had to guess, Matias would probably step in, blocking with his left while spinning around for a backhand with his right.

Shifting his weight to his front foot, Ricky started to make his move only . . . only he never got to finish it. Before he actually took the step, Uma's parking lot was suddenly bathed in the blue and white flashing light from the dashboard of the unmarked black Ford Crown Victorian squealing to a stop ten feet away. Most of the spectators scattered, folding away into the darkness.

# Chapter 3

BACK INSIDE THE CLUB, Karma let out a big sigh and tried to relax. "Can we go stand somewhere not so . . . bright?"

"Good idea," Stephanie said. "Let's go to one of the corner tables over there." She pointed across the bar where a couple of tables still appeared empty on the raised floor.

"I'll catch up with you guys," Brenda said. "I'm gonna grab us some drinks." She looked at Stephanie. "The usual?"

Stephanie smiled. "Of course."

Brenda turned to Karma. "And you?"

A profusion of potables clicked through her brain, so many drinks she knew and yet, hardly any had she ever tried. She finally decided to leave things up to fate. "I'll have the same," she said.

"Same as Stephanie?" Brenda asked, somewhat surprised.

"Sure," Karma said, having no idea what Stephanie's usual was. "Yes. Please and thank you."

Brenda went over to the bar while Karma and Stephanie headed for the raised floor with the empty tables. "So," Stephanie asked her over the Black Eyed Peas, "what do you think?"

"It's loud enough!" Karma yelled back.

Turned out there was only one vacant table left in the area Brenda suggested they sit. Karma and Stephanie both took chairs facing away from the wall so they could take in the whole club.

As they sat down, Karma noticed crisscrossed scars on the inside of Stephanie's forearms. "What happened?" she asked.

Turning her arm over to hide the marks, Stephanie shook her head. "Nothing. It's . . . it's nothing." She looked around the room.

Karma wasn't sure whether to let the topic just go. "Did you make those? Yourself?"

Stephanie slowly turned toward her. "You don't really want to hear about it," she said.

"Try me."

Stephanie shrugged. "Nothing to tell, really. My childhood sucked. Everyone's childhood sucks."

Karma thought her childhood must've sucked less than Stephanie's. At least _she_ didn't have a pattern of scars on top of scars on top of scars on her arms. "Did you grow up in Portland?" she asked.

"No. Omaha. I was adopted." Stephanie's words seemed to come out laboriously, but Karma didn't stop the questions. Stephanie looked away again.

"By parents in Portland?"

Stephanie shook her head. "I came here on my own after my mom died. My dad's a prick."

"What made you pick Portland?"

Stephanie finally looked back at Karma. "Ever seen _Raspberry Love Twist_?"

"The movie?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah . . . years ago. I don't really remember anything other than it being really sad. Why?"

"It takes place in Portland. And, yeah, it makes me cry."

"So, you came here because Portland makes you cry?"

The mirror ball on the dance floor gleamed in Stephanie's blue eyes. "I came here because it made me _feel_. I felt _something_. Then I got here and found out it's just the same big ball of shit as everywhere else. It doesn't matter where you go, everything just comes with you."

Karma decided to drop the subject even though Stephanie had left it purposely vague.

At the table beside them, three men sat, talking and laughing loud enough that Karma could hear them over the electric bass line of Dido's "Stoned" that the DJ had just fired up. They looked older than most of the people in Uma. They could even be close to Brenda's age. They were all wearing button down shirts. Two of them were drinking Budweiser from bottles. The other, the most talkative one, had a highball. And he badly needed a haircut. His hair hung down past his neckline and it looked as though he'd yet to discover products like gel. Or combs. The thought crossed Karma's mind that the highball could conceivably just be a Coke, but from all impressions, he seemed the drunkest at the table.

"And then . . . " he said, leaning over to the bald guy beside him, "guess what he did?"

The other third guy smiled and shrugged. "I dunno, man. What'd he do?"

The guy with the highball smacked the bald guy in the back of the head. "Hey!" Baldy snapped.

Highball raised his hands. "No, no, I'm just showing what he did. He fucking hit me. Just like that." He hit the bald guy again. "Swear to God, it was just like that, only a helluva lot harder."

"How's about you let me hit you now, just like that only a helluva lot harder?" the bald guy asked.

"Dude, I was just demonstrating. Don't get your panties in a twist!"

The third guy had a slight smile as he looked around the club, seemingly ignoring the other two.

Baldy wasn't happy. "I ain't here for your demonstratin' purposes. Hit me again, wise guy. Just see what happens."

"Okay, okay," Highball said. "Geez, man, I think you left your sense of humor back in the car."

Brenda came back carrying three drinks with an ease Karma found amazing. _Willing to bet she's done some waitressing in her time_ , she thought.

Bending, Brenda placed their drinks on the table just as another burst of uproarious laughter came from the three drunk guys.

With a glance their way, she asked Karma and Stephanie, "What's going on there?"

Stephanie shrugged.

"I think they're drunk," Karma said.

One of the dance floor lights gleamed in Brenda's brown eyes. "They aren't too bad looking," she said.

Karma wanted to tell her they all looked thirty, but remembered her faux pas in the parking lot with Brenda. "I think they're really drunk," she repeated instead.

Brenda gave her a raised eyebrow. "Perfect," she said. Turning around, she draped her arms over the shoulders of Haircut and Baldy. "So gentlemen," she said as they all went quiet. The third one still had a stupid grin on his face. "I understand you're the men with a plan."

They all gave her a half laugh. "That so?" Haircut asked.

"It is," Brenda said.

"And what plan is that?" asked Baldy.

"You know the plan. It starts off with you buying the next round."

"That right?" Baldy asked.

Haircut looked back around Brenda at Karma and Stephanie. Stephanie made the same little wave Brenda had given the bouncer before he started coming over to kick Karma the hell out.

"I'm sure we can probably put some sort of plan together ourselves," the third guy said. He had short blond hair and black-framed glasses.

"No, no," Baldy said, his hand reaching up and taking hold of the one of Brenda's falling over his shoulder. "I want to hear more about _her_ plan." He looked up at her. "It starts with us buying you's some drinks, hey? Where does it end?"

Brenda shook her head. "Ending's not written yet. Still needs to be planned out. You willing to help me put it together?"

Haircut's eyes fixed uncomfortably on Karma. "I think that's a strong possibility. If you ask really nice."

# Chapter 4

BEHIND THE WHEEL OF the unmarked car sat Detective Tony Benedetti. Beside him was his partner, Dennis Martin.

"Allora," Benedetti whispered under his breath.

Normally, the two detectives wouldn't arrive at a scene involving two idiots fighting behind a nightclub, but they were practically driving by when the civil disturbance squelched over the radio. They had been returning from a situation they should never have been called to in the first place so, so far, the night had been a bust. They'd been to Uma before, usually on things drug-related, so they were familiar with some of the staff and even some of the clientele. "At least the night won't have all been for nothing," Benedetti said.

Benedetti spoke English well, his voice only retaining a hint of his heritage. He emigrated to America six years ago. Back home in Ancona, Italy, he worked for _Polizia di Stato_ almost ten years, quickly working his way to the equivalent of what over here they called homicide detective. His work was exemplary and, when he and his wife Dawn came to America, Benedetti's Superior called ahead and not only put in a fantastic word for him but also set up an interview.

He'd been partnered with Martin from the beginning.

Benedetti threw the car into PARK and looked at the two fighters, still engaged. "Shit," he said.

"What?" asked Martin.

Before Benedetti could answer, the guy with the knife bolted, but the bouncer from Uma, someone Benedetti recognized as Rodney Esquivel, grabbed him, twisting his arm behind his back and loosening his grip on the knife. It hit the parking lot with a _clang_!

The two detectives exited their car, leaving the dash light cycling red and blue. Benedetti nodded to the Latino kid. "I know him," he said to Martin. "You take the other one. The one with the bouncer."

Benedetti walked over to Matias Perez, giving a nod to his girlfriend Alexis, noticing her hair happened to be blue and pink tonight. It was always a different color.

"Hey," Benedetti said to Perez, "let's go over there and you and me have a little chat." He nodded to a quiet and dark corner of the lot, around the side of Uma. Away from all the action.

"Matias, whatcha trying to do?" Benedetti asked quietly and close when they were out of earshot from everyone else. Even Alexis knew well enough not to follow. "I thought you and me--I thought we talked about this."

"The guy was out of control, man," Perez said. "He pulled a knife."

Benedetti frowned and gave a slight nod. "All right, I did see the knife."

"I was just defending myself."

Leaning closer, Benedetti sniffed Perez's breath. "Been drinking tonight?"

"Couple beers, man. That's _it_." He noticed Benedetti's look and emphasized the point: "I'm serious, man. That's _it_."

"You drivin' tonight?"

Perez let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah, right. You know I ain't got no car since . . . since what happened. Since the accident. Can't afford one, for one thing."

"What about Alexis's car?"

"She's still got it."

"That how you got here?"

"Yeah."

"Who drove?"

Perez looked up. "You kiddin' me, man?" he asked.

"I'm just asking, Matias. You can't blame me." Benedetti saw a look of disappointment mixed with guilt flash on Perez's face and wished he hadn't asked after all.

"I didn't drive," Perez said quietly. Then he gave Benedetti a half-grin, almost hiding the sadness beneath. "Besides, she don't let me anywhere _near_ her driver's seat. She _loves_ that car."

Benedetti frowned. "All right, so tell me what happened. This other guy--he just _attack_ you? Out of the blue?"

Perez's eyes met Benedetti's. "He made some . . . comments to Alexis. They weren't very nice."

Benedetti glanced again to Perez's girlfriend, standing there with her cotton candy hair and thrift store clothes. His eyebrows went up. "Well, you know, if she dresses like that, the girl's gotta expect some comments." Detective Martin loaded the other guy into the unmarked car's back seat, his hands cuffed behind his back.

Perez started to take exception with Benedetti's comment about Alexis. "I don't think--"

Benedetti cut him off. "Listen. If this wasn't me here right now, you'd be joining him." He nodded over to where Martin was closing the back door of the car before walking over to the bouncer, Rodney Esquivel, presumably to take a statement. "I can't keep doin' this, Matias. It won't always be me showing up. You won't always be this lucky."

"But _Tony!_ " Perez said. "The guy had a _knife_!"

"Yeah, and what if the next guy's got a gun? What then? Who's gonna look after Nina and Gabriela if your brains wind up splattered across Second Avenue?"

Perez looked at his feet.

Benedetti pulled back and glanced across the lot. "Speaking of which, how's your mom doing anyway?"

"Amá's the same." Perez continued looking down. Benedetti frowned. They both knew Nina wouldn't be getting any better, but at least she wasn't worse. "And Gabriela?" Benedetti asked.

Blood ran from the gash on Perez's cheek. He wiped it away.

"That'll need stitches," Benedetti said.

"Yeah, well, I can't afford no stitches."

"Good reason to avoid knife fights, I'd say," Benedetti said.

Perez checked out the cut on his shoulder. It had started to bleed, but not like the one on his cheek.

"You got pretty cut up, hey?" Benedetti pointed out.

"This one's nothin' man. Barely even a flesh wound."

"You got lucky." Benedetti moved closer. "Listen," he said. "Go home. I'll call Dawn, get her to stop by and fix you up."

Perez raised his eyes to Benedetti's. "Your wife gonna stitch me?"

He nodded. "She did a year of med school once."

"A year don't sound like all that much," Perez said worriedly.

"Yeah, well, it won't be all that expensive either."

"Good point."

"All right, let's go back." Benedetti led Perez to where Esquivel and Detective Martin stood near the front of the Crown Vic. Esquivel had his arms crossed. Martin was just putting his pad back in his pocket.

Benedetti took Martin aside. "My guy's promised to go straight home. He's a good guy. I've known him a while. Got problems like everyone else, but he's a good guy. Looks after his mother and sister. Mother's dying from some disease." He nodded over to where Perez now stood beside his girlfriend, Alexis, the one with the cotton candy dreads. "He really is a good guy."

Martin, nodding through this, brought up his hand and clapped Benedetti's shoulder. "I believe you, man. I do."

Benedetti nodded, then gestured to the back of the car where he barely made out the silhouette of the guy handcuffed in the back. "What's his story?"

"Name's Richard Olsen," Martin said. "And, boy, is he a keeper. Can't wait for the ride back. He doesn't ever stop talking. I wish he'd take advantage of his 'right to remain silent.' I bet he's still talking in there."

"Yeah, what's his problem?"

"Says the other guy started everything. You know, like he didn't do nothing."

"Other then pull out a knife," Benedetti said.

Martin laughed. "Yeah, other than that. Didn't have much to say about that, either. But he got pretty pissed when he realized we weren't taking the other guy, too."

Benedetti rubbed the side of his neck. "The other guy didn't have a knife."

"True."

"And he's a good guy."

Martin nodded. "I believe you, man. You don't have to keep telling me."

Benedetti took a breath. "Well, maybe I'm trying to tell myself. I don't know. Anyway, I'm just gonna make sure my guy's headed home. I'll meet you in the car."

Benedetti walked back to where Esquivel and Perez waited. "You're gonna be okay," he said, watching Perez touch the cut on his face.

"Yeah, I know."

Benedetti turned to Esquivel. "My partner get a statement from you?"

"He did," Esquivel said.

"All right, then you're free to get back to work. Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Esquivel walked back toward the club, but he stopped at the corner of the building and leaned against the wall, once again crossing his arms. _Watching to make sure everyone moves along_ , Benedetti guessed.

Benedetti waved Alexis over. "Your boyfriend's gonna go home and chill for the rest of the night," he told her. "Can you make sure he gets there for me?"

Her candy floss dreadlocks flopped as she nodded. "Sure," she said.

"You'll drive him straight there?" Benedetti asked.

"Sure," she repeated. "We've got a gig tomorrow night anyway. I should already be in bed."

"All right," Benedetti said.

Blood ran from the slice in Perez's cheek. "That hurt?" Alexis asked.

Benedetti answered for him. "Nah," he said. "He's a tough guy. He can stand a little pain. Ain't that right, tough guy?"

Perez smiled as Alexis rose up on her tippy toes and kissed his wound.

Benedetti turned and started for the car where Martin waited in the passenger seat.

"Hey, Tony," Perez said from behind him.

Benedetti stopped and turned. "Yeah?"

"Just . . . you know, thanks."

"You don't have to thank me, man, just take care of yourself."

A sad smile came to Perez's face. "I will. But, I just . . . I know you could've taken me in. So thanks for not doing that."

Benedetti smiled. "Don't mention it, man. You're a good guy. Go home and take care of your momma and your sister. They need you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Perez said, nodding thoughtfully, "I know that."

Benedetti watched Perez walk away, remembering the first time he ever met the kid.

He has no idea how long ago the accident occurred when he arrives at the scene. Just one look and it's obvious what happened. The fallen tree, the upturned car, the ditch, the night. It's easy for Benedetti to put two and two together.

Because he's coming home from a callout, Martin's not along for the ride. Benedetti hadn't planned on stumbling upon a car flipped over in a ditch. Looking around, he realizes nobody else has seen it yet. Which means, it must've happened pretty recently.

He leaves his car running with the headlights turned on, parked on the opposite side of the street about a hundred and fifty feet away--just in case. The car looks pretty old and by the way it landed, things might not be so stable. Slowly he walks over, pulling his flashlight out on the way. He's still at least fifty feet from the upturned vehicle when he smells the gasoline.

His heart beats stronger and faster. He hopes to God whoever was in there has gotten out.

As if on cue, he hears the struggling of someone crawling out from underneath. Before doing anything else, he makes a quick assessment of the undercarriage. The gas tank is definitely punctured, there's gas everywhere and, disturbingly, there's smoke coming off the metal. It's not safe.

A male, probably in his early twenties, manages to make it out of the car and stands up on the side of the ditch. He's looking at the vehicle and then steps forward, as though he's going to hop across to the other side. Benedetti knows that's a bad idea. Being anywhere near the thing's a bad idea.

Benedetti runs over as fast as he can.

Grabbing the kid's arm, he quickly pulls him across the street and back to Benedetti's own car. He practically throws him into the ditch on the other side where he forces him to crouch down. The kid is trying to say something, but Benedetti's mind is only on that other car, losing gasoline, becoming overheated.

And then, a minute or two later, it erupts in an explosion that sends metal and debris everywhere. Some of it showers down onto the hood of Benedetti's car. He can hear it bouncing of the metal like hail.

"You okay?" he asks the kid when it's over. His face is ashen. He's in shock.

"My sister . . . " he says. "She's--she--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Benedetti says and pulls the kid's head into his chest.

Twenty minutes later, Benedetti takes a statement. He's known since pulling the kid's head so close that the kid's drunk. He just reeks of booze. He also knows the guilt the kid's starting to feel now that the initial shock has worn away.

He drove drunk and he killed his sister.

Benedetti doesn't report the fact that Matias Perez was inebriated at the time of the accident. He feels the guilt is far and away punishment enough.

# Chapter 5

KARMA, BRENDA, AND STEPHANIE squeezed around the table with the three drunk guys Brenda had propositioned into buying them all drinks. They all sort of paired off; Karma getting her pick by default after Brenda and Stephanie made their choices before Karma had a chance to tell them she didn't really like any of the guys all that much. Across from her, Brenda was actually sitting in her guy's lap. She'd chosen first and picked the bald one, for reasons Karma would never understand. She was laughing at something he just said but Karma hadn't heard over the synthesizer pops of Erasure's "A Little Respect" pounding out from the dance floor. Karma hadn't said a word since they joined the guys. She'd spent the time watching a small piece of lemon float around the top of her martini.

Stephanie leaned over, yelling, "Why don't you just drink it instead of staring it into submission?" She and Brenda were already on their seconds.

Karma took a sip. It was a larger sip than her last one (which had been her first) and did nothing to change her appraisal of it: it tasted like shit. The gin burned down her throat. She winced.

"You know what I think we need?" Brenda hollered. "A round of tequila shots!" The guy beside Karma--she thought his name was Steve, but then, to her recollection they all seemed to be Steves--said, "That sounds like a job for me." He rose from his seat and Karma watched him push his way through a sea of people standing around the dance floor as he made his way to the bar. His white Adidas glowed under the black lights the entire way.

Stephanie leaned over to Karma and whispered loud enough for the table to hear, "Will you lighten up? I've seen happier people at funerals."

Karma patronized her with a half-smile.

"You're not still worried about that bouncer are you?" Stephanie asked. "If you were gonna be tossed, you'd be out of here by now. He didn't even recognize you." But Karma knew she was wrong. He had recognized her, only someone had called him outside before he made it across the club to give her the boot.

Returning from the bar, Steve set down a tray of double shots along with a bowl of lime slices and a salt shaker. Stephanie grabbed the salt. "You know how to do this?"

Karma shook her head.

"Watch," Stephanie said. Licking the back of her hand, she shook salt onto the saliva, licked it, then tossed one of the shots straight back before squeezing the piece of lime between her teeth. She looked like she wanted to wretch.

"Wonderful," Karma said.

Brenda laughed. "You could always do a body shot." Out of the club's sound system, Erasure gave way to Dirty Vegas's "Days Go By." Brenda licked the side of Stephanie's neck then awkwardly covered her in salt, some of which actually hit her neck. She licked it off and the rest went pretty much the same as Stephanie's had, complete with the looking-like-she-might-wretch expression afterward. "The other side of her neck's yours!" Brenda called across the table.

"I think I'm good," Karma said.

"Oh, don't be a wimp. At least try one," Stephanie said. "You don't have to do it off my neck."

With a big exasperated breath, Karma plucked one of the shots from the tray.

"I'll do it with you," her Steve--or whatever he was called--said, licking his hand.

"I'm just going to do mine normally," Karma said.

"Suit yourself." Steve licked the salt, downed the tequila, bit the lime, almost vomited.

Karma took a small sip of hers and scrunched up her face. "It's like piss, only worse." The sip tried to come back up her now burning throat. She quickly grabbed a lime and sucked it.

"You forgot the salt," Stephanie said.

"I don't even like lime," Karma said. "But I hate the shit you just made me drink even more. It tastes like gasoline."

Brenda smiled. "Yeah, isn't it great?"

Karma shook her head. Everyone looked at her expectantly. "What?" she asked.

"Well, you have to finish it," her Steve said.

"Why?"

He didn't have a ready response. It took a second. "Why? Why not?"

"Can't argue with that," she said and, lifting the rest of the shot, poured it down her throat. It felt like her face was going to pop off her neck. "Oh my God, that's so gross." She sucked another lime and pushed back her chair.

"What are you doing?" Brenda asked.

"I need to go to the can," she said.

"Do your other one first."

"Why do I have another one?"

"There's two for each of us," the Steve who bought them said.

"Great," Karma said. "How thoughtful." She quickly downed her second, amazed she didn't throw it up immediately. "Oh God. No more, please." Her knees wobbled as she tried to walk, forcing her to grab the table for balance.

Brenda pointed in the restroom's general direction. "That way," she said.

Shakily, Karma weaved her way across the dance floor, pinballing off at least five people before reaching the other side. She quietly apologized each time although nobody heard her above the music.

Back at the table, Stephanie's Steve winked to Karma's Steve and said, "You better go make sure she makes it there okay."

# Chapter 6

WHILE THE DETECTIVES PULLED out of Uma's parking lot with Ricky the Knifer cuffed in the backseat, Rodney Esquivel watched the other guy from the fight, the Latino, get into his Gothy girlfriend's beat up yellow Chevy and take off in the other direction. He'd expected _both_ guys to be taken into custody.

Pushing his hand through his short black hair, he sighed. It was good the situation was handled nice and quick, but now he remembered the issue he'd been addressing before he was called outside: the issue of his sixteen-year-old babysitter, Karma Ackerman, somehow managing to sneak through Uma's doors.

Back inside, it didn't take long for Rodney to find the two girls Karma was with when he had spotted her earlier. One was on the dance floor, obviously a bit smashed. Her dancing looked like a combination of Lambada and hardcore porn. The other was sitting at a table with some scruffy-haired guy looking at least fifteen years older than her.

_He wouldn't look out of place standing in line at a methadone clinic_ , Rodney thought. _Or in prison_.

Karma's friends surprised him. They didn't look like the types he'd have expected her to hang with. Almost made him second-think keeping her as a babysitter.

He walked over to the table just as the girl pulled a knotted maraschino cherry stem from her mouth. "Where's Karma?" he asked her, his big hand gripping the back of one of the three empty chairs.

The guy looked alarmed, but the chick didn't miss a beat. "I don't know who you're talking about," she said, her fingers playing with the pink plastic sword piercing the olive in her drink.

"I don't need your shit. You want me to ID you, too? Where the hell is she?"

The girl ignored him, keeping her eyes fixed on the olive and sword twirling in her fingers.

"Fine," Rodney said. He carefully checked the dance floor and then went to the bar. He was about to go upstairs to the VIP section when he thought about the restrooms. He spotted her immediately upon entering the hall. She was against the wall beside the restroom door, some guy with cropped red hair and a goatee directly in front of her, his forearm leaning against the yellow wall above her head. A tattoo of a sun in jailhouse blue decorated the back of his hand. He couldn't be any closer to her if he tried. Karma looked uncomfortable, maybe even a little scared.

"Come on," the guy said to her. "One kiss. Then I'll let you go potty."

"I think the girl said no," Rodney said.

The guy turned, looking ready for a fight until he caught sight of Rodney's imposing physique towering over him. The tightened anger that had come to his face quickly crumbled away. "I--" he started, but Rodney didn't wait for him to finish. Grabbing him by the neck of his shirt, he slammed him hard against the wall beside Karma.

"Listen," the guy said, his voice trembling. "I ain't doin' nothin' wrong."

"I should break every bone in your body," Rodney said.

"Wait, you don't get it. I was just--you know . . . I bought her drinks and . . . stuff."

"She's sixteen years old, asshole."

That shut him up. The redness in his face faded to a more ashen color. Sweat dotted his forehead. "Listen, man. I seriously didn't know. I mean, Christ, how would I . . . she's in a _club_ , man."

"Shut up," Rodney said. "Tell you what, you get the hell out of here before I bust you up and you take your four friends with you, understood?"

He looked confused. "Four friends? Man, I ain't got . . . "

"The other two guys and the chicks. They're all out, you understand? You get five minutes, then you go out through the fucking door head first. And it won't be open."

A line of sweat ran down the side of the guy's face. He quickly nodded. "Yeah man . . . yeah. No problem. We're gone."

"You _ever_ come back here," Rodney said, "and I'm gonna put you right through this fucking wall. You _should_ be going to jail. _Comprende_?"

The guy nodded again. "I didn't know man, honestly . . . I thought . . . I mean, yeah, I get it. I get it. _Comprende_. I'm goin'."

Rodney threw him toward the hall's entrance so hard the guy stumbled and nearly fell. He went quickly, banging into people as he pushed his way toward the two on the dance floor. Rodney slowly nodded, confident he'd seen the last of him and his buddies. Then he turned his attention to Karma.

"Thanks," she said meekly, quickly glancing away from Rodney's eyes, looking instead at her white strappy pumps.

Rodney touched her chin, turning her face up to his. She had on far too much makeup, and he bet the thirty-year-old chick he saw grinding on the dance floor did her hair. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked her.

"Well," she said, "my original plan was to use the toilet." A small flicker of hope flashed in her eyes.

Rodney inhaled a big breath. "Okay, this is what's going to happen." He gestured to the restroom door. "You're going to go in there and do what you need to do, then you're gonna go home, and come back in, oh, I don't know, five years?" He shook his head. "Now I see why you were too busy to sit Lila tonight."

"I'm sorry." Her gaze dropped back to the floor. "I really am." She looked like an injured animal.

Rodney pulled back a little. "Hey, don't be sorry about being busy--nothing wrong with having plans on a Saturday night. And hell, I did far worse than this when I was your age. Tell you right now, _Carl's_ the one who's gonna be sorry. He should never have let you in. There's no way in the world your ID's this good."

Her face was red, and Rodney thought she might start crying. "Hey," he said again, "you're not the first person to sneak in here under age. You're not even the first person _tonight_. You just happened to get made by someone who cares enough about you to send you home."

She nodded, still refusing to look at him.

"You okay?" he asked. "You don't look so well."

"Tequila," she said flatly and burped.

Rodney laughed. "Well, you'll enjoy it even more in the morning."

"Great."

Nodding to the restroom door again, he said, "If I let you go in there while I go make sure your Mr. Wonderful and all his friends have found their way out of the building, do you promise me you'll leave on your own?"

She nodded.

"Okay."

She started to turn away when he stopped her.

"Hey," he said.

She looked in his eyes.

"When you _are_ old enough? I promise I'll take you out myself. I'll even pick up the tab. Deal?"

"Deal," she said quietly.

# Chapter 7

DETECTIVES TONY BENEDETTI AND Dennis Martin drove back to the shop with Richard Olsen handcuffed in the back of their car. Olsen spent the entire trip screaming out objections about being arrested.

"Why the _fuck_ didn't you take the other guy, too?" he hollered. "He fucking _started_ everything! You know what this is? It's reverse discrimination, that's what! If _that_ guy was white, and _I_ was a fucking wetback? I'd be walking home with my freaky girlfriend and he'd be back here! Fucking admit it!" He booted the seat. "Admit it!"

"Do that once more and we tie your feet," Benedetti said calmly.

"Fuck you, pig," Olsen said and booted it again.

Benedetti pulled over to the side of the road. "You or me?" he asked Martin.

"I'll do it," Martin said. He opened his door, stepped out onto the gravel shoulder, and opened the back door of the Crown Vic. Then he yanked Olsen roughly outside. Benedetti looked over his shoulder, smiling as Olsen's ass hit the gravel at Martin's feet. Olsen started kicking as Martin produced the plastic wire tie. "Keep doing that and you'll make me have to tase you first," Martin said, his calm voice a dramatic contrast to Olsen.

Olsen stopped kicking. Martin circled the plastic tie around his ankles and pulled it up as tight as he could. Then Benedetti saw him pull it just a little bit tighter. "Fuck!" Olsen yelled. "That's way too fucking tight!"

Lifting him off the ground, Martin threw him back into the car leaving him laid out across the seat. "If it's too tight, then I guess you should've stopped kicking the seat when my partner nicely asked you to." He shut the door and got back in beside Benedetti.

"Fucking reverse discrimination!" Olsen yelled as they pulled back out onto the street. His voice had lost a lot of its bravado. He sounded like a beaten dog, but continued talking anyway. "That's what this is. Admit it. I'm here because I'm white."

Martin leaned over to Benedetti and said quietly, "Good thing he doesn't know my wife's Korean."

Benedetti smirked. Then he called back to Olsen. "You're wrong," he said, "the reason it's you with us is all because you had a knife. He didn't."

"Liar!" Olsen screamed. "It's because he was a fucking Mexican." He lowered his voice and added: "This whole country's going to goddamn hell." Then he finally fell silent.

"So," Martin said to Benedetti, "how's Dawn?"

"Huge. She's almost as big as a house."

Martin laughed. "When's she due?"

"Just under two more months. You know, I can't imagine how big she'll be by then. Her breasts . . . well, let's just say it's like Disneyland with new rides." He laughed, but Martin didn't even chuckle. The man had two character flaws: an extremely lacking sense of humor and an adamant refusal to try appreciating country music.

"I'm glad it's going good for her this time," Martin said.

Benedetti let out a big breath. "Yeah, me too, compadre. I don't think either of us could've survived another miscarriage."

"Yeah." Martin's hand went to the handle above his door. He watched the road ahead.

"Next week's her birthday," Benedetti said.

"Dawn's?" Martin asked.

"Yeah."

"Doing anything special?"

Benedetti paused, then said, "Yeah, a little something."

Out of nowhere, Olsen got a renewed blast of energy and a stream of loud obscenities exploded from the backseat.

Benedetti turned the radio on, bringing up the volume loud enough to drown him out. Because neither of them liked the same music, they compromised by listening to a station they both didn't like. This time, however, Benedetti recognized the song as they listened to the last thirty seconds of "Leaving Me Like Daddy Did _"_ by Dakota Shane. The disc jockey broke in as the final strains of steel guitar faded out, his bass-enhanced voice filling the car. "Dakota Shane, folks," he said, "rocking your night tonight on Portland's own KJZZ, the Fringe. This is Lex the Axeman and you're listening to _Night Flight_. The clock's just rounding eleven-thirty on this starry west coast night, and I want to remind all you Dakota fans out there that Monday afternoon, during _Live At Five_ , yours truly will be interviewing Ms. Shane live from right here in Studio One, as she prepares for Saturday's sold out show at the Rose Garden. The interview should be a good one. You'll hear all about her show and her new CD, _Take Me Apart_ and, I'm hoping, perhaps I'll get her to shine a little light on the truth about the recent rumors circling the tabloids . . . "

"Your wife, does she like Dakota Shane?" Benedetti asked Martin. "Mine goes nuts for her. Apparently . . . well, according to Dawn anyway, the night me and her met? She insists I asked her to dance. She also claims it was to a Dakota Shane song."

"What do you mean, she insists? Don't you know? Were you drunk?"

Laughing, Benedetti waved the comment away. " _Amico mio_ ," he said. "When have you known me to drink? My memory's bad enough sober. Hell, I don't remember _any_ dancing. The song? Forget about it."

Martin frowned. "Sang doesn't really notice music. She's . . . well, she spends a lot of time at work. Both physically at the hospital and also, I guess, in her head when she's not."

"That don't sound too good, compadre."

Martin shook his head. "You get used to it, you know? My son, though, he's a different story."

"Yeah, he still playing that cello?"

"Oh yeah. He's crazy about it and you know? He's really good. He's in Lewis and Clark, in their music program."

"Yeah, I remember you telling me when he got in. So does your wife at least like cello music?"

Another frown. "Sang-mi doesn't really notice my son, either."

Benedetti couldn't think of a response to that. On the radio, Lex the Axeman was still talking about his upcoming interview with Dakota Shane: "--those of you who missed this morning's _Crack of_ Dawn show, Juliette and Jerry announced we'll be giving away two double sets of tickets to Dakota Shane's show, complete with backstage passes. Can you imagine? Now, there's a woman I'd like to get backstage with, let me tell . . . "

Martin looked at Benedetti. "You should try to win tickets. You know, for Dawn's birthday."

Smiling, Benedetti dropped the sun visor down, revealing two concert tickets tucked into the pocket behind it. He pulled them out and handed them across to Martin. "Way ahead of you, compadre."

From where he lay tied and cuffed in the backseat, Olsen called out, "Hey! I think we just passed a black guy breaking into a Porsche. Why don't you guys pull over and hold the fucking flashlight for him, you fucking reverse racist pigs?"

Benedetti hit the brakes of the Crown Victoria as hard as he could, listening intently as Olsen struck the back of the front seats and landed hard on the floor. He threw Martin a sideways grin. "I'm bettin' you thought you left all this behind when you left LA, am I right?"

# Chapter 8

A FEW BLOCKS SOUTH of Brooklyn Park, Alexis Thorn pulled her yellow Chevy Aveo to the curb on Twelfth Avenue in front of an old three-story apartment building. The outside had been recently painted, but the shade of brown chosen gave it a more than dreary appearance for all the effort. _At least it looks better at night_ , Alexis decided, throwing her car into PARK. _At night it just looks black_. It had looked better white, even given how much that white had peeled.

Matias sat beside her, his shirt still off the way it had been since his fight. It was balled up in his fist, drenched in blood from his having used it to dab at the cut on his face the entire way home.

"You gonna be okay?" Alexis asked him, pushing a stray lock of pink and blue hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, I think so," he said and, pulling the shirt from his wound, he checked the fresh blood spot on it.

"Let me see," Alexis said. "Come here."

She turned on the car's interior light as he leaned toward her. She studied the laceration on his cheek. It seemed wider and deeper now than it had been back at the club, but then she hadn't really given it such a close inspection then. She brought up her hand and gently touched it.

"Ow!" Matias said, pulling away.

"It looks bad."

He popped down the car's visor and checked himself in the mirror. "I think it looks worse than it is."

"Doubt it."

Flipping the visor back up, he brought his shirt once again to his wound. "Thanks for the ride," he said. "Wanna come up and say hi to Amá and Gabriela? Things might go easier if you're with me."

"I really can't. We play the Smilin' Gandhi tomorrow. I really need to get to bed. They want our sound check done by noon."

He nodded.

"You gonna be okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"You're worried about how your mom's going to react to the cut?"

He looked absently out his window. "I'm worried 'bout how she'll react to me fighting again. I don't think she'll be all that concerned 'bout my face."

"You'll be okay." Alexis smiled sadly.

He let out a big breath, his head still turned away. "Yeah. She just . . . she worries, you know? I know that's all it is. She's worried I'm gonna turn out like Papa."

Alexis touched his shoulder. He turned back to her, their eyes meeting. "You're not your dad," she said seriously. "Your dad was an asshole. You're not an asshole."

He smiled thinly. "Thanks. Sometimes I wonder, though . . . "

"Wonder what?"

"'Bout that. 'Bout me turning into Papa. I worry 'bout that, you know?"

She nodded quietly.

He waved his hand at the thought. "Hey, I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on in my head tonight. Thanks again for the ride." He gripped the door handle.

"You don't have to thank me. You're my boyfriend."

"That a good thing?"

Her smile widened. "Usually."

With another deep breath, he said, "Usually? Not so much tonight?"

"No, more than usual tonight. You were pretty awesome going up against that guy for being such an ass to me. I thought you were very brave and chivalrous."

He looked out the windshield. "And stupid," he said.

Tilting the rearview, Alexis checked herself out in the mirror, adjusting the leather dog collar around her neck so the silver ring centered below her chin. Matias's gaze was fixed on two black kids coming down the sidewalk toward them, their skin nearly camouflaging them in the night's darkness.

"Hey," she said, waiting until his attention came back to her. "You're not your dad. Seriously."

He nodded silently.

"You coming tomorrow?" she asked.

"Depends. You gonna finally play that song you said you wrote 'bout me?"

"Maybe."

"Then maybe I'll come."

They kissed. Alexis closed her eyes. She wasn't sure, but when the kiss was over she thought Matias had left his open.

"Okay," she said. "Now get out of my car before you get blood all over it."

# Chapter 9

ACROSS THE RIVER, AND a good deal north from Alexis and Matias, Trinity Shaw sat at her kitchen table, drinking and worrying.

She lived with her daughter Karma in a two-bedroom condo on the building's fifth floor that, on very clear days, offered a glimpse of the Broadway Bridge from its balcony. That is, if you knew what to look for.

Four things sat on the table in front of Trinity: a heliotrope lamp procured as part of her separation settlement, an old AM/FM radio, a half empty bottle of Chivas, and a glass partially filled with maybe three fingers of scotch. The kitchen lights were off, and the lamp cast the room in a weird purplish glow reflecting off the polished oak laminate floor and the gleaming white appliances.

The radio was ancient, sporting a tuner knob, a volume slider, a single speaker, and a bent antenna. Like the lamp, the radio dated back to before she and her husband broke up eight months ago. Unlike the lamp, Trinity hadn't won it in the settlement--her ex had just given it to her. Some nights, like tonight, she considered it may have come with a hidden agenda, her ex-husband being Lex the Axeman, the DJ for KJZZ, the Fringe's _Night Flight_ show that came on at ten o'clock every weeknight.

Lex's real name was Lewis Ackerman, a surname Trinity had kept for four months after her separation before going back to her maiden name.

Her ex's show was the only thing she ever listened to on the radio, and she only did that on nights like tonight, when her daughter had gone out somewhere, leaving Trinity drunk and alone. She had no idea what drove her to it. "You hate the man, for Christ's sake," she said, swimming through all the scotch numbing her mind. She emptied her glass down her throat, set it down, and refilled it.

Her mind shifted back to her _real_ worry--one she'd had for a while--namely, her daughter, Karma. For the past six months, she'd watched Karma change from this perfect little princess into . . . well, Trinity wasn't sure what. Something was wrong, though. All of Trinity's instincts, even while severely impaired, told her things had derailed and she had no idea what to do about it. When it started, she'd simply hoped Karma would figure things out and turn everything around on her own. She'd always been a bright, responsible girl. But that was when she was younger and before the break up.

Now all Karma's decisions seemed like bad ones. Her schoolwork suffered, her friends seemed sketchy, her actions . . . well, everything about her just seemed "off."

Trinity drank her fresh glass of Chivas straight down. "Christ," she said, the scotch burning. "She's sixteen. This is _normal_. All kids go through shit like this."

She didn't believe it, though. Karma had taken Trinity and Lewis's separation hard. It hadn't been good for any of them, but it seemed particularly bad for Karma. Neither Trinity nor Lewis handled the breakup very well. Of course, Lewis handled it the worst, but Trinity knew she played a part. Somehow Karma had ended up in the middle of it all. She'd become collateral damage.

From the tinny speaker, "Mony Mony" came to an end and Trinity poured another glass of Chivas as her ex-husband's voice replaced the song. "That was Billy Idol by request for all you boys and girls out there in Stump Town. This is KJZZ's _Night Flight_. I'm Lex the Axeman, and we're only a dozen minutes away from The Witching Hour. Coming up next is another oldie but goodie from . . . "

Listening to Lewis always filled Trinity's head with questions. Questions like: _Is he happy? Is he sad? Maybe suicidal? Dating? Suddenly gay?_

"Why do you even care?" she asked the olive wall beside her.

It was almost midnight. Her daughter had been gone . . . oh how long had it been? _She left at nine_ , Trinity thought. _Or was it eight?_ Didn't matter. _It's goddamn midnight. She should be home._ But the truth was, Lewis's voice brought her a different concern than Karma's whereabouts, and that was: _Why the hell do I still care about him?_

The condo's door slammed shut and Trinity jumped. A few seconds later, Karma entered the kitchen. "Hey Mom," she said.

Trinity stared through the scotch sloshing around inside her head, taking in her daughter's clothing while Karma opened the refrigerator door and looked inside. Karma's midriff was bare, her skirt was too short, her shoes were too strappy, and there was far too much makeup on her face.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Trinity asked, trying not to slur her words. Karma apparently didn't hear as she bent forward into the icebox, rummaging for something.

She came out with an apple, taking a bite of it as she closed the fridge door.

Trinity just stared.

"What?" Karma asked.

"You look like shit."

Karma swallowed her bite of apple. "Thanks. You too."

"Where the hell have you been? Who were you out with? You do know it's almost midnight, right? Who did your makeup? You look like a tramp."

Karma shrugged. "I'm sixteen and it's Friday. I don't think midnight's that late. And why do you care what I look like? Maybe I _am_ a tramp."

Trinity ignored her. Karma was trying to rattle her. Usually it would've worked, but tonight, Trinity was far too maudlin for an argument. "You could call and tell me when you're going to be out late," she said. "Then I wouldn't worry."

Another shrug from Karma as her teeth again crunched into the apple. "I didn't think it was late," she mumbled with her mouth full.

Trinity patted the table in front of the chair beside hers. "Come. Sit."

Karma considered the proposition before finally plopping down at the table. The radio played the opening guitar of Bryan Adams' "Run To You."

Karma nodded to it. "That dad?"

Trinity felt her cheeks redden as she looked away. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She thought about lying, but decided to be honest. "Yeah." She looked back at Karma just in time to see her eyeing the Chivas bottle.

"Rough night?" she asked. Trinity couldn't tell if it was sarcastic.

Karma's makeup had begun to run. "I could ask the same about you," Trinity said.

"What?"

"Your night," Trinity said. "You don't seem very happy." Truth was, since the breakup, Trinity's daughter had rarely seemed happy.

"My night wasn't so great."

"Define 'not so great.'"

Karma set the half-finished apple on the table and slouched in her chair. "Okay, it was like the _worst_."

This was the longest conversation Trinity could remember having with Karma in months, so she tried not to ruin it with any sort of judgment in her response. "Yeah? Sorry to hear that. What . . . what did you do? Where were you?"

Karma blinked, her eyes cutting to Trinity before looking away. Eventually, she took a big breath and answered. "Well, I sort of . . . " She trailed off, leaving Trinity anxious and apprehensive for the rest. With another glance her way, Karma quickly finished. "Okay, here goes. I went to a bar with fake ID, drank tequila shots, and had some guy try and molest me on my way to the toilet." With a sigh, Karma closed her eyes. Her shoulders fell. She opened her eyes again. "Yeah, that about sums it up. Oh, and I got thrown out by the guy I babysit for who just happened to be the bouncer." Her fingers played with the apple on the table. "So, yeah, my night wasn't so great."

Trinity tried to come up with a reply, finally deciding on: "No shit."

Karma took another bite of apple, slowly chewing it. Her eyes went to the olive wall.

Trinity took a sip of scotch, letting it roll around her tongue this time before swallowing. "Well I'm glad you're home and safe."

Karma nodded, pensively looking back. "You're not mad?"

Trinity scratched her ear. "No," she said. "I'm too busy wallowing in self-pity to be mad." Her fingers grasped her glass from its top, giving it a half-turn before she looked back at Karma. "How did you like the tequila?"

Karma shrugged. "I didn't know you were supposed to like it."

A small laugh escaped Trinity's lips. She lifted her glass, nearly emptying it in one mouthful.

"Don't you work tomorrow?" Karma asked.

Trinity swallowed and then finished the rest of her drink before answering. "Nope. They've decided to limit our hours since they're expecting everyone to pull so much overtime next week."

"That doesn't sound very fair."

Trinity shrugged. "I think the hotel's struggling. There's been lots of cutbacks."

They both fell silent as Lewis's voice once again filled the room. Karma finished her apple. Trinity stared at the Chivas bottle, her mind going back to her wedding day some sixteen years ago.

Karma finally pulled Trinity from her reverie. "So, what's next week?"

"What?"

"All the overtime you said you'll be working. What's so great about next week?"

"Oh," Trinity replied. "Dakota Shane. She's staying at the Belmont. Starting Monday, her people will be arriving daily, right up to Saturday. I thought I told you this." She poured another glass of Chivas, hesitating before setting down the bottle again. "You . . . um . . . you want some of this?"

"The Chivas?" Karma asked.

"Yeah."

Karma thought it over. "Does it taste anything like tequila?"

"Nope."

She thought some more. "Sure. What the hell."

"I'll get you a glass." Trinity swirled around the scotch in the bottom of the bottle. "There's only about a glass left." The bottle had been full when the night started.

Karma reached across and took it from her. "Don't worry about it. This is fine." Lifting the neck to her lips, Karma tilted her head back and drank at least a third of what was left in the bottle. Her face cringed as she swallowed.

Trinity just watched, stunned. "Seriously?"

"What?"

Trinity shook her head. "Nothing." She took another swig from her own glass.

Karma set the bottle down and stared at it instead of the wall.

"Don't tell anybody," Trinity said.

"About you giving me alcohol?"

Trinity smiled. "No. About Dakota Shane staying at the hotel. They're increasing all the security. Putting in extra cameras, hiring more guards, everything. It's gotta be costing them a small fortune. It's supposed to be all hush hush."

"I won't tell anyone." Karma took another sip, making the same face.

"Is it _any_ better than the tequila?"

"I don't know. Maybe it needs a lime or some salt?"

"People who drink scotch aren't the sort of people with time for limes or salt."

"Why's that?"

"It would interrupt the drinking part too much."

Setting the bottle back down, Karma smiled. "Hey," she said. "Maybe you'll meet her."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dakota Shane. Maybe you'll meet her."

Trinity felt heat rising to her skin again as KJZZ came back from commercial and Lewis's voice returned, filling the kitchen. "We don't need to listen to this," she said, turning down the volume. "It was just me being . . . I don't know. It's all just . . . dumb, I guess . . . "

Karma finished the bottle. This time her expression barely changed as the booze went down.

"Getting better?" Trinity asked.

Karma nodded. "I'm probably just getting drunk and not caring about the taste anymore."

"Yeah, that's how it works."

"Fun."

Lewis continued. Trinity went to turn the radio off completely but Karma spoke up, stopping her.

"It's okay," she said. "I know you listen to him."

"You do?" Of course she did.

Karma picked at the label on the Chivas bottle. "Yeah. Do you miss him?"

"Want the truth?"

Karma nodded, still picking at the label.

"I hate his fucking guts. He's an asshole--quite possibly the biggest bastard on the planet."

Karma thought this over, still picking. She nodded. "Yeah, I get that. But you didn't answer my question." She stopped picking and looked up. "Do you miss him?"

Trinity watched the radio while Lewis introduced U2's "Sunday Bloody Sunday." Her chest heaved. "Yeah." She looked at Karma. "You know? Yeah. I do.

"Sometimes, I do."

# Chapter 10

THE DREARY BROWN OUTSIDE of the apartment building Matias Perez lived in very much matched the interior. The complex had been built in the seventies and other than the recent paint job on the outside, little work had been put into it since. There wasn't even an elevator. Matias lived with his amá and sister in number 107 on the ground floor. Three years ago, they'd lived on the third floor, but Amá's ALS had grown worse, forcing her into a wheelchair and the third floor became inaccessible.

It was a small apartment, only two bedrooms with a half-kitchen and a living room cramped by furniture--Amá's chair, a sofa, a coffee table, and a small television stand. A drab, gray carpet covered the floor so worn in places it showed the plywood underneath. The furniture had come in secondhand from Matias's uncle who lived down in Eugene. Most of it was still in okay condition, but the green and brown upholstered sofa was nearly destroyed from Matias sleeping on it the past five years. He'd started saving for a new one, squirreling away money from whenever he got work, but when Amá got so bad she couldn't leave her chair, he decided buying her a decent TV was more important than him having a comfortable bed. He could always sleep on the floor.

Matias was sitting on the sofa now, while Dawn Benedetti, very pregnant wife of Detective Tony Benedetti, gently stitched up the cut on his cheek. "Hold still," she said. "I'm not an expert at this."

"That's encouraging," Matias said.

"No talking."

Matias's fourteen-year-old sister, Gabriela, sat on the coffee table watching. Amá was in her chair. Every so often, one of her arms would spasm drawing Matias's attention. "You okay, Amá?" he asked.

"No moving," Mrs. Benedetti said.

"Man, that looks so weird," Gabriela said. When she was really young, she wanted to be a nurse for a while and then a veterinarian. Matias remembered her telling all the relatives about it. The memory churned like thick butter in Matias's mind. He wished life for his family--in particular, Amá--had been different. He wished time hadn't eroded away her dreams. Mainly, he wished he had the ability to make her life perfect for her, but so far all he'd managed was the television.

Again, Amá's arm jerked uncontrollably.

"You okay, Amá?" Matias repeated.

"Please quit moving," Mrs. Benedetti said.

Gabriela looked back at Amá. "She's not listening to you," she said. "She's watching _House_."

"Amá!" Matias said loudly, but still didn't get a response. "Momma!"

"Seriously," Mrs. Benedetti said. "I'm bad enough at this as it is."

"Doesn't it hurt?" Gabriela asked.

"No," Matias said, shaking his head before he could catch himself. Mrs. Benedetti just sighed.

"Looks like it should hurt," Gabriela said.

"Well, probably if it were someone else it would. I think they'd probably be in tears. But not me," Matias said. "I'm a Greek god."

"The Greek god better stop talking or he'll get his mouth stitched shut," Mrs. Benedetti said. Her stomach bumped his arm. "Sorry. I'm not used to carrying all this cargo."

"When does the baby come?" Gabriela asked.

"June six my doctor says."

"First one's always late," Amá said. "Matty was late three weeks. Gabby was right on time."

"Maybe it's just boys always late," Mrs. Benedetti said, smiling. "I'm having a girl."

"How do you know?" Gabriela asked. "Did the doctor tell you?"

"No, I just know. When you've got a baby inside you, you just know things."

"I thought Matty was going to be a girl," Amá said. "I hope for your sake you're right and it's a daughter. You don't want boys."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Matias asked.

Mrs. Benedetti laughed.

Amá gestured to Matias, her arm jerking in another spasm. "Just look at all this," she said. "This is what you get with boys. They make you worry too much. Every time they leave the house you worry it's the last time you'll see them. Now he comes home all cut up. What can I do?"

"I think that's a bit dramatic," Matias said.

"You have no idea what you put me through," Amá said. "You're just like your papa. He wouldn't--"

Before he could stop himself, Matias reacted. "I am not like that son of a bitch!" he snapped.

Gabriela jumped at his tone. Mrs. Benedetti took a wary step back, holding the needle as far as she could from his face.

"Don't ever say that to me again! Why do you _always_ have to say that?"

"Fine," Amá said, dismissively. "You're not like your papa. You're your own problems, just like he was _his_ own problems. Doesn't matter. Still the same thing. It'll still end with you just not comin' home one day."

"Listen," Mrs. Benedetti said. "Can you guys wait just another minute before having this conversation? Let me finish up and then you can scream and wave and even jump up and down if you like."

Matias let out a deep breath and tried to slow his heart. His gash stung as Mrs. Benedetti finished up, pulling the stitches tightly together before cutting off the thread.

"Okay," she said. "You're clear to start yelling again."

"I'm done talking 'bout Papa," Matias said.

"You do sometimes remind me of him," Gabriela said quietly.

"Yeah? Well, there's a huge difference. I'd _never_ abandon this family. Ever."

"That's not what I meant," Gabriela said.

"That's not at all what she meant and you know it," Amá said, her eyes not leaving the TV screen. "It's not what I meant, either."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I'm not worried 'bout you abandoning us, Matty. I'm worried you just won't come home one day because you end up in prison. Or maybe something even worse."

"What's worse than going to prison?" Gabriela asked.

"Being dead."

"I'm not going to prison and I'm not dying any time soon." For the second time tonight, Matias's mind was lurched back to the accident two and a half years ago. He wondered if Amá was thinking about it, too.

"Don't worry about him so much," Gabriela said to Amá. "He's a Greek god, remember?"

But Amá wasn't listening. She was once again submerged in her TV show where, on the screen, House said, "A unicorn isn't a unicorn. It's a donkey with a plunger stuck to its face."

Amá laughed. "That's you, Matty."

He shook his head absently. "Now what're you talking 'bout?"

"You. You think you're some kind of unicorn, but you're not. You're just another donkey with a plunger stuck on his face."

Matias narrowed his eyes. "No, you're wrong," he said. "Papa was the donkey, not me."

He ran his finger along the stitches in his cheek. "He was the donkey, and I'd rather be dead than be like him." And his mind filled with the image of his red Honda Civic rolling into the ditch and the way the flames erupted all orange and red like pumpkins and fire trucks in that cold October night.

# Chapter 11

FOUR HUNDRED MILES AND a half dozen hours away, a black four-year-old Chrysler Sebring convertible headed west on Interstate 84 with Boise, Idaho in its wake. In the rear view, the faint pinkish blue of morning barely glowed across the state's horizon. The driver, a black man named Reggie Hines, had an almost-full forty-ounce bottle of Old English 800 lodged between his legs as he sang along to Clarence Clemens blasting "Slip Away" out of the Alpine. Reggie drove with the top down, edging the needle of the speedometer toward eighty as he sailed down the empty, open highway, no longer even aware of the chill slapping his face and his nearly-shaved head. Through the beer and the numbness of exposure, he hadn't felt the cold since Nebraska.

It was now Saturday, but, technically--to Reggie anyway--it was still late Friday night. He'd been on the road near on an entire twenty-four hours, coming practically the whole way on just two highways, stopping only to shit, piss, or to top up his gas and his beer. He was heading to Portland, to visit his Aunt Fanny and Uncle Joe. But they weren't the main reason he was coming all that way. The main reason was to see a boy named Marshall Davis.

Over the years, Marshall had become quite important to Reggie, almost like a son. He used to live in St. Louis, not far from where Reggie still does now, but the devil had dealt Marshall some pretty lousy life cards. His ma and his baby sister were the only family he ever knew and, after they became accidental victims during a drive-by, Reggie arranged for Marshall to move out of St. Louis and stay with his aunt and uncle.

Marshall called Reggie at least twice a week, and Reggie could tell the kid was happier than he ever could've been staying in Missouri. His only regret was the distance. It made it impossible to see the boy as often as he'd like. Business got in the way. This was only Reggie's second trip out since Marshall moved to Portland and he only had a week to spend and that's why he had been driving nonstop for a day. He didn't want to waste any more of his week than he had to in his car.

Marshall had a learning disability and didn't do well in school, but Uncle Joe landed him a good job doing janitorial work at the same place he worked, The Rose Garden Arena. The upshot of this was that Marshall managed to get Reggie courtside seats for the two home games the Trailblazers had scheduled during the time Reggie would be in Portland, and the way Zebo had been tearing things up lately, those games promised to be great ones.

Reggie took another drink from the oversized beer bottle, dropping his foot a little harder on the gas pedal, nudging his speed toward ninety. With luck and a good tailwind, he'd make Portland in another four hours. Shoving the bottle back where it had been, he pulled a Marlboro from the pack on the passenger seat beside his cell phone, put the end between his lips, and pushed in the Sebring's cigarette lighter.

The dashboard clock read 5:40. His alarm had woken him up yesterday morning at six. He'd hit the road twenty minutes later.

Only once before could he remember driving anywhere so early and that was just over a year ago when he dropped Marshall at the Greyhound station for a bus destined for his new home and family waiting in Portland. The image of Marshall stepping onto that bus would be a memory forever burned into Reggie's mind. It had been a bright morning, sun-filled and dewy. His mouth had tasted of coffee and cigarettes as he waited on the platform beside Marshall who had his suitcase in one hand, his knapsack over his shoulder, and his Wayne Gretzky posters tucked safely under his arm. Reggie had rolled the posters all up together for him, securing them with a blue rubber band.

"Your Momma be real proud of you," Reggie told him. "I hope you remember dat. I hope it means what it should."

The car's cigarette lighter popped back out and Reggie used it to light his smoke.

He didn't know how much of what he had said that day Marshall had understood, but he'd always thought the kid caught a helluva lot more than anyone would ever give him credit for. Marshall was still all crazy about Wayne Gretzky. Back in St. Louis, when his momma and sister were still alive, Marshall knew _everything_ about Gretzky. Even things nobody else would care about, like Gretzky's favorite color and what he liked to eat. And he knew Gretzky's hockey stuff, too. He could pull statistics out of his ass most people had no idea anyone kept.

"Too many fuckin' memories this early in the mornin', man," Reggie said to the sagebrush bursting from the loamy dirt sailing past his Sebring at ninety-three miles an hour. The CD went to the next track--ironically, Clarence's "I Stayed Away Too Long _."_ Reggie cranked the Alpine as high as it would go and sung along.

Just as he hit the first chorus, the Sebring's front wheels suddenly locked.

The car lurched as the back end came off the road. Reggie's heart leaped into his throat as he felt the car starting to flip forward. Thankfully, it didn't, and the back wheels fell back onto the asphalt, fishtailing all over the place. His legs lost their grip on the forty-ounce bottle of OE and beer splashed all over the bottom of his shirt and down his jeans, dousing the car's leather seats and carpet. Reggie pumped the brakes, battling unsuccessfully for control. With a horrible screech, he slid sideways as the cigarette fell from his fingers, landing in his lap. He only noticed it when the fire burned through the denim into his skin.

"Shit-faced mother _fucker!_ " he yelped, taking his eyes from the road just long enough to find his smoke and toss it overboard.

When he looked back again, the road was gone. The car now skidded across the hilly dirt and undergrowth fanning out around the interstate.

"Okay, man, you can do this," he said, still pumping the brakes. The front wheels still weren't moving. The car spun sideways, as it continued sliding.

That's when he noticed the extremely large rock maybe fifty feet ahead and coming up fast. The nearly flat hard-packed ground stretched for miles to the distant hills and this rock was the only visible obstacle anywhere.

"Shit," he said. "Are you fucking kidding me?" He was headed straight for it. The Sebring's speedometer needle was pointing just south of seventy.

With a hard swallow, Reggie mumbled a string of curse words, closed his eyes, and waited for impact.

### End of Book 1

# Coming Up Next

WHAT WILL BECOME OF Reggie's impending collision with the massive rock on the side of the desert highway? Nothing good, that's for sure. Will he even survive long enough to make it to his uncle and aunt's place to finally see his friend Marshall again? And if he doesn't--and Marshall really starts to imagine that's a possibility--how will Marshall ever get over it? It's just like losing his baby sister and his mother all over again.

And what about Karma? She wakes up terribly hung over, but not hung over enough to keep her from once again hitting the clubs with Brenda and Stephanie. Only, this time they go to a place called the Smilin' Gandhi Café where Matias's slash punk girlfriend, Alexis, and her band will be hitting the stage. The three girls hook up with some creepy guys, but they aren't the ones Brenda should be overly concerned with. The one a drunken Karma meets alone outside the bar, hidden in the shadow of a grove of trees, is another case entirely. And when Stephanie later finds Karma's underwear lying beneath the light of the moon, everything goes from bad to worse.

Trinity's confusion over her relationship with her ex-husband, radio DJ Lewis Ackerman, continues to make her nights more and more intolerable. And her worries about her daughter Karma only grow. And yet, she doesn't even know the worst of it. She has no idea how far Karma has fallen from the "perfect little girl" she used to be. Tonight will prove to be a test for both of them.

Dakota Shane's tour bus reaches the Hotel Casablanca in Salt Lake City for the latest show on her tour and her road manager, Tommy Houston, has no idea what to do. Ever since this tour started, she's been unstable and now she's worse than ever. Her paranoia is beginning to run rampant. Now Tommy's really worried, because he has to tell her something important. And it's in regards to her dead son. It could push her completely over the edge.

But then, the tabloids have already got that pretty well covered . . .

To find out more, don't miss _Media Frenzy_ , the second book of _The Rose Garden Arena Incident_ serial thriller.
PLEASE READ ON FOR an exciting peek at an excerpt from Michael Hiebert's next book in _The Rose Garden Arena Incident_ serial thriller

MEDIA FRENZY

Available now, wherever you buy eBooks or audiobooks.

# Saturday, April 3

Chapter 9

IT'S AN ANGRY SKY," Dakota said, stepping cautiously onto the balcony of her twenty-first floor room of the Hotel Casablanca. The edge of the world appeared to be on fire and the sun looked like a bloodshot eye. "I don't like it." She kept sneaking paranoid glances down at the parking lot.

Tommy Houston sat at the end of a long striped sofa that crowded one corner of the room along with a Queen Anne table and two wing chairs. A wet bar and a seven foot Steinway--polished to a mirror finish--took up most of the rest of it. The room's soft halogen lighting gleamed from the piano's white keys.

"Can you come back inside and sit down?" Tommy asked. "I've been trying to talk to you since we got here. Quit stalling." The word "frustrated" didn't even begin to describe the day he'd had. Once José had escorted Dakota up to her room, she'd locked herself in the toilet for almost four hours. She still hadn't explained why. She only came out after insisting she could feel the stalker watching her. From where, Tommy had no idea, but he wasn't surprised. For the last nineteen months this "stalker" had pursued her relentlessly, yet nobody but Dakota ever saw him. Lately, he'd been appearing even more often, and Tommy feared it was a portent of things to come.

Dakota's mind was slipping away, and although Tommy felt bad for her and could completely understand her mental state being affected by the ordeal she'd been through, it was his responsibility to somehow keep her on the rails until the end of the tour--a job that was becoming more and more impossible with each passing day.

He barely remembered how things had been before the tragic incident with Billy Ray--back when she was happy.

Since the day that boy had been born, a spotlight of happiness shone down on Dakota, even though the Admiral initially considered the whole thing a publicity disaster.

"Do you have any idea what a nightmare this is?" he'd asked Tommy after Tommy had been summoned to make an appearance in the record label manager's opulent Nashville office. "Every sparkle of sex appeal we've spent the last couple years building will just disappear." He snapped his fingers. "Just like that. She'll go straight from being the single most eligible fuck toy in the known musical universe to some sort of . . . I don't even know what. She'll be motherly or something. Wholesome. Wholesome does not sell records. You know who buys records, Tommy-Boy?"

Tommy had dared not answer. He just shook his head.

"Hot and horny guys looking for album covers full of tits and ass they can jack off to while pretending they have any sort of chance of ever being with said tits and asses."

"Well, that's a bit of a generalization, I think," Tommy answered.

"Sure. There's also the sexually-stunted overweight and over-the-hill prom queens searching for role models to guide them back to the world of hot and sexy. What are we going to give them?! Motherhood! You know what motherhood is, Tommy-Boy?"

Again, Tommy just shook his head.

"I'll tell you what motherhood is. It's a one-way ticket to the fucking half-priced discount bins at K-mart. You catchin' my drift, Tommy-Boy?" The Admiral had put both his palms on his desk, leaned forward and stared obliquely at the floor. "So. How the fuck are we goin' to spin this?"

The marketing and media machines had gone to work. One thing in their favor was that Dakota refused to reveal the baby's father. The Admiral was quoted in Rolling Stone as saying, "It's music's biggest mystery, folks." He later told Tommy that nobody could resist a good mystery.

He was right. The tabloids were a feeding frenzy of rumor and speculation, trying to get the inside scoop on the supposed Dakota Shane "love child." General consensus was that Dakota had negotiated for a father, wanting a baby but not a relationship, basically buying the paternal side of the whole affair. Tommy didn't think there was any evidence whatsoever to substantiate this claim, but the idea of buying seminal fluid on the black market set the industry on fire. Everyone was talking about Dakota Shane, and, even if it wasn't about her cleavage or other . . . assets . . . record sales soared higher than ever.  
Top of the Pops took a different tack. They fingered the baby's father as being Spunk Jessie Bachman, the drummer of Dakota's band, the Tragic Cowboys. Again, Tommy didn't think there was any evidence to corroborate this claim, but they reported having gained "inside information" citing Spunk as the daddy.

This only increased Dakota's popularity, an effect the Admiral called "Torrid Secret Affair Syndrome."

In the end, all the Admiral's fears about Dakota's pregnancy being a huge spike in the coffin of her career turned out to be wildly unfounded. To top it all off, the posters and glossies from the photo shoots proved something else. Being with baby, at least in the eyes of the music-buying public, could still be hot and sexy when it's squeezed into micro skirts with crop tops and four-inch stiletto cowboy boots.

Overnight, RNA Victory had turned pregnancy into the new fuckable and covetable commodity. And Tommy had to admit, there had to be some sort of genius at work to pull it all off.

Billy Ray was born on the fourteenth of July and instantly became the brightest star in Dakota Shane's sky. Tommy had never seen her happier. That was, until nineteen months ago when, sometime around ten, the morning of September the twentieth, Billy Ray toppled from a twenty-fifth floor balcony above the Rattlesnake Ramada Suites parking lot in South Carolina. It happened during Dakota's last tour for her second CD, Make A Little Mess Inside O' Me.

The fourteen-month-old boy had been playing on the balcony with his big Lego blocks. They weren't actually "Lego," but Tommy couldn't remember what they were called. That kid must've had fifty of them, all bright red and white and blue. Billy Ray wasn't even walking yet, but he could crawl like it was nobody's business. Crawl and climb. Other than playing with those blocks, crawling and climbing were that kid's favorite sports.

Dakota and Billy Ray had been alone that morning. According to Dakota, the boy had been intently focused on those plastic blocks gleaming under the golden light of the rising Dixie sun and she had been making herself presentable in the hotel bathroom. Both the bathroom door and the sliding glass door leading out to the balcony were open.

By the time the police arrived, Dakota had composed herself enough to tell the details, but that was almost an hour after she had called Tommy to her room. When he had arrived and found out what had happened, she'd been barely able to get a full sentence out.

"Twenty feet," she kept repeating over and over as she rocked on the sofa. "Twenty feet as the crow goes. God as my witness. Twenty feet. That's it. I wasn't even twenty feet away." Tommy held her as best he could as she continued going back and forth, her body trembling beneath his arms. "I felt a nice warm breeze," she said. "There was a breeze. I was so close I could feel it. A warm breeze." She was rambling. Tommy figured she was in shock. "And I even called out to Billy Ray. I said, 'Billy Ray, feel that breeze? Ain't it nice? And smell. Go ahead, smell! Can you smell that? That's the smell of sweetbay magnolias. Remember, I showed 'em to you yesterday when we came in'?" She pulled away and stared into Tommy's eyes, hers a blurred wash of blue. "Do you remember them?"

Tommy shook his head, not sure what she had said. "What?"

"The sweetbay magnolias. They was right below us. In the garden growin' 'round the hotel."

"I . . . I . . . " Tommy was overwhelmed. All his brain had been focused on since he discovered what had happened was: What the hell was the Admiral going to do with this mess? Tommy doubted even he could make "dead baby" the new sexy.

Dakota broke into heaving sobs. "I showed 'em to Billy Ray. He loved those magnolias."

Tommy put his hand behind her head and pulled her into his shoulder as he looked through the glass balcony door at the pile of colored bricks scattered haphazardly beneath the solid blue sky.

Somehow, while Dakota had been in the bathroom singing to herself and occasionally calling things out to Billy Ray, the boy had managed to crawl to the edge of the balcony and climb up the rails. Remarkably, he made it over top of them--the detectives that showed up around noon did some measurements. Billy Ray's head wouldn't fit through the bars, so he must've gone over top, something they found quite remarkable.

Unfortunately, the garden surrounding the hotel wasn't wide enough to extend past the edge of Dakota's balcony. That was a crazy thought anyway. Garden or asphalt, a baby plummets twenty-five stories, it isn't going to make one bit of difference.

According to Dakota, she had spent less than fifteen minutes in the bathroom. When she came out, she went directly to the balcony and saw no trace of Billy Ray.

"That's when my heart started to really pound," she had told police. "I mean, how far could he go in fifteen minutes? I came inside and quickly went from room to room, yelling, 'Billy Ray! Billy Ray where are you? Billy Ray! It's Mommy, Billy Ray! Where are you?'"

But Billy Ray was nowhere.

Dakota ran out of places to search and finally went back outside. "My insides were just liquid," she said. "I was shakin' so bad, I could barely walk as I stepped through his bricks and looked over the edge, just hopin' I was wrong, but I knew I wasn't, I'd looked everywhere else."

"And what did you see, Miss Shane?" the main Detective, Marseilles, had asked on that fateful day.

Tears were streaming down her face. When she spoke, her voice caught in her throat. "I saw my little Billy Ray. My little man. He was . . . he . . . " She broke into heaving sobs.

"Just slow down," Marseilles said. "Take deep breaths."

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"It's okay." He had his pen poised over his pad. "So you saw Billy Ray?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "He was just lyin' down there. Like a doll. Like a broken . . . "

"Just slow down, Miss Shane."

"I could see blood, pooling . . . "

That was how Tommy remembered it. Dakota completely devastated. And who wouldn't have been? Tommy couldn't imagine anything more horrible.

And the cops didn't believe a word of it. They never had. They still didn't. 

# Acknowledgments

THANKS GOES OUT TO Dawn James Walker, not only for all the time she put into editing these words, but also for her never-ending enthusiasm about my writing career. As I've said in other places, writing is hard, and the hardest part is not second-guessing yourself, especially when the words aren't coming or the ones that are coming are nothing but crap. Dawn is always there with her version of the "Win One for the Gipper" speech. Strangely enough, it helps.

Much appreciation thrown the way of my good friend, Eric Bryan Moore, who also happens to be a fantastic narrator and an unbeatable writer. The man never ceases to astound me. Be sure to visit his website at www.ericbryanmoore.com.

A shout out to Valorie Wood, my late night critique friend who lets me throw brand new, not-even-read-through pages at her in the wee hours of the morning and diligently stays awake long enough to give me instant feedback. You're an awesome friend.

Of course, I have to mention Julianna Hinckley who is in most if not all of my acknowledgments. Julianna is a constant inspiration and a dearly generous friend, both online and in real life.

A big hug to my good friend Yvonne Rupert, a most talented writer and extremely nice person. Whenever I'm feeling glum, I can rely on you, my chum. Ooh. That even came with poetry.

Nods to dark writer Devlin Blake for letting me bounce ideas off her and for all the marketing and promotion ideas she's always eager to supply. For great writing advice and "all the scary stuff you can handle," check out her website at www.devlinblake.com.

Fanfare to my assortment of fantastic beta readers. It's you guys making sure the final product is absolutely as perfect as possible. If you reading right now would like to become a beta reader, or wish to receive Advance Reading Copies of my work for reviewing on your website or blog, please don't hesitate to contact me through michael@michaelhiebert.com.

I also want to give kudos to my seventeen hundred odd Facebook friends, most of whom are writers and great sources of information and inspiration. Funny thing about having all those writers on social media? I get the same stupid cat jokes you get every day, only mine are slightly wittier. You can join the fun by friending me at www.facebook.com/michael.hiebert67

And, as always, the biggest salute goes out to you, dear reader. You, who continues to read and take an interest in what I write. Those of you coming here from my _Alvin, Alabama Mystery_ books will likely be surprised. That series is really not indicative of my "normal" work (as normal as it gets, anyway). My Alvin books don't have the edge that appears in my usual writing. I hope this doesn't come as a bad surprise. I write a _lot_ , and in a large variety of styles and genres. So you're not always going to get the same piece of pie when you sit down for dessert at my table. I hope this is a good thing. I also hope there is some consistency in my work as far as quality, humor, cleverness, and all that other good stuff goes. Ultimately, it is you that makes the decision as to whether or not to continue purchasing my books. I, for one, hope you do, and I am extremely grateful and appreciative that you've come with me this far.

# About Michael Hiebert

MICHAEL HIEBERT HAS BEEN writing for as long as he's been able to hold a pencil in his hand. His stories have been highly praised by critics and fans for their originality, surprising twists, and clear voice. Joyce Carol Oates listed his short story _My Lame Summer Journal by Brandon Harris Grade 7_ as one of the top fifty most distinguished mystery stories in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2005_. Michael is a two-time winner of the prestigious Surrey International Writers' Conference Storyteller Award.

For more information about Michael and his work, be sure to visit his website at www.michaelhiebert.com. While you're there, sign up for VIP access, and you'll get a whole bunch of free stuff right away, including audiobooks, short stories, deleted scenes, and more.

If you wish to contact him, Michael loves hearing from fans. He can be emailed at michael@michaelhiebert.com or via the contact form on his website. Connect with him on Facebook at <https://www.facebook.com/michael.hiebert67> or visit his fan page at <https://www.facebook.com/M.R.Hiebert/>. He's also on Twitter as @Hiebert_M.

Finally, if you happen to find any errors or mistakes in this work, Michael would be grateful if you would bring them to his attention. Again, you can email him through michael@michaelhiebert.com.
