

### DISCARDED

### Bob Gaston

~~~

Smashwords Edition

To the women who have been used and abused, by thoughtless predators, then rejected and abandoned.

Copyright © 2014 by Robert Gaston

Print ISBN-:13:978-1494752033

Print ISBN-:10:1494752034

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Dedication

Everything I do is for Bob, Elisa, Mary Sue, and the grandkids, KK, Clint, Alex, Sam, Daniel, and Abby. You make me complete.

My thanks to Jeanne for her encouragement, help with the editing, and plot suggestions... and to Marg Grogg for her critique.

Thanks also to Billy Murphy for photographic work on the cover

Art is by the author. Also by the author: "The War Within." A novel about the ravages of war on a spoiled young Yankee girl and a Rebel. _available in digital and paperback._

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Author

1.

The ghostly whisper of a raised window followed by the flutter of wind-jostled curtains penetrated the silence of the dark room. She sat up, her frantic gaze searching the shadows for an intruder.

The muscles of her stomach tightened and a quiver crawled up her spine as the silhouette of a head, outlined by the faint light from the neighbor's house, slowly rose above the window sill and a shadowy mass filled the frame. Her breath stopped, her scream froze in her throat. _Run...run, don't be his next victim,_ her mind silently pleaded. She couldn't move.

The grunt of muscular exertion and the faint rasp of cloth squirming through the open window broke the silence. With a light thud, the intruder dropped from the counter to the tile floor. _Why didn't I call the police after I found the unlocked window?_

Her breath returned in quick and shallow gasps. Karen clinched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Squinting, she tried to track the trespasser in the gloomy light of the kitchen. She tightened her grip on the brass candle stick in her lap. Cautiously, with a slow movement, she raised her empty hand to the light switch.

The faint tread of footsteps crept among the shadows, toward the wall where she was seated. Her fingers found the switch. She took a deep breath and pushed upward. Illumination ruptured the dark and the invader stopped in mid-stride.

"Mom?"

Karen folded her arms, hiding the weapon. Anger furrowed her brow until her eyes throbbed with the intensity of her irritation and the irrational fears that he had sneaked out while a psychopath roamed Dallas streets.

Thirteen year old Clint tried to meet her stare but quickly looked away. An awkward grin turned up the corners of his mouth and he shrugged.

Minutes ticked by. She continued to sit and stare at her son. The silence was broken only by the clock and Clint tracing the edges of one of the Mexican floor tiles with the toe of his shoe.

Karen didn't blink, or speak; her face was frozen in a frown of disapproval.

Finally, with his head lowered, he glanced upward. "Mom, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I promise."

"Do what?" She whispered in a voice clouded with frustration and anger.

"Sneak out." He looked at her with an innocent expression, an impish smile.

"A-n-d?" she drew the word out with a rising inflection.

Clint's smile froze. His eyes became tentative, questioning; he cleared his throat. "It was just me and some friends. We just hung around. We didn't do nothin' special."

"Where?"

"Around."

Anger clouded Karen's face. "Did Mr. Weatherly enjoy your visit?"

Startled, Clint took a step away from his mother and mumbled, "How'd you find out?"

"He called. He is going to file charges in juvenile court against you and your friends for vandalism."

"Can he do that?"

"Yes."

"We didn't break nothing, honest. We just hung toilet paper on his trees and bushes."

"How did you get across town to Mr. Weatherly's house?"

"In a car."

She pursed her lips and stared at him. "Who drove?'

"Josh."

"Does he have a license?"

"No ma'am."

Karen rose from her chair and turned her back to Clint to hide the moisture that filled her eyes. "Did you steal a car?" Her voice lost its harshness as she walked to a table and put the candle stick down.

"Josh sneaked his mom's."

She leaned her head against the rough plaster wall, every fiber of her body trying to collapse in a bawling heap on the floor. _He's only thirteen. Is he turning into a delinquent? He's been thrown out of two schools for fighting... If Weatherly throws him out of Greenfield what will we do?_ The tears started. She buried her face in her hands, sobs racked her body. "It's too hard."

"What?"

"My life... my job... trying to raise you alone."

"Why are we alone?"

"What?"

"Why don't I have a dad, or grandparents, aunts, and cousins? Why don't I have a family like the other kids?

Karen turned to Clint, startled by the torment in his voice. "You know..."

"I know what you told me."

"I---" Karen hesitated. _It's too soon for this. How do I tell him I can't remember? Will he understand that men terrify me when he is only--_

"What did my dad look like?" Clint's challenge cut through her thoughts.

"He looked like you."

"Why don't we have any pictures?"

"I lost them when we moved."

"You're lying."

"What?" Startled, she looked at her son. "That's rude and offensive."

"When I was a little kid you could tell me stuff about my dad being a hero."

"He was." _Please God, not now._ Her eyes danced around the room searching for an escape. Finally she took a deep breath and looked at her son. "He was shot down during the Gulf War."

"No he wasn't," Clint bawled. "And all the kids know it." his voice was bitter with bottled-up anger and confusion. "I know how to use the internet," he yelled. "The Air Force has no record of an A-10 pilot named Larsen. You don't even have a birth certificate or marriage records. Who are you Mom?" He took a ragged breath and whimpered," Who am I?"

2.

The following morning Karen picked up the phone and hit the speed dial.

"Dr. Blair's office."

"Jean, this is Karen. Can he take my call?"

"Let me check."

A click, followed by a buzz, and Donald said, "Dr. Blair."

"Donald. Karen. I need to schedule a session."

"Karen, it's unethical to counsel you after we've dated. That's why we stopped your sessions and I recommended Doctor Shofner."

"Not me. Clint. He sneaked out of the house last night and papered his headmaster's home and..." Karen stopped talking, not sure how to explain the confrontation and the panic she was feeling..."Donald, he's asking questions about my family."

"Let me check my schedule." There was the rustle of pages in his day planner. "I have a Krav Maga workout at six... I can scratch that... Can you get off the air and be here by seven?"

"Yes. Thank you, Donald."

"Karen, I've told you Clint can't be helped until you resolve your problems."

"My boss hates me. If he found out I was seeing a psychiatrist he'd fire me. How would I make a living?"

"You could marry me and I could provide therapy at home."

"Don't make jokes and no more roses."

"You've come a long way Karen. You're making decisions and..."

"We'll see you at seven. Good bye, Donald." Karen put down the phone, and ran her fingers through the natural waves of her shoulder length hair, tossed her head and watched it fall perfectly into place. She fingered an inch wide patch of silver hair. _Damn skunk streak, the doctor said it was caused by a blow. Why can't I remember?_ She shrugged and picked up her brush to adjust a lock of black hair to mask the streak. After a quick appraisal and a satisfied smile, she made a face, put the brush down, and went downstairs.

In the foyer a rose lay on the floor below the mail slot in the front door. She stood looking at it, annoyed. A single rose had been delivered to her desk and now one was pushed through the mail slot at her home. _This is too much, even for Donald... Hopefully he got the message and this will be the last one._ She pushed the flower aside with her foot, opened the door, and headed to work.

Across town at the East Dallas police substation detectives Paul Ragsdale and John Palmer entered a large room filled with uniformed officers and men and women in various forms of civilian dress.

"All right people listen up." Captain of Detectives, William Cox waited until the officers and detectives settled down for the morning briefing.

"The violence in Deep Ellum is getting out of hand. Since March, two people have been killed and eleven others injured in shootings, stabbings or robberies..." He cleared his throat and looked up to make sure everyone was paying attention. When the whispering and movement stopped he continued, "In the past month, three young women were grabbed off the streets or in club parking lots, raped and brutally beaten. This morning we have a missing persons report for a young girl. She left a club and never reached her car. She's still missing."

He paused, his eyes roaming across each group of officers. "The Chief is under a lot of pressure to put an end to these events. I want more plain clothes and uniforms in the area." His voice rose, "Starting right now. Lieutenant Ford will give you your assignments." The Captain walked to his office and closed the door.

Ford cleared his throat. "The Deep Ellum attacks appear to be the work of one individual. We have no description. We know he drives a dark, carpet lined van. The frequency of the attacks is increasing, and getting more violent."

He paused, his eyes taking in different sections of the room as he issued instructions. "Homicide, continue working. Be on the alert for any sign the serial rapist is connected to your cases."

He raised the clipboard with his notes and used it to point to different groups around the room, Robbery; Narcotics; and Gangs; free up three men each, for late night Deep Ellum duty. The sergeants will pick the men. Keep your eyes open. Okay that's all. Be careful. Stay alert. Palmer and Ragsdale, my office."

The two detectives rose from their chairs and walked across the squad room into the small glass enclosure. "You two will concentrate on the rapes and coordinate. Start with the cold case files. Rags, look for convictions. Look at every rape where the victim was young and beaten."

"How far back do you want me to go?"

"Five years. Palmer, I want you to coordinate with the street units and feed them anything Rags finds."

****

By ten that morning Dallas Police Sergeant Pat Grogan was in physical pain. To add to his discomfort and urgency, a line from an old television bladder control commercial kept bouncing around his head, _got to go, gotta go, gotta go right now._

He took the Central Expressway exit at Ross Avenue, turned into an opening beside an abandoned building, and guided his patrol car around a deep water filled pothole. The left front tire splashed through the edge of the puddle from last night's rain. _Damn, now I'll have to take the car in to wash off the mud._ He drove into the alley behind a the derelict brick garage and stopped. "Dispatch, this is Grogan. I'm at Ross and Central. I'll be out of the car for a couple of minutes. "

"10-4."

Grogan pulled on his jacket and stepped out of his blue and white. Oh man, I should've skipped that last cup of coffee. He walked a few feet to the battered dumpster, unzipped his fly, and contributed to the moisture on the rain splattered trash container. _Whoever said the most underrated thing in this world is a good piss was a genius._ The portly officer sighed, took a deep breath, zipped his pants, and headed back to his unit.

"Help." The voice was muffled and weak.

"What the hell?" Grogan scanned the trash littered alley. "Where are you?" he called.

"Please help me."

_The dumpster?_ "Hold on. Dallas Police. I'm coming." He brushed aside the water soaked rose resting on top of the trash container, grasped the heavy metal lid, and heaved it open. Moisture from last night's rain rolled off the lid and down the sides of the container, soaking his uniform and falling into the container. Grogan's eyes followed the drops as they fell. A winter sunbeam broke through the cloud cover and lit the battered nude body of a young girl. "Oh shit another one."

"Please help me." The voice floated through her torn lips on a bloody bubble. The girl lay in garbage like a discarded rag doll with a torn dress. Dark bruises were forming around the red marks on her arms and throat. Her face was swollen. Her lip torn.

"Don't move." The sergeant triggered his lapel mike. "This is Grogan. Send the medics to Ross and Central, behind the abandoned garage. Also send the lab boys, I found a girl."

"Help me." Her hand reached toward him.

"I'm here. An ambulance is coming. Don't be startled, I'm going to get in the dumpster with you." Grogan raised his foot to step on the metal sleeve used to lift the dumpster. His foot slipped and he stumbled into the metal container. _Man I'm too old for this._ He shifted his gun to his hip, adjusted his stomach over the broad leather belt and grabbing his thigh with both hands lifted his leg and forced his foot onto the top of the metal sleeve.

"How did you find her, sergeant?"

Startled, Grogan reached for his service revolver and looked back into the lens of a television camera. He scowled and quickly removed his hands from the gun and looked away. "Jesus, Henry, you scared the shit outta me. How'd you get here before the ambulance?"

"Skill and luck, Grogan... skill and luck."

Minutes later when the wail of a siren announced the approach of the paramedics, Grogan was sitting amid the boxes and rubbish with the girls head in his lap.

The sound of brakes and slamming doors announced the arrival of the rescue squad.

"Sarge, you really ought to spend more time in the gym. I got a nice shot of your butt when you crawled into the dumpster. It should be worth lunch when we wrap up." Henry said.

A muscular paramedic put his hand on the shoulder of the television cameraman. "Move it Henry so we can do our job."

Grogan watched as the young medic placed his hands on the rim of the dumpster, vaulted into the container, and settled beside the girl. "Show off," he muttered.

"Have you moved her, Sargent?"

"No. I just raised her head out of the garbage."

The medic wrapped the girl in a blanket and lifted her over the lip of the dumpster into the waiting arms of a second EMT.

"Hey Grogan," Henry yelled from where he was taking pictures of the departing ambulance, "Stay in the container so I can interview you. It'll make good video."

"You're a damn maggot," Grogan called back. "If you want a picture of someone in the dumpster, get your butt in here among your cockroach relatives and I'll take the pictures. I'm getting outta this stinking garbage."

Before Henry could respond the sergeant crawled out of the dumpster.

"Come on, Grogan, I'll buy coffee for the rest of the week," Henry pleaded. "What did she tell you?"

"You want to know if she was raped. I don't know. Talk to the doctor who examines her."

"Did the girl say anything? Did she give you a description? Give me something, three young girls have been raped, beaten, and dumped in this area."

"We talked."

"What about?"

"Can't say. It'll be in my report."

"Don't forget I've got tape of you dumpster diving."

"Don't you forget blackmail is against the law? I'll get Channel 10 to take pictures of me reading you your rights and marching you off to a cell."

"Okay, you win. I didn't get a shot of your butt, but I still need some audio. Why do you think she was dumped here, Grogan?"

"How do I know? Ask Detective Ragsdale. East substation has the lead on the rape case, and he's just getting out of his car."

"I will, but you found her. What's your gut tell you?"

"There's good hunting down here with Baylor Hospital, the dental school, and the Deep Ellum entertainment district. There's too much booze and drugs."

Detective Paul Ragsdale joined them. "Grogan, Henry." His greeting was terse. "Another one?"

"Yeah," Grogan said. "I thought you were working paper."

"I was the only one still in the office."

"Rags, have any of these rapes been solved?" Henry asked.

Ragsdale ignored the question and walked around the dumpster examining the container and the ground.

"Grogan, do you think we're dealing with a serial rapist?" Henry asked his camera recording.

"I don't know, and turn that damn thing off."

"What happens to the evidence?"

"That's Rags area. As far as I know, it's collected and after a time without solution, winds up in cold case files."

"Tell me about it on camera? Tell me how you found her."

"No."

"Come on Grogan. Why are you being difficult?"

"I got a niece that girl's age."

"Would it keep her, and girls like her, out of this area if they knew that girl would have died in that dumpster if you hadn't stopped to take a leak?"

"Rags," Grogan raised his voice, "talk to him. I'm not good at this stuff."

"You're doing fine Sergeant. Give him a statement. I have to call the lab."

"Oh geeze...Rags," Grogan pleaded as the detective turned his back and walked to his car.

Grogan shifted his gaze to the Dallas skyline and closed his eyes. "I'd rather face a punk with a knife than that damn camera." He turned back to Henry. 'You don't need me. You got the girl and the medics."

"It's an incomplete story unless you tell us how you found her."

Grogan stared at Henry, took a shallow breath, grabbed his belt, and pulled his pants up. "Okay, if all you ask is how I found her."

Henry backed away a couple of feet, raised his camera and hit the record button. "Go when you're ready."

"I came into the alley to bleed my lizard and heard a noise . . . Oops . . . cut that lizard shit. As wet as I am those clowns at the precinct will think I pissed myself... Let me think a minute."

"On camera, you can say you were making a routine investigation of this abandoned building because Deep Ellum is on the other side of the freeway and a girl is missing from one of the clubs."

3.

"We are a throw-a-way society, but Sunday night we reached an extreme." Karen Larsen paused a moment, and looked quietly into the camera lens for a couple of heart beats and said, "A young woman was tossed into a Dallas dumpster like discarded trash. Exclusive details at ten... I'm Karen Larsen, good evening."

Karen rose from her stool, shed her throat mike, retrieved her purse from under the desk, and started for the studio exit. The crew standing in the shadows just beyond the set lights, quietly clapping and giving the thumbs up sign of approval didn't register; she was aware of only one thought, _Why is Clint in the hospital?_

The floor director, a tall, athletic woman in her twenties, rushed past the cameras into the pool of bright light that surrounded the television news desk. "Good job, Karen." Her soft brown features were creased in a concerned frown.

"Kisha, if it was a good job why are you frowning?"

"Your boss is on a tear. He was in the control room screaming at you. I had the headset on. He almost broke my ear drums." She tapped the earphones that hung around her neck with her hand and rolled her eyes.

"So what's new?" Karen said, "He hates me."

"It's more than that. He wants you in his office."

"It'll keep. I have a family crisis." She turned with the elegance and grace that made her a natural model and passed between the cameras. Karen smiled at the crew. "Thanks gang."

"You done good Karen."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Tony. But thank you." She kept walking, increasing the length of her stride until she was almost running.

"Hey, Karen, wait up." Petite, bubbly and blond, Liz Turner, the weather girl and her only friend in the news department, called from the door to the newsroom.

"Can't."

Liz caught up and grasped her arm. "Slow down. We need to talk."

"What is it Liz, another attempt by the reporters to get rid of the neophyte talking head?"

"You're playing into their hands. Bob's boiling. He wants you in his office."

"Kisha told me." She uttered a resigned moan and kept walking.

"He stormed out of the control room and across the newsroom ranting about flea-brained, inexperienced women when you didn't lead with the rape exclusive."

"I can't see him now. Make an excuse for me, Liz."

Liz caught her arm. "You know the vultures in news smell blood. They'll back stab you. Don't give Bullard a reason to fire you."

"Right now my son needs me more than I need this job."

"What your son needs is a father."

"Don't go there Liz, I'm not in the mood." She increased her stride and moved ahead of her shorter friend.

"Will you please slow down? My legs are shorter than yours. I can't keep up."

"Sorry." She shortened the length of her stride.

"If you want to keep this job, go see Bob. You've only been the anchor for a month. Until you get more experience, you've got to stop yanking The Bull's chain."

"Tell Bob, I'll get with him right after I get back from Baylor Hospital."

"Hospital? Has Clint been in an accident?"

"I don't know. Mr. Weatherly left a message asking me to meet him at Baylor."

"Why is he in the hospital?" Liz demanded, clutching Karen's hand.

"I don't know."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"No." Karen glanced across the studio. "Liz, I've got to get out of here before Bob shows up. Please call Dr. Blair. Tell him that I have an emergency. I'll call and reschedule." She stepped out at a faster pace.

"Call me about Clint," Liz yelled at Karen's retreating back.

"If you have to say something to Bob, tell him I said the rape story didn't feel right."

Karen sprinted the last few yards to the studio exit.

"Wait a second," Kisha said as she caught up to the two women at the door. "This came while you were on-the-air." She handed Karen a flower.

"A yellow rose. Who sent it?"

"Don't know. There's a note tied to the stem."

Karen took the rose, pulled the card from the stem and shoved it into her purse.

A gust of wet wind hit Karen as she stepped out the door. The blustery weather whipped the rain under the overhang, soaking her legs and feet. _Stormy nailed it again_. She clutched the lapels of her coat and dashed into the storm. Struggling against the elements, Karen ran through the puddles to her car, opened the door, jumped in and tossed the wind battered rose on the dashboard.

The ignition key missed the hole three times before she found the opening, jammed it in, and started the car. Karen threw the BMW in reverse and started out of her slot. A loud horn erupted directly behind her. She hit the brakes and waved weakly at the other driver _. Calm down. You can't help Clint if you get killed in an accident._

She backed out slowly and then immediately replaced her caution with the urgency of her trip and raced toward the lot exit. A dark blue van with tinted windows moved across her path partly blocking the road. The driver's door opened and he started out of the vehicle.

"Wait your turn," Karen yelled, held the horn down, and shot the gap between the rear of the van and the line of parked cars. When she looked in the rearview mirror the van was following her onto the freeway.

Karen cut through downtown Dallas into the heart of the evening rush hour traffic. Blaring horns, squealing brakes, flashing headlights, and frequently extended middle fingers followed in her wake.

Billowing dark gray clouds blanketed North Texas skies and opened their spigots to release a flood of fat raindrops as she reached Baylor Hospital. She pulled her black BMW to a stop in a 'Physicians Only' parking slot, shoved the rose aside, placed her press pass on the dash, grabbed her umbrella, and raced through the storm to the emergency entrance.

The double doors were still closing behind her when a short, overweight man in an expensive black suit strode across the crowded lobby toward her. He puffed to a stop, adjusted his glasses and flattened the hair that rose in a comb-over from above his left ear.

"Mr. Weatherly, where is Clint?"

"Mrs. Larsen, my secretary called you over an hour ago."

"I was on-the-air. I came as soon as I could."

"I have more important things to do than wait while you fabricate the news."

"Is Clint hurt?"

"No," answered the tall stern-faced man, with a full head of perfectly groomed wavy gray hair, who stepped to Weatherly side.

"Mrs. Larsen, this is Greenfield legal counsel, Mr. Smithson," Weatherly said.

Beyond Weatherly and Smithson, Karen could see people stop to watch. _Please keep going._ She thought and turned her back on the lobby, longing for anonymity.

"Mrs. Larsen, come with us," Smithson commanded in a superior and offensive tone. "So we may deal with this matter in private to protect Greenfields reputation."

"I beg your..."

The two men turned and marched to an office. They entered without looking back to see if she was following.

Stunned at the way she was left alone in the middle of the lobby and the gathering gawkers, Karen hurried to catch up.

Weatherly started speaking as she entered the room. "Mrs. Larsen---"

"Mr. Weatherly you said Clint isn't hurt---"

He nodded, "Greenfield has---"

"---why did you ask me to meet you at Baylor hospital?" Karen interrupted.

"To inform you, that you and your son are no longer welcome on Greenfield's campus. Here are Clinton's expulsion papers." He thrust them into her hand.

"What? Why?" Her mouth dropped open in confusion.

"Greenfield is a private preparatory school with an exemplary status," Smithson replied with a nod toward the head master who nodded back and smiled. "The finest families in Dallas send their children there. As legal counsel, it is my responsibility to protect Greenfield. You and your son do not meet the school's standards, therefore you are no longer allowed on the campus." Smithson said.

Karen looked at Weatherly, "Is this about last night's toilet paper prank?"

"That alone," Weatherly snapped, "would justify his expulsion, but this time he is over the line."

"What do you mean, over the line? What happened?"

"You will have to discuss that with the police and the Fischer's lawyer. Good day, Mrs. Larsen."

She stepped into their path and held her hands extended toward them with the palms up. The primal instinct of a mother concerned about her child overrode her unease at being in a small room with the two men.

Weatherly stumbled to a stop. To maintain his balance he reached for the door frame.

"Where is my son?" she demanded.

"There is no need to get physical." Weatherly flinched and tried to step through the open doorway. "Your son is in that waiting room. Kindly let me pass."

Karen held her position, blocking the door. "Tell me what happened!"

"There was a fight. I'm sure it's all in the police report."

"Police?" She stepped back and raised her hands to her mouth, shaken that Clint's fighting had turned violent enough to involve the police "Mr. Weatherly, you're responsible for discipline at Greenfield. Why didn't you stop it?"

Mr. Weatherly assumed a posture of superiority and in a contemptuous voice said, "Before I could intervene, your little hoodlum injured one of our finest students."

"How badly was the boy hurt?"

"Let's dispense with this matter civilly without creating a scene," Smithson said. "It will be in the police report and any legal papers that may be filed."

People, attracted by the loud voices, moved across the busy lobby toward them.

"Is that Karen Larsen of Channel Seven News?" someone whispered.

"Yeah," a male voice answered. "See that silver streak in her hair."

"Oh, this is good..."

More people began to rise from their seats or stop as they passed.

Karen tried to tune out the voices. _This is bad._ She stepped back from the head master.

Mr. Weatherly looked up at Karen, his face flushing with indignation, and with malicious glee announced in a loud voice to the gathering audience. "Clinton Larsen broke Jason Fischer's nose and a tooth. The Fischer's are one of Greenfield's benefactors and I will not have a bully on my campus."

Stunned, Karen turned and slowly walked toward the lobby.

"Good day," Weatherly said when he marched past her, his head back, and his arms pumping as if he led a band of supporters, but only his lawyer, Smithson, followed.

In a daze, Karen worked her way through the crowded hospital lobby to the waiting room. A uniformed police officer sat between Clint and a well-dressed couple. The officer and the man rose from their chairs. Karen took a deep breath and steeled herself.

Ignoring Clint, she walked to the man and woman and extended her hand. "Mr. and Mrs. Fischer, I'm Clint's mother, Karen Larsen. How is your son?"

Mr. Fischer offered his hand. He looked uncomfortable. "Jason will hurt for a while, but with luck, he's learned a lesson."

Mrs. Fischer jumped to her feet and yelled at her husband. "Don't you dare try to pass this off as another schoolyard tiff." She turned on Karen. "Your little monster sat on my Jason's back and pounded his face into the sidewalk. If Mr. Weatherly hadn't intervened, Jason could have been killed."

Karen opened her mouth, but no words came. The woman's angry onslaught left her speechless.

The police officer stepped between Karen and Mrs. Fischer. "Let's keep it down, folks. This is a hospital."

"Don't tell me to hush when my son is in this hospital, near death. You work for me. My taxes pay your salary. Why don't you do your duty and arrest that little bastard?"

"Sarah, be quiet." Mr. Fischer turned to Karen. "I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances." He took hold of his wife's arm. "Let's get Jason and take him home."

"I'm not finished."

"You've said enough, Sarah." He took her arm and forcibly escorted her from the waiting room.

As Sarah Fisher disappeared down the hall, she yelled back over her shoulder, "You'll hear from my attorney."

Karen turned to Clint. "I told you no more fighting."

"But Mom---"

"You can tell me your side of this when we get home. Until then, you sit, and stay quiet."

Karen smiled weakly at the officer and extended her hand. "We haven't met. I'm Karen Larsen."

"Yes ma'am, I recognized you. I'm Jack Carmichael."

"Officer Carmichael, I'm confused. I still don't know what happened."

"It wasn't as bad as it sounds. Jason's humiliation will last longer than the pain of a chipped tooth and a busted nose."

"Now, I'm baffled. The Headmaster expelled Clint. Mrs. Fischer wants my son arrested

for attempted murder, and you and Mr. Fischer think it was nothing?"

"Clint's classmates told me Jason is a bully. He's two years older than Clint, a head taller, and heavier. Apparently, he pushed Clint and said something your son didn't like."

"If Jason started the fight, why is Clint being expelled?"

"Social status and money's my guess." The officer replied. He looked around and in a low voice added, "I didn't say that." He smiled. "Look on the bright side. This could be a blessing."

"How? Greenfield is operated like an English prep school, and Clint needs the discipline."

"Send him to one of the Catholic schools. The nuns will tame him."

"I think we're Baptist."

"If the enrollment's not full, they might forgive you."

Karen could only offer a weak smile. She shook her head. "I want him to go to Greenfield. Mr. Fischer seems fair-minded. I wonder if he might help."

"I think he'll try to put a damper on it, and I'll do the same. I doubt it will do any good. The Fishers appear to be in a battle over who wears the pants. Unless she does a one-eighty, you're going to have to find another school for Clint."

Karen released her breath in resignation. "Can I take Clint home now?"

"Sure."

She grabbed Clint's hand and led him past the crowd in the lobby, out the double doors of the emergency room, and through the rain to her car.

With water dripping from their hair and clothing they sat in silence. Clint sat, watching his mother. Karen's eyes were fixed on the darkness beyond the rain-swept windshield. Tears formed and a sob shook her body. _Liz is right he needs a father._

"Mom, please don't cry. I'm sorry." Clint patted her shoulder.

"No. I'm sorry. I blamed you without hearing your side." The tears overflowed and rushed down her cheeks. She needed to hold him and find comfort in the motherly act, but he was no longer a little boy. She took a tissue from her purse and blotted her eyes, shook off another sob.

Clint picked up the wind-battered rose she'd left on the dash and twirled it in his fingers. "What are you doin' with this beat-up flower?"

Absently she returned the tissue to her purse, saw the card that came with the rose, and picked it up. "Someone sent it to me at the station. The card says, 'Forgive me.' There's no signature. Looks like I have a mystery fan." She shrugged and started the car.

The wipers swept across the windshield flinging an object into the night. _That looked like a rose or was it a parking ticket?_ Karen's distraction only lasted a minute, as she moved into the night. The staccato beat of the wipers did little to calm her nerves, offer a solution to Clint's problems, or clear the rain from the windshield. She adjusted their speed and chanced a quick glance at Clint. He sat with his head down, twirling the rose like an Indian attempting to start a blaze with a fire stick.

"Clint, why were you fighting?"

Her question hung in the air without an answer. She looked at the road then back at her thirteen-year-old. The rose stopped spinning and he held the flower in the light of oncoming traffic.

"Did booger-brains send this?"

"I've told you not to call Doctor Blair that name."

"Well, did he?"

"I don't know who sent it. It came while I was on-the-air."

"It's from that asshole." Clint seized the flower, ripped it from the stem, and crumpled

it before throwing the shredded petals and the stem on the floorboard.

"Do you feel better?" Karen struggled to maintain a calm voice. "You know you're not getting away with that."

"What? Tearing up a flower?"

"No. Ignoring my question."

"Yeah, I feel better. It was ugly."

"I want an answer, and you know it. Why were you fighting?"

Clint twisted in the seat and faced the side window.

The rain on the roof and slap of windshield wipers filled the silence until they reached their Highland Park home. Karen stopped at the curb, killed the lights and the engine. In the dark, she fingered her keys like worry beads, stalling, seeking composure, waiting for an answer to her question, and searching for a way to get one.

"You know you have to go to school."

"School sucks," Clint spit out the words with contempt.

"So does life. I'd rather stay home with you. But if I don't work we don't eat or have a home. Sleeping on the streets of Dallas in the winter's not an option. You go to school and I go to work."

"I could stay home while you work."

"It's not going to happen."

"Did Mr. Weatherly really kick me out of Greenfield?"

"You want to tell me why?"

"It's not important."

"Yes it is. You've been expelled from three schools this year for fighting and, I want to know why." Karen sensed a movement beyond her side window. _That looks like the van that blocked me at the station._ She watched the dark cargo van glide past in the rain-splintered streetlights. Her eyes followed it until it turned right at the intersection and disappeared. "What is a work van doing in this neighborhood at this time of night?" she asked Clint.

"A handyman working late," Clint said. Or it could be the Joker's gang looking for Batman's mansion."

"Then we're safe Bruce Wayne lives two blocks over." Karen's fingers fumbled through her keys. "We'll continue about your fighting in the house."

"Aw, Mom, do we have to?"

"Yes we do." When fingers identified the house key she took a deep breath. "Last one in the house is a rotten egg. We go on three. Three." She threw her car door open and ran, depressing the car key lock when she heard Clint's door slam.

They raced through the rain onto the porch and quickly entered the house. Karen slammed the door, turned the knob lock, shot the dead bolt, and then pushed aside the curtain covering the narrow window to the right of the door. The street was quiet.

"Whatcha lookin' at?"

"Don't run your words together." Karen let the fabric slip from her fingers and turned to her son. "If you mean, 'What are you looking at?' the answer is I am checking to see if the car lights went out." _I think the police should know about that truck._

Clint, would you bring me the phone, please?"

The harsh ring of the telephone reverberated through the dark house.

She jumped. "Clint get that please." _That's spooky, mention the phone and it rings._

With her son out of the foyer she lifted the drapes again, and studied the empty street.

_My paranoia is working overtime._ She dropped the curtain and turned as Clint re-entered the room.

"Mom, it's Stormy." He handed her the portable house phone.

Karen placed her hand over the mouthpiece. "I've told you not to call her that."

"That's what Josh calls her."

"I don't care what her son calls her. She is an adult and my friend and you will call her Ms. Turner." Karen removed her hand and raised the phone.

"Hi. We just got home from the hospital."

"Was Clint hurt?"

"No. It was another fight and the headmaster was putting on a show for a school sponsor. He expelled Clint. I'll get his side of it tonight and fill you in tomorrow."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Well, not really. I'm confused and angry."

Do you want us to come over tonight?"

"Thanks, but I think this is something I need to work out with Clint. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I called Donald. He left a message for you."

"Don't go there Liz."

"Karen if you don't want him, I'll take him. He's tall, good looking, charming, sophisticated, rich, and a doctor. Yummy, he's just my type."

"He wears pants; of course he's your type."

"There is that, but that was unkind. I'll forgive you. If you're not interested then... well... You've known him for years and if---"

Thanks for calling. Good night Liz." Karen pressed the off button, clinched her teeth. She favored her son with a grim look. "You're dripping on the carpet. Get out of those wet things then come to the kitchen for a family conference."

"Aw, Mom."

"No arguments. Get up stairs and put your PJ's on. I'll make hot chocolate."

Fifteen minutes later, Clint shuffled into the kitchen. He stopped near the door. "I'm awful tired. Can we talk in the morning?"

"No more stalling. You can go to bed when you tell me what started the fight with the Fischer boy."

Clint edged his way to the table, slumped into a chair, and appeared to lose himself sipping his cup of cocoa.

"Clint?"

"It was nothing." He put the cup on the table.

"Well, nothing got you thrown out of school and caused me to miss a meeting with my boss. It may get me fired, and sued."

The cup rotated in his hands, leaving a trail of cocoa circles. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry is not a solution to the problems your fighting causes."

"What problems? There are more schools."

To begin with... tomorrow I have to work; I can't leave you here alone, and---

"Why not?"

"Because you're thirteen years old, and the law says you have to go to school."

"No one would know."

"I would. Your education is important to me, and it should be to you."

"You could home school me and I could go to work with you."

"That is not even a remote consideration."

"If I can't stay home or go with you what can I do?"

"In the morning, you'll stay here while I have a brief meeting with the News Director. When it's over I'll pick you up and we'll try to get you in a public school. If that doesn't work, I'll call the Baptist Academy and then Jesuit."

"What if they don't want me?"

Karen drank from her cup then set it down. "We'll have to move to another school district here in Dallas or you will have to go to that military school in South Texas."

"I wish . . ."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me what you wish."

"I wish I had a family like other kids."

Karen lifted the cup to her lips. The chocolate suddenly tasted cold and bitter. She set the cup down and through a rapidly forming film of tears studied her son. "Is that why you were fighting?"

Clint drained his cup and put it on the table. "I'm real tired, Mom. Can I go to bed now?"

"We need to discuss this, Clint."

He moved to her side and put his arms around her neck. "Tomorrow, okay?"

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

_That's a promise you're going to keep, young man._ She took him in her arms with every cell clamoring to hold on forever. "Give me a good night kiss."

He kissed her cheek, freed himself and ambled from the kitchen. It's so unfair. She watched the spot where he vanished into the next room, but what she saw was the retreating figure of a small boy in footed pajamas. Her heart went with him.

4.

The next morning at the television station, Liz stopped Karen as she headed down the hall for her meeting with Bob Ballard, the News Director. "My, don't you look nice. New suit?"

Karen nodded.

"Spin around so I can see."

"Liz. Not here in the hall."

"Relax you're so uptight you need an inspection to make sure all your zippers are up, your buttons closed, and you blouse tucked in." She clasped Karen's shoulders and turned her, then stepped back and nodded her approval. "I'd give my...well no I wouldn't, but I wish I could look sophisticated, chic, and drop dead gorgeous instead of cute, cuddly and everyone's sister. In my next life I'm going to the parts warehouse and get long legs so I don't have to stand eye-to-eye with eight year olds."

"And in my next life I'm going get some of your self-confidence and personality. I could use a double dose of both right now."

"Going to see the Bull?"

"I hate confrontations. He makes me feel nervous and incompetent," Karen replied.

"You look professional, act it. Appearance is ninety percent of what we do. Tell him you made a judgment mistake. Tell him you thought a tease would build the audience ratings for the ten o'clock show. Be firm, but agree with everything he says."

"It won't work. It's not about the story. Bob's angry because the Station Manager gave me the anchor job without his approval."

Liz caught Karen's hand. "Schmooze him. Convince him you respect his knowledge and experience and appreciate his willingness to teach you. Use your weapons."

"That won't make any difference. He thinks the anchor slot needs a man to give the news authority and believability."

"He'll change his tune when the ratings come in. You're doing a good job."

Karen slumped against the hall wall. "It's not just the job."

"Clint?"

"Yeah, being a single mom of a pubescent boy compounds the stress of this job. Walking through that newsroom is like creeping through a snake pit. They hate me. It's impossible to concentrate."

"So, you got the job they want. Tough. They'll come around when Bob accepts you."

"I'm not going to hold my breath. I'm over my head Liz and the reporters and writers know it." Karen sighed, pushed off the wall and clutched Liz's arm, "I don't guess you could go with me."

"I don't think so. He'd just tell me to leave."

"Yeah," Karen dropped Liz's arm, "he would." She started toward Bullard's office.

"Wait, you're not ready." Liz reached for the top two buttons of Karen's blouse, undid them, and spread the collar opening until a deep cleavage was visible.

"Stop that." Karen slapped at her hands. She immediately closed the opening and re-fastened the buttons.

"Use all your weapons. He's a man. Confuse him with those guns."

"Liz.."

"Excuse me ladies, can you tell me where I can find Henry Moore?" A tall, tanned, blond man in a blue blazer asked.

"Better than tell you, I'll take you." Liz grinned and winked at Karen.

Karen stepped aside with a slight bow and a sweep of her hand.

"I'm Liz and this is Karen. And who might you be?"

"I'm Detective Paul Ragsdale of the Dallas Police Department." He flashed his badge.

"Detective Ragsdale, just what are you famous for besides beautiful blue eyes, wavy blond hair, broad shoulders, and a megawatt smile?" Liz grabbed his arm and started him down the hall.

He looked over his shoulder at Karen with raised eyebrows. "Am I safe?"

"Probably, if you promise to show her your gun."

"What a wonderful idea," Liz called over her shoulder and grinned.

"As they say in ranch country," Karen laughed. "She's all hat and no cattle."

"Go squat on your spurs." Liz said.

"Easy ladies," The detective grinned and stepped back with his hands raised defensively. "All I wanted was directions not a spitting match."

"On second thought, Detective Ragsdale, if you're smart you'll run." Karen chuckled and watched Liz quickly grab the detective's arm.

After a few steps down the hall Liz looked back. "It's going to be okay," she gave Karen a thumbs-up. "And play nice. Drop by my office when it's over."

Karen watched Liz herd Paul Ragsdale toward the newsroom like a prisoner walking his last mile. _Liz was right. He does have_ b _eautiful eyes, and a nice smile..._

She continued down the hall and stopped at the open door of Bob Bullard's office. The control she felt last night when she ignored this meeting and met with Weatherly instead was gone.

She looked into the room. A thick-necked, broad shouldered man of forty, who looked like he could still play linebacker in the pros, was on the phone. A collection of daily papers from the nation's major cities lay scattered on the chairs and floor; a jumble of books, trophies and knickknacks from Bullard's past filled shelves on one wall. The wall next to the newsroom was all glass with a sliding door, which was open. _I hate this. It's like being on a stage. Everyone in the newsroom can see and hear._

Four television sets and a police scanner occupied the third wall and filled the room with noise and confusion. She hesitated, reluctant to step through the door, which was located on the fourth wall. _I know how Daniel felt when he entered the lion's den._

Bullard suddenly yelled into the phone, "I don't care if you do it on your back Donna. Get the damn interview. Sweeps are coming up next week and we need viewers." He dropped the instrument into its cradle, scratched his graying crew cut and mumbled, "Women reporters."

Karen lightly knocked on the door frame, entered, and stopped just inside the office door.

Bullard stared at her through sun-bleached shaggy eyebrows.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked.

"Yeah. Twenty-four hours ago," he snarled.

She took an unconscious step back and stopped. _It'll be okay. I'm not trapped. The door is open._ With her head down so she didn't have to see the hostility in his eyes, she mumbled, "I had a family emergency."

"It couldn't wait?"

"My son was at Baylor Hospital," she said, and hated the submissive sound of her voice. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

"Injured?"

"No." _That sounds better. No, it doesn't sound better; he'll think Clint should be injured._

"It could have waited."

_"I knew it,"_ she thought _._

Ballard stood and leaned across the desk, "We're running a news operation with the competition two percentage points behind us, not a taxi service for a thirteen-year-old delinquent," Bullard barked. "You want to be journalists...act like one."

She felt her stomach turn. "Clint is not a delinquent." Karen stared at her boss while her unexpected flash of anger cooled and a quiet feeling of control settled over her... _Play nice, keep your mouth shut._

She smiled sweetly. "I know you are busy. If you don't have time for a meeting, I can come back."

Startled at her sudden change in character, Bullard lowered his eyes to his desk, picked up a yellow wooden pencil and twirled it. He sat and put the pencil down. With the bluster out of his voice he asked, "Why did you dump the rape story?"

"It didn't feel right."

"What do you mean it didn't feel right?"

"There are children watching."

He started up from his chair, eyes blazing. "What the hell have feelings got to do with news?"

"Sensitivity."

"My ass." He snapped the wooden pencil in his hands and threw it across the room. "Is that something they taught you in one of your journalism classes? The people have a right to know."

"Only abusive reporters make that claim." She paused, surprised and embarrassed by her outburst. In a quavering voice she added, "I was taught there is no such thing as the right to know. We have an obligation to the victim and their family's feelings." She made a weak, appeasing gesture. And children---"

"Horseshit. Our only obligation is to stockholders. Good ratings translate into advertising dollars. Our obligation is to aggressively seek and broadcast information...all the information regardless of the time of day and who might be watching. This is a business." Bullard banged his desk with his open hand, scattering papers and sending a shock wave through the office.

Karen jumped and took a step back toward the open door.

"Maybe you can explain to me why we're having this debate. I'm the News Director; if I say news is a business, it's a business. You're nothing but a talking head. You work for me. You're fired for that stunt."

She sucked her lower lip into her mouth, held it in her teeth and waited until her breathing settled and he had returned to his chair, then she said in a quiet voice, "My contract is with the station as prime time news anchor."

"It's what?" He stood, kicked an over flowing wastebasket then spun and leaned on the desk. "That damn small print may save your job but you work for this department and I make the assignments. Your newscasts last for thirty minutes. You will be a street reporter when you're not on the air. If I can't fire you, I sure as hell can schedule your day. It's time you learn it takes more than a pretty face to be a journalist. You're going to cover every ground breaking, ribbon cutting, ditch digging, two-bit robbery and political speech in Dallas."

Karen looked down briefly, took a deep breath and smiled. "Thank you Mr. Bullard."

"Thank you? What kind of a response is that? I just---"

"You are right," Karen interrupted and rapidly said, "An experienced journalist belongs in the evening anchor slot. I love the news and if you'll teach me and overlook my mistakes, I promise you, with time you'll have the experienced anchor you deserve." She took a quick breath. "My journalism degree doesn't qualify me for my job, but when the Station Manager asked me to move from the afternoon magazine show to the anchor slot I had to take it. It was my dream... And thank you for the street assignment it is exactly what I need."

Bullard's face had lost its threatening expression and became perplexed.

"But," Karen quickly continued, "I can't start until next Monday."

"What happened to loving the news?"

"Clint got expelled for fighting. He's home alone and I need time to find another school."

Bullard stared at her. A minute passed before he broke eye contact and yelled into the intercom to the newsroom, "Henry, get in here."

Karen turned and watched Henry Moore, camera in hand, navigates his way through the crowded newsroom. She smiled as the writers, reporters and video crews stole glances in their direction. She glanced back at Henry to watch his awkward progress. _He looks like a grown-up Opie, from the old Andy Griffin show._

Henry walked into the office, smiled and slouched against the door frame next to Karen. He nodded in her direction. "Howdy."

"Henry, from now on, Karen rides with you in the floater."

Henry moved from the wall and placed both hands on Bullard's desk. "Come on, Bob. The cops trust me. We have a brotherhood. They scratch my back by giving me stories and I scratch theirs by calling attention to their skills. A woman will just get in the way. We'd have to watch our language and---"

"Then teach her how to be a reporter."

"Don't turn me into a carrion feeder. You know a floater only works on a spur-of-the-moment basis. The news happens. I get my pictures and leave before the vultures from the other stations show up and strut around with their cameras and mikes getting in the way. The cops hate them."

It can't be helped. Karen needs the experience, and you're elected. Start with some filler stuff."

"Is she still doing the evening news?"

"Yes."

"Then it won't work. News doesn't happen on a schedule."

"She'll ride with you starting Monday."

"Okay." Henry stood erect and smiled.

"Oaky? That's all you're going to say?" Bullard's eyebrows lifted in disbelief.

Karen held her breath, waiting for the explosion.

"Yeah. Okay."

"What's wrong with you, Henry? This is where you object and threaten to quit."

"Quit? You want me to spend my days with the best looking woman in Dallas and you expect me to quit. Bob, you played too much football without a helmet."

"That was funny when they said that about President Ford. Not anymore."

"You're smiling inside." Henry grinned and winked at Karen. "He thinks a News Director's gotta act mean, but it's all an act. I know it and the good Lord knows it."

"Don't bring your goody two-shoes religious crap into my newsroom. It might be contagious."

Henry raised a hand. "Lord, hear my prayer. Infect this sinner with your holy

spirit."

"You were a better reporter when you were on drugs." Bullard shook his head and picked up a stack of papers to hide the beginning of a smile.

"Uh, gentlemen," Karen interrupted. "May I be excused? I need to get home to Clint."

"Is he sick?"

"No, Henry. He got expelled for fighting. I have to find a new school for him."

Bullard set he papers down. "Henry, do you know anyone at the Park Cities Independent School District?

"Yeah, a couple of guys."

"Take Karen and the boy and get him enrolled. And Karen, tonight don't skip the dumpster story. It's an exclusive. We can still run it. Now get the hell out of my office."

5.

Henry Moore turned east on Commerce. "Karen, if you're going to be a reporter you have to know the geography of your beat."

"Yes, I know. We have spent the past week wandering the streets and alleys in Plano, Irving, Fort Worth, and Dallas. When do we stop sightseeing and do a story?"

"When something happens, we don't manufacture the news, we report it. It's been a dead week."

"I know there are slow days, but I thought it would be a little more exciting."

"It can be," Henry said and grinned at her.

"Where are we headed?"

"This is ratings week and Bob wants a fresh angle on the serial rapist. You need to do a stand-up by the dumpster where Grogan found that girl last week."

"But you said we don't manufacture stories."

"We don't. Bob wants the story. He says we're providing a service by reminding people to be alert when they visit the clubs and restaurants in the area. To be honest it gives us another opportunity to crow about having an exclusive. They'll edit in some of the original footage." Henry guided the news wagon into an alley behind the abandoned garage.

Karen glanced around at the littered and shuddered. "Didn't the rapes take place at night?" Karen asked.

"Yeah." He stopped beside the rusty dumpster with a twisted lid and reached for his camera and set it on his lap.

"Is this where she was found?" She examined the trash and the oil stains around the old garage; and then the weeds. Finally she looked at the battered rusty dumpster. "What an awful place."

"Yes." He murmured as he continued getting his equipment ready for the taping. He opened his case, pulled out a lens, attached it to the camera, and then checked the battery.

"Henry, let the night crew do this. They can get dramatic shots of dark parking lots and people walking by spooky alleyways? They could interview some young women and ask them if they are concerned."

"Nighttime footage won't show the seedy, rundown character of Deep Ellum and how easy it is to get pulled into an alley or abandoned building. Do a good job on this and Bob will forget you dumped the original story."

"But if the night crew does it..." Karen voice quivered. She bit her lip. "They can interview the club and restaurant managers about the financial impact."

"Bob wants it for your six o'clock." He lowered the camera and studied Karen. "You don't want to do this do you?"

"No."

"You want to tell me why?"

Tremors took control of her body. "Ca... can't we find another location with a better looking trash bin? I keep thinking of that poor girl in that thing."

"You're crying and shaking. What's wrong Karen?"

"I... do...don't know."

Henry put the wagon in reverse, backed into the street and parked. "Okay, you stay here. I'll get some background shots, and then you can do your stand-up some other place."

A few minutes later, Karen greeted Henry with a warm smile when he returned to the vehicle. "Thank you. I don't know what came over me."

"It's our secret. Think you can do your stand-up now?"

"Yes, if you can find a brick wall like the one in that alley."

"That won't be hard. All of these buildings look alike. They built this area with cheap bricks salvaged from the Chicago fire. The railroads hauled the bricks here to make room for

Chi-town's reconstruction."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Your kindness and understanding; no it's more than that. It's your willingness to make allowances for a silly female rookie without being judgmental."

"Luke said, 'Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned, forgive and ye shall be forgiven.'"

"Have you always been religious?"

"No. I am a sinner. Drugs, booze, and once, I participated in the worse kind of debauchery." He looked out the van window and mumbled, "It was bad, really, really bad. I hurt someone. It was an unforgivable sin."

"That's hard to believe. Is that what changed you?"

"I still have trouble sleeping at night," he said. Henry started the car and drove three blocks before he found an alley with a rusty dumpster. "Can you do your stand-up here?"

"Yes."

They entered the alley, stopped by the dumpster, and got out. "Stand in front of that dumpster." He set the video camera on his shoulder. "Karen, give me a voice check so I can set the volume."

"Testing... one...two...one... two."

"Rolling. I'm ready when you are."

"Rape is an act of violence, of control. There is nothing pleasurable about it for the rapist or the victim. In the past two weeks, here in Deep Ellum, three young girls have been snatched from the streets, raped, beaten, and left for dead. The latest victim was found in a dumpster. The rapist stills roams these streets seeking his next victim. Until he makes a mistake the police are left with few clues. Young women should never walk alone until this monster is arrested. I'm Karen Larsen in Deep Ellum."

"Smooth." Henry stowed the camera in the news wagon.

"What's next?"

"We continue to cruise, listen to the police and fire scanners and hope for a story."

"Can we drive out to North Dallas?"

"Sure. May I ask why?"

"I need to stop by Clint's old school and pick up his records. I won't be long."

"You didn't get those with his expulsion notice?"

"No, and his new school needs them by the end of the week."

"Okay." Henry started the news wagon, did a U-turn and headed west on Commerce. "Why not get his old school to mail them?" At Central Expressway he turned north.

"I asked them to, but they didn't sound very cooperative. I hope I don't have to deal with the Headmaster, he's not a very pleasant man."

"You want me to go in with you?"

"No. It's my problem. You stay in the wagon and monitor the radio."

When they left Central and entered Greenfield's campus, Karen felt her stomach flutter.

Henry stopped at the curb in front of the Administration building.

"Karen, stay here? I'll get the records."

"Thank you, Henry, but I can handle it." _I hope..._ She exited the vehicle, then stuck her head in the open window and smiled. "Keep the motor running in case we have to make a quick getaway?"

"If you're going to get violent can I tape it? News anchor in fierce hand to hand with head master, details at ten."

"Hush, I'm nervous enough without you trying to be funny."

"That wasn't funny? Bob and the vultures in the newsroom would love it."

"That is what I want to avoid." She headed for the building.

The woman in the registrar's office greeted Karen with a warm smile. "May I help you?"

"Yes, my son has transferred to another school and I need his records."

"Oh, are you moving to another city?"

"No." Karen smiled, hoping her mixed feelings of outrage and nerves didn't show. "We hate to lose any of our students. Won't you reconsider?"

"I'm afraid that is impossible. He's already settled in another school."

"It's unusual for a parent to come by for a student's records. Those are normally requested by the new school." The woman waited, her eyebrows raised as if she had asked a question.

Karen nodded her understanding but made no comment, determined not to open the angry wound any wider.

"Well," the woman shrugged and finally said, "but I know of no reason a parent can't have a child's record. What's his name?"

"Clinton Larsen."

She turned from her desk to the file cabinet behind her and opened the 'L' drawer. She fingered her way through the folders to Clint's records and withdrew them. A yellow slip was stapled to the cover. She read it and looked at Karen with a nervous smile. "This is unusual. This memo says these records are not to be forwarded without the approval of the headmaster."

The pent-up anger and humiliation at Clint's unfair expulsion exploded. "Those records belong to my son. I paid for them. Hand them over."

"Please there is no need to shout. I'm sure Mr. Weatherly can..."

"Can what, Mrs. Black?"

At the sound of the voice Karen turned around. Greenfield's Headmaster stood in the open doorway of the registrar's office. "Oh, Ms.. Larsen." He looked down his long nose at Karen. "I distinctly ordered you to never set foot on Greenfield's campus. You will leave immediately or I will have you forcibly removed."

Karen fought for self-control. "Mr. Weatherly, I have come for Clinton's school records."

"I am in charge here, Mrs. Larsen. I will forward those records when I am ready, and not before. You may think you are entitled to special treatment because of your television notoriety, but to me, and the parents of Greenfield, you are no better than trailer trash. Now get off my campus. Mrs. Black call the police."

"Howdy, Mr. Weatherly, give us one of your best smiles; you're on TEE-VEE News." Henry stood in the hall with the video camera on his shoulder.

Weatherly spun toward him. "Who are you? Put that camera down? You are not authorized to take pictures here."

"Mrs. Black," Henry's voice was filled with warmth and exaggerated East Texas country rustic charm, "Please tell them fellows at the PO-leece depart-MEANT to hurry. We got one of them deadline thingy's to meet."

"You can't use those pictures," the headmaster screamed.

"Sure we can. It's news." Karen crossed her arms and leaned against Mrs. Black's desk. She smiled at Weatherly and said, "It shows you violating state laws in a petty and vindictive way that impacts the education of a thirteen year old boy. Of course if I leave here with Clint's records, and you apologize for the trailer trash comment, and embarrassing me at the hospital, I might persuade Henry to give you the video."

"Karen, don't you think this here educator feller, needs to say he done made a mistake when he expelled little Clinton," Henry said.

"I can't do that. Mrs. Fischer would be furious if she ever found out."

"Which is more important?" Karen raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Kissing up to Mrs. Fischer or letting the Greenfield Board and the rest of Dallas see what a pompous ass you are?"

Weatherly closed his eyes. He ran a hand over the strands over-comb. "I'll give you the records when you hand me the video."

"Henry let me have the tape," Karen said and held out her hand.

"Yes ma'am," Henry hit the rewind button and when the camera stopped whirring he removed the tape. He handed the video to Karen, took another cartridge from his pocket, inserted it in the camera and favored everyone with a cowboy country grin."

"Mrs. Black, give this woman, Clinton Larsen's records."

When Karen had the folder, she held up the tape. "Now the apology and you can have the video."

The headmaster closed his eyes, bit his lower lip and let his head fall in a defeated slump. "Mrs. Larsen, you have my apology for anything I may have said or done that caused you embarrassment."

"Don't forget Clinton." Henry cut in with a deep menacing voice.

Apparently startled by the sudden change in Henry's character, Weatherly stared for a moment at the camera, cleared his throat and added, "Uh, yes, I have come to realize I made a mistake in expelling an outstanding student like your son, Clinton Larsen."

Karen walked to Weatherly, placed the video in his outstretched hand, and before he could react, rubbed his balding head. The long hair of the comb-over fell, covering his right ear and hanging like a curtain to his shoulder. "See, Winifred, that wasn't so hard. Get a close up, Henry. "

"Yes' sum."

It was raining when they left the Greenfield Administration office. "I can't believe I did that to his hair. And Henry, what was the act you put on in there? I had to bite my lip to keep a straight face."

"Things were getting a little sticky when I walked in so I thought I'd lighten it up." He pushed his upper teeth forward and let his lower jaw drop, "Sides that ma'am, I just can't abide them, stuck, up...what'ju call 'em? Oh yeah, pomp-ASS...Ed-U-Cated fellers, Seems lak to me all a man needs to know is which end of a mule kicks, and which end bites."

Karen laughed...

"An it'd hep a mite, if a feller knowed to come in out 'un the rain and not to step in no wet meadow muffins, cause they's slick." Henry grinned. "And don't forget. Don't get in no spittin' match with no skunks."

...and continued to laugh until tears rolled down her cheeks.

They drove to the Park Cities, dropped off Clint's records at the Middle School, and picked up Clint.

6.

Karen called Dr. Blair's cell phone.

"Hello."

"Donald, it's Karen, I'm sorry about the cancellation, but my life turned upside down last week. I still need to talk to you."

"I'm in the office doing paper work. Can you come by?"

"I'll be there with Clint in twenty minutes."

The underground parking garage was empty except for Donald's car and a van that must belong to the cleaning crew. She parked at the curb next to the elevators, locked the doors, and led Clint to Dr. Blair's office on the tenth floor.

Donald Blair crossed his waiting room, a warm smile lighting his sculpted features. Hello Karen, Clint, it's nice to see you." He extended a hand. Clint ignored it.

Karen nudged Clint toward the psychiatrist, knowing the boy didn't like him because she and Donald had dated. When their relationship moved from casual to personal, she experienced panic attacks. The attacks had frightened Clint and he blamed Donald.

"Clint, can't you say hello to Dr. Blair?" She held her breath. _Please don't call him bugger brains._.

"Lo." Clint rubbed the top of his shoe on the back of his pant leg

A twinkle appeared in Donald's eye and he ran his fingers through an unruly curl of hair that fell across his forehead. "Are you missing your favorite TV show, Clint?"

The boy tucked his head, and through hooded eyes examined the room, as if looking for a route of escape.

"Me too. There's a TV and some movies in the next room. Why don't you go in there and watch a show?" Donald finished his invitation to a closed door---"we'll watch a tape together after I talk to your mother," he called.

"Donald, I came about Clint," Karen said, a touch of annoyance in her voice.

"Agreed, but I want more information about why he needs counseling than I received in your phone call."

"He's been thrown out of Greenfield for fighting."

"At his age and size, he may have felt threatened by the other boy. I wish you would reconsider and let me teach him Krav Maga."

"Martial arts? He knows how to fight."

"It's more than fighting. Krav Maga stresses awareness and an understanding of confrontation and how to avoid violence whenever possible."

"No it doesn't. Its Jewish combat training that stresses attacking the body's most vulnerable points and quickly neutralizing an opponent. I don't want him to cripple some boy. I want him to stop fighting."

"You understand that Clint doesn't live in a vacuum. What affects you has an impact on him. At his age he reacts in the only way he knows how."

"Clint didn't want to come, but I cut off his TV privileges until he agreed to cooperate."

Donald led Karen into his inner office. He closed the door.

When the door closed she felt a brief moment of discomfort. She liked this room with its masculine oversized leather furniture, dark paneling, and full bookshelves. It looks like the room of a rich, successful doctor. Donald, with his greying temples and patrician features was at home in rooms like this. There was comfort here, a sanctuary, if she could relax.. She glanced at his desk. That strange French wrist watch with the ninety degree angle dial was propped on its alligator skin band like a clock. "Does that antique keep accurate time?" she asked.

"You mean the Cartier Cloche or the grandfather?"

"The watch?"

"Yes. It is rare, only one hundred were made, but it's hardly an antique. It was first made in 1922. My father gave it to me. We've discussed it before. Are you stalling?"

She exhaled and her shoulders slumped. "Thank you for staying late to see us."

"It's good to see you... both of you," he hastily added.

Donald indicated a chair and waited for Karen to sit. When she didn't, he folded himself into a rocker, clasped his hands, and crossed his ankles. "Tell me what's going on with Clint."

"It's hard to know where to start." Karen rubbed her hands together, and paced.

"The White Rabbit said, 'Where shall I begin, please your majesty? Begin at the beginning, the King said, and go on until you come to the end: then stop.' Donald smiled.

Karen halted her pacing and glared at him. "Don't make fun of me, Donald, this is serious. I'm not Alice in Wonderland."

"I know. I'm not making fun of you."

"Then why are you quoting from Alice?"

"To get a smile, ease the tension, get you to start."

The hint of a smile crept across her mouth. She resumed her pacing. "Begin at the beginning. Good advice if I were a rabbit. Only I don't remember falling down the hole."

"Then start with what Clint did, or said, that made you think I should see him."

"He sneaked out of the house and with his friends played a nasty prank on his school's headmaster and he won't talk to me about it."

"Clint's thirteen. Boys his age play pranks."

"He has done it before and he promised me he wouldn't do it again." Karen stopped pacing.

"It won't be the last time," Donald said and smiled.

"It's the first time he's made a promise and didn't keep it." She dropped into a chair across from Donald, a hurt expression on her face.

"No," Donald said in quiet voice. "It's the first time you've caught him. Karen, all this is pretty standard behavior for a thirteen-year-old boy. Not earthshaking enough for you to think he needs my help."

"You make it sound trivial, but it's not. Why is he fighting?

"Why not tell me what's really bothering you."

Karen bolted out of the chair, trembling. She stalked to the window then turned and looked him in the eyes. "I'm not qualified for my job. The people I work with resent me. My boss is looking for a way to fire me and if he found out I was mentally ill and seeing a psychiatrist he would have one...and...and, I'm raising a thirteen year old delinquent." She turned back to the window and studied the evening as the city lights winked on.

And," he prompted

"Donald you have been a good friend. I know you want more and I can't give it." She, continued to stare at the night, then quickly turned to face Donald. "We have no secrets. As my former therapist you know I'm afraid of men. With the stress of the new job and Clint acting up," I'm not comfortable with the thought of dating." She reached for his hand. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have called you. Please Donald; if we can't talk about Clint we need to go."

"You're still not telling me what has you so upset."

Their eyes met. She took a deep breath and then released it with a shudder. "Clint accused me of lying."

"Did you?"

"He wants to know about his father and I can't tell him. I...I... don't know." She looked at him and tears filled her eyes. A sudden confusion gripped her. "I don't... know," she sobbed and sank into the embrace of the overstuffed leather sofa.

"Can you remember why he called you a liar?"

The words escaped in a rush before she could seize and hold them in. "He... he... asked me... who he was? Why we don't have a family, why we don't have any pictures." She curled into a fetal position pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them. Sobs racked her body. "I don't know how to answer him."

"Karen, when I was treating you I recommended we try regression therapy and you refused. I won't pressure you again tonight, but I advise you to consider it."

"But what do I tell Clint?"

"Tell him the truth as you know it. The last thing you can remember is waking up at Baylor Hospital. The doctor's said you had been in an accident and had amnesia. You were pregnant and no family ever came to visit."

She felt him leave his chair and heard the faint sounds of footsteps on carpet. He patted her on the back. She shrank into the soft leather sofa in a fetal position.

It was quiet for a moment and then there was the click of a remote and the indulgent, restful melodies of Debussy filled the room. He covered her with an afghan. "I'll be with Clint."

The turmoil in her mind eased, floating with the melodies of the Prelude to The Afternoon of a Faun. She relaxed and the room and music faded into sleep.

****

In a van, parked across the street from Karen's, Henry squirmed in his seat. The faint perfume of roses mixed with the sour stink of a relic left by a dog, rode the breeze through the van's open window. He wrinkled his nose. The neighborhood was as quiet as usual for his periodic watch. Flickering blue light from television sets painted windows of several houses. Sprinklers came on three doors down and a man walking a large dog crossed the street away from the sudden shower. Henry glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. It was ten thirty. Tomorrow was a school day. They'd be home soon.

A Mercedes passed into the street lights at the end of the block. It turned onto the street. The headlights swept across the van's windshield. Henry ducked. The sedan pulled to the curb and stopped in front of Karen's house. The dome light in the car came on as Clint opened the door and got out.

"Come on Mom, I'm tired."

Henry eased a parabolic mike over the windowsill and aimed it at the car.

"Thank you for driving us home, Donald. I was so sleepy I don't think I would have made it. Don't get out. It's time Clint learned to be a gentleman. He can walk me to the door." She opened the door and got out of the car. "Thank you for talking to Clint and being understanding."

"It's good to see you. Call me when you come to pick up your car. We'll have lunch."

"No. I'll get Henry to drop me by your office."

"That's not necessary."

"I think its best we move on. You want more than a friend and a friend is what I really need right now." "Good night, and thanks again." She closed the door and with Clint at her side. They quickly disappeared into their house.

When the Mercedes taillights faded into the night, Henry started the van and pulled away.

7.

The next morning Karen knocked on Clint's bedroom door. "It's seven o'clock. It's time to get up." She listened and not hearing any movement, cracked the door. "Come on young man. We have to go shopping for shoes. Hit the deck."

"Aw Mom one more minute. Its Saturday."

"Nope, let me see those feet on the floor."

When Clint had detached himself from the twisted sheets and the comforter rested on the carpet, Karen closed the door. "Breakfast, in ten minutes," she said and headed for the kitchen. Thank goodness for coffee pot timers.

As soon as she reached the kitchen she poured a cup of coffee and raised it to her lips. Is it the smell or the first taste that jump starts my mornings? She placed orange juice and cereal bowls on the mats, retrieved the milk from the fridge, and replenished her coffee.

"What's for breakfast?" Clint asked from the door.

"We're having a rasher of bacon, scrambled eggs, waffles, cantaloupe, yogurt, coffee cake."

"Come on Mom what are we having?"

"Gruel."

"There's no such thing."

"Sure there is. It's a thin porridge the British fed their children as punishment."

"No thanks. I'll settle for the usual corn flakes."

A soft breeze tickled the hair on the back of Karen's neck. She glanced around the kitchen looking for its source. "Clint, did you leave that window open again?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well someone did."

"It wasn't me."

"Okay. It's not important." She walked to the window, closed and locked it "When you finish eating, get dressed."

"Can I go to Game Stop?

"Eat."

Three shoe stores later Karen asked Clint, "Are these shoes comfortable?"

"Yeah."

"Yes ma'am."

"Yes ma'am."

"That's better."

They walked out of the store into the throng of Saturday morning shoppers.

"I thought if we came early we'd miss the mob?" Clint said.

"I guess everyone had the same idea."

"Mom, can we go to the food court? I'm starved."

"You just had a donut. Have you got a hollow leg?"

"Nope. I just have an empty stomach."

"Alright, we'll have an early lunch."

"I want a pizza with lots of pepperoni."

"Here's twenty dollars. You get the pizza and I'll get a table. Bring me a slice with extra mozzarella cheese and chicken."

Clint grabbed the money and headed down the mall escalator.

"Clint," Karen called after him, I'd like bottled water to drink."

"I know," he called back. "That French stuff."

As Karen stepped off the escalator at the basement food court, a fat woman in a flowered muumuu with curlers in her dyed blond hair blocked her way. "Excuse me, but aren't you Karen Larsen of Channel Seven News?"

"Yes."

"I'm such a fan; I don't miss a single broadcast. My husband doesn't either. I think he's in love with you, but I'm not jealous. May I have your autograph?" She gushed. "I don't have a paper and pen with me...uh, do you?"

Karen quickly took a note pad and pen from her purse and scribbled her name. Karen handed her the autograph.

"I didn't think I was going to meet someone famous," the woman gushed. "My husband is going to be so disappointed he wasn't here. Just wait till the girls in my..."

She eyed the woman who continued to talk. How can she do that without breathing? "Excuse me." Karen smiled and added, "I'm meeting someone and I'm late." She stepped around the woman, searched for a familiar face and then walked to a rugged looking man with a blond crew cut. He was standing in a food line with a boy about Clint's age. She cupped the man's arm in her hand hoping it appeared to be a familiar greeting.

"Pardon me Detective, but would you please rescue me from that woman standing by the escalator?"

Paul Ragsdale turned and looked down at Karen. A warm smile illuminated his rugged features. "Miss Larsen."

"Please act like you know me or I'll never get rid of her."

"But I do know you. We met at the TV station."

"I wasn't sure you'd remember." "This is my son, Paul Junior. Paul this is Ms. Karen Larsen of Channel Seven News."

The boy tucked his head, his eyes seeking some place to focus. "Lo."

_That's exactly what Clint would do and say._ She smiled. "Very nice to meet you Paul...or do I call you Paul Junior...or Junior...or Mr. Ragsdale?"

The boy grinned, "Paul."

"Will you join us? We're having burgers, fries and milk shakes," Paul Senior asked.

"Clint," she stopped at the disappointed look on the detectives face and quickly added, "My son is getting pizzas. You can join us if your wife won't object." _Why did I say that?_

"We'd like that." Ragsdale said and then quickly glanced at Paul Junior who shrugged.

Karen gave an apologetic smile. "If we can find a secluded table maybe we can have a quiet uninterrupted lunch. I love my work, but I hate the notoriety."

"There's an empty table among those potted palms," Detective Ragsdale said. "Grab it while we get our food."

Karen spotted Clint, got his attention, and pointed toward the table.

When everyone was seated Karen turned to her son. "Clint this is Detective Ragsdale and his son Paul. They're going to join us for lunch. Gentlemen, this is my son Clint."

Detective Ragsdale shook hands with Clint. The boys eyed each other with the uncertainty of young dogs meeting for the first time. Karen watched to make sure that neither of them barked or bit; instead they smiled, sat next to each other, and ignoring the adults started talking a mile a minute.

"Clint, you look like a fisherman," the detective said.

"I've never been, but I'd like to try it."

"Never been fishing... that's a major crime and calls for immediate police action. Where did I leave my cuffs? Ragsdale winked at Karen, and then made a show of searching his belt and checking the floor. "I must have lost them. Young man, the Dallas Police can overlook this infraction if you promise to go with us the next time Paul Junior and I wet a line."

"Mom, can I?"

"May I...and we'll talk about it."

"Can me and Paul go to the arcade?"

"Paul and I."

"Can we, Dad?"

"What do you think, Mom?" Rags asked, his eyes twinkling.

"Do you have any money, Clint?"

"I still have seven dollars from my allowance."

"I've got five dollars, Dad." Paul Junior pulled the money from his pocket and waved it.

"Clint, your limit is five dollars. When you've spent that you come back here."

"'kay."

"'kay?" Karen mimicked him and raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, ma'am."

The boys raced toward the flashing neon lights that surrounded the entrance to the arcade.

"How old is Paul?"

"Thirteen."

"Clint's age." Karen smiled, "They grow so fast. We're losing them you know? They're no longer babies." She looked at the detective and shook her head. "It's so hard to give up holding and kissing."

Ragsdale glanced at her, gazed around the food court, then cleared his throat, and said, "Ms Larsen---"

"Karen."

"Okay, everyone calls me Rags."

"I'll call you Paul. An uncomfortable silence settled over them until Rags broke it with a nervous chuckle. "This is the first time I've been alone with a lady since my wife died. I've forgotten how to talk."

"Me too."

"There is no Mr. Larsen?"

"No."

Both played with their drinks until Karen suggested, "Tell me about your job. I'm so new to journalism that I don't really know what a detective does."

Paul said with a twinkle in his eye, "Detect."

Nice eyes and a sense of humor.

They both laughed.

"Can you talk about the series of rapes?" she asked.

"Off the record?"

"If you insist."

"I have to."

"Okay."

"This guy is a phantom. He grabs his victims from behind and wears a ski mask. We know he drives a cargo van with shag carpet lining, but we can't find it. There are no other clues. No prints. Nothing we can test for DNA. All he leaves at a crime scene is a terrified girl with a broken body and a white rose."

"A rose?" Startled she grabbed a quick breath.

"When someone finds the victim, their clothing is neatly folded and placed beside her nude body, and a white rose is in her hand or on her chest."

"Is there some sort of symbolism associated with the rose?"

"We've checked with florists. A white rose is said to symbolize innocence and purity. It can also mean I am worthy of you or secrecy and silence. Take your choice."

"What does a yellow rose signify?"

"I don't recall any of the victims having yellow roses."

"Someone has been sending a single yellow rose to me each day at the station. One had a card that said 'Forgive me.' This week a rose was left on my car. And there was a rose in my mailbox at home."

Rags took his wallet from his hip pocket and pulled a paper from it. "Was the rose in full bloom?"

"No."

"A single rose in full bloom means, I still love you. A yellow rose that is not in full bloom can signify jealousy, or decreased love, or it can be a plea for you to care for the sender."

"Do you think I'm being stalked?"

"There is no way of knowing. Has anything else happened?"

"There was a dark van that drove by my house, and this morning my kitchen window was unlocked. Do you think someone tried to break in?"

"I'd say you need to be aware of anything unusual. This sort of problem usually escalates. Here is my business card. Call me if you get another rose. Don't touch it or anything around the area where it was left."

****

A tall, stylishly dressed man watched from the balcony overlooking the food court as Karen accepted the card. He slammed his fist into the railing. "She's mine and you Detective Ragsdale will regret every breath you took in her presence."

He spun into a woman loaded with packages and roughly shoved her aside sending the parcels flying. "Get out of my way you hag."

A gray haired priest bent to help the lady and was grabbed by the shoulders and pulled erect. The enraged face with extended eyes hissed at him, "I've waited my turn but now she's no longer worthy of my seed." He pushed the priest, "Tell that to your God." and charged down the corridor, knocking aside shoppers, until he reached an old woman selling dried flowers by the mall exit. He stopped to purchase a rose. "She was my queen." He muttered. "She's too beautiful for common men."

'I beg your pardon," the flower seller said.

He pointed to a mangled rose discarded in a box of leaves, stems and coffee cups. "Is that rose for sale?"

"Oh no, it's falling apart. That's my trash box."

"I want it."

"These are much nicer."

"Damn it woman, I want that one." He grabbed the rose out of the trash, handed her a twenty, and without waiting for change marched across the parking lot toward a dark blue van.

8.

Late that afternoon, exhausted from shopping and a transformer movie, filled with screaming teens, Karen returned home with Clint. He rushed up the stairs two at a time. Karen watched him, shaking her head at his boundless energy, and then collapsed on the bottom stair. She removed her shoes and massaged her tired feet. _Now I remember why I hate shopping, and high heels, and teen flicks._ She stood and trudged upstairs to her room. _I need a nap._

She opened her bedroom door..., "Oh God. No." Karen backed into the hall. She eased the door closed and crossed to Clint's room. "Clint!" she whispered. The door rattling bass of a punk rock band smothered her words. "Clint." She pounded on the door. "Turn that down."

The music faded abruptly and the door opened. "What?"

"How many times do I have to tell you...?" Then she remembered why she wanted him. "Get your coat we have to leave immediately."

"Why?"

"Someone broke in. He could still be in the house," she whispered. Together they raced down the stairs and out the front door to their car. When they were in the car with the doors locked she dug her cell phone out of her purse and Paul's card from her pocket. With trembling hands she punched in his number. The phone rang. It rang again. "Please be there Paul," she whispered. "Please." On the third ring there was a click and then...

"Ragsdale."

"Paul, this is Karen Larsen." She had to clear her throat to remove the catch in her voice. "Would you please come to my house right away? It's important."

"Well, I had promised Paul we'd---"

"Go to a ball game. I know. I'm sorry but we just got home from the mall and there's something here you need to see."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes... no. Someone's been in my house."

"Get out of the house."

"We're in my car."

"I'm on Central Expressway, where do you live?

"In Highland Park, on Abbott."

"That's out of my jurisdiction. Meet me at the Highland Park Police Station. I'll be waiting for you."

"Thanks." Karen pushed the phone back in her purse and drove to the Spanish colonial stucco building that housed the police station. They parked, and rapidly headed up the walk.

"Mom, how do you know someone was in the house? I didn't see nothing."

There is a dead yellow rose lying on my bed."

"So?"

"I didn't put it there. I think it's a message."

"What kind of message?"

"I don't know, but Detective Ragsdale has a paper that tells what flowers mean."

"Flowers talk?"

"No, but when people send flowers; the type of flower they send, and the flower color is supposed to have a special meaning."

"That's crap."

"Clint."

"Well it is."

"I don't disagree, but I do take exception to your language."

Detective Ragsdale was waiting in the foyer with Paul Junior and two men.

"How did you get here so quickly?" Karen asked.

"We were headed for the ballpark in Frisco when you called."

"I'm sorry to spoil your afternoon, but after our talk this morning I got spooked."

"Why?"

"There was a crumpled rose on my pillow and I didn't put it there."

"Did you touch anything?"

"No. We left the house immediately."

"Okay, I want you to stay here with the boys. Let me have your keys and your address."

"Six-thousand-eighty, Abbott."

"Miss Larsen, I'm Detective Rawls and this is my partner, 'Dog' Barker.

"Dog?"

Yes ma'am, as in woof, woof."

"That's funny," Karen smiled and screwed up her face.

"Not if your name is Barker, but I got thick skin. You and the boys can wait in the conference room at the head of the stairs."

"Thank you, Detective. Let's go gang." Karen led the boys to the second floor.

"Abbott's, pretty up-scale." Barker observed. "How do you want to handle this, Ragsdale?"

"It's your territory but I would suggest we go in my car so we don't spook the guy or upset the neighbors."

"Any thoughts, Rawls?"

"You come in from the back and I'll go in the front door with Ragsdale."

"Okay, but when I come in the back door, don't forget I'm the sole support of my wife and kids."

"Bark."

"Funny man."

Ragsdale drove past Karen's house and stopped in front of her neighbor's home. Barker got out first and walked along the hedge that separated the two houses. Ragsdale and Rawls waited until he disappeared into Karen's back yard then got out of the car and walked along the street talking.

When they reached her walk, they turned and rapidly moved to the front door. Ragsdale shoved his jacket aside and removed the Beretta from the holster at the small of his back. He twisted the door knob, and Rawls, gun in hand, swept into the house and assumed a shooter's stance to the right of the door. Ragsdale followed and crouched on the left.

When there was no reaction, Rags slowly turned the doorknob of the hall closet, stepped aside and pulled it open so Rawls had a clean shot. It was empty. Silently, the two men moved down opposite walls of the living room into the den, library and dining room, checking behind large furniture and opening doors as they went.

From beyond a swinging door that appeared to lead to the kitchen a board creaked. The men raised their guns. Ragsdale crouched and Rawls stepped to the wall as the door swung open.

"Bow wow."

"Damn you, Dog. I almost shot your ass," Rawls whispered. "Next time bark before you open the door."

He came in through the kitchen." Barker said. "A pane of glass is broken in the back door,"

Ragsdale got to his feet. "The downstairs is clear. Let's check upstairs."

The three detectives covered each other as they worked their way up the stairs and moved from room to room until they reached the master suite. They spread out checking the closets, bath and under the bed.

"There's the rose," Rawls said. "Whoever he was is long gone."

"We need to get a statement from Ms. Larsen," Barker said.

Paul dialed her number. She answered on the first ring.

"Karen, you can come home. We need to talk."

When they arrived, the boys immediately went to Clint's room. The door had barely closed before the walls began to vibrate.

I'm sorry," Karen said. "I've told him not to play that awful music so loud." She started for the door.

"No, leave him be." Ragsdale held up his hand to stop her. "We need to talk and Detectives Barker and Rawls will have some questions."

"Okay."

"Karen, don't be offended by these questions, but we need to make sure you had nothing to do with this."

"Well, I am offended."

"Think about it." Rawls injected. "You're in a business that thrives on calling attention to its personalities. The tabloids are filled with headlines about celebrities being victimized."

"How long did you stay at the mall after Paul and I left?" Ragsdale asked.

"About three hours, we went to a movie."

"When you left the mall did you notice the little old lady selling flowers?"

"Yes."

"Did you purchase this flower?" Barker indicated the rose on her pillow.

"No. "

"We had to ask." Ragsdale smiled to ease the tension. "For the record we believe you. At the mall you said there was a note with the rose delivered at the station. Do you still have it?"

"It might be in my purse or rain coat."

"Please check. If it's there, let one of us handle it," Rawls said.

Karen went to the closet and retrieved her raincoat and purse and laid them on the foot of the bed away from the rose on her pillow.

Rawls opened the purse. "Bingo. Barker, call the crime lab. We'll turn this over to them while they process the entire house."

"May I ask a question?"

The three detectives looked at Karen and nodded.

"Is it a crime to send flowers?"

"It is if you break into someone's home to deliver them," Ragsdale replied.

"Oh."

"You get roses from an unknown person. The rape victims get roses from an unknown assailant. There are two basic differences between you and the victims. So far you haven't been attacked and until now the flowers were all fresh. This one is dead."

"Paul, am I being sent a message? Why a dead, white rose?"

Ragsdale pulled the florist card from his pocket and scanned the meanings of flowers. He frowned and then looked at Karen. "Is there someone you can stay with until we clear this up?"

"What does the card say?"

He hesitated, then in a soft voice said, "Death is preferable to the loss of virtue."

9.

Sunday morning a phone rang on a direct line at police headquarters. "Crimes Against Persons, Homicide. This is Detective Ragsdale. May I help you?"

"Paul, this is Karen Larsen. Can you talk?"

"For a few minutes, I'm expecting a call."

"I wanted to thank you for your suggestion and give you an update. A locksmith is coming to my house today to install dead bolts and sash locks. The security people won't finish wiring the house until Monday."

"I wouldn't stay there until a security system is working."

"I won't. We stayed in The Anatole Hotel last night, but Clint got restless. In his mood it won't be easy to negotiate a second night here."

"Why don't you let him spend the night with Paul?" We're having a boy's night out tonight with pizza and a movie.

"That would be an imposition. You're working and he's got school tomorrow."

"No problem. I only came in today to make some calls and clean up some paper work. I have an early shift tomorrow and I can take both boys to school."

"Clint would like that. Clint says they go to the same school."

"Will you join us tonight?"

"Thanks, but if you haven't noticed, I'm the wrong gender for a boy's only night."

"We could make an exception this one time."

"I'm tempted but there are too few men in Clint's life. He'll enjoy it more if Mom's not along."

"There's my other phone. When can I pick him up?"

"Six-thirty at the hotel."

"Okay. Got to go. Bye."

****

Thirty minutes later Rags walked into the Highland Park office of Detectives Rawls and Barker.

"Hey Rags. Has big D run out of cases so you've come to our fair city on a Sunday to help issue parking tickets to the church crowd?" Rawls asked.

"I wish my job was so simple. I feel like a blind man in a maze. Every way I turn I run into a wall on this rape case."

"Your troubles are over." Barker stood and offered his hand. "You're just in time for a lesson in the fine art of detection."

"We're on our way to canvass the neighborhood around the Larsen house." Rawls pushed his chair back from his desk, got up. "Want to come along?"

"Might as well. She's getting a complete security make over. We can check the job. Paul followed Rawls and Barker out of the office. "You guys get any prints off the card from Karen's rose?"

"There's nothing in our base. The lab's still looking for matches," Rawls replied over his shoulder.

When the three detectives reached Abbot Street, they parked and split up to canvass the area. Ragsdale took the houses across the street from Karen's home. Rawls and Barker leapfrogged each other on Karen's side of the street.

As Ragsdale strode up the sidewalk of the first house he noticed the edge of a drape pulled aside then quickly released. Good, someone's home. He rang the bell and heard the chimes echo through the house. When no one came to the door he rang it again.

After a half a minute passed, he knocked. "Police, is someone home?" There was no response. He shrugged, turned and walked to the next house. The neighborhood check went fast. Most of the residents were not home and those that were could not recall seeing any strangers the afternoon of the break-in.

It was a typical fall day in the Metroplex, hot and humid. He was hot and discouraged until he reached a house at the end of the block. There was a crime watch sticker on the door. He knocked.

From inside the house the clatter of toenails on a hardwood floor signaled the arrival of a large animal at the door.

"Woof." It was a single deep bark, a wall rattling growl, and a heavy body attempting to break through the wooden door.

Paul stepped away from the door. With luck no one's home.

There was a click. The door swung wide and a brindled dog the size of a small horse shouldered his way through the opening. The animal crossed the porch in a single bound, rose on its hind legs, and placed its front paws on Ragsdale's shoulders, its mouth open.

"Damn." Ragsdale's hand moved to the gun in the small of his back.

"He's really quite harmless." a man's voice said. "Sit, Tiger."

The slobbering jaws of the Great Dane were inches from the detective's face. A tongue the size of a hand licked his cheek.

"If he's harmless why do you call him Tiger?" Rags gasped. He tried to shove the dog off his shoulders and out of his face. The dog countered, by shifting his hind legs and they began a two-step across the porch.

"Sit."

The dog looked at his master, then toward Ragsdale, gave him a drooling lick across the cheek, dropped to the porch, and sat.

"Please tell me I didn't wet myself."

"You didn't. May I help you?"

"I'm Detective Paul Ragsdale of the Dallas Police Department. Across the street are two detectives from the Highland Park Police."

"Pardon my manners detective, I'm Franklin Phillips, block Captain of the Neighborhood Crime Watch."

The two men shook hands.

"No thanks, but a towel would be nice."

Phillips led the way to the kitchen. He offered Ragsdale a wet and a dry cotton face towel.

"Mr. Phillips, have you seen any strangers, or strange vehicles in the neighborhood?"

"May I ask why?"

"There was a break-in at the Larsen house yesterday. We're canvassing the neighborhood to determine if anyone saw anything."

"Why is a Dallas detective working a Highland Park break in?"

"It's a long story. MS Larsen is an acquaintance. My home is in the Park Cities and our boys go to the same school. She called me and I handed the complaint off to Highland Park. Two detective friends asked me to join them in the neighborhood canvass."

"To answer your question about seeing strangers," Phillips said. "A few nights ago, while I was walking Tiger, I did see an old car and two vans that didn't belong here. One of the vans has driven by periodically."

"Can you describe them?"

"I can do better than that. I got the plate numbers off the Crown Vic and one van, but mud was smeared on the tags of the second van and I couldn't make them out, but they looked out of state."

A deep growl rumbled in Tiger's chest. He rose and stalked to the door. There was a knock. "Highland Park Police..."

"Mr. Phillips, may I open the door and let Tiger out?"

"Why?"

"A little bladder test."

"Be my guest."

Ragsdale walked to the door and jerked it open.

"Look out," Rawls howled, stumbled backward and fell into an azalea hedge.

"Holy shit," Barker shouted, jumped aside, tripped, and sprawled on the porch floor. Tiger draped his one hundred-fifty pounds across Barker's chest and licked his face.

Between uncontrollable fits of laughter, Ragsdale clutched the door frame for support and gasped, "Bow wow."

An hour later when the three detectives entered the Highland Park Police headquarters, a uniformed officer called out, "Hey Dog."

Ragsdale exploded with laughter.

"Your day's comin' Rags," Barker hissed. "Yeah Clark, whatja want?"

Clark joined them at the stairs. "Got a read on those plates you called in, and the print report is back on the card."

"That's quick for a weekend."

The officer handed Barker two sheets of paper and returned to the front desk.

Detective Barker led the way up the stairs to the second floor to his office. "Very interesting," he said and handed the papers to Rags.

Rawls looked over Rags shoulder as he read the reports, "Well, I'll be damned."

"Yeah, I'll be damned," Rags shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. Is this some sort of school boy crush or...?"

"We got enough to bring him in for questioning?" Rawls asked.

"Not really," Rags said. "Let's run the plate number Phillips gave us."

"We could harass him about parking," Barker suggested.

"If he's the guy, it wouldn't do any good. He'd back off and pick another place. Let's use the crime watch guy. He can be our eyes and if he makes a move we can catch him in the act."

"You think he's one of those Jeckel-Hide characters, a good guy until the moon comes out?"

"You watch too much TV Barker," Rags cuffed him on the shoulder.

10.

Later at the Dallas Detective Bureau Palmer asked Ragsdale "Did you call the state prison in Huntsville?

Yeah, they released two from this area. We sent them down on rape charges ten years ago."

"Have they been out long enough to do Grogan's girl?"

"Not their style. They worked as a team. The girl Grogan fished from the dumpster said one guy grabbed her." Rags said.

"Ten years in Huntsville can cause a man to fly solo at the first opportunity."

"It's possible," Rags thought a minute then added, "When they were originally arrested they had a double-header going. In the middle of the first inning the victim bit a chunk out of Hudson's Johnson. Morgan panicked, and abandoned Hudson. In the confusion the girl got a gun out of a night stand and called 911. She held Hudson at gunpoint until the cavalry arrived."

"I only have one question," Palmer said. "Did she swallow?" He raised the cup to his lip, drank and made a face. "Damn that's bad coffee."

"Palmer, you are the most gross---."

Palmer ignored Rags and continued, "The EPA should condemn this stuff as hazardous waste. I'm gonna donate my stomach to the Smithsonian." He paused while he took another drink. "Think about what happened to Hudson, how could he be a suspect in the dumpster rape?"

"Huntsville says he had surgery. But they have no information on whether his plumbing works. Grogan's gal could have been a test drive."

"So where are you?"

"Damned if I know. I found a cold case fourteen years ago where the victim was found in a Deep Ellum dumpster."

The phone rang. Palmer grabbed it. "Crimes Against Persons, Homicide, Detective Palmer... Just a minute." He pointed to the phone and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Ragsdale nodded and picked up the telephone. "Ragsdale."

A weary sounding voice answered, "This is Taggert in Parole returning your call."

"Officer Taggert, I'm working the dumpster rape case."

"Yeah, I've been following it. I've got a daughter who liked to go to Deep Ellum until this started."

"Have you got anything on Morgan and Hudson?" Ragsdale asked.

"Not a peep in two weeks. They missed a scheduled meeting. I'll give it a couple of days and have them picked up as parole violators if it will help."

"I want to know where they were when these girls were attacked. Can you step up your time table?"

"Yeah, I can do that."

"Keep me posted. We're grabbing at straws."

"You'll hear from me as soon as I find them."

Ragsdale leaned back in his swivel chair staring at a blank wall in deep thought. A frown crinkled his brow. He sat up and turned to his desk mate. "John, you got a minute? I need to talk my way through this stuff."

Detective John Palmer laid down a report and looked up. "Let me get some more swill. You want a refill?"

"Yeah. Maybe a caffeine rush will jar something loose. If not the Smithsonian might have room for a second stomach."

Palmer stood, walked across the squad room to the coffeepot, filled two cups and returned to his seat. "Fire away."

"Take a look at this old file and tell me what you think." Ragsdale shoved the folder across his desk.

"What am I looking for?"

"Look at the picture of the victim. Does she remind you of anyone?"

Palmer studied the picture. "Can't tell. There is to much facial swelling. Who is it?"

"I'm not sure. I have a nagging feeling I've seen her recently. Check the jaw line and over-all shape of the face."

Palmer looked at the picture again. "Nope. No bells going off." Palmer handed the file back. "Is this one of your cold case rapes?"

"Yeah. Fourteen years ago someone left her half dead in an alley in Deep Ellum." Rags flipped through the type written report. "Doctors at Baylor Hospital patched her up

but couldn't restore her memory. With no suspects and a victim with no memory the case went cold."

"What happened to her?"

"Don't know. Someone paid her bills on the condition of anonymity, and when she healed she checked herself out and disappeared."

"Only one thing you can do, Rags."

"What's that?"

"The case is fourteen years old and can't be connected to the current rapes. Put her in the round file."

"It's tempting, but I've got this gut feeling if I can find the girl..." Ragsdale tapped the file, "she might know something we can use."

"Assuming she regained her memory."

"I'm grabbing at straws," Rags said.

"I'd concentrate on the cons, Hudson and Morgan. They could be here in Dallas, or we might get a Mexican vacation if they have flown south"

11.

"Henry where are you and your parrot?"

"I'm introducing Karen to some of the characters in Oak Lawn, boss man. Got anything?"

"Nope. It's another quiet day. We need some visuals to add interest to the newscast. Lately we've been featuring squabbling politicians, petty crimes and dull interviews by your talking bird."

"Come on Boss. That's low. That implies she's not a reporter only an empty headed reader."

"You said it. I didn't," Bullard replied.

Henry closed the mike and turned to Karen, "He'll change as soon as the ratings come in. You're doing a good job."

"Bob, you owe Karen---"

Karen touched Henry's arm. When he glanced at her she shook her head and a put a finger to her lips.

Bullock continued, "It's a pretty day. Let your canary out of her cage so she can join her relatives in the trees. Our weathercaster says it will turn sour later today. Go to White Rock Lake and get some stock footage of boats and fishermen in case Liz is right. Show the cloudless sky then we'll get some of the rain and impress the viewers with the professionalism of at least one of our personalities."

"Okay." Henry hung the mike on it's hook and turned the news van toward White Rock Lake.

Karen took a sip from her water bottle and leaned against the head rest. Her eyes closed. "The lake will be an improvement after looking at all these old buildings trying to be condominiums. And if I look into another trash filled dumpster you'll be the body I find."

"You can talk. That's the first thing you've said since the Bull's call. Is something on your mind?"

"Besides my job? Yes, I had a call from Weatherly last night."

"How'd he get your home number?"

"School records."

"What did he want?"

"To tell me the tapes you gave him were blank. He wants the original."

"Did he threaten you?" Henry's eyes hardened.

"He said he was not without resources, whatever that means."

"I'll talk to him." Henry looked grim.

"No. It could be nothing."

"You sure?"

She bit her lip, nodded, and then said, "yep, I'm sure."

After a half hour of threading his way through afternoon traffic, Henry turned off Mockingbird onto Lawther, stopped beside a picnic table and killed the engine. "Let's get out of this tub and sit in the shade."

"Not tub," she made a face. "If the boss says it a cage, it's a cage." She opened the door and stepped out of the van. "Watch me fly." She flapped her arms and headed for the nearest tree. " Tweet...tweet...tweet."

"You're not funny and he is out-of-line." Henry got out of the vehicle. "We'll keep the scanner and two-way on in case something breaks."

Karen, stretched and walked to the edge of the water. Henry joined her.

"The lake looks muddy," she said. "How deep is it?"

"In the center, and near the dam, it's about twenty feet. There's so much silt flowing into it the city has to dredge it every few years."

"It's still a pretty lake."

"It used to be much nicer. People swam on that beach by the old boathouse and there was a fish hatchery near the dam. Now the lake is closed to swimming and the fish hatchery is a thicket of vines, weeds and thirty year old trees."

"What happened?"

"Some brainiacks at City Hall decided it would be a good idea, efficient, and save money, to let the street storm drains empty into White Rock Creek."

"How sad," Karen picked up a stone and skipped it three times across the water. "Not many cities have a large lake in the center of a residential area."

"People still flock here, on weekends when families visit the arboretum, fish, feed the ducks, and watch the boats."

"You ever go to the Arboretum?"

"Yeah, two or three times a month."

"You've got a girlfriend and she drags you there."

"No, I don't date."

Karen studied a young couple walking hand in hand along the jogging trail. A lump formed in her throat, she swallowed and softly said, "I don't either."

"What?"

"Date."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Karen said. "I guess it's because men want more than I can give. They make me uncomfortable." She looked at Henry. "Why don't you date?"

"Same reason I guess." He picked up a stick and dug in the soft mud at the water's edge. "Do I make you feel uncomfortable?" He asked.

"You did at first."

"And now?"

"You're a friend," Karen said.

"The story of my life, always a friend, never a boyfriend," he tried to make an unhappy clown face, with his lower lip out, sad eyes, and a tucked chin.

"You're my friend because you don't make demands and you support me." She picked up another rock and juggled it from hand to hand. "May I ask you a personal question?"

He nodded.

"I never pictured you as a flower lover, are you gay?" "No, if anything I'm just the opposite. I love flowers and butterflies because they represent God's promise to us. They die in the fall of their lives and are resurrected in the spring. They are two of God's most beautiful creations and symbols of his truth and Christ's promise. The Arboretum has both. It's a great place to meditate."

"What about?"

"Things in the past I wish I could change. My future."

"Are you ever going to tell me about yourself?"

"Someday."

"Was it a girl?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"I used to mess around with drugs. One night I met this girl at a club. I was floating..."

"Is that when you got religion?"

"Afterwards when I realized what I'd done." Henry picked up a stone and skipped it across the water. It hopped five times before it sank. "Did you see that? Five times." He raised his arms and chanted, "I'm the champ, I'm the champ."

"You're not going to tell me are you?"

"Not now. May be later."

"Okay, you want to be mysterious. I've got some mysteries of my own. The other night a strange van drove past my house very slowly. It had the lights off. Clint and I were sitting in the dark in my car talking. When I opened the door to get out the van took off, burning rubber. I think he was scouting my home.

Henry quickly glanced at her then turned away. "Did you get a look at the driver or the tags?"

"No. It was raining."

"You said a couple. What else?"

"Someone left a rose on my parked car at the station, and another one in my mail box, and when I got home from shopping Saturday someone had broken into my house and left a dead rose on my pillow."

Henry frowned took a deep breath and turned toward her. He opened his mouth to say something but instead shook his head and looked across the lake.

"What?"

"I was going to offer to keep an eye on things until it occurred to me that the police would think it was my van and my roses."

****

At the television station the News Director picked up the phone on the first ring. "Bullard."

"Do you know who this is?"

"Not really. Whoever you are, I'm busy. If you've got something to say, spill it or I'm hanging up the phone."

"If you want to improve your ratings, send your crew to the old fish hatchery at White Rock Lake." There was an empty hiss like the sound from a sea shell as the phone went dead.

Bullard raised one eye brow and shrugged _. How'd that nut case get on my private line?_ He reached for the two-way mike.

The tranquility at the lake was shattered as Bullard's voice exploded over the two-way radio. "Henry, are you in the van.?"

Henry sprinted to the van and grabbed the mike. "Yeah, Bob. What's up?"

"Where are you?"

"We're just winding up at White Rock Lake."

"I just got a call on my private line about possible action at the fish hatchery. Get over there and check it out."

"It's a half mile from where we're sitting. We're on our way."

Karen turned to Henry, a questioning frown on her face, "You ever ask where he gets his tips?"

"Nope. In news we respect each other's sources. But in Bull's case the switchboard operator channels all tip calls to him so he can assign a reporter."

"But he said the call was on his private line?"

****

In the detective squad room at the east Dallas Police substation the lieutenant's voice boomed over the speaker, "Ragsdale, Palmer, get out to the old fish hatchery on White Rock Lake. A citizen called about a body. Don't put this one on the air till you check it out."

Five minutes later Ragsdale bumped the unmarked police car over the shoulder of the hatchery road and into the weeds to get around the news van.

"How the hell did Channel Seven beat us here?" Ragsdale asked.

"Damned if I know. The call wasn't on the radio." Palmer opened the door on the passenger side and got out.

A tall, casually dressed woman, stepped from a screen of undergrowth, smiled, and walked to the two detectives. "Hello Paul." My cameraman, Henry Moore is back there with the victim. She's hurt and needs help."

"Karen, this is my partner John Palmer. It's nice to see you again, but if you've compromised my crime scene, you two are going to spend the night in Lew Starrett. "

She raised her brows.

"How did you get here so quickly and why did Henry block the road?"

"We were parked at the lake when we got a tip to go to the Fish Hatchery. We just pulled into the road and rushed to check. Nothing's been touched. She smiled at Rags. "There's a girl in those weeds in need of help." As for a night in jail, we'll debate that later over a cup of coffee when you're not so officious."

Ragsdale frowned, then grinned and winked at her. "Come on John." He stepped past Karen and waded into the waist high weeds toward the tangle of vines and saplings that filled the small ponds that once served as nursery tanks for fry at the abandoned hatchery.

"We called the medics," Karen called to his retreating back.

"Hi, Karen. I'm John Palmer. When we finish, how about you and me go for a cool one."

"Why would I want to do that?" Karen turned and walked toward the news van.

Rags heard the exchange as he stepped into the trees. He grinned.

"What an uppity bitch," Palmer muttered when the two detectives reached the victim.

Rags gave him a dirty look and a negative shake of his head. "Are you always on the hunt? Pull in your fangs and keep your distance from this one."

"Are you staking a claim?"

12.

The red camera light blinked out and the hot studio lights popped as they cooled and slowly dimmed. Kisha Washington pulled off her headset. "Good show Karen. The exclusive on the fish hatchery victim should make Bullard happy."

"Is he ever happy?" She shrugged and shook her head. "I've been busting my buns with Henry and bringing back good footage. He praises the pictures and ignores my reports."

"Kisha shook her head. "My, my, as my Momma would say, your green is showing. You should have learned by now that The Bull saves his smiles for good ratings and for Henry. Everyone else is unnecessary baggage."

"Does he have any interests beside news and ratings? Does he even have a social life?"

Kisha looked around the studio to make sure no one was within ear shot. "Are you kidding?"

Karen lowered her voice "I walked into his office one day, and heard him tell Donna to get the interview if she had to do it on her back."

"You mean with sex?"

"It sounded that way to me."

"You think he hates women?" Kisha whispered.

The studio speaker popped as the audio engineer's voice announced, "Ladies, the mike is hot."

"Oh God," Kisha moaned and put both hands to her mouth. "Tell me he wasn't in the control room?" she whispered.

"Afraid so," the voice replied.

"Don't worry about it," Karen said. "We didn't really say anything bad."

"That's easy for you to say. You've got a contract."

"You know about that?"

"The whole station was talking about your fight with him. When you left with Henry he yelled into the newsroom he was going to get rid of every bitch in the place that stepped out of line...and I just stepped out of line."

"I'll talk to him and try to convince him we were kidding."

"Momma says the Bible warns us to guard against our mouth to keep away from calamity."

Karen takes Kisha's hands in hers and squeezed. "I'll talk to him."

"I'll never find another job like this."

"It'll be okay. I'll make him listen." Karen released the girl's hands and walked to the newsroom. Bullard was in his office. She could see him through the picture window on the far wall that allowed him to watch his reporters and writers at work. He picked up a red hi-liter and bent over his desk to edit something that looked like a press release. She crossed to his door, cleared her throat and said, "Bob, we knew you were in the control room. We were teasing."

He raised a single eyebrow and scowled at her, looked down at the stack of papers, slashed across the top sheet with a large red X and without a word, wadded it up, tossed it in the direction of the wastebasket, and picked up the next release.

Karen watched him go through the stack, one sheet at a time, marking some, discarding others, missing the basket with most throws. When he reached the last release she cleared her throat and said, "I'm truly sorry, Bob. I was responsible not Kisha."

****

A dark van moved across the parking lot, pulled into an empty slot and stopped. The driver let the engine idle and studied the people leaving work at the television station. He squinted, trying to see through a river of rain that washed across the windshield, distorting the focus and making it impossible to identify the cars or the individuals. "Better check."

He scanned the parking lot for observers. Satisfied he stepped into the storm, quickly bent, and pulled down the surplus army poncho which the wind whipped up and around his legs. He was to slow to keep his slacks from getting soaked below the knees. "Damn, ruined my crease," he muttered. He straightened, looked around the lot, tightened the draw string on his hood, and sloshed toward the spot where Karen usually parked her BMW. _It's not here._ _How did I miss her?_ He turned and retraced his steps.

Across the parking lot at the station door three figures exited the lighted lobby, crowded under a single umbrella, and with loud complaints about the weather headed in his direction _. It's her._ He bolted for his van, jerked the door open, and dove across the seat. _Good thing I disconnected the dome light._

"Next time," he muttered, started the van, and drove out of the lot.

****

Once inside Liz's car, Karen folded the umbrella, and dropped it on the floor board. She ran her fingers through her hair and shook it out.

"Hey Mom, watch it." Clint complained from the back seat. "You got me wet."

"You were wet already."

"Now I'm wetter. Stop shaking your head. You're not a dog."

"If I have to shake like a dog," Karen said. "I'll do whatever it takes to salvage this hundred dollar hairdo. Wolf, wolf." She shook her head again.

"Will you two stop? I'm soaked." Liz complained from the driver's seat. "One umbrella was not designed for three people," She raked her hands across her head so the water flew toward Clint in the back seat.

"Missed." Clint hooted. "Missed me...missed me...now you can't kiss me." He scooted forward until he was directly behind Liz. "Your hair is too short but, mine's not." He shook his head and rubbed his hands across his scalp flinging the water in her direction. Most of the moisture fell on the back of the seat or on his face and shoulders.

"All this water is ruining my leather seats," Liz complained.

"Knock-it-off Clint and fasten your seat belt," Karen ordered.

"I thought the weather forecast was no rain?" Clint grumped and slumped back in the seat.

Liz started the car and pulled out of her parking place. "Clint you only half listened to my forecast. I said there is a thirty percent chance of rain. We just happen to be in that thirty percent area."

"That doesn't make sense," he squawked, his thirteen year old voice suddenly breaking with the first touch of maturity. He giggled.

Karen and Liz sniggered, and then tried and failed, to hide their amusement.

"Sure it does," Liz said, in an exaggerated deep voice. "Weather forecasting is an in-exact science. It means that in a designated area thirty percent of it will experience rain. We are in that rain area. It's heavy now, but the front will pass before we get home."

"That's CYA," Clint growled, forcing his voice down an octave, but the A ended with a squeak.

In unison Liz and Karen looked at each other, nodded and exchanged knowing smiles, the boy was changing into a man.

"Clint," Karen bit her lip in an effort to hide her mixed emotions of humor and the loss of her little boy. "It's rude to say something when you don't know what it means."

"I know what it means. It means I'm going to be a weatherman like Stormy, because I can be wrong most of the time and still keep my job." This time his voice started low and ended with the cracking squawk of a donkey.

Giggles this time erupted into raucous laughter. Karen was the first to recover. "Now that is unacceptable, young man. You apologize to Liz immediately."

"For laughing at myself?"

"It's okay," Liz responded through her giggles. "He got that from Josh." She caught her breath. "My smart aleck son says something like that every time it rains, and I miss a forecast." She caught Clint's eyes in the rear view mirror. "Clint you live in Texas. This time of year we sometimes get a lot of rain. Sometimes we don't get any at all. There are also winters when it gets hot. There's an old Texas saying, if you don't like the weather..."

"I know," Clint cut in. "Wait five minutes. It will change."

"And young man," Liz added. "You and my son may like some of the possible changes even less than rain. After August we can have tornadoes, or hurricanes, or in winter, blizzards. You can get so much rain it floods, or none at all, and dust blows in from West Texas so thick you can't breathe and have to use your car lights in mid-day. All of those things can happen on the same day. We are a big state and a tricky place to forecast the weather. So give me a break."

"Liz has an impossible job," Karen added.

"Then why do we live in a place with all this crappy weather?" The squeak was back in his voice.

"Ask yourself why God put a snake in the Garden of Eden?" Karen replied. "To most Texans this state is heaven on earth."

"God put a snake in Eden, so Adam and Eve would appreciate perfection," Liz added.

"That's a silly story," Clint said. "Snakes can't talk and 'sides, Texas has a whole bunch of snakes; rattlers, moccasins, copperheads, rat snakes, black snakes, and a whole bunch more including coral snakes, grass snakes and king snakes. I bet God's garden didn't have crap-grass, and bitter weed, tumble weeds, and cactus like Texas does. And how do you explain why this Texas heaven has wasps, bees, hornets, and mosquitoes the size of the space shuttle. Then don't forget we got scorpions, and spiders, and roaches as big as tanks...and...and then there's---"

"Okay, Clint we surrender. Texas is not Eden," his mother laughed. "And that's crab grass."

"We're here," Liz said. "And Mr. Larsen you will notice we are now outside the thirty percent area and the rain has stopped. How's that for forecasting?" She pushed a button on the visor and the garage door opened.

When the car stopped inside the garage, Clint jumped out and ran to the kitchen door. He pounded on it shouting, "Josh open up. The Terminators are on my tail."

Liz inserted a key in the lock.

Karen placed her hands on her son's shoulders. "And who are the Terminators, young Grasshopper?" she asked with a very bad Oriental accent.

"You and Stormy." The door opened and Clint bolted out of her clutches and ran down the hall to Josh's room yelling, "Come on Josh. We're gonna get Pizza and I'm runnin' on empty."

The two mothers entered the house at a slower pace. "This will have to be quick, Liz. Tomorrow's a school day and we still have to go by the garage and pick up my car."

"Okay, we'll stop at Joe's and get take out on the way to the service station." Liz looked down the hall toward her son's room, then at Karen. Come join me in the kitchen for a minute. I need to talk to you away from the studio."

When they were seated, worry lines creased Liz's face. "You know how I hate gossip, but I think you need to know. The Bull went to see the station manager about re-negotiating your contract and getting you out of news. He was overheard saying you are fabricating the news and ignoring legitimate stories you don't like. He wants you out of the news department and if you can't be fired moved off the anchor desk and back to doing fluff talk shows or features."

"I know."

"What do you mean you know?"

"Right after they met, Milt called me into his office. He told me not to worry. That Bob would come around once he saw the new ratings. He said the preliminary reports show the audience likes me, and he personally liked my reports on the dumpster and hatchery."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"We haven't had time. You were doing a weather remote, and I was on the road with Henry."

13.

The next night in North Dallas the light from a window played across a porch and into the shrubbery where it was consumed. Quick and wary movements in the shadows matched the cadence of Puccini's Nessun dorma (None Shall Sleep), pulsing through a lighted window above the bushes.

With the orchestral swell masking their approach, four teen-aged boys raced from their hiding place and crouched under the window.

"See if he's alone, "Alex Turner, Clint's best friend from Greenfield, whispered.

"Might be more fun if someone's with him," Clint whispered and raised his head until his eyes cleared the sill. He gawked for a moment, his mouth open, and then he doubled over smothering his laughter with both hands.

"What is it?" Josh asked in a quiet voice.

Clint pointed at the window, hardly able to control his laughter.

One after the other, his companions peeked and dropped to the ground giggling.

Clint gained control first and hissed, "Hey! Knock it off. He'll hear you

"You didn't say he was queer," Bobby Brown snickered.

"I said he was a pussy. Same thing," Clint said. "Alex is that bag full yet?"

"Yeah, I just topped it off."

"Okay. Everybody, we're ready. Josh you got the matches?"

"You want to light it here?" Josh whispered.

"No, on the porch."

Inside the house the music swelled, and Clint took one last look and watched Headmaster Winifred Weatherly, close his eyes, lift his head, and struggle to match the soaring high notes of the singer. As the tenor's voice faded, Weatherly raised his arms and conducted the music to the end of the record. When the sound of applause issued from the speakers he nodded his head in the direction of the entertainment center in acknowledgement, then smoothed his silk smoking jacket, and settled in a leather wing chair, a contented smile on his face. He lifted a cognac snifter to his lips.

Clint ducked. "Okay he settled down...let's do it. Josh go start the car for a quick getaway. Bobby don't forget to take the pictures. Alex you ring the bell as soon as the bag is burning. Then run."

One cautious step at a time Clint led the way to Weatherly's front door, placed the bag, struck a match, and held it to the paper bag until it was engulfed in flames and smoke.

"Alex, push the bell. Do it now."Door chimes echoed from the house as Clint and Alex ran.

"Just a minute," Weatherly called over the opening sounds of an overture.

Three of the boys got to the car as the front door open.

"Hello, may I?" Weatherly coughed as flames and smoke billowed from the bag upward into his face.

"Oh my God," he wailed and with no apparent thought, raised his foot and slammed it onto the burning bag. A heavy brown substance splashed upward, over his slippers, onto the silk pajama leg and the bottom of his smoking jacket. The Greenfield Headmaster jumped back, slipped on the feces seeping across the porch, and fell like a jettisoned rag doll onto the bag.

The watching boys exploded with laughter and Clint yelled, "Smile for the camera. You've been punked."

"I see you Larsen," Weatherly screamed. "You..you," he sputtered "Come back here."

"The hysterical laughter of the teenagers, and the screech of spinning tires, mingled with Weatherly's curses. "I know where you live," he howled. "Police...somebody call the police."

****

Karen waited in the dark until she heard the kitchen window slide upward. She turned on the light as Clint slithered across the sill.

"Oh..." A lopsided grin filled his face. "Did I wake you?"

"No I saw the security system was off and checked the windows." She gazed at her son and tears slowly filled her eyes.

"I won't do it again. I promise. Don't cry."

She cleared her throat trying to suppress her disappointment. "Isn't that what you said the last time you visited Mr. Weatherly?

"How did you know?"

"He called. He also called his attorney and the police."

"It was just a joke."

Her emotions finally morphed into anger. "He isn't laughing and neither am I. Your joke ruined his new Gucci slippers, his silk pajamas and an expensive smoking jacket. It also scorched his porch and burned the bottom of his door. You could have set his house on fire."

"But Mom, we were only kidding. It was just a joke. Wait till you see the pictures you'll laugh."

"It wasn't funny. Why did you do it Clint, you're no longer at Greenfield?"

Clint looked at her without answering.

"Well? Why did you do it?"

His jaw tightened and eyes blazed. "It served him right. He was ugly to you and expelled me for stomping Fisher when he said..." His voice trailed off, as if he suddenly realized he had said too much.

"When the Fisher boy said what?"

Clint visibly squirmed. "I can't say."

"Yes, you can. What did the Fisher boy say that made you attack him?"

Clint flushed and blurted, 'He said I was a bastard and you were a whore because I don't know who my father is." He turned and ran from the room.

Karen froze. In shock she stared out the empty window into the dark shadows that seemed to close hungrily around her. Only the sound of Clint's bedroom door slamming roused her. "It's so unfair," she whispered.

14.

The Channel Seven news van cruised through the tree-shaded streets of East Dallas.

"I love Lakewood," Henry remarked. "If I had the money I'd buy one of those little 1930's cottages with stained glass windows."

"What?" Karen glanced at Henry, a puzzled expression on her face.

"I said, I like Lakewood."

"Oh. Yeah, me too."

The van moved ahead another block, the soft hiss of the air conditioning interrupting the silence.

"Henry, pull over and park. I need to talk to someone."

"Sounds serious."

"I don't know. It may be nothing but I have...look at me so I can tell if you think I'm losing it."

"Shoot."

"Last night Clint sneaked out of the house, and with some of his friends played a nasty prank on Weatherly."

"The Headmaster at Greenfield?"

"Yes."

"Sorry I missed it. What did they do?"

"Clint put a burning bag of poop on his porch. Weatherly called me. He was furious. He said he's going to sue for damages and humiliation because I can't control my juvenile delinquent. He also called Bullard and told him I was a bad mother."

"Big deal. We've still got the tape from the school."

"This morning, before I left the house, I was served with papers. The Fishers are going to take me to court for medical expenses and trauma to Jason."

"The boy Clint had a fight with at Greenfield?"

"Yes."

"Is that all?"

"Clint told me why they were fighting---"

When she didn't continue Henry asked, "Why?"

"I can't tell you...not yet. Some day maybe."

"Okay. What else?"

She could feel the tears rise and her throat constricting. "Bullard told me I would never make a reporter. He keeps bullying me to quit. He says I should get out of the business and, in his words, find a father for my delinquent." She took two quick breaths to fight back a sob. "I like the news. It's what I want to do. Before I got this job I studied journalism through one of those on-line universities."

"Does Bob know?"

"No, but everyone in the newsroom comes from a major university with a journalism degree. I feel untrained and over my head. How long can I depend on Milt and the ratings to hold Bob at bay? He just laughs at me. He thinks I'm a joke and disgrace to news. It's just too much. It's not worth it."

"Karen," Henry took her hand. "You're doing great. You're a natural. I'll talk to Bob."

"It won't do any good. Kisha and I were talking about him after yesterday's show and the mike was hot."

"He was in the control room?"

"Yes."

"The first rule in broadcasting is..."

"I know. Never say anything around a mike you don't want overheard. What we said wasn't all that bad."

"It doesn't matter. With his ego, anything negative is bad."

"He wouldn't let me apologize."

"Let me see what I can do."

"Henry." She placed a hand on his arm. "Don't laugh."

"There's more?"

"Someone is stalking me. I'm frightened."

"Naw. It's your imagination."

"The roses are real. Someone is leaving them on my car, and at my house."

****

Back at the newsroom Bullard stepped into his office from an extended lunch. A red light was flashing on his private phone. He picked up the instrument. "Bullard."

"Do you recognize my voice?" The sound was quiet, breathy, almost a whisper.

"Yeah, you sick bastard."

"Sticks and stones." There was a soft laugh that raised the hair on the back of Bullard's neck. "Did you have a nice lunch?"

"What do you want?"

"To make news and build your ratings, of course. But I can't do that if you're not in your office to answer your phone."

"What have you done?"

"If you had been working instead of feeding your face I would have directed you to go to the levee off I-30. But now it's too late. I sent someone else." The call ended with a buzz

"This is insane. Leave those girls alone." Bullard yelled, and then he heard the hiss of the open line. A second light blinked on his phone. He pushed the button and screamed into the phone, "Turn yourself in, you sick bastard!"

"Into what, bossman?"

"Who is..." and then the voice registered. "Sorry about that Sam. What's up?"

"I just got a tip that a fisherman found the body of a girl on the levee at I-30. Do you want me to go or stay here at police headquarters?"

"If they bring the fisherman in for questioning, find him and get what you can. I'll send Henry to cover the body." Bullard hung up the phone and reached for the two-way mike. "Henry?"

In the van Henry picked up the mike. "Yeah, Bob."

"Get over to the Trinity levee off I-30. A fisherman found a body."

"Ten four. We're on our way." Henry pulled the van away from the curb.

"Oh God. Not another one." Karen covered her face with her hands and leaned back against the headrest. "I hate this. Those, poor girls."

"In this business you learn to distance yourself or you go nuts. Bob said body. Can you do this?"

"It's like it's happening to me." Karen looked out the side window not registering the passage of East Dallas, its mansions, quaint cottages, and squalid apartments. She closed her eyes and tried to steel herself for what lay ahead.

After thirty minutes of threading their way through traffic, Henry turned onto a weedy

dirt path and eased the van into a narrow space next to Channel Twelve and Nine's news vehicles. The cameramen were putting their gear back in their vans.

"Hey, Henry, what took you so long?" Tom Brown, a cameraman from Channel Twelve called. "You been on a potty break while the real news teams were working?"

Juan Garcia, from Channel Nine smiled, swept off his hat with a flourish, bowing to Karen. "His beautiful senorita got him so distracted he's forgotten he's supposed to be working."

She smiled and waved then walked toward the reporters still gathered around Detective Ragsdale.

Henry sighed, "It's the price one pays for the company of a beautiful, intelligent, charming reporter." Henry pointed toward the reporters chatting with Ragsdale. "Look at the hairy legged guys you two are stuck with. Who would you rather spend your time with?"

"Yeah, but we got here first, Tom replied. "We got the body and the fisherman who found it. They are gone. We got the story. You got nothing to shoot. Now, like all good photojournalists, we're going for a beer to celebrate our exclusive over the hot shot Henry Moore."

"Okay, for once you beat me. What's the story?"

"Another young girl." Tom said. "It looks like she's been here a couple of days. Damn shame,"

"Yeah. This one's like the others except this time he got carried away. It looks like she put up a fight. There are bruises and scratch marks all over her chest and throat. Her neck could be broken." Joe shook his head and pursed his lips. "Bastard."

"Was there anything else?" Henry asked.

"She looks posed. Her clothing folded beside the body and a white rose, its long stem broken, and a few of the petals scattered on her bare chest."

Henry picked up his camera. "Watch Seven tonight and learn how to cover a story when you're late. It's a lesson you two need."

"In your dreams," the cameramen responded simultaneously. "Watch us tonight and see what an exclusive is."

"Two small and envious minds are speaking as one."

"Yeah, well tell me how you're going to manage it, Henry? The Medical Examiner has already taken the body. What are you going to do for pictures," Tom grinned. "are you going to use Karen as a substitute for the body?"

"If he does," Joe chuckled, "I'm sticking around. My heart won't take seeing Karen naked in the weeds, but that's a picture I'll carry to my grave with a smile."

"Karen," Henry called. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"The dumb shit's gonna ask her." Tom looked incredulous.

"Nah, she's a lady and Henry got religion. Let's go get a beer."

Karen walked to Henry. "What is it?"

"We've got nothing but talking heads. I want to be creative."

"Henry, I'm close to losing it."

"Hang in there. You can do it. I want to get Ragsdale to take the rose out of the evidence bag.

"A rose?"

"They found one with the body."

"A rose?"

"Yeah."

Please don't ask me to do this."

"You don't have to handle the rose. You don't even have to look at it."

She shook her head.

"Karen, we're a team. We got here late and I can't make a story out of this without your

help."

She looked at him for a long moment then a tight little smile played across her lips. "Okay."

"We've got no body so keep it short and in good taste. I'll get the rose from Ragsdale and place it where the body was laying. You say something about the brutal beating of another young woman and I'll get an extreme close-up of the rose, and then shoot a wide angle with the city in the background, and then come in for a close-up on you."

Karen took a deep breath, and held it until she had regained control. She turned and walked into the weeds until the tall buildings of the city formed a background.

When she was ready, Henry started shooting. He panned across the tangled weeds and brush until he reached the shattered rose and the trampled spot where the body had lain. He pointed to Karen.

Karen raised her eyes, her face a mask. "In this desolate spot along the Trinity River levee a fisherman found a girl's battered body this morning. We don't know if this is the work of the dumpster rapist or if a second predator stalks young Dallas women. We won't know until after the autopsy if this girl was raped. What we do know is a young girl was beaten to death in the shadow of the city skyline." Karen stared into the camera lens and paused for a beat. "And no one heard her cries for help." Her eyes filled. Henry zoomed in for a close-up of a single tear as it crept down her cheek.

"This is Karen Larsen."

"Outstanding." Henry rushed to Karen and wrapped her in his arms. "If Bob doesn't like this we're going to the hospital. Him, for an operation. Me for my shoe."

"That's sweet. I think." Karen opened the rear door of the news van so Henry could store his video equipment. "We'd better hurry. I go on the air in less than an hour."

At the sound of clapping she turned. Detective John Palmer was standing just behind them. "That was very good little lady. I'm free tonight. We can have that drink when you get off the air."

"Thank you for asking, but I'm still not interested." She hesitated a moment, looked at Detective Ragsdale, smiled, raised her hand in a Queen Elizabeth wave, then turned and walked to the news van.

****

In a seedy section of Oak Cliff two men sat drinking and watching the evening news. "Shit man, look at the way we're living, ugly paper fallin' off the walls, the fucking light hangin' on a cord from the ceiling, a TV that works half the time. This is the worst flophouse in Dallas. We were better off in Huntsville."

"Shut up, Morgan." Hudson crumpled a beer can and threw it into a corner. It landed with a clatter among a pile of other cans, pizza boxes and hamburger wrappers. "Hand me a beer."

Morgan walked to the cooler, retrieved two cans, and tossed one to Hudson.

"Turn up the sound before you sit down."

"You make the news?"

"Naw, I'm in love with the news anchor. Now shut the fuck up. We've missed most of the five o'clock news."

Karen's voice filled the room, "her neck broken, her clothing folded and stacked beside her." The screen filled with the silent footage of the site and the Dallas skyline in the background.

"Damn amateur." Morgan drained the can in one gulp, crushed it, and threw it toward the corner. "Don't kill 'em, you might want an encore," he yelled at the TV.

"Maybe," Hudson said quietly, "he regretted killing her."

"What makes you think so?"

"Look at the clothing and the flower. You ever stack clothing or leave a flower?"

The footage ended on the rose and the camera panned up to Karen, "and no one heard her cries for help."

"Someone did and enjoyed every minute of it." Morgan got up and walked to the cooler.

"Damn, I miss the old days. The crying... and the fear in their eyes." He fished through the icy water until his hand closed on a beer can. "You ready for another beer?"

Hudson shook his head.

"This is the second girl to die of a brutal beating," Karen continued. "The rapist is now out of control...an animal."

"You stupid bitch, it's about control." Morgan yelled at the TV set. "You need some of this," he grabbed his crotch, "so you'll know what you're talking about."

"... Until he is caught no woman should go out at night alone."

"What say we blow this dump, Hudson? Go trolling? Its time you tested the surgery on your Johnson."

"What makes you think I haven't?"

"This is Karen Larsen, Channel Seven News. Good night."

Morgan turned off the TV set. "Sleep tight, sweetheart. Don't wait up for us."

Hudson drained the can, dropped it on the floor, and stood up. "I know where she lives."

****

After the newscast Henry walked into Bob Bullard's office and stopped before his desk. "Got a minute?"

The News Director looked away from the television monitor where Karen was signing off. "Henry, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking we need to talk about the job Karen's doing."

"It sucks." Bullard rose from his chair and leaned on the desk with both hands, his face inches from Henry's. "What was that melodramatic horse shit; a close-up on a rose, and then her tears. Reporters are observers. They don't get involved in the story."

"When we got there the body was gone. To get visuals, I had to wing it."

"The camera work was fine, but Karen blew it. I'd fire her if I could." Bullard walked across the room, "Reporters don't cry while doing a news story." He turned off the TV monitors.

"Face it Bob, Karen's not the problem, you hate women."

"Women have their place." Bullard returned to his chair and sat... "And that place is not in the news business."

"Karen's busting her butt to please you," Henry said.

"If she wanted to please me, she'd quit or become the next victim of the dumpster rapist."

"Don't even think that."

"Think about it. Dumpster rapist attacks beautiful TV anchor. The ratings would go through the roof."

"That's sick."

"It's reality. The ratings game is won by the way we cover the news. Women can't handle the blood and gore of the stories we cover. News is a man's job. If I could figure a way around the damn sexual discrimination laws I'd fire every woman in the news department." Bullard reached into a humidor on his desk and pulled out a cigar.

Henry kept his voice down in an effort to reason with his boss. "Tell me what she needs to do to please you and I'll see she does it."

She can tear up her contract with the station so I can fire her."

You're a control freak."

"If I can't fire 'em. I can't control 'em. Without control of my people I can't run a news department. This discussion is over. Get the hell out of here."

You're impossible." With clinched fist at his sides Henry, turned and walked into the news room. Every editor, reporter, and news writer was looking at him. He grinned, "HowDEE everybody, so good of you to come to the party." He smiled his dumbest aw shucks smile, waved and crossed the newsroom to his desk. _Dear Lord, how do I protect Karen from Bob, or the vultures in this room wanting her job._

****

At nine thirty that night an old Crown Victoria slowed down in front of Karen's house.

Morgan nodded toward the darkened house. "She lives there?"

"Yeah," Hudson answered. "She's not home."

"How do you know?"

"She drives a BMW 5 and parks in front of the house."

"We can't hang around and wait for her. In this neighborhood, this Crown Vic stands out like a turd in a punch bowl."

It's an education being with you. Your way with words is so illuminating."

"Yeah, well pay attention to the teacher, Mr. Hudson; it might save your ass."

"What'd I miss?"

"We ain't the only ones watchin' the house."

"Where?"

"In the Ford van. A guys scrunched down in the driver's seat," Morgan said.

The neighborhood watch?"

"Naw, the vans unmarked and the guy ducked when I made him."

Hudson slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "Damn, I ain't putting on a show, doing battle, or standing in line for sloppy seconds. I'm not that much in love." He stared at the van for a few minutes.

"Your interest goes up and down faster than your zipper." Morgan finally said. "It's too early to chuck it. Let's get a beer and go trolling for a swishy-tail squirrel and see how she rates on your zipper scale."

15.

Saturday morning Karen's phone rang.

"Hi Karen. Paul Ragsdale. Are you busy?"

"Not really. I'm examining the coffee grounds in the bottom of my cup looking for a clue on how to spend the first free Saturday I've had in months."

"Where's Clint?"

Henry took him to the air show at DFW."

"I'm in the neighborhood. May I stop by to discuss your break-in?"

"I'm not dressed for company, but come ahead."

"See you in a couple of minutes."

Karen put the phone down. She smiled at the strange feeling of anticipation, and rushed toward the stairs. I should have told him to give me a half hour to dress and put on makeup. The doorbell rang before she reached the landing... She stopped. Wouldn't you know a friend of Clint's, or a salesman? "Just a minute, she called." She walked to the door and opened it. "I'm sorry, but I'm expecting..."

"Hi. Any of that coffee left?"

"Paul?" Her mouth opens in surprise. She shrugged and smiled, "Where were you when you called?"

"Parked outside. May I come in?"

"Of course. You'll have to excuse me for a minute while I get out of my grubbies and put on..."

"Don't bother. It takes a natural beauty to look good without make-up and you look great."

"Well, thank you sir, but I really need my lipstick and my hair needs..."

He shook his head and grinned. "Please don't."

She fought a brief moment of unease, shook her head, and said, "You should get your eyes fixed." She nodded, "The kitchen's this way."

Karen filled a cup for each of them and led Paul to the breakfast nook. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Black."

"Me to."

An embarrassing silence settled over the room. She became occupied tracing the wood grain of the table. He studied the backyard through the bay window, a frown on his face. A few moments passed and a nervous giggle escaped Karen's lips. She cleared her throat and said, "This is so awkward."

"I'm sorry. Maybe I should leave."

"It's not you. It's me. I'm not accustomed to sharing coffee with gentlemen callers."

His frown disappeared behind a shy grin. "I was just thinking. I've missed this. Since my wife died, this is the first time I've had a morning cup of coffee with a lady who looks great in, what did you call your outfit, grubbies... and without make up. It's nice."

"My. We are full of compliments this morning."

"No, really. I'm serious. You're..." he stopped, looking confused and embarrassed.

Karen licked lips that had suddenly gone dry, stood, and strode to the refrigerator. "I forgot the cream," she stammered.

"I don't use it."

She returned to the breakfast nook, sat down, and reached for the creamer. With a nervous giggle she dropped her hand and said, "Oh look, it's already on the table and neither one of us uses..."she laughed out loud. When he joined her she shook her head. "I'm...I'm not good at..."

"Karen, if I make you nervous, I'll leave."

"No, please don't." She felt the strain in her voice and looked out the window.

"What is it?"

"I'm afraid of men," she blurted. in panic. She looked at him, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Embarrassed and not sure what to do or say she glanced around the kitchen for an escape. After a heartbeats confusion and disbelief that she had confessed her fear, her mouth took over and the words began to tumble out..."It's called androphobia. I've been seeing a psychiatrist...Oh, and I shouldn't say that...It could cost me my job... Please don't say anything to anyone."

"Why are you in therapy?"

"I'm not anymore." She searched the kitchen, seeking an excuse to change the subject, to move to a sanctuary, to turn to stone, any place to hide.

"Talk to me," his voice was quiet, warm and compassionate. He smiled and reached across the table and took her hand.

She looked into the depth of his deep blue eyes and felt comfort, support, strength, and confusion at these foreign feelings.

"You can tell me anything and it won't leave this room."

She sighed and looked out the window, unable to face him. "Well," she sighed, "In for a penny, according to the old English saying. I...I've never told any-one this but Donald and Henry."

"Who is Donald?"

"My therapist. Doctor Donald Blair."

Paul sat quietly with his eyes on her as she gathered her thoughts. Finally in a rush of words she said, "Men make me nervous." The sudden urge to bolt seized her again, but he was holding her hand. The moment passed and in a whisper she said, "I don't date. I can't date." A tear etched a trail beside her nose and ran to the corner of her mouth. Unconsciously, she licked the salty moisture. "I'm not making any sense am I?"

"But you're with men when you're working," he said.

"That's different. There are always other women around."

"You're alone with Henry every day?"

_Why did I tell him I'm afraid of men?_ She took a deep breath and looked at their clasped hands. "I was nervous with Henry at first but now it's different."

"Why is it different?"

"He doesn't date either. I think he is afraid of women, just like I'm afraid of men.

"Is he gay?"

"No. I'm sure he isn't. He's a kindred spirit, so to speak. He doesn't hit on me. He just wants to help me without expecting anything in return except to be my friend. I trust him."

Paul released her hand, picked up his cup, drained it and set it on the table. "You make good coffee."

Karen jumped to her feet and hurried to the kitchen counter with the empty cup. She turned her back to him, felt a tremor start in the muscles of her stomach, held her breath for a moment trying to calm her nerves, picked up the carafe and held it with both hands to keep from shaking and poured. But she still slopped coffee into the saucer.

"May I ask why you're not in therapy anymore?"

"Donald wanted to be more than my doctor." She pulled a paper towel off the roller, wiped the spill, and dried the saucer. _Tell the man, he's not going to eat you._ She turned to face him, pursed her lips, and took a deep breath. "We dated briefly. I had social and work related functions to go to and needed an escort. At first Donald was non-threatening and protected me from unwanted male attention."

Paul picked up her cup, walked to the coffee pot, filled it, and handed it to her.

She looked into his face, smiled and said, "Thanks, I hate the taste of cold coffee."

"You were saying?"

"After a while the therapy and the social activities became confused." She walked back to the breakfast nook. "I began to feel manipulated. He began to pressure me so I stopped seeing him."

"That sounds like Doctor Blair. Are you still dating?" he asked.

"No. I stopped seeing him as a doctor and a date." She frowned, "Do you know him?"

"He does therapy for the police department. Go ahead with what you were saying."

"I did see him the other night. I took Clint to him to discuss a problem, and afterwards he brought me home, but that doesn't count as a date or as therapy, does it?"

"No. I don't think so. What was Clint's problem?"

He's been expelled from three different schools for fighting. The other night he sneaked out and played a prank on the home of his former headmaster. I caught him when he came home."

"That sounds pretty typical for someone Clint's age. I'm expecting the same behavior from Paul Junior any day now."

Karen bit her lip and took a deep breath. "You might as well hear the worst." She hesitated. "He called me a liar and stormed out of the room. He's never done that before. We've always been so close."

"Were you?"

"What?"

"A liar."

Stricken, Karen looked at Rags and began to weep, "I... don't... don't know." She sank to the bench, folded her arms on the table top and hid her face. Sobs racked her body. His arms went around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and let the tears flow. "He was fighting because a classmate insulted me."

She didn't know how long they sat that way; only that her tears had stopped and she felt calm and protected. She sat up and looked at Paul with a sense of wonder.

"Feel better?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Am I scaring you?"

"No."

"Then I pronounce you cured. I'll send you a bill. Mail it to Dr. Paul, Therapeutic Witch Doctors, Inc."

She laughed.

"Do you want to talk some more?"

"Not now. Maybe later."

"When you're ready." He stood. "I need to get back to the office."

"On a Saturday?"

"No rest for the wicked, as my mother used to say."

"I thought you wanted to discuss the break in." She said as they walked through the hall, past the stairs to the front door.

"Since we're being truthful I confess I wanted to see you and I was in the area." He put his hand on the doorknob then turned to her, "Actually, I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight." He shrugged disappointment on his face. "But, you don't date so I guess I have my answer. I'd better go."

"I'd like that." She smiled.

"What?"

"To go to dinner."

"Are you sure. If you change your mind..."

"I can't promise I won't, but right now I think I'd like to have dinner with you."

"If it makes you more comfortable we don't have to call it a date, just a continuation of my investigation."

"You mean like a business meeting?"

"Yes."

She thought about briefly. "No. We'll call it a date. It's time this butterfly shed her cocoon."

"Good. Seven thirty. I'll pick some place special to celebrate your first flight."

Karen watched Rags walk to his unmarked police car. She frowned and watched the car until it disappeared _. Can I do this?_

Karen returned to the kitchen and lifted the wall phone. Before Liz could say hello, Karen said, "Hi. Guess what."

"It's Saturday, Josh is with his grandparents, I haven't had coffee and I can't spit before noon on my best days. I sure as hell can't play guessing games. Be a good guy and call me later when I'm not asleep."

"Wait, Liz I have a date."

"You what?" Liz shouted.

"I have a date. He said we could call it a business meeting if it made me feel more comfortable. But it's really a date."

"Who?"

"I thought you were asleep."

"Don't you get smart-mouthed with me. I'll mess up your teleprompter."

"Paul Ragsdale."

"The detective?"

"Yes."

"Mmmm, as the Colonel would say, he's finger lickin' good. I didn't know you liked chicken."

"Liz stop it. It's just a business meeting so we can discuss the break in."

"And the color of your eyes and the shape of your..."

"Liz, you're dreaming. It's not like that. Call me when you wake up." Karen put the phone down.

****

At six-thirty, the front door flew open with a crash. "Mom, I'm home," Clint yelled. When there was no answer he called again, "Mom, where are you?"

Henry stepped through the front door. "Is she here?"

"She didn't answer."

Henry moved into the house toward the staircase and stopped. "Listen."

"What?" Clint asked.

"That sounds like running water. Why don't you check up stairs and see if she's in the shower?"

Clint bolted up the stairs two at a time. "Mom... Mom... It was so cool. An F-22 Raptor stood on its tail and hung in the sky like a helicopter, and Henry let me shoot a video of it."

Karen turned the shower off, took a white terry cloth robe from a bathroom hook, and stepped into the hall. "What is all the yelling about?"

"Mom, it was so cool. Henry let me use his camera, and I got pictures of a Raptor, a Lightning, and a Nighthawk, and the Blue Angels..."

"Whoa. Where is Henry?"

"He's downstairs. Mom I loved it. You should have seen it. I'm going to be a pilot and..."

Karen adjusted her robe, pulled the belt tight, and walked to the head of the stairs. "Henry," she called.

Henry leaned into the stairwell and looked up at Karen. "Yes."

"Do you have plans tonight?"

"Yep, my standing Saturday night date with my microwave, a TV dinner, and the book."

"The book? Oh you mean the Bible."

"You got it. I have a class to teach tomorrow."

Clint followed Karen down the stairs.

"Henry, I know this is an imposition and I apologize for the timing, but would you watch Clint tonight?"

"Mom."

"You mean like a baby sitter?" Henry asked.

"Mom." Clint tugged at her sleeve

"Well...yes. You could study here."

"Mom."

"What is it, Clinton?" She turned to her son, her hands on her hips, at the interruption.

"I'm thirteen years old. I don't need a sitter."

She turned her back on Henry and put her face inches from her son's. "What you need is a keeper after that stunt you played on Mr. Weatherly."

"I told you I was sorry and I wouldn't do it again."

Henry cleared his throat, "Karen."

"Do you understand that Mr. Weatherly could have shot you for trespassing?"

"He couldn't do that." Clint shook his head and shrugged, almost sneering in his disbelief. "He's a fruit."

"Yes, he could and if you do it again, would. He's mad and irrational. And don't call anyone a fruit."

"Karen." Henry said.

"I promise I won't go out."

"No you won't because you're grounded at night until you're eighteen."

"That's not fair."

"Neither is life."

Henry stepped between the two. "Karen. What time?"

"What do you mean, what time?"

"What time do you want me here?"

"Oh... uh, now, I guess. My date is at seven-thirty."

"You have a date?" Henry and Clint questioned in unison.

"Yes. Why is that so surprising?"

Like a Greek chorus, man and boy said, "Because you don't date."

"He said I could call it a business meeting, but I think it's a date."

"Who said," Henry asked.

"Do I know him? Is he a booger-brained geek? What kind of car does he drive? Does he like kids?" Clint shot questions in rapid fire.

"The answers are yes, no, don't know, and yes," Karen answered.

"May I ask who you're talking about?"

She raised a questioning eyebrow. "Do I also need your approval, Henry?"

"No. I was just curious. This is the first time I've seen you flushed and excited over a man."

"I am not flushed or excited."

"Yes, you are."

"Who are you talking about, Mom?"

"Paul Ragsdale."

"The detective?" Henry asked.

"Cool," Clint said.

"I didn't see this coming," Henry muttered.

"I know. Neither did I." Karen said. "He came by today. We talked over coffee. He asked me out and without thinking, I said yes. If it's a problem, Henry, I can call it off."

"No. No. It's no problem."

"I have a pot roast in the 'fridge or you can order pizza. Or anything else you two want and I'll pay."

"What do you want, Clint?"

"Pizza. Mom, is Paul Jr. coming over?"

"I think he's visiting his grandparents." _Ohoo...shouldn't have mentioned Paul, Junior's family._

Clint's face registered a moment of pain then he asked, "Could you call and ask?"

"It's too late. Maybe... next time."

"You're already planning a second date?" Henry asked.

"No." A disconnected feeling surged over her. _What am I doing?_ The reality of her acceptance of a date was suddenly alarming. She looked from Henry to Clint. "I've got to get dressed-- or call it off," she whispered, turned and retreated upstairs.

16.

Karen stood in the middle of her bathroom, frozen with indecision. _What should I wear?_ She bit her lower lip and frowned. _Depends on where we're going._ Puzzled, she glanced toward her image in the mirror. _I forgot to ask and I forgot,_ her eyes widened with motherly concern. _Clint. I forgot to make a list for Henry._ She opened a drawer on her dressing table and picked up a pen and pad. _Brush his teeth, take a bath, and put his clothing in the hamper_. Panic crept into her eyes. _Will he be safe with Henry?_ She set aside the pen and paper. _What do I really know about him? He doesn't date. Did he lie about not being gay?_ She broke from her trance, headed for the phone and punched the speed dial for the cell number Paul gave her following the break-in. The ringing stopped as the phone was picked up.

"Paul? Karen." She dropped the phone to her side and like a slot machine the tumbling confusion of her mind settled on a single thought. _It's not Henry I'm worried about. It's me._

"Karen are you there?" resonated from the phone. "I hope you didn't change your mind?"

I'm being silly. Clint will be okay.

"Karen?"

"Yes, Paul." She bit her lip. W _hy can I tell him I called?_ I "I...I'm sorry to interrupt you. Where are we going? I need to know how to dress?"

"Old Warsaw." With his Texas accent it came out sounding like he swallowed half the words, "Old Warsah."

"What?"

"Old Warsaw," he carefully enunciated. "That's where I have reservations."

"Isn't that expensive?"

"It's a celebration, our first date. The butterfly's first flight."

"Yes." Her voice dropped to a near whisper. "I guess it is." She took the phone from her ear to place it on the dressing table without saying goodbye.

"A celebration I don't go to many of those," she mumbled, and walked into the closet and selected four possible celebration outfits. The first dress was a deep burgundy. She held it to her body and studied her image in a cheval mirror and shook her head _. Don't know why I bought this. It's like a second skin_. The two other dresses which she had never worn were also rejected as too clingy and revealing. _I might as well be naked. That sales clerk was the world's best or I was dreaming._ That left a black pant suit with short jacket. _It will help if I dress like a business meeting._ She picked a sleeveless silver beaded turtle-neck from a hanger. _This will work._ With the decision made she headed for the bathroom to finish her shower.

Forty-five minutes later, she descended the stairs, a pale lipstick her only make-up. Her dark hair was brushed back severely and secured by a silver headband. She was nearly run over by Clint and Henry on the way up to Clint's room.

"Wow," Henry said and stepped aside to allow Karen to pass. "If you came to work looking like that I'd have to ask the Lord to let me renege on my no-date pledge."

"Thank you, kind sir. Where are you two going in such a rush?"

"I was coming up stairs to show Henry my models," Clint said.

"Have you made your bed?"

"No ma'am. We won't look at the bed, just the models."

"Promise?"

"Yes ma'am" His voice broke. The 'am of ma'am ended in a high squeak.

"Henry?"

"Yes ma'am." Henry smiled as he tried to mock Clint's voice break.

"Okay, funny man, but no peaking or playing in Clint's room and I want you back downstairs before I leave."

"Can I hook my gameboy to the den TV?" Clint asked.

"Yes."

"There's a scary movie on Channel Seven."

"The Texas Chainsaw Massacre? No, I saw the promos and I don't want to stay up half the night comforting you."

"Aw, Mom, I'm not a little kid anymore."

"You'll always be my little kid. Now go look at the models while I make a list for Henry."

"This is embarrassing," Clint complained as the two turned from Karen and continued up the stairs.

She entered the kitchen, took a pad and pencil from a drawer, and settled in the breakfast nook. Her concentration was broken when the doorbell rang. "Darn." Karen stood, adjusted her jacket, touched up her hair, and headed for the front door. As she passed the stairs she called, "Come on down, you two, Paul's here."

An awkward moment of silence followed the opening of the door. Paul and Karen stood looking at each other, and then she giggled.

"What?" he asked, concern etching his face.

"We're dressed like twins," she said.

"No, we're not."

"Yes we are. You're wearing black with silver and so am I."

"Oh. Cute. I feel emasculated and we haven't even had our first date."

She grinned. "Come on in while I give Clint and Henry their instructions." She stepped back to make room.

"If we're going to be twins, I need to dye my hair," he said.

"Silly. I like it blond. You can be salt and I'm pepper."

Clint walked up behind her. "What's salt and pepper, Mom?"

"It's a personal joke. Now I want you to..."

"Did Paul Junior come?"

"No. I told you next time. Now listen to me. Take a bath and brush your teeth before you go to bed. No Chain Saw and lights out by ten."

"Aw, Mom. Why can't I stay up until you get home and Henry leaves?

"You have church tomorrow morning."

"So do you. Does that mean you'll be home by ten?"

"You were so much easier when you didn't ask logical questions. She exhaled and let her shoulders slump, resigned. Okay, you can stay up until eleven and no later. Come on, Paul before I have to face any more teen logic."

"You will be home by eleven, Mom?" Clint's suddenly deep and serious tone of voice made the question sound more like instructions than a query.

Karen smiled at her son and closed the door. "I'm losing my mind. Suddenly I'm the child."

Paul laughed. "I'm convinced puberty is harder on the parents than it is on thirteen year old boys."

A cloud stole across the face of the three-quarter moon as they stepped from the porch. Karen stumbled in the sudden darkness as her heel met the uneven surface of the flagstone walk. Paul seized her elbow, the back of his hand brushing the side of her breast. The touch started a faint flutter low in her stomach. She fought the tremor rising along her upper body and the irrational urge to run. "I can do this," she mumbled.

"Did you say something?" Paul asked.

"You...you drive an SUV?"

"Yes. A Ford Escort with four-wheel-drive."

"Why would you need four-wheel-drive on city streets?"

"So I can take Paul Junior fishing." Paul opened her door. "There's a big step. It has a high chassis to give it ground clearance for off-road driving."

Karen stepped into the vehicle. She relaxed when he released her arm. "It's so clean you can't spend much time in the woods."

"We have a deal." Paul closed her door, walked to the driver's side, and entered. "Paul Junior cleans and waxes the Ford, and I clean the fish."

Karen buckled the seatbelt and felt her stomach relax. "I can do this," she whispered.

"Do you always talk to yourself?"

"What? No. Did I say something?"

"You just mumbled to yourself."

"Nervous, I guess. It's my first date. I don't know how to act or what to say."

"And Clint is your father," Paul continued, "setting a curfew and threatening me with a shotgun."

Karen giggled nervously, looked straight ahead, her neck and back suddenly rigid.

Paul started the car and pulled from the curb. It was a short drive down Douglas Avenue to Preston Road. Paul broke the silence that filled the vehicle, "What types of music do you like?"

She didn't answer.

He pushed a CD into the player. "Ok, my choice."

Louie Armstrong's gruff rendition of Hello Dolly filled the quiet void. "Do you like Satchmo? If not we can change CD's."

They turned onto Preston Road as Armstrong sang, "You're...looking swell...." By the time they neared Maple Avenue, Satchmo was starting the final chorus. "It's so nice to."

"I–I–can–can't do this," Karen whispered.

"Did you say something?"

"Please take me home."

Paul pulled to the curb and turned to Karen. "Alright if you're sure that's what you want?" He turned off the CD. They sat quietly for a few minutes and then in a soft voice Rags said, "When Susan died, I was uncomfortable around women. This may sound like I'm rushing things, but I feel we could be..."

She quickly interrupted, "I'm sorry. I've got the shakes so badly I can't think. Don't talk to me, just take me home," she whimpered.

Paul attempted to put his arm around her.

"Don't touch me," she wailed, pulled away from him and crowded the passenger door. Fear shrouded her eyes, his shocked face broke her heart. She bent in the seat and sobbed. "

"What have I done?"

"It's okay," he said. "I'd like to try this again if we get to know each other better." He handed her his handkerchief. "Wipe your eyes and blow your nose." He eased the car from the curb, did a U-turn and headed back the way they had come. They rode in silence until they reached Karen's house.

She quickly undid her seatbelt, opened the door. "Please don't hate me," she whispered, and slid from the SUV before he could kill the engine.

Karen fled around the vehicle and ran into the refuge of her home.

****

Upstairs Henry and Clint were examining his model collection.

"That's a Warthog. Mom told me my Dad flew an A-10 but I know that's a lie."

"How do you know that?"

"I checked the internet." Clint twisted a wing off the plane and threw it at the waste basket under his desk. A tear trickled from the corner of the boy's eye. "Henry, there's no record of a pilot named Clinton Larsen. She lied." He snuffed his nose.

"What do you know about your father?"

"Nothing. There's no marriage license. I'm the only kid who doesn't have a birth certificate." He snuffled and wiped his eyes with a fist. "Mom won't answer my questions or tell me anything...and the other kids call me a--"

"May be she doesn't know," Henry quickly interrupted.

"How could she not know?"

"The mind is a wonderful organ, Clint. It can remember the really good things and forget the really bad things."

"How?"

"No one knows. I guess it's one of God's gifts." Henry watched Clint bite his lip and frown in apparent deep thought.

"Does that mean Mom thinks I'm a bad thing?"

"Of course not." He picked up a twin engine, twin tailed plane, "What is this model?"

"You know that's a P-38 Lightning. You're trying to change the subject."

"Caught me," Henry acknowledged and smiled. He reached out and ruffled the boy's hair.

"What did you mean the mind can remember good things? If that's true how come I can't remember my Dad?"

"You were too young."

"How about the bad stuff?"

"Clint I don't know how it works but think about the last time you were hurt.

Can you remember how the pain felt?"

The frown again appeared on the boy's face and his eyes moved from right to left, left to right. "I know it hurt when I broke my arm, but I can't remember how it felt." The eyes stopped their search and focused on Henry. "You're saying something bad happened to Mom and she can't remember?"

"I'm saying its possible she has some sort of...did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Someone just came in the front door." Henry put his finger to his lips. "Shhhh...You stay here. If I yell, dial 911 and lock your door." Henry seized a baseball bat from where it leaned in a corner. Catlike, he eased through the open bedroom door, moved to the balustrade, and looked over. Karen was seated on the foyer floor leaning against the front door. Her face concealed in her hands. The muffled sound of painful sobs filtered through her fingers.

"Mom." Clint yelled from behind Henry. He bolted down the stairs.

Henry grabbed at the boy, and missed. He dropped the bat and followed at a run.

Clint reached her first. "Mom, what's wrong? Don't cry. Please don't cry." He knelt beside his mother, put his arm around her and awkwardly stroked her head.

Henry dropped to his knees on her other side. "Karen are you hurt?"

"Ye-s-s-s," she blubbered and took a ragged breath. "No-o-o-oh."

"Did Ragsdale hurt you?"

"No." She raised her head and turned toward him. Tears welled in her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. Her mouth quivered. "I hurt him...I've ruined everything."

"What?"

"Everything."

"Mom. Why are you sitting on the floor crying?" His tears appeared ready to join hers at any moment. His right hand, shaking like a bird with a broken wing, flickered around her head, stroking and withdrawing not knowing where to land.

Karen grasped his hand, drew it to her mouth and kissed the palm. "I'm so sorry I frightened you honey. It's nothing. Please go to bed. I need to do a girl thing and cry for a little while. I'll come up later and we'll talk."

Henry nodded when Clint looked at him. "I'll take care of her." He cut his eyes and nodded his head toward the stairs.

"You sure?"

"She just needs some time." Henry winked, then nodded, smiled, and gave Clint a thumbs up.

The boy rose and headed toward his room, looking back at them until he disappeared in the stairwell.

With Clint gone they shifted their positions and side by side leaned against the door. Neither spoke until Karen stopped sniffling and her breathing calmed.

"I could use a drink," Henry said.

"Me too," she said.

"Where?"

"In the kitchen pantry there's a liquor locker."

Henry entered the kitchen, looked around and found a promising door. Inside was a large walk-in room with shelves to the right and left, lined with canned goods, mixes and vegetable bins.

On the back wall was another door.

From behind him Karen said, "I'll have to open that."

Karen moved past Henry to the door and removed the lock. "When Clint turned twelve I decided temptation was better controlled with a lock." She stepped aside.

Henry walked into the cool; cedar lined room, and studied the large number of bottles until he settled on a cognac. He eased past Karen and returned to the kitchen. "We both need something strong," he responded to her questioning look. "You scared the H-E-2-sticks out of me with your sudden return."

Karen smiled. "You can't say hell?"

"I can, but I'd rather not. Where do you keep the snifters?"

"In the dinning room credenza."

Henry moved across the kitchen and pushed open the pocket door.

When he returned with the glasses, Karen nodded toward the back door. "I feel trapped. Let's sit on the patio."

This could turn into a long night. Henry watched her walk through the kitchen Dutch door to the outside. She needs a few minutes alone. He took his time filling his snifter to the halfway level to allow it to breathe. This is way over my head.

He swirled the brandy and warmed the glass in his cupped hands. _What do I say to her?_ _How much can I say without making things worse?_ He bowed his head, "Lord, put the words in my mouth so that Your will may be done. Amen."

With the bottle and filled glasses on a serving tray, he walked to the patio.

Karen was seated on a low brick wall that bordered the backyard lawn. She looked up. He handed her a snifter. She raised it to her lips.

"It's much better if you sniff and sip it. That's why it's called a snifter. At least I think that's why it's called that. A snifter I mean," Henry said.

"I know. I needed a quick jolt...and you're repeating yourself." She looked at Henry and smiled. "Thank you."

"For what? Your drink?"

"No. For everything. For being you."

"You're welcome." Henry sat quietly hoping she would lead the conversation. The waiting was not easy. There were questions he wanted to ask. What happened? Why did you come home? Why were you crying? What did Ragsdale say? Yet deep down, he knew most of the answers and the cause. He couldn't erase her pain or fears with a confession. So he waited for her to speak.

Immersed in their private anguish the only thing they shared was the light of the three-quarter moon. In Henry's guilty mind the time raced by in hours. In reality he knew they had only been sitting for five minutes. He raised the snifter, breathed in the pungent fumes and took a sip of the fiery liquor. It warmed his mouth but his belly remained a cold hard knot. He tried to relax and waited.

"Oh, look...a falling star." Karen pointed skyward.

"Did you make a wish?"

"I did. Did you?"

"Yes." Henry said.

"What did you wish for?"

"Can't tell you. It won't come true."

"Henry, you will never convince me you believe in that old superstition."

"I don't, but I'm still not going to tell you."

"I'll tell you my wish."

"Won't work." He grinned. "I know what you wished."

"You don't."

"Do."

"Okay smarty pants, tell me."

"I still won't tell you my wish, but yours was to do tonight over."

"How did you know?"

"The ice princess was crying."

"Don't call me that. You know I hate it when the news crews call me that." The fire fell from her voice and she whispered, "I really wanted to..."

"I know." He put his arm around her shoulders.

"I don't understand why."

"You'll lose your fear when you discover why."

"How can I lose it?"

"A good start would be to search your memory. Look for the things that make you uncomfortable when you're around men.

"I don't know." She sat up and looked into his face. "Don't you think I haven't thought about that? I've made list after list and it never helped."

"Think about it now. Is it their smell? Does their appearance frighten you? Their clothing? Do they remind you of someone or something? Is it what they say?"

"All those things were on my list." A tear trickled down her cheek and she moaned. "Nothing seemed right. I just don't know."

"I'm going to let you in on a secret. Most men are apprehensive around women. Mothers are the first disciplinarians in their lives. Then their sisters, aunts, teachers, girlfriends, and finally their wives condition them with fears of rejection. Each female has a different set of demands and expectations. Men look to women for clues on how to act. Men are subconsciously children. You are the adult. You're in charge of every relationship."

"If only it were that simple."

"It is. You can fall back on Isaiah 41:13. "Do not fear; I will help you.'" The meaning is clear. "Listen to the Lord and live in safety without fear and harm."

"I've prayed."

"But did you listen? Your answer may be in the first step you took tonight."

"It's so frustrating. I want to believe. I listen for an answer to my prayers. For guidance, but I don't hear anything."

"Look around you. You have a beautiful home, a great kid, and a good job. Is it possible the Lord answered your prayers with deeds and not words? That he only tends to your needs when you are ready?"

"I know you're right, but I really wanted tonight to be special. I like him, Henry."

17.

Karen, with her elbow on her desk, and her head propped in her hand, cradled the phone against her cheek, "Donald I don't think this is a good idea." She picked up a pencil with her other hand, turned it over and tapped the eraser on the desk. She flipped the pencil and impatiently tapped the lead before she put it down. His pleading had become a mosquito drone, annoying, empty, and scarcely registering.

She set up and took the phone from her ear. _This is ridiculous. It's like trying to communicate on phones with only the microphone working._ "Donald, I can't hear you because we're both talking at the same time."

Before she could hang up, He said, "It's really important to me, Karen. It's very important to both of us. Please meet me for lunch. We need to talk."

"What's so urgent?" She said. "I'm working and my day is planned. Henry is at the garage for an oil change and then..." Her fingers found a strand of hair at the nape of her neck and wound and then unwound it as Donald kept talking.

"All right, as long as you understand this is not a date." She released the hair and replaced the phone in its cradle. _I can't imagine what he wants but this will give me a chance to get his professional opinion about last night's fiasco._

Donald was seated when she entered the restaurant. He stood, met her half way, and escorted her to the table.

"This is nice," she said as he held her chair.

"Glad you approve. I had to bribe the hostess to reserve a table with a view of the lake and marina." He glanced at his unusual D shaped French watch and frowned. "You're late."

Must you always be critical? "Sorry, but Lake Ray Hubbard is a long way from the studio and traffic..."

"Of course."

She picked up a napkin, placed it on her lap, and opened the menu.

"I've ordered for both of us," Donald said.

"Oh?" _Of course you did._

A young waitress materialized at their table. "May I take your drink order?"

"Yes. Bring us a bottle of Jordan Cabernet, opened so it can breathe."

She smiled. "That is a very nice choice, sir."

"Donald, a glass is all I want. I have to work."

"Work is such a dreary pastime. Your little show is hours away."

" _My little show?_ She smiled to hide her annoyance. "Henry is waiting."

"Take the afternoon off."

"What?" His patrician face had assumed that serious regal expression that she once found charming. "I can't. I'd be fired."

The waitress reappeared, placed a bucket by the table, and removed the wine bottle from the ice. She lifted a towel from her arm, wrapped it around the bottle, and artfully flipped a silver corkscrew through the air before inserting it in the cork. She popped the cork and offered it to Donald to sniff.

His hand shot up palm out halting the presentation. "Girl," his voice was glacial. "Red wine is never served cold."

"I'm sorry sir." The waitress tried to hide her apparent embarrassment behind a smile. "Would you like to savor the bouquet?"

"No," Donald snapped. "Just pour it and leave."

_I don't need this._ Karen took the napkin from her lap, placed it on the table and picked up her purse.

"This is a quality restaurant," Donald complained in a voice loud enough for near-by tables to hear. "I don't understand why they don't have a wine steward during the lunch hour."

Karen smiled at the waitress and turned her eyes to the lake beyond the window. _Quality restaurant? It is on the lake in a sporting goods complex that sells boats and fishing gear. Obviously doctor, you did not make the reservation._

"I'm so sorry. " Donald reached for her hand. "I wanted everything to be perfect, and it's not."

The waitress finished pouring the wine, placed it on the table, and walked toward the kitchen.

Kearn withdrew her hand and moved both beyond his reach. _What's wrong with him? I told him this was not a date._ Karen tried to smile and whispered, "I've heard it is not wise to pick a fight with a waitress who has your food behind closed doors."

"What? Oh yes. You're right of course. I shall apologize if she ever returns." Donald turned his attention back to Karen. "I have my boat ready. The restaurant will pack a lunch, and we can spend the afternoon sailing."

"I don't think that's a good idea. Liz says a blue norther will blow in this afternoon."

"It's warm and sunny now. We can get in a couple of hours of sailing before the weather changes," Donald smiled.

"As tempting as it sounds, I still have to work." She stood. "I hate to leave before we eat but I really need to go."

"Henry will cover for you. Please sit. If you insist on doing the news, I'll get you back in time."

"Donald, you seem ill at ease. I've never seen you act this way. You're always so considerate of others,so in control. Is anything wrong?"

"There's something I wish to discuss with you."

She placed her purse on the table and settled on the edge of her chair. "Then you'd better hurry. Henry will be through servicing the news wagon at one-thirty and Lake Ray Hubbard is a half hour drive from the garage. I want to leave here no later than twelve forty-five."

The waitress stepped to the table. "Your food order will be ready shortly, sir."

Scowling, Donald turned toward the woman.

Before he could speak, Karen said, "Don't pack my lunch and please substitute a shrimp salad and a cup of tomato bisque. I'll eat here."

"And you, sir?"

Donald frowned, picked up the menu, and without opening it, slapped it down. "The Cobb salad will do, and forget the packed lunches."

"Thank you. I'll have that right out." She headed for the kitchen.

"Finally, a little privacy." He took a deep breath, smiled, lowered his eyes, and reached for her hand again.

She deftly picked up her napkin, avoiding his move.

"This is not how I planned this. I hope it's acceptable, if somewhat plebeian, and I fear, totally forgettable." He looked into Karen's eyes. "You know that I care a great deal for you and Clinton. He is like a son to me and you..." He cleared his throat. "This is difficult. Please permit me to start over."

"Donald, don't."

"Karen?"

"Donald, you have been a very special and dependable friend, but as my psychiatrist you know that I am afraid of men." "I am a very patient man. We were making progress on your problem. I am positive I have a solution that will return you to who you were."

"I hope so because I've met someone..." She stopped. _How do I put my feelings in words?_

Donald stared at her for a full minute before speaking. "You're seeing someone without consulting me?" Donald's voice was husky and filled with malice.

"No, I'm not seeing him yet, but I want to."

Donald studied Karen then in a strained voice said, "As your therapist I recommend you get your head screwed on straight." He stood. His eyes narrowed with contempt. "You're a certified nut case," he shouted. "I saw you. He's trash." Donald abruptly spun on his heels and stormed across the restaurant to the exit.

In stunned disbelief, Karen watched Donald march through the exit door.

The waitress appeared at her side. "Is something wrong?

"I don't think he's coming back for his lunch. Please bring me the bill."

"Don't worry about it honey. I can pour the wine back and your food hasn't been served."

"Thank you." Karen left a twenty-dollar tip and walked to her car.

Forty-five minutes later, when she met Henry at the garage on Lamar, she was still re-playing Donald's bizarre behavior. It was so foreign to the man.

"Did you bring me a doggie bag? Henry asked. "I've been stuck here since you left."

"Didn't eat," she said.

She left her car with a mechanic to be serviced and joined Henry in the news wagon.

"Where are we going?"

"Irving. That scowl on your face says bad news?"

"I think I just lost a doctor and a friend."

"Bad oysters?"

"It's not funny Henry." Like a good reporter she gave him all the details then added, "I think Donald was trying to propose and I told him I liked Paul. He called me a nut case and stormed out of the restaurant."

Henry smiled, and then laughed. "He ordered expensive wine and left you with the bill. A real gentleman. Looks like you found rot under that charming New England veneer."

"You don't like him, do you?"

Henry started the wagon and pulled away from the garage before he answered. "I try to like everyone, but to be honest I was never comfortable around Doctor Blair."

"I didn't know you even knew him."

"Years ago," he said in a soft voice. "I was among his first patients." Henry drove for three blocks in silence. When he turned right onto Stemmon's Freeway, Karen broke the silence.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"It's all I know to say. He was my therapist. I was his patient. We haven't seen each other in years."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you stop seeing him?"

"I think he was trying to manipulate me." Henry glanced from the road to Karen.

"Me, too," she said.

"Me, too, what?"

"You know. Turn me into his puppet."

"And he was the puppeteer," he had a grim smile. "Yep, that's my experience. You ever wonder what he wanted?"

"Not till lunch today. He'd mentioned marriage before, but I thought he was teasing or testing to see if I was improving... He knows I'm afraid of men."

"Well at least you got a hint. I still don't know why he wanted to control me. I had a drug and drinking problem and living from pay check to pay check."

They followed Stemmon's Freeway North, neither talking, both deep in thought, their eyes on passing cars. Karen wrapped a strand of hair around her index finger, freed it and then rewound it. "Paul's seen him."

"You mean professionally?"

"What? Oh, I didn't realize I spoke. Yes. When his wife died in a car accident Paul saw him. Donald is the police therapist."

"A wheel within a wheel."

"What do you mean?"

"I understand why your rejection would upset his ego. What I don't understand is the urgency in proposing today...unless?" Henry squinted and then scratched the back of his head.

"What?"

"What type of car does Blair drive?"

"A black Mercedes 500 sedan. Why?"

"I thought I saw one last night when I brought Clint home. Later, when I left, I thought I saw it again. But in your neighborhood 500's are as common as Fords in mine."

"He was stalking me?"

"Can't be sure. But if that was him, the little green monster could be at play."

"That's bizarre. I have never encouraged him during the ten years I've known him. He has been my escort on occasions when I needed one, but nothing more. No wonder Clint calls him booger brains."

"Children sometimes have a sixth sense about people, but to be fair, what do we really know about Dr. Blair? Neither of us liked his therapy, and he left you with the check."

"You saw him last night outside my house."

"I can't be sure of that."

"Clint doesn't like him."

"There's that."

To the North a dirty blue wall cloud formed and the first winds of the cold front buffeted the news wagon. Henry reached for the heater knob and set it on automatic. Looks like the norther is right on schedule."

"Texas terms are so quaint. I wonder how norther' ever came to mean a cold front with a wall cloud."

"Not quaint; practical. It's a quick way to describe a weather front out of the north with a wall cloud and winds. Sometimes it is accompanied by rain and sleet and that drops the temperature about twenty degrees in minutes. Did you bring a jacket?"

"Yes, it's in my tote."

Henry turned off Stemmons and headed West on 183 past the site of the old Cowboy Stadium.

"Why are we going to Irving?" Karen asked.

"One of my stringers says a dude at a bar may have seen the rapist snatch a girl in Deep El'lum."

"Shouldn't we call Paul?"

"It's too soon. He's probably just a bum looking for a free drink, or fifteen minutes of fame."

Karen watched the passing cars for a few miles then turned to Henry, "Take me to the station. I'd like to sit and think about Donald. Maybe talk to Liz."

"This won't take long. My source says he comes in for a beer, drinks it, and leaves. If we don't catch him today, we may not get another chance."

"But I really---"

"We're a news team, Karen. I take the pictures, you ask the questions."

She turned back to the window and closed her eyes to try to make sense of the unexpected twist in her relationship with Donald, and of Henry's parallel experience.

The roar of a herd of motorcycles jerked her focus back to their surroundings. They were on Irving Boulevard, passing through an area of closed factory buildings and decaying warehouses. A gang of leather-clad motorcycle cowboys surrounded the news wagon. Henry slowed, turned onto a cracked asphalt lot and stopped next to a row of parked bikes. Their escorts pulled in beside them, shut down their bikes, dismounted and crowded around the wagon."

"Henry. Are you out of your mind? Get us out of here."

"This is the bar."

"We can't go in there."

"Why not? It's just a bar."

"It's dangerous. Those men are looking at us like lions smelling lunch." She clutched her hands, trying to restrict the shakes to the involuntary tapping of her foot.

"Karen."

"Please, Henry. Let's go."

"Karen I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"There are so many of them. Look at their size. What can you do?"

"No. It's what can we do? We're a team, and I need you to get us in and out."

"I can't..."

"You can."

"Henry, the big man in the bib overalls is pointing at us. He wants us to go in there."

"Karen," He grabbed her arm. "pay attention to me. When we go in the bar, don't show fear. Be firm, not violent."

"Henry, I can't."

"Yes you can. Think of each of these men as a child. You're the adult. Talk to them like you talk to Clint when he's bad."

"Henry the man at the door's coming."

"Karen, we have to go in. If we leave we'll show fear and they'll be all over us." Henry opened his door and stepped out of the wagon, walked through the bikers, and opened her door. "Remember, take charge," he whispered.

"Howdy." The voice of the big man sounded like it started in the basement of a volcano and erupted with a rumble. "You folks come on into the Pigeon Coop. We ain't fancy, but we can be real excitin' for visitors." He flexed his massive shoulders, looked Karen up and down like he was appraising a steak. A gap tooth grin split his face. "Yes ma'am, real excitin'." He nodded toward the door and the group of bikers closed ranks behind them.

"Remember," Henry said under his breath, "No fear."

Once inside the bar it took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the smoke filled darkness. The place was full of bikers in leather pants and jackets. Nazi-looking road warrior helmets rested on a dozen mismatched tables, chairs, and the floor. The bar was constructed of plank boards on top of fifty- gallon oil drums. A massive man with an upper lip of face hair and wearing a black muscle shirt that exposed tattooed arms as big around as fire hydrants, waved them to the bar. "Name yer poison. The entertainment always drinks free at the Pigeon Coop." His two short bursts of laughter sounded like animal grunts.

_Please God help us,_ Karen silently prayed.

"A coke, for me. What'll you have, Karen?"

"Uh...the same." She put her purse on the bar and opened it.

"No ma'am." The barkeep pointed at the purse. "It's like I said." He grinned and winked. "The entertainment drinks free. At least until they ain't no more fun." He grunted a deep rumbling belly laugh.

"A dentist could make a fortune with this crowd, if they paid their bills," Henry whispered.

"Hey," The barkeep snapped a wet tattered towel in Henry's face. "You tryin' to be funny?"

"No sir."

"I didn't think so." He snorted, the sound was more like a snarl than a laugh.

Henry whispered to Karen, "I blew it. Ask for a guy named Double Duce."

"I..."

"Do it."

"Sir," Karen cleared her throat.

"You can call me Hawk or anything else sweet cheeks, just so you call me."

"Mr. Hawk, we're looking for a man named Double Duce."

"You just ruined my day." He pointed to a tall skinny man with a ZZ Top beard. "When you get tired of waitin' for him to sober up, I'll be here."

Henry took Karen's arm and guided her through a barricade of ogling eyes, reaching hands, cat calls, and raunchy comments.

"Hey lady, where'd ya get them racks?"

"Come to me, momma."

"No, me,"a voice yelled.

To Karen, the journey of a few feet seemed like endless miles. Double Duce was slumped on his table amid a litter of empty long necks. "You talk to him. Ask him what he saw when the girl was snatched in Deep El'lum," Henry whispered.

"Mr. Duce, I'm Karen Larsen of..."

"You can call me DD, sugar."

"Okay, --- Mr. DD sugar."

"You a smart-ass, lady? I said DD."

"Sorry. Mr. DD, did you see a man grab a girl in Deep El'lum?"

"I might have, but if you want to know you got to pay."

"Pay? How?"

"By spending the afternoon with old DD. We can start the ball rollin' with a kiss." The man rose and reached for her.

Karen snatched an empty beer bottle from the table, and smashed it across the back of his hand.

DD howled and fell backward to the floor.

Henry seized Karen's arm. "Follow me." He dragged her toward the door.

DD rolled around on the floor, knocking over chairs and tables, bellowing like a wounded buffalo. "My hand...Damn that hurts...Ya broke my hand. You ain't no lady." He struggled to his knees.

In the turmoil, Henry and Karen ran from the bar. "Do you use a bottle on Clint when he's bad?" Henry yelled as they entered their vehicle. He started the engine.

"Wait," Karen cried, "I left my purse on the bar."

"Is there anything important in it?"

"Some money... and credit cards." Karen jerked her hand to her mouth, "Oh Lord, my driver's license with my address. They could come to my house."

"I'll get it." Henry exited the vehicle and headed for the bar.

"No Henry. Don't..."

The first large drops of rain spattered the windshield before Henry reached the door and pulled it open. He looked back; his face etched with anxiety, gave a weak smile, and waved.

Inside, the place was still in an uproar. " DD screeched over the din of laughter. "It ain't funny. If I hadn't sworn off cussin' when I joined Bikers for Christ I could explain how this hurts. English don't adequately do the job." This produced another wave of laughter. A questioning look replaced D.D." pained expression. "Damn aint cussin, Is it?"

Henry shouldered his way through the bikers surrounding DD. "Man, I'm sorry she hit you. I told her to be firm, not violent."

"It's okay. I needed a reminder of why I left my old woman." DD grinned at the renewed laughter.

"Henry, here's her bag." The bartender handed him Karen's purse.

"Thanks, Hawk. See you here for Sunday's services."

"Don't forget you got the kids Sunday School."

"I won't. I've got to go before she calls the cops. God bless everyone and many thanks for your help." He exited the bar at a run.

18.

Are they coming? Karen turned around in her seat, her eyes glued on the biker bar. "Henry, turn on the rear wipers, I can't see for the rain."

Henry twisted the stick control.

"That just smeared the dirt into mud. Use the washers."

Twin jets of water, joined the rain, flooded the window and the wiper squeegeed off the grime.

"They're at their bikes." Karen moaned. "Hurry Henry, go. Please go. Get us out of here."

"Put your seat belt on."

She faced the front, settled in her seat, and tightened the belt.

With the bar five miles behind they turned onto Stemmon's Freeway and Karen relaxed. Her normal genteel demeanor replaced by adrenalin driven cheer leader's excitement. "Henry, we did it. We did it. They're not following." She bounced in the seat in her excitement. "Did you see me hit that biker with a bottle?"

Henry glanced at her and smiled. "Didn't realize you had become an amazon until he screamed and fell to the floor. Like Daniel, you walked into the lion's den and led us out."

"But Daniel wasn't afraid. I was terrified."

"Oh Daniel was frightened, but he trusted the Lord, and himself. Do you know what else you did?"

She thought for a moment and then turned to him, "Survived?"

"Well, there is that. But what you really did was prove to yourself, you're no longer afraid of men."

"I'm not? How do you know?"

"Think."

Startled she sat forward and turned to Henry. "I hit a man and it felt good. That was the most exciting thing I've ever done.

"And?"

Karen leaned back in the car seat and placed her head against the rest. She closed her eyes and explored her fear from all sides. _Those men were animals and I survived._ Henry's words sparred with her feelings. _You're no longer afraid of men._ She peeked at him through lowered lashes. There was no expression on his face. _Am I afraid of Henry?_ She shook her head and scowled out the side window at the rain. _Am I afraid of Paul?_ She whispered, "No, but he makes me feel funny." She smiled, sucked her lower lip and stared at her lap. After a few moments she crossed her arms and glanced at Henry. "I ruined it didn't I?"

Henry glanced at her. "Yep."

She turned back to the side window and watched the rain washed landscape without registering where they were. When they turned into the television station parking lot she sat up. "Henry?"

"What"

"You can do it."

"What."

"Ask Paul for a date."

"Are you out of your mind? He's twice my size and I'm fond of my body parts."

"Don't be ridiculous. Not with you. You suggest a double date. You take Liz and he takes me."

"Now who's being ridiculous? I don't date and even if I did someone like Liz would never go out with me."

"How do you know?"

"Look at her. Look at me. I look like that Howdy-Doody puppet. She's cute, witty, and charming. She can have her pick of men."

"I'll make you a deal. You arrange the date with Paul, and I'll talk Liz into going."

"No, for two reasons."

"What."

"I don't date and your proposal is not very flattering."

"Will you do it for me?"

Henry shook he head.

"Please. It's really important."

"No."

"Just this once. I won't ask you again."

"Nope. You're on your own."

"Henry."

"What?"

"Liz thinks you're cute."

"Stop it," Henry opened his door, and stepped out of the wagon. "What was God thinking when he created women they're worse than mosquitos," He muttered. Without closing the car door or looking back to see if she followed, he marched across the parking lot to the building.

She sat, watching him until he disappeared into the television station. _He must be upset. It's raining and he left his door open._ She reached across the driver's seat and closed the van door then stepped out of the vehicle closed her door and followed him into the station.

While she was shaking the rain off her umbrella in the lobby Milt, the station manager walked up. They talked briefly and she moved into the newsroom.

"Karen," Liz called and quickly crossed to her side.

"What's wrong?" She whispered. "You and Henry have a fight? He just blew in like a thunder storm. Are you okay? Can you talk about it?"

"Nothing. No. Yes and yes in that order."

They moved across the newsroom and into the hall toward Karen's office...

"Well give. What happened? Why did Henry blow across the newsroom and into the editing room without speaking? Are you sure you didn't have a fight?"

"Larsen," Bullard yelled as they passed his office.

"He keeps the door open so he can count how many times we go to the bathroom or coffee pot," Liz whispered.

When she turned back Bullard was standing in his door. "Yes, Bob."

"Where have you been?"

"In a biker bar chasing a lead on the rapist."

"And?"

"We got out alive." Karen responded.

"Congratulations. Did you get a story?"

"Like I said, we got out alive." She spun around and continued walking toward her office.

"I'm not finished talking to you."

"Yes, you are. You just don't know it."

"Who do you think you are?" Bullard yelled.

Karen looked over her shoulder. "Someone you can't bully," she said and gave him her sweetest smile and winked. She turned and followed Liz into her office.

"Did you get an interview? Any tape?" The News Director voice had lost some its hostility.

"Nope." She closed the door.

"It would have been the lead story if the bikers kept you," he yelled through the door.

In her office Karen suppressed a giggle. "That felt good," she muttered.

"Have you been drinking?" Liz asked.

"Of course not."

"You challenged Bob. He can't let you get away with that. The goons in the newsroom heard,"

"I've got a secret. Milt stopped me in the hall and told me the ratings are in and we aced the competition."

"Does Bob know?"

"I don't think so."

"He lives for those ratings, but that won't make him like you."

"It will keep him off my back." She reached for her friend's hand, "Liz, will you..."

"What?"

"Would you?" She took a deep breath. "Paul and Paul, Jr. are taking Clint fishing. They didn't ask me and I really want..." She placed her hand on her friends arm. "I like him Liz."

"Do you have another date with Paul?"

"Not yet. After the other night I was hoping you would ask him for me and if it worked out..."

"You want me to be your pimp?"

"Don't be crude. I'm serious."

"Okay. Let me get this straight. You want me to ask Paul to take the two of us on a date."

"No. You'd have a date. We'd double date.

"You know I'm not going with anyone at the moment."

"You could go with Henry and ask Paul to go with me."

Liz raised a skeptical eye brow. "Henry doesn't like women."

"Yes he does and he might go if you'd agree in advance so he won't feel rejected. Please."

"Oh, what the hell why not, but if I have a choice, I'd rather date Doctor Donald, he's more my type."

"That wouldn't work. He proposed today and I turned him down."

"You turned him down? You're out of your mind. He's a doctor, good looking, charming, intelligent, and has money."

****

Later that night a dark van drove along the tree lined Highland Park streets. At the fifth house he pulled to the curb and stopped. A light winked on in a house down the block. He ignored it concentrating on the house across the street.

A soft breeze fluttered the leaves diffusing the harsh glare of the streetlights and sending shadows dancing over the sidewalks and lawns. On weeknight all the neighborhood dogs, like their owners, appeared to be watching TV or bedded down.

"Think a pretty face makes you superior?" he muttered. "Here's a bulletin. Tomorrow, you'll be the news and then we'll see how you react." He circled the block and drove into the service alley that ran behind the houses. Without a bulb in the fixture, the interior remained dark when he opened the van door.

He skirted the hedge row and crossed the lawn. Easing between the shrubs, he looked in each window before testing the lock. Four windows on the north side of the house were secured. At the back of the house the sash of a kitchen window yielded to pressure. The hunters primal rush when he nears his prey sent an adrenal surge to his crotch. Bet her brat uses this when he sneaks out. He pulled on a ski mask, flexed his arms, and eased the window open.

Light flooded the kitchen and Karen crossed to the refrigerator. He ducked and faded down the brick wall into the night shadows between the shrubs. "Down, boy," he whispered. "She'll keep for another time. We want her where we can watch her, see her fear, see what she does when I touch her...see her react when we probe the honey pot." _I'll leave a token of my anticipation on her door._

19.

It was a busy day for the middle of the week. The news stories were scattered from Fort Worth to Waxahachie to Dallas to McKinney. These were small visual events and didn't require Karen. Henry rolled down his window as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

If I don't get some sleep I won't be able to work or watch Karen.

The air was still crisp from the morning rain but the fresh air didn't help. He yawned and in an effort to keep his mind active and tried to sort through the emotional turmoil in the news department. _Bullard is on an emotional roller coaster, one minute euphoric, the next angry, cussing Karen and all women, pacing his office and storming into the newsroom like he was possessed. The reporters are nervous. They smell Karen's blood in the water and are getting in line for her job._

Henry scratched the insect bite on the back of his neck and searched for positives. _Karen's doing outstanding work. She has a knack for telling the story with a minimum of words. The camera loves her. The ratings indicate the audience loves her. Any News Director in the country would love to have her._

He turned off Central, onto Mockingbird and stopped at the book store that served students from Southern Methodist University. He eyed the long line at the in-store Starbucks. _In a half-hour it'll be dark. Karen needs time to get settled. I can eat here..._

When it was his turn at the counter he picked up a coffee-latte, a turkey-cranberry sandwich, and an apple-walnut muffin. He settled at the only empty table and shoved aside the previous occupant's leftovers and grinned _. Momma would hate what her little boy is eating in a place with dirty tables._ He bit into his sandwich and thought about his mother _. If Momma made this it would be PB and J._

A sudden change in the light outside the store caught his eye. Night had dropped like a shroud. Clouds must have closed in again. He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, stood, and dumped the table trash.

On the way out of the store he stopped at the counter for another muffin, and a large container of black coffee.

Henry pulled the van out of the parking lot and threaded his way through traffic to Hillcrest and turned north. Fog rolled up off the warm wet pavement as the air cooled. It thickened rapidly with the falling temperature, slowing the cars passing through the university area. When he finally reached Normandy, the fog rising off the lawns and wet shrubs had consumed the lower half of the houses. Henry extinguished his lights and eased his way down the block to the curb across from Karen's house. He let the engine idle and reached for the coffee.

The fog swallowed the light from the kitchen window and melted into a golden shroud masking the shrubs and yard _. Bet their dinner is better than mine._ He took a sip, replaced the cup in the holder, and tried to pillow, his head against the hard head rest. _It's early...I can get..a coup..le of min...._

Sometime later, with the fog settled around the base of the house making it look like it floated on a cloud Henry woke. The light in the kitchen was out. Upstairs, Clint's bedroom was lit, but Karen's was dark. "Must have dozed off," he chastised himself, "Working all day and standing guard at night," he yawned and flexed his back, "is making me an old man." He yawned again. _The cops will catch the rapist before long then I can get some sleep._

He picked up his coffee cup and sipped. "Buwaak," he hacked, and gargled in an attempt to clear the foul taste from his mouth. He spit in the cup. "Man," he made a face and stretched his mouth and tongue. "This stuff tastes like the castor oil coffee Mom gave me as a kid." He spit again, but couldn't shake the sense of nausea that always followed an accidental sip of cold coffee. _Don't know why it tastes different hot. I'm just glad it does. I need the caffeine to stay awake._

He glanced toward Karen's. A soft wind lifted and swirled the fog like the skirt of a Mexican folk dancer, exposing and then hiding the house and surrounding shrubs. The light in Clint's room went off and the home was plunged into darkness. _Good, a quiet night. Now if I can stay awake for another..._ He checked his watch _. Ten-fifteen I'll give it till two._

Henry squirmed in his seat. There was a click, as he searched for a more comfortable position. Found it and leaned into an empty place where the door should be. A teeth jarring blow struck his head followed by a searing pain as he followed his hair out the wagon's doorway and crashed to the pavement. Agony lanced through an old football shoulder injury. He momentarily caught sight of the open van door before a large muscular arm blocked the image. The arm moved back from his face and Henry's head jerked upwards off the pavement.

"Let go of my hair," he screamed.

"Asshole, this is all you're gettin' tonight. The bitch is mine." The arm pushed toward his face and a dull explosion of star shattered light filled his head, then everything went numb.

****

In a space between Karen's house and her azalea hedge a figure dressed in black watched with amusement. "You're going to feel that tomorrow picture taker," the hidden intruder whispered. "But it won't hurt half as much as knowing you were asleep the night the fox raided the hen house." He watched briefly as Henry's head repeatedly assaulted the pavement. _Which will crack first? That is the question._

He chuckled to himself and slid along the brick wall toward the kitchen window. Stubby limbs from the clipped hedge snagged his black knit ski mask and jerked it from his head. "Damn it." He dropped to a crouch in the shadows behind the fog drenched shrubbery. A cascade of moisture fell over him. "Double damn." He yanked the mask from the offending branch. "Triple damn," he muttered when the tear in the knit separated, leaving a long string of yarn dangling across the eye hole. Angrily, he grabbed the offending limb, twisted it from the shrub, and snapped it in small pieces.

"Stop that, or I'll sic my dog on you," a voice shouted from the street. Startled, the prowler froze. Cautiously he looked over his shoulder. A man and a large dog approached Henry's van. "Tiger, attack."

The dark figure parted the branches of the shrub and through the shifting mist watched Phillips, Karen's neighbor, and his Great Dane charging the two men standing over Henry.

In one great leap, the dog knocked the bigger of the attackers onto his back. The second man spun and ran, vanishing into the fog.

"Guard, Tiger."

The dog pinned Henry's assailant with one huge paw on his chest. A deep growl rumbled from its chest. Phillips lifted a cell phone from a coat pocket, and punched it three times. "911 this is Franklin Phillips, I'm the Crime Watch Captain in the 11 hundred block of Normandy. I am, or I should say my dog is, holding a man who was severely beating another man. Can you send someone? Within five minutes? Thank you. Yes, I'll stay on the line."

"Get this mutt off me."

"Sir, my name is Phillips..."

"Yeah, I heard."

"Show me your identification."

"Go screw yourself," the man yelled. "Call off your dog, or I'll kill him."

"Sir, you leave me no alternative, Tiger attack."

Tiger's growl was low and menacing. His large drooling jowls hovered inches above the man's face.

Henry moaned and sat up.

Tiger barked at the sound and suddenly a long wet tongue wiped the man's face from chin to hairline. The dog jumped off the man on the ground and loped over to Henry dripping drool. The Great Dane stopped at the noise of running feet and sprang in pursuit.

"No. Tiger, let him go," Phillips called. "Stay."

Tiger stopped, looked back at Phillips, whined and then went back to crouch beside Henry and licked his face. Henry raised a hand to hold off the dog, "Could you get him off me."

"He's really quite harmless you know. He's only a puppy."

"Explain that to the coroner when the autopsy reads I drowned in puppy drool."

"Are you alright?"

"My head hurts like I did twelve rounds with a kick boxer."

Pulsing red and blue illuminated the fog and an unmarked police car with flashing grill lights, pulled to a stop beside the two men.

Tiger rushed to the cruiser.

The window lowered an inch: "Mr. Phillips, its Detectives Barker and Rawls. Would you please put a leash on Tiger?"

Henry got to his knees, placed a hand on the side of his wagon for support, doubled over, and vomited.

"Not a good sign, my friend," the watcher murmured. "You've got a concussion. Better sit before you fall and..."

Henry slumped to the pavement, his head fell forward and he rolled onto his side unconscious.

"Good boy Henry, right on cue," the watcher muttered and smiled.

"Detective Rawls," Phillips yelled and ran to the police car before the Detectives could exit. "That man is hurt. I think he needs an ambulance."

Both officers rushed to Henry's side. Rawls got down on his knees and carefully examined the back of Henry's head. Blood from a scalp wound washed down his neck, covered his shirt and dripped onto the pavement. "That's a nasty split in the skin. You hit your head partner?"

"No," Phillip answered. "A large man had a hand full of his hair and was slamming his head against the pavement when I came up."

"Barker, call it in and get us an ambulance. Tell them we could have a serious head injury."

"Mr. Phillips, do you think you could identify the assailant?" Rawls asked.

"Oh yes. When I accepted the post as block captain, your department put me through a course on observation."

"Have you ever seen the assailant before tonight?" Rawls queried.

"Yes sir. He was the driver of that old Crown Vic that's been coming through the neighborhood at night. I gave Detective Ragsdale the license plate number."

"Hey dog," Rawls called to his partner. "When you finish with dispatch call Rags at DPD and tell him to meet us at Baylor Hospital Emergency."

The watcher dropped to a sitting position and leaned against the wall of the house. "Not good," he whispered and punched his thigh with a clenched fist. "Damn, damn, damn, another miss." He took a deep breath and tried to find a comfortable position in the narrow space. "I'll have to stay here until they leave. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his hearing. Minutes passed and the scream of a siren announced the ambulance arrival. He eased to his feet. Lights were coming on in neighboring houses with a few people filtering into the street to watch. All the attention was focused on the EMT's, officers, and their victim.

"What happened?" Someone called to the officers

"Hey Phillips, did you see it?" Another shouted.

_This could be perfect. Everyone is distracted._ The watcher moved to the window, raised it, placed a gloved hand on the sill, and climbed with ease into the kitchen. He closed the window and silently walked across the floor in his crepe sole shoes.

"Mom," Clint voice from upstairs startled the intruder.

"Come to my room, Mom. There's an ambulance and a man's down in the street."

The masked figure quietly slipped into a large pantry.

Upstairs a door opened, "Clint, tomorrow's a school day. You should be asleep."

"I was. The ambulance woke me. I think someone's hurt."

Footsteps whispered across the floor above as Karen crossed the hall into Clint's room. There was silence, except for the sound of the invader's breathing, then the howl of the siren when the ambulance pulled away.

"There's too much fog," Karen said, her voice ringing from Clint's upstairs room. We can't see anything and it sounds like the excitement is over. Go to bed."

"Mom, you're a reporter. Don't you have to go see what happened?"

"I don't have a camera and there are no pictures to take. If the story is important the reporter assigned to the police department will get it."

"Don't you want to know? Clint asked. "You could talk to Mr. Phillips."

"No, I'm tired and we both need our sleep. I'm going to make some hot chamomile tea. Do you want some?"

"Can I have some hot chocolate?"

"No. That's too much sugar this late at night. Are you sure you don't want some tea? It'll help you sleep."

"Yuk."

"Okay, turn out the light and go to sleep."

The intruder eased the pantry door shut and felt his way across the bathroom sized room. With one hand extended in front and the other against the wall, he moved to a shelf of canned goods that extended three feet into the room and stepped behind it. Moving slowly, he probed a jacket pocked until his fingers closed on a hypodermic syringe and a small glass bottle. _Damn awkward doing this with gloved hands._ Shaking the bottle was no problem but the needle cap popped free and fell to the floor. He bent groped for it and knocked a small box off a shelf _. Let it go before you knock the shelf down. It's almost show time._ He inserted the needle in the bottle, drew off its contents and pocketed the empty vial.

Light flared along the crack under the door.

_First put water in a cup...He traced her movements in his mind. Take the cup to the microwave and open the door. Insert the cup, close the door and turn on the microwave._ He crept to the left of the pantry door and raised the syringe. _Cross the kitchen for a tea bag._

The door opened.

"Now," he hissed and grabbed Karen, pulled her tightly to his chest, and plunged the needle into her shoulder. Her scream was muffled by his chest. _One, two, three, four, five..._ at the count of six she relaxed and went limp in his arms.

The microwave buzzed. The water was ready. He lifted Karen in a fireman's carry and stepped across the Saltillo tile floor to the microwave and reached for the off button. She shifted off his shoulder and became dead weight in his arms. _Can't reach it and hold her._ He wrapped both arms around her. _Let it buzz. I've got to move._

There was a key on a wooden plaque next to the French doors. He freed one hand, grasped the key, inserted it, turned it, eased the door open and vanished into the fog.

****

The sun streamed through the bedroom window, across the rumpled comforter and onto Clint's face. He squinted at the glare, batted his eyes, yawned, and rolled over to go back to sleep. Aroused by the movement, nature increased its pressure and Clint sat up with an urgent need to stumble his way to the bathroom. The time on the digital clock momentarily registered ten-thirty on his semi-consciousness.

He answered natures call, washed his face, and brushed his teeth before he thought about the clock _. Ten-thirty_. "Mom," he yelled. "We overslept."

20.

Detectives Ragsdale, Rawls, and Barker surrounded Henry's hospital bed waiting for him to regain consciousness.

Ragsdale studied the long lank form outlined by the tented sheet. "What have you been up to Henry? Why would someone try to bash your brains out?"

Barker stood at the head of the bed. "As skinny as you are partner, I'd be more careful about picking fights."

Rawls looked at his watch. "The doctor said he should be awake by now."

Ragsdale glanced at the wall clock. "That was best case." He checked the monitor screen, but only understood the blood pressure and heart beat readings. "I hope it's only a mild concussion and not a coma."

"I heard a girl in Florida was in a coma for 16 years." Barker mused. "She was nothing but a vegetable."

"Don't even think that. We need to talk to Henry," Rawls said.

"What about?" Henry asked. He opened his eyes. "You guys are standing around my bed like I'm dead and you're my only mourners. "Lord, you didn't send enough to carry the casket. Please send more. This is embarrassing." He touched his hand to the bandage wrapped around his head, "Maybe I'm dead and already in hell or you three wouldn't be here."

"How long have you been awake Henry?" Barker demanded.

"Long enough to know you guys are off my list of pallbearers."

"Damn, Henry, don't do that," Barker said with mock pain in his voice. "I'm looking forward to a good Irish wake."

"I'm not Irish" Henry grimaced. "The only liquid at my wake had better be tears, or I'll haunt the bunch of you...of you." He winced and put a hand over his eyes. "Would one of you please answer the phone? That ringing hurts my head...and...and don't talk," his words dissolved into a murmur, "so looud."

Detective Rawls opened a drawer on the night stand and lifted a cell phone to his ear. "Hello."

"Henry..."

"He can't take you call now. Please call back." Rawls pushed the off button. "Some kid. Are you into kiddy porn Henry? That might explain why some guy tried to ram your head through the street."

"Knock it off ga...ga..eyes..." He reached for the call button. "Need something for my head."

"Hold it Henry, we need some answers," Rags said. "Who were those two guys that attacked you?"

"Were there only two? I coulda taken two." Henry winced, "Two attacked me? Are you sure? I thought there were more. I could...At least I think I...No... they surprised me. Jerked the door open." He clutched the call button to his chest. "I need... my head," he groaned.

"Did you know them?" Rawls asked.

"Who?"

"The guys that attacked you," Rags said.

"No. No. No...no...I didn't see..." Henry trailed off and he closed his eyes.

"Who are you men?" a gray headed nurse who was built like a fire plug with weight lifter arms and the scowl of a bull dog demanded from the room door.

"Police," Barker held up his shield.

She marched into the room. "Well I don't care if you're the Governor. No visitors means no visitors. Out."

"May I speak to the head nurse?" Ragsdale asked quietly

"Who do you think you're talking to sonny?"

Ragsdale glanced at the plastic name badge on her starched white uniform. "Mrs. Bell..."

"Ms. Bell and if you try to get cute and call me Ma Bell I'll plant my foot up--."

"Ms. Bell," Rags quickly interrupted, "We are investigating a series of rapes and some of the victims have been nurses from this hospital. It is important that we ask Henry a few questions." Ragsdale said in a quiet friendly voice.

"You know the patient?"

"Yes, he's a reporter and has been covering the rapes."

"Okay, but keep it brief."

"Thank you," Ragsdale responded with a smile and turned back to Henry.

"Is he talking?" Nurse Bell asked.

"Not much. He's complaining about his head." Rags replied. "He keeps repeating himself."

"He's got a concussion. That's one of the symptoms." The nurse shouldered Ragsdale away from the head of Henry's bed. She bent and placed her thumb and index finger on one of Henry's eye lids, spread her finger and thumb until the lid opened, and studied his eye. Glancing at the monitor she made a notation on the chart at the foot of the bed, and turned to the detectives. "It's time to go."

"We haven't asked any questions," Barker objected.

"They'll have to wait."

"This is really important," Rags said becoming the spokesman for the three. "You may have known some of the victims."

"I did and that's the only reason we're having this discussion. If he goes into a coma you'll still have your questions and I'll have a critical patient...Out."

"Are you going to give him a sedative?" Rags asked.

"Yes. The best thing for him is rest."

"How long will he be out?"

"About three or four hours, if the doctor doesn't wake him when he makes his rounds."

"May we stay until the sedative takes affect?"

She eyed all three men with a critical expression on her face. "Okay, but if you pressure him I'll bounce your butts outa here." She turned and left the room.

"Man she's tough," Barker commented. "Reminds me of a sergeant I had in the Army."

The nurse stuck her head back in the door opening. "Marine Staff Sergeant, jug butt. I was a Drill Instructor before I became a nurse."

The three detectives looked at each other and laughed.

"Poor Henry," Rawls said and saluted nurse Bell. "Semper fi."

****

At the television station the News Director's private phone rang. "Bullard."

"Here's a bulletin Bull... Beautiful Channel Seven Anchor kidnapped...or you might want to say... Karen taken...Or I like this one...Karen meets her maker. Rather poetic don't you think?" Distorted laughter followed by a brief sound of choking.

"Did you swallow your only marble sicko?"

"No I choked on my Danish but you should play nice and be more appreciative. My tips will send your ratings through the roof." There was distorted laughter followed by a buzz.

"Wait. Talk to me," Bullard screamed in frustration at the dead phone. He slammed it down and picked up the two-way mike. "Henry... Henry... are you in the wagon? Henry answer." When there was no response he dialed Henry's cell phone.

At the hospital Barker picked it up. "Yeah?"

"Henry?"

"No."

"This is Bob Bullard, Henry's boss. Who are you?"

"Henry can't talk to you right now," Barker said.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"Detective Barker, Highland Park Police."

"Where is Henry?"

"He's in Baylor Hospital," Barker replied and hung up.

"Henry, are you still with us?" Rags asked.

"Yeah for now. You guys had to get the nurse stirred up. She gives shots with square needles."

"You heard, so our time is limited'" Rags said. "Are sure you don't know who attacked you?"

"No. Was that my boss on the phone?""

"You make anyone mad lately?" Rags took over the questioning without answering Henry.

"Nope." Henry's head turned to the side on his pillow and his eyes closed.

"Hold on Henry, just a couple of more questions." Rags said. "How long have you been camped out in front of Karen's house?"

"Wee... weeks," Henry mumbled without opening his eyes.

"Why?"

"I'm...I'm...re...spon..si..."the air went out of Henry like a punctured balloon as the drug seized his system. His voice faded to a whisper "...ble."

"Stay with me Henry. Did you see anything unusual?" Rags asked.

Several minutes passed. "Looks like he's gone," Rawls said.

"Two guys ...old Fo..rd...Ford." Henry mumbled.

"How do you know about the rapes before we do," Rags asked. His phone rang. He lifted it from his belt and put it to his ear. "Ragsdale."

"Mom's gone."

"Clint?"

"Yes sir."

"I'm busy right now. May I call you back?"

"Mom's not here. She disappeared." Ragsdale could hear the panic in the boy's voice.

"She's what?"

"She's not here or at the station. I tried to call Henry, but someone else answered. I called Miz Turner and she said ..." His words tumbled through the receiver in rapid succession.

Rags covered the mouthpiece of his phone, "Rawls, Barker, talk to Henry while I take this call. He removed his hand. "Go ahead Clint."

"Mom's gone, I called the station and she didn't go to work..."

"Clint, I'm sure there's no need to worry. Take your time and tell me what happened from the time your Mom woke you for school this morning."

"She didn't. The sun did. It was after ten and she wasn't in her room or down stairs..."

or...or anywhere in the house. I called and she didn't answer... and her purse and cell phone are here..."

Ragsdale heard the boy's voice break and a deep inhalation of breath. He raised his hand to catch the attention of Rawls and Barker and put his index finger to his lips. "I tried to call Henry. Then I called Miz Turner and she checked and said Mom's not at work. Miz Turner, said for me to stay here and she'd come get me and take me to school."

"Where are you?"

"I'm home."

"Okay, stay there. I'm coming. Don't touch anything and don't let anyone in the house."

"A news team is coming. Should I let them in?"

"How did that happen?" Rags demanded.

"Miz Turner said she heard her boss tell a crew Mom was missing and he sent them here to interview me."

"Clint, listen to me. Do not let those reporters in the house and whatever you do, don't talk to them."

"Yes sir."

"This is important. Do not talk to them and do not let them in the house." Ragsdale was quiet for a minute thinking. "Clint, don't let Mrs. Turner in the house. Tell her the police

told you not to let anyone in the house, but tell her to wait there. That we are coming." Ragsdale took the phone from his ear, and considered the next logical step. Henry was attacked in front of Karen's house and she was missing. Then he thought about what the thirteen year old boy was feeling. He lifted the phone to his ear, "Clint, do you have any questions you want to ask me?"

"Is my Mom, okay?"

"I'm sure she is. I bet she went to the store and her car broke down."

"Her car is still here."

Ragsdale raised his right hand, snapped his fingers to get the attention of Barker and

Rawls; drew a circle above his head, and pointed at the door. The two detectives moved to the opening.

"...and her purse," Clint added. "How could she go shopping without her purse?"

"Good question. We'll figure that out when I get there. Remember don't let anyone in. Don't talk to anyone, and don't go anywhere. I'm on my way. " Ragsdale ended the call and headed for the door. A movement at the bed stopped him. Henry was sitting up and had one leg hanging off the bed... "Where do you think you're going?"

"With you, Karen's in trouble."

"You get back in bed."

"She's my partner. I'm going." Henry stood and tottered for a moment and fell back on the bed.

Ragsdale, yelled at Barker, "Get a nurse down here quick." He turned to Henry. "You stay put. Until we get back. You're under arrest. Do I have to cuff you to the bed?"

"No, I'll stay."

Nurse Bell charged into the room. "What have you done to my patient?"

Before she could say more, Ragsdale interrupted, "Watch him. He's a witness to a possible kidnapping and my prisoner." He turned and raced through the door with Barker and Rawls behind him.

"What's up?" Rawls asked.

"Karen's missing. I'll fill you in on the way. Will one of you call your dispatcher and have him check the owner's name on that Crown Vic, Phillips tagged. Check the ownership against any known relatives of either of those two ex-cons. If they don't get a hit, have them check their visitors list at Huntsville."

21.

The three detectives exited the hospital and before they could reach their car a woman with orange-blond hair wearing platform high heel shoes, a tight fitting sweater and mini skirt, waddled toward them with a microphone extended like a lance. Close behind her was a man carrying a video camera.

"Sarah James, Channel Seven News," she declared.

All three detectives looked away from the camera and continued to their unmarked car without breaking stride or uttering a word.

"Officers...the people want to know. Was Henry hurt fighting Karen's kidnappers?" She shoved the microphone in their faces demanding a response. "Was Karen...?"

The detectives entered the vehicle, and slammed the doors. "Jesus," Barker growled. "How the hell do you answer that question? Yes, means Karen was kidnapped... No, means she was kidnapped."

The woman tapped on the car's side window with her cameraman apparently recording her efforts to talk to the officers. "Officers..."

"Who elected her spokesperson for the people, Rawls asked. "Who the hell are the people reporters claim want to know?"

"Someone must have drained the swamp," Rawls muttered and started the car. He backed out of the parking space, and exited the lot. "Ever wonder how these news maggots are so sure the people want to know? Sheee...it," Rawls continued, "In truth, the people don't give a damn. What the people want is to be left alone."

"Rawls, when you call dispatch," Ragsdale said from the back seat. "Better have them send a couple of uniforms to Karen's house. Have them tape it. Tell them to block off the street and alley behind her house. Also circle her entire yard and Henry's van with the yellow crime scene tape so no one has an excuse for cluttering the investigation."

"Can you believe that woman?" Barker continued to grumble.

"Make sure they keep any rubber-neckers, especially the media, off the property," Rags added.

"Right." Rawls picked up the mike, "Dispatch..."

Barker turned around in the passenger seat and faced Ragsdale. "Rags you take the lead and we'll back you."

"It's your jurisdiction," Rags replied. "I don't have the authority and don't want to step on any toes."

"The way I see this," Barker said, a cunning look in his eyes. "We're in the midst of a shit storm. If it's some sort of publicity stunt then you can have the entire stink. If it's more, we're a small department and don't have the manpower, or facilities to handle it. Besides, all those rapes have been across the line in your territory if that's what this is." Barker smiled as another thought came to him. "If it's only a kidnapping the FBI well take over, and we will gladly give you the paper work and the pleasure of dealing with the feebees... If it's a missing person, then we can handle it."

"Your generosity is only exceeded by your good looks," Rags retorted.

Rawls hooted, "You've just been slimed Dog."

"Dispatch. Go ahead." The two-way crackled to life.

"This is Sergeants Rawls and Barker. We need some uniforms at..." Rawls relayed Rag's instructions.

"Okay, if you two are sure you want me to ramrod the investigation," Rags said.

They nodded.

"Okay, lets each take an area. Dog, you take the outside and search. That rain last night should have softened the ground. There may be foot prints. Rawls can start on the inside while I talk to the media and Clint."

They headed up Central and made an exit on Fitzhugh.

"10-4," Rawls said and returned the mike to its hanger. "Rags, bring us up to speed on Karen and why you think this might be tied in with the rapes."

"Okay, here's what I know." He scooted forward and placed a hand on the back of the front seat. "There have been a series of rapes in Dallas. This coincides with the release from Huntsville of two serial rapists. This rapist, whoever he is, leaves a rose with each of his victims. Karen Larsen has been receiving roses from an unknown source. Someone broke into her house and left a rose on her bed. Karen is missing." Ragsdale stopped to organize his thoughts. After a moment he continued. "Then there is Henry. Henry is of interest because he is Karen's partner. He works with her all day long, and I don't understand this, but he apparently spends his nights parked outside her house. The finger prints on the card with the rose left at the TV station were Henry's so we know he sent her at least one rose with a note asking to be forgiven. I don't know what that's about. The rapist drives a dark van with a carpet lining, so it could be a converted cargo van. Henry drives a Ford E-150 converted wagon. Most people don't distinguish between the different vans. Henry's has windows. The victims don't mention windows in the rapist vehicle."

"Okay, but Henry's in the hospital." Rawls interrupted.

"Right," Rags said.

"From a beating in front of Karen's house," Barker added. "You think Henry has a Jeckle-Hyde personality and could be the rapist?"

"He doesn't seem the type and that doesn't explain the beating." Rags continued. "Karen thought she was being stalked. It's possible she mentioned it to Henry and he was guarding her. "There's also another curious fact. Henry seems to know about the rapes and where they took place. He arrives at the scene before we do. It may be luck, and have no connection, but I don't believe in coincidence. I think it's worth considering."

"Maybe he's psychic," Barker said.

Rawls, laughed at his partner, "And I'm the tooth fairy."

Rags ignored them. "Add to the mix, Karen's boss. A big guy. A former pro linebacker. He hates women, especially Karen, and loves sensationalism. There is nothing he would like more than having his female anchor kidnapped and to claim the rapist did it." Ragsdale rubbed the back of his neck, and looked out the window.

"So we can't discount the possibility that this is a publicity stunt?" Barker asked.

"Unlikely, but no," Rags said.

"That would be a dirty trick to play on her kid," Rawls said.

"And on her," Rags mused. "I'm certain she had nothing to do with it, if it's a stunt. It's totally out of character for her. She loves her job but she wouldn't do anything to frighten Clint. One other thing; she had a nasty altercation with the head of Greenfields school when Clint was expelled for fighting. The Headmaster was humiliated and is said to have a vindictive streak." Rags thought for a moment and then leaned forward in his seat belt. "This has to stay confidential between us. I gave my word and if it got out it could cost Karen her job. Can you keep this between us?"

"Yeah, sure," Rawls answered.

"Barker?"

"My lips are zipped."

"The only reason I mention this is because it might help in the investigation. She has been seeing a shrink," Rags said.

"You think there's something in her past that explains the roses and Henry's beating?" Rawls asked.

"I don't know." Rags answered. "I don't think she does either. Her memory only goes back fourteen years. That's why she was seeing a shrink."

"Must have something to do with the boy," Barker said. "Isn't he about thirteen or fourteen?"

"Yeah," Rags answered. "I wondered about that, but the timing was wrong to press her."

When they reached Karen's house a Channel Seven news wagon was pulled in behind her BMW. Both vehicles were surrounded with yellow crime tape that stretched from the curb to the trees and around the property.. "Looks like Seven beat us here," Rawls commented as he parked across the street. A man followed by a cameraman, rushed toward them.

Rags stepped out of the police car and moved to meet him. Rawls and Barker exited, walked across the street, and ducked under the yellow tape surrounding Karen's yard.

"John Eastman, Channel Seven News. Has Karen Larsen been kidnapped?" He extended the mike toward Ragsdale.

"John, we just got here and don't know any more than you do," Rags answered.

"Why is Karen's house surrounded by crime scene tape?"

"We just got here, John."

"Why can't we talk to Clint, Karen's son?"

"We just got here," Ragsdale said, stepped around the reporter, and walked to Karen's yard. Eastman followed him like a shadow, the mike inches from Rags' face.

"Why is Henry's van parked here?"

"No comment." Ragsdale lifted the crime scene tape and ducked under it. "Why is Henry in Baylor Hospital?"

Ragsdale turned back to the reporter. "As soon as we have an opportunity to conduct an investigation and file a report, I'm sure headquarters will issue a statement. They may also issue an arrest warrant if we find you have compromised this crime scene and I will arrest you if you cross this tape." He dropped the tape and moved up the flagstone walkway toward the front door.

"Paul."

A woman's voice stopped him. He glanced over his shoulder. He recognized her as the weather reporter. He walked back to the crime scene tape. Eastman stuck his mike between the detective and Liz Turner.

Paul shoved the mike away and lifted the tape. "Please come with me, Mrs. Turner."

"Hey, that's not right. I'm the reporter."

Rags ignored him. He took Liz's arm and steered her toward the front porch, where Clint waited.

"Hey, Detective. I need to move my van," Eastman yelled. "I've got a story to file."

Ragsdale stopped and stalked to the yellow tape. He waved to a uniformed officer to join them. He pointed to Eastman. "If this man or any of his associates crosses the yellow tape, arrest them."

The reporter stood in his tracks, too dumbstruck to respond. Ragsdale returned to Liz

"How did Clint sound when you talked to him on the phone?"

"Worried. So am I."

"Could you wait around and take Clint with you when I finish talking to him? I don't want Child Custody nosing around."

"Yes, of course."

"I have a couple of questions for you also, if you don't mind. Let's go in the house so the mikes can't pick us up."

She nodded.

Paul opened the door and led them into the house. "Clint please wait here in the hall while I talk to Mrs. Turner." He turned to Liz and led her into the living room and indicated the sofa. They sat. "Has Karen said or done anything in the last few days that ..."

"Indicated she was planning to disappear?" Liz finished his question. "No. Definitely not. In fact she was more in control, and more self-confident than I've ever seen her. She even challenged The Bull."

"Bullard, the News Director?"

"Yes."

"What was that about?"

"Yesterday, she and Henry went to a biker bar on a tip. Bullard jumped on her for not filing a story about the bikers and a possible connection to the rapes. She told him to stick it, but not in those words of course. Those were my words. But, she told me they were lucky to get out alive."

"What did Bullard do when she told him to stick it, your words?"

"He charged into his office and slammed the door. "

"Did he say or do anything?"

"He yelled something about her contract wouldn't protect her if she failed to do her job."

"What about Henry? He and Karen get along?" Rags asked.

"Yes. They're very close but yesterday they had some sort of problem."

"What? Did they have a fight?"

"I don't think so."

"What was it?"

"It's kind of complicated."

"I need to know. Henry is in the hospital and Karen is missing."

Clint came into the room and walked toward them. Paul held up his hand, palm out. "Wait a minute more Clint, while I finish talking to Mrs. Turner."

Clint stopped a confused look on his face. He raised a hand and scrubbed at his eyes, then abruptly sat on the floor his arms cradling his head.

Paul and Liz rushed to him. Paul sat down next to him and pulled the boy into his arms. "Don't worry son. With your help we'll find her. Will you help me?"

Clint snuffled. "Yes sir." He cleared his throat. "Can I hear what you were talking to Mrs. Turner about?"

Paul looked up at Liz, who was standing beside them. She nodded.

"I don't see why not. You may know something that we need to know. "

Clint moved out of Paul's embrace, stood and walked to a chair and sat down. Paul and Liz returned to the sofa.

"Now Clint, the first thing you have to know about police work is that everything you hear is confidential. You don't tell anyone, especially the reporters, anything. Okay?"

"'k." Clint looked at Paul. "Can I ask a question?"

"Sure. That's why we're here."

"Why is Henry in the hospital?"

"Is Henry hurt?" Liz quickly asked. "What hospital? Did it have anything to do

with Karen?"

"I'm still trying to sort it out. That's Henry's van across the street. He's been standing guard outside the house every night since Karen told him she was being stalked. Apparently, last night someone pulled him out of the van and severely beat him."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"He has a concussion and is sedated. We're waiting for the drugs to wear off so we can question him. Now tell me about Karen and Henry. Were they..." Paul looked at Clint and quickly re-phrased his question, "...more than close friends?"

"No, absolutely not. I've never seen Henry interested in a woman. He doesn't date...and Karen didn't...well, you know. Actually Henry and Karen are more like brother and sister. He is very protective of her, and has even interceded for her with Bull."

"Why were they fighting?"

"I don't think they were fighting..."

"Come on Liz. What was it?"

"This is embarrassing." She looked down the street, seeming to search for an escape to end this line of questions.

"Liz."

"I think they were fighting about me."

"Why?"

She took a deep breath, expelled it in resignation and in a soft voice said, "In my entire life I have never had anyone arrange a date." She shook her head and knotted her fists. Her eyes flashed and then the moment of anger passed. "She asked Henry to date me so we could double date." Her cheeks flushed, she looked at the ground. "He refused..."

"Double date with whom?"

"You. She wanted me to ask you to date her again."

"Me?" Paul cocked his head, studied Liz in disbelief.... "Really?"

"Yes."

"I..." He could feel the flush rising in his cheeks. He stood and turned toward the door. "I guess I'd better get Clint to walk me through...Why did she ask you to do that? Our first date was a disaster."

"She likes you and wanted another chance."

"The feeling is mutual, but I'm puzzled about why Henry wouldn't jump at the chance to date you?"

"I told you this was embarrassing."

"Is he gay?"

"No. I've never seen any indication of that. It could be some sort of religious thing."

"He's out of his mind. You're gorgeous, even a priest would forsake his vows to date you," Paul muttered shaking his head. When we find your Mom the first thing I'm going to do is ask for another chance. "Liz you can go. If you're asked say I talked to you about the last time you saw Karen and her mood." He put his arm around Clint's shoulders. "Okay partner let's do some detecting."

"You think she's okay?"

"I bet there's a simple explanation for all this. I bet she's gone shopping. Tell you what. I'll take her with us when we go fishing at Roberts. Would you like that?

"You think she'll be back?

"I'm sure she will. Why don't we see if we can find out "You walk me through everything that happened from the last time you saw her."

"K."

Paul yelled, "Rawls, Ragsdale here, I'm in the living room. Where are you?"

"Up stairs. You coming up?"

"Yeah. Clint's with me." Rags answered. He draped his hand on Clint's shoulder and

they walked across the foyer to the stairs. "Tell me what you remember."

"I was in my room sleeping when a siren woke me and I looked out the window and saw an ambulance and someone on the ground. I called to Mom to come look."

"Let's go up to your room and you can show me what you remember."

Clint led the way. Rawls met them at the top of the stairs.

"Anything?" Rags asked.

"Nothing so far. I'm finished with the preliminary. I'll meet you down stairs."

"Clint was your door open or closed this morning when you woke up?" Rags asked.

"Closed. Mom asked me if I wanted some of that yukkie tea she drinks. I said no and she closed the door and went to the kitchen to make her tea."

"Who opened it?"

"I did this morning. It was after ten when I woke up. I went to see if Mom was in her room."

"Was she?"

"No sir. I called and she didn't answer. I could hear the microwave beeping so I went down stairs to the kitchen and she wasn't there." Clint snuffled his nose and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

Rags put an arm around the boy's shoulders. "Let's go see what we can find in the kitchen."

They stopped just inside the kitchen door. Rags looked around the room. "Clint I want you to carefully look at this room. Is there anything different or out of place?"

The microwave beeped.

"Only that." Clint pointed at the unit over the range. "It beeps until you open the door or hit the off button,"

Ragsdale reached into his jacket and removed a pair of latex gloves and put them on. He crossed to the stove and opened the microwave door. Inside was a cup of water. He stuck the tip of his finger into the liquid. It was cold. He removed a note pad from his jacket pocket and made a notation. He returned to Clint, who was still standing just inside the door. "Clint, tell me how your mother makes tea."

"Like everybody. She uses a tea bag in a cup of hot water."

"Okay, that was a silly question. Tell me where she keeps the tea bags."

"In the pantry." Clint took a few steps to the door on his left and reached for the door knob.

"Stop. Don't touch that," Ragsdale commanded. He followed the boy to the pantry door and opened it with a gloved hand. "Clint, I don't think we have to worry about your mother, but let's pretend we do and I'll show you how we investigate a crime scene."

"Are you sure?"

"About what?" Ragsdale asked, not sure what the boy was thinking.

"My Mom's okay. I'm not a kid anymore and I'm not dumb." There was anger mingled with fear in Clint's voice.

"No Clint, you're not dumb and you're not a kid. The truth is, I still don't know. If you'll help, maybe we can find out."

Clint followed the detective into the pantry and turned on the light.

"Remember, Clint. Don't touch anything."

"I forgot." He pointed, "She keeps the box of tea bags on this shelf."

"It's not there," Ragsdale said.

"It's on the floor," Clint said and knelt beside the box and scattered bags.

"Don't touch," Ragsdale warned.

Clint stood, moved to the rear of the pantry, and stopped beside a shelf of canned goods. "Detective Ragsdale, I think I stepped on something. It's under my shoe. Should I look?"

"Don't move, let me check." Ragsdale rose from examining the scattered tea bags to Clint's side. He knelt beside the boy. "Carefully lift your foot. Let's see what you found."

Clint turned his shoe sideways so the sole was exposed, but his foot was still against the floor.

"Does your mother take insulin?"

"What's that?"

"Does she give herself shots with a needle?"

"No. What did I step on?"

"It looks like the cover of a hypodermic needle, like the ones doctors use when they give you a shot." He placed the plastic cylinder in a small envelop and put it in his shirt pocket.

"Booger Brains has my Mom. He's a doctor."

"We can't assume anyone has her just because we found a needle cover. Society is filled with folks with needles. Let's see if we can find any more clues before we point fingers."

Ragsdale led the way out of the pantry as the window over the sink slid up. Barker stuck his head in the opening. "Rags, I found a muddy footprint and this window was unlocked..."

"Okay, mark it for the lab.

"There's also black yarn on a broken limb from one of the azalea bushes."

"Bag it."

"I did. It's not looking good."

"Can it.," Ragsdale barked.

"Oops, didn't see the boy. Barker withdrew his head from the open window.

Ragsdale turned to Clint. "Did you unlock the window again?"

"Yes sir." Clint hung his head and snuffled. "It's my fault." He started to cry.

"Stop that. We still have work to do if we are going to find out what happened to your Mom. So far we only have questions. No answers." Ragsdale walked to the sink. "Clint, when is the last time you used this window to sneak out?"

"About a month ago."

"It's important."

"It was when we played a prank on that faggot at Greenfield's."

Ragsdale let the unacceptable epithet pass. I'm not his father. As upset as he is he won't listen to a lecture. "Why did you leave it unlocked?"

"Mom's at work when I get home from school. Sometimes I forget my key."

Ragsdale glanced at the tile floor and then dropped to his knees and examined a faint smudge."

"What you lookin' at?" Clint asked.

"This spot. Did you track mud into the house today?"

"No. I only went to the front porch to wait for you."

Ragsdale removed a piece of chalk from his pocket and marked a circle around the foot- long stain."

"Mom's not going to like you marking the floor with chalk."

"I know. This is for the lab boys so they can check and see if its mud. Help me look for more spots." Ragsdale stood and, with Clint, slowly walked the floor looking for additional tracks. By the French doors the detective spotted a small chunk of dirt with a crescent notch that could have fallen from a shoe heel. He squatted and made a chalk circle around it. While he was down he examined the doors. "Clint is that your key in the lock?" He pointed to the door.

"No sir. We keep it hanging on a hook on that plaque." He pointed to a small plywood circle with a childlike painting of a Christmas tree.

Paul Junior made one like that in the third grade. Ragsdale shook his head. "Tell you Mom to remember that a dead bolt is useless if the key's in plain sight. He reached for the decorative brass door handle of one of the French doors and pushed down. The door opened. This is how he left.

Barker walked onto the patio and Ragsdale stepped out of the kitchen. "Rags, I just called for the lab crew and dispatch gave me a reading on those tags on the old Crown Vic. It belongs to the sister of one of the boys from Huntsville."

"I found a needle cover and muddy foot prints in the kitchen. I think the perp exited through this door. Look around out here while I take Clint around front," he whispered.

Clint stood in the doorway straining to hear what the detectives were saying.

"Are you ready to wrap this up?" Rags asked Barker in a raised voice.

"Yeah, just about. I want to look around a little more then I'll turn it over to the lab boys. Rawls is out front talking to Phillips, the Crime Watch guy with the big dog. He verified again that those guys that hit Henry looked like the same ones he saw in the Crown Vic a couple of weeks ago."

Rags started toward the front of the house. He stopped when he realized Clint wasn't following. He waved to the boy. "Come on. Mrs. Turner's waiting for you. She's going to take care of you until we find your mother."

Clint fell in beside Paul as he walked through the side yard to the porch. "I want to go with you."

"I have work to do."

"I can help. You said I could help."

"And you can, but right now I have to talk to the other detectives and go over my notes. Then I'll file my report. It's like your school homework. You know. It's research. I study everything the officers have found and then write my report. Once the paper work is finished we give a copy to all the officers in Dallas so they can know as much as we do and help find your mom."

"Then I'll stay here."

"You can't. You'll be in the way of the lab crew."

Liz came off the porch and put an arm around Clint's shoulders. "Did you find anything?"

"I'm not sure. We have some leg work to do and I need Clint to go someplace quiet so he can think about last night and what he saw. He may remember something else. Can you help me with that Liz?" Rags asked, glancing at Clint to make sure he was listening.

"I want to go with you to look for my mother," Clint yelled and pulled away from Liz.

"I know you want to help Clint," Rags crouched so he was eye level with the boy. "But the best thing you can do right now is make sure you remember every detail about last night and this morning. Everything that your Mom said, every noise you heard. Just as soon as I do some paper work I'll come and ask you about what you remember. If we haven't found your mother by then anything new you recall will be very important," Rags said.

"Booger Brains has her." Clint said and started to cry.

Liz wrapped him in her arms and ran her fingers through his hair. "Clint, it just occurred to me I'm hungry and I bet you haven't eaten today. Let's go have lunch so the officers can do their job. When we finish we'll call Detective Ragsdale and find out where your mother is shopping."

Paul slipped a twenty into Clint's shirt pocket then bent and whispered, "Treat Stormy to lunch. I'll call her cell as soon as I finish my reports."

'Mom says don't call her that."

"It's our secret. We won't tell her." He patted Clint on the back, winked at Liz and walked back into the house.

****

Early the next morning at Baylor hospital Nurse Bell opened the door and walked into Henry's room. "Good morning Henry." She looked at the empty bed with its rumpled sheet and glanced toward the closed bathroom door.

There was no answer.

"Mr. Moore, are you okay?" She knocked on the door. "Henry are you in there?" When he didn't respond she opened the door. "Henry." The toilet and shower were empty. His clothing was missing from the closet.

Nurse Bell marched across the hospital room to the phone, punched in a number, and barked, "This is Bell. Where is the patient in 418?" She listened for a moment then snapped, "No he's not." Glancing at the blank screen of the monitor for the first time she howled, in a voice that could be heard all the way to the nurse's station without the phone, "Who turned off his monitor?" She listened for a moment then growled, "You don't know. Did anyone check when the screen went blank?" She slammed the phone into its cradle and stomped to the floor desk.

The nurse on duty quickly looked around for support, but the other nurses had vanished when they heard the Head Nurse bellow.

"Were you on duty?"

"Yes Ma'am"

"Has the patient in 418 been out of his room this morning?"

"Only for a hall exercise with his visitor."

"Who?"

"A young boy."

A block away, seated in a McDonald's booth, Clint studied Henry. "You don't look so good."

"I'm okay, just a little headache. The pain medication they gave me for my concussion is wearing off..." Henry squirmed into the corner of the booth, cradled his head in the angle and closed his eyes.

"You got any more pills?"

"No. There's a pharmacy next door. Would you go get some extra strength aspirin."

"Okay." Clint slipped out of the booth.

"Do you have any money?" Henry asked.

"Yeah. You want anything before I go?"

"Yes. Something to drink. A coke or even water would be good."

Clint secured the drinks then left for the pharmacy. Henry watched him through the plate glass window until he crossed the street and entered the shop. He makes me proud. He smiled then studied the customers entering McDonald's. We need to move before the nurses discover I'm gone. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the restaurant noise reverberating through his head.

"Henry?" Clint shook his shoulder and placed the medication in front of him. "Here's the pills."

"That was quick"

"You were asleep?"

"No, just resting my eyes." Henry opened the aspirin bottle and shook four tablets into his hand. He threw the pills into his mouth and chased them with water.

"You took too many," Clint protested. "Mom says to always follow the dosage directions."

"Your Mom's right. But this was an emergency." Henry looked toward the hospital. "We have to move before someone comes after me with a bill and discharge papers?" A cab was unloading passengers at the hospital entrance. "Clint do you see that taxi?"

"Yeah."

"Run see if he wants two fares."

Clint scrambled out of the booth, raced out of McDonald's and across Washington to the taxi. He climbed into the rear seat. The driver looked over his shoulder and nodded at the boy.

Henry was waiting outside the restaurant when the cab pulled to the curb. He slid into the back seat.

"Where are we going?" Clint asked.

"Your house. When we get there I want you to tell me about Dr. Blair."

When they arrived Clint paid the taxi driver with the last of his money. They got out of the cab and stood on the sidewalk looking at the house surrounded by crime scene tape.

Wonder what that driver thought when he saw the tape? Hope he doesn't report it. He glanced across the street where his van was parked draped in yellow tape. Good it's still here in case we need wheels. "Clint, do you have a house key?"

"Yeah," Clint replied.

"Let's go in the patio door." Henry ducked under the crime tape and held it high for Clint. "The fence and alley will screen us from any nosy neighbors who might call the police."

"It's my house. I can go in if I want to," Clint protested.

"True, but it is a crime scene and..."

"I'm just a kid," Clint finished Henry's statement.

"Yeah."

They walked along the line of azalea bushes until they reached a cedar fence partially masked by tall ligustrum shrubs. Clint pushed his way between two bushes and opened a hidden gate. "My secret entrance," he whispered in a conspiratorial voice.

They spent the next hour reliving Henry's beating, Karen's going to make tea, and Clint's awaking the next morning to find her gone.

"Any coke's in the 'fridge?" Henry asked.

"Yeah. You want one?"

"I need to take another aspirin," Henry replied. "Let's go sit on the patio and sort out the possible suspects."

Clint got two Cokes and they walked through the French doors to a spot in the sun, sheltered from the constantly blowing Dallas winds, and the prying neighbor's eyes. Henry collapsed in a chaise, took the drink from Clint, popped a pill, and placed the cold can against his forehead. Clint stood beside the chaise watching him, a frown on his face. After a moment Henry set the can on the flagstone and shook two more tablets from the bottle of aspirin.

"Mom says..."

"I know."

"What happens if you take too many, do you get addicted?"

"I don't think so, but it could mess up your liver."

"You ever take drugs?"

"When I was younger. They made me do things I..." His voice trailed off to a whisper.

****

At police headquarters, Paul picked up the phone and dialed Karen's house. It was his sixth attempt in the last hour to find Clint and now Henry was missing. The phone rang eight times and he started to hang up when a voice said, "Hello."

"Who is this?"

"Who wants to know?"

The voice was familiar. "This is Detective Paul Ragsdale, who am I speaking with?"

"Henry."

"They're going nuts at Baylor looking for you. Where is Clint? Is he okay?""

"Yeah, he's fine. He rescued me from the blood sucking clutches of the head nurse. Paul, we need to talk."

"Yeah, we do."

"Can Clint stay with you and Paul Junior until we find his mother?"

"Sure. That's why I was calling him."

"Can you come here?

"I'm on the way."

Fifteen minutes later. Detective Ragsdale rang the doorbell "Hi Clint. You okay?"

"Yeah. Henry's out back drinking a coke. You want one?""

"That would be nice."

Henry raised his hand when they came through the French doors onto the patio. "Detective."

"Henry, call me Paul or Rags. A word of advice, don't get hurt and go back to Baylor. The nurses are on the war path."

Henry smiled then nodded at Clint. "Tell Detective Ragsdale what you told me about your Mom and Doctor Blair," Henry said.

"They argued a lot."

"When he was treating her?" Paul asked.

"Yeah... I don't know why she made me go see him after I got expelled the last time. She had already stopped seeing him, and told him she wouldn't date him."

"Tell us about their arguments," Henry urged.

"I only heard them when he brought her home after a date. Sometimes when she got home I could tell she had been crying."

"What do you remember about the last time they dated," Henry prompted.

"I heard loud voices and I came out of my room. They were standing by the front door. I think he was drunk. He told her they were getting married. Mom said, 'No' and she told him to leave. He yelled at her and said something like, "I'll decide when it's time to go. I made you. Without me you're nothing. You have no past and no future."

"Are you sure that's what he said?"

"Yeah. Mom was crying and asking him to stop." He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her against the door. I think he was trying to kiss her. I yelled at him to leave her alone and ran down the stairs."

"What did he do?"

"He looked like he was going to hit me. Then he yelled at mom, you belong to me. I created you. He jerked the door open, and left. He didn't even close the door. He burned rubber when he drove off."

"What did your Mom do?"

"She cried for a while and then we went to bed."

"Do you remember anything else about that night?"

"Yeah. I woke up to go to the bathroom and Mom was sitting in a chair in my room crying."

"Was that the last time she saw him?"

"Yeah. She stopped dating him and quit therapy. He called every day and sent her roses, but she never saw him again until the night she took me to see him."

"Why didn't she take you to someone else?"

"I think he was the only shrink she knew. I think she was afraid that if she saw anyone else she might get fired."

"Do you know why she was in therapy?" Paul asked.

"No."

"Do you know why she quit?"

"I think she was afraid of him."

Henry picked up the Coke can from the flagstones and took a long drink. He scratched his head and frowned, deep in thought. If Blair wanted to hurt her why didn't she tell someone? Why, if she was afraid of Blair would she take Clint to see him? Why did she have lunch with Blair last week? Karen, why didn't you talk to me? Clint interrupted his thoughts.

"Detective, you gonna make Booger Brains give my Mom back?"

22.

After lunch two detectives at Dallas Police Headquarters were bouncing random thought, like ping pong balls, hoping something would emerge to give them a handle on the serial rapist and Karen's disappearance.

"Hey Rags, you find a nurse at Baylor crass enough to dirty the sheets with you?"

"Palmer," Paul's voice registered his annoyance, "You ought to donate your body to science. All your brains are below your waist." Detective Paul Ragsdale laid a file folder on his desk and dropped into his chair. "Where is everyone?"

"The Lieutenant has them chasing down tips. Phone's been ringing off the wall. The mayor's on the chief's butt about the crime wave in Deep Ellum and the chief wants a bite of the lieutenant. At least a couple of hundred of our finest citizens think their neighbors, husbands, in-laws, or live-in boy friends are the serial rapist, killers, or muggers and want us to arrest them. If that's not enough add the Park Cities disappearance of your girlfriend."

"I never said she was my girlfriend."

"You don't have to."

"Man, I'm beat. Get the coffee, John, and I'll tell you about my wild chase through a flock of arrogant geese in the sanctimonious halls of Baylor medicine."

"I'd rather hear about the sweet young goslings in nurses uniforms, but if you insist." Detective John Palmer pushed his chair back from the desk.

Rags pulled a yellow legal pad from his desk and attempted to reconstruct his trip to Baylor. He drew a long line down the middle of the page. On the left side he wrote, follow up, on the right, dead end. By the time Palmer returned with the coffee a large question mark filled the left side of the page. The right side contained all the blind alleys he'd explored yesterday afternoon and this morning while waiting to talk to Henry.

Palmer set a steaming cup in front of Rags.

"I'm going in circles."

"It's because you're spending all your time thinking about that reporter from seven," Palmer said.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah, you got the fever. Speaking of hots, did you find anything at the hospital. Meet any nurses you want to pass along?"

Ragsdale took a sip and made a face. "This tastes as shitty as my trip to Baylor."

"You got the old medical stone wall and no hot nurses?"

"Yeah, only the ones sending me chasing names and files down miles of hallways, the self-important jerks hid behind doctor-patient privilege."

"So the old case goes in the round file?"

"Not yet. I got the name of a nurse who assisted in the victim's facial reconstruction.

She retired a couple of years ago. If I can find her, she might know what happened to the girl."

"That's pretty thin."

"I still think I know the victim. There is something about the hair line and the shape of her head." A flashing button on his phone line signaled an incoming call. "Homicide, Detective Ragsdale speaking."

"Homicide. This sounds serious. I'm Wilma Cross returning your call."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you."

"Are you investigating those rape killings?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am. I'd like to meet you and discuss a rape that happened while you still worked at Baylor."

"Can we do it over the phone? The only murders I know about are on TV police shows."

"We could, but I need some fresh air and a decent cup of coffee." Rags said.

"Well I do have a meeting this afternoon." There was silence while she

apparently was thinking then she asked, "Are you good looking?"

"I don't know. Never thought much about it." Rags covered the mouthpiece of the phone

and whispered, "John, I just found your hot nurse." He removed his hand and waited for her answer.

"Okay we can meet if you can come to the Mocha House at Preston and Royal by three. Even if you've got two heads, it'll give the girls in my coffee klatch something to talk about."

Thirty minutes later when Paul walked into the Mocha House, he knew he was in trouble. The place was full of older women with varying hints of blue in their grey hair and he had no idea what Wilma Cross, looked like. You're the detective. Detect.

He visually scouted each table. At the back of the room a tall wiry woman in a flowery shirtwaist dress stood. Her smile was warm, but tentative as she moved in his direction..

"Excuse me, are you Detective Ragsdale?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm Wilma Cross." She extended her hand.

"I must have looked confused."

"I would have used bewildered."

"I forgot to tell you to wear a ribbon in your hair so I could identify you."

"You also forgot to tell me you were tall, handsome, and not wearing a wedding ring." She took his hand in both of hers. "Let's give these old broads something to talk about." With a devious chuckle she pulled him down within her reach, kissed him on the cheek, and then paraded him to her table.

When they were seated and their coffee orders taken, Ragsdale placed a small recorder on the table. "Do you mind?"

"I might. I still don't know what this is about." She smoothed the blue-gray hair which was pulled back in a tight bun and lowered her eyes to the recorder, a suspicious expression on her face.

"One of the girls," Paul began, "that was attacked by the serial rapist died. She was a nurse at Baylor."

Her eyes snapped up. "I didn't know her."

"No, I didn't expect you to, she was still a student."

"Then why do you want to talk to me?"

"Last week a girl was raped, beaten and thrown in a dumpster. Fourteen years ago another girl had the same experience and wound up at Baylor. We'd like to talk to her."

"I don't see what this has to do with me."

"You were her nurse."

"I don't keep in touch with any of my patients. Why don't you talk to her?"

"We can't. Her attack was so brutal, she suffered amnesia. She had a lengthy hospital stay. We don't have the name she used at the hospital or her current name. I was hoping you could remember something that would help us find her."

"I do remember her. Poor thing didn't have a single visitor during her long months of recovery. The girls on the ward adopted her trying to make up for the neglect. We brought her candy and flowers and conversation when we were free."

"Did she ever say anything to indicate who she was?"

"No. Dallas has always been a magnet for small town girls. I'm from a small town. So were most of the girls at the hospital. Some of the nurses thought she might be from out of state or an orphan."

"Why was she hospitalized so long?"

"Her face was broken up in the beating. It took months to repair."

"Who paid the bill?"

She studied him a moment and then, her voice edged with tension she answered, "As we used to say when I was a Navy nurse that information is above my pay grade."

"Who was the primary care physician?"

"Dr. Carpenter, I think. He was assisted by some of the residents and some of the psych staff. The hospital can tell you."

"I tried and ran into the medical wall of silence. Can you tell me anything else about the victim?"

"Sorry. You just hit the wall again."

"Ms Cross our investigation is up against a wall. This could be the same guy."

"The wall's still there. Talk to Dr. Carpenter." She stood. "The only thing I will tell you is look for someone with dark hair." She turned and started toward a neighboring table. Before she reached she stopped and walked back to Paul. "I just remembered something else. While we were rebuilding her face we shaved her head and a patch of hair grew back white."

Ragsdale watched her until she reached her table and was seated. He took two quick, deep breaths to calm his anger. She knows. Damn her. He dropped a ten on the table and headed for the door.

23.

When the black Mercedes 500 pulled into the underground garage Detective Paul Ragsdale stepped to the door and opened it. "Doctor Blair?"

"Yes, what can I do for you...I recognize the face but I'm sorry I can't recall your name."

"Detective Paul Ragsdale. You briefly counseled me when my wife was killed."

'Oh yes, now I remember. What can I do for you Detective Ragsdale?"

"You can answer a few questions."

"I don't have time for a session. My schedule is full for the rest of the week." Doctor Blair stepped out of his car and moved past Paul. "Check with my receptionist to see what's open." He quickly walked to the elevator.

"I'm not interested in a personal session," said Paul as he caught up. "My questions will only take a couple of minutes." He kept pace with the doctor and followed him into the elevator.

"Sorry detective, I have patients waiting and I use these last moments to gird myself to deal with the many woes of this world."

"Do you know Karen Larsen?"

"Don't waste my time with stupid questions. Obviously, you know I do. Now please respect my request. I need these moments of quiet to gain internal peace with the traditional Buddhist shanti chant." Donald closed his eyes and began a series of deep breaths.

"Doctor."

The doctor began a slight rocking to the soft beat of the elevator music, breathing deeply as he leaned back, exhaling when he bent forward.

"Doctor, Karen has disappeared. She may have been kidnapped."

Blair started a low hypnotic mantra, 'Aum shanti, shanti, shanti." He continued to rock and breathe to the melody.

"If you know Karen you know her son. Clint says you threatened her."

"Aum shanti, shanti, shanti."

The elevator stopped and the doors opened on Doctor Blair's floor. He opened his eyes, stepped out, marched a few feet down the hall, entered his office, and slammed the door in Paul's face.

Paul jerked the door open and yelled, "Where were you last night?"

Two couples and the receptionist, startled by his loud question stared at Paul then quickly turned their attention toward Doctor Blair. The doctor strode across the room and entered his inter-office with a grim smile on his face. Before he closed the door he looked at his receptionist, smiled, and in a very quiet dignified voice said, "Jean, please get the Police Commissioner on the phone." The door closed and a faint click was heard as the lock was turned.

24.

He knows I'm here.

Detective Paul Ragsdale stood before Lieutenant Ford's desk, waiting to be acknowledged. I'll give him another minute then I'm leaving. Rags kept his annoyance to himself and continued to wait. Come on. Get it over with. I deserve it. Finally, after his minute had grown to five he cleared his throat, 'Lieutenant, I can come back later if you're busy."

"What you can do is explain why you spent this morning aggressively interrogating Doctor Blair in his office," Ford snarled. "I can't believe you did it in front of his staff, and patients."

"A witness tentatively identified him as a suspect."

The Lieutenant looked at Ragsdale for a full minute then in a voice laced with sarcasm said, "A thirteen year old kid with a grudge, who slept through the abduction, if it is abduction and not a publicity stunt. This is your witness?" Ford threw up his hands in disbelief. "How did you make detective?"

"We found..." Rags didn't get to finish.

"We who? What? Where? When?" Ford's yell shut off Rag's explanation. "The last time I checked, you work for the Dallas Police Department. You have no jurisdiction in Highland Park and a kidnapping belongs to the FBI."

"Yes, sir. No excuse, Sir." It was a phrase that was hammered into Ragsdale's memory from Marine Corp Officer Candidate School. Defuse a confrontation with a superior by accepting responsibility. In this case it didn't work.

"I'm waiting."

"For what sir?"

"An explanation for why you questioned Doctor Blair, so I can explain it to Captain

Cox, so he can explain to the Chief, so he can explain to the Mayor. Do you get the picture?"

"If I tell you it's a gut feeling, you'll transfer me back to the street."

"You got that right."

"Lieutenant, sometimes a gut feeling is an educated guess."

"A veteran detective would know guts and feelings won't stand up in court." The lieutenant leaned back in his chair, propped a foot on his trash can, and clasped the back of his head with laced fingers. "Go ahead, tell me what your educated guts are feeling and I'll tell you if they deserve a diploma or an enema."

"Okay," Rags took a breath, "Here's why I went to see Dr. Blair. When Susan died he treated me for depression." Rags cleared his throat. "I don't want this to sound like I don't like the man. I do. He is charming, intelligent, and gives the impression he is devoted to helping people."

"So far you're batting a thousand." Ford dropped his hands, took his foot off the wastebasket, and sat up. "He's been the police therapist and grief counselor for years. I've used him. The media uses him as an expert on criminal profiling. He's well known and respected. Why didn't you use your head?" When Ragsdale didn't answer the lieutenant studied his face, waiting. Finally he said, "Do I sense a but?"

"But," Ragsdale resumed. "He makes me uncomfortable. After a few sessions, I felt he was playing me like a guitar. Ms. Larsen said she experienced the same feelings. He was too clever, too glib... manipulative. I sensed he was trying to create a new me. Like he was playing God with my life,"

"The Captain will throw me out of his office when I tell him Blair thinks he's God."

"In his own way, maybe he is. Think about it Lieutenant. He spends hours listening to the human misery that comes through his door, knowing they expect him to clean up the mess they made of their lives."

"Isn't that what we do?"

"It's different. Police are like janitors. We clean up the messes after they get physical, and if we're lucky before they escalate to serious violence. He heads off the messes before they happen."

"Okay I'll accept that, but you still haven't justified your interrogation."

"Ms. Larsen rejected his attempt to control her. She quit therapy and stopped dating him. He pressured her to get hypnotized, and to continue dating. The dating, by the way is unethical."

"True, but as far as I know it's nothing we can arrest him for."

Rags continued, "Ms. Larsen and Blair had a confrontation in a restaurant." He stopped talking and studied Ford's face. He's not buying it.

"And..."The lieutenant prompted.

"And Doctor Blair has been treating MS Larsen's son. She may have said something in one of her sessions, or one of the sessions with Clint that will give us a clue."

"It would be privileged, but justification for a visit." Ford picked up a pencil and twirled it between his fingers. "But it doesn't change the question of jurisdiction."

"Two Highland Park Detectives requested my help."

"It didn't come through my office."

"They knew I was assigned to the rape cases and that Karen had been covering them as a reporter."

"Anything else?"

"Only a question of exclusion."

"I'm listening." He drummed the pencil on the desk.

"Doctors are usually exempt from police criminal suspect lists because of their role in society. We automatically assumed they are normal. My point is this; an intelligent psychopath would secure immediate trust, credibility, and prestige if he was a doctor. But consider the nature of a sociopath or even a psychopath. They lack a conscience, they feel no guilt, are likeable, charming, articulate, and convincing. They usually have above average intelligence, and they exploit and use people. The most successful have been known to run major corporations or get elected to political office."

"The mayor is gonna love being called a psycho," the lieutenant snorted. Ford leaned forward and picked up a yellow legal pad. He tapped his lips a couple of times with the eraser then wrote a couple of sentences on the paper. He turned the pad around for Ragsdale to read.

"What is this?"

"Written orders for you to stay out of the Highland Park kidnap investigation and have no further contact with Doctor Donald Blair. From this moment on you will confine your police work to locating the two ex-cons and searching for the Dallas serial rapist. Is that understood?"

"But, lieutenant..."

"Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll do what I can to save your ass, but you're on a short leash. Now get out of here."

"Yes sir."

Rags headed across the squad room to his cubical. At least he didn't fire me. He will if I don't back off. As he reached his desk the phone rang. "Ragsdale."

"Hi Rags. This is Taggert with Parole."

"Yeah,what's up?"

"I wanted to let you know we picked up those two ex-cons on parole violation. They were at a bar on Greenville. If you want to talk to them they're at" in the tank at Starret Justice Center.:

"When did you pick them up?"

"About midnight, last night."

"Good work. Sorry if I was abrupt. I'm having a day."

"I understand. I have they daily."

"Thanks for letting me know." He held the phone in his hand starring at it, thinking. Is this call a coincidence? If they had Karen would they go to a bar to celebrate? Unless..." He put the phone back in its cradle. Got to make a phone call, but not here.

Rags walked out of the detective Bureau, out of the station, and down the street, deliberately passing pay phones until he turned into a restaurant catering to the lunch crowd.

In the hall across from the men's room he stopped at a pay phone and dialed a number. The noise will cover my phone conversation and no one will notice my using the phone.

"Highland Park Police, Barker speaking."

"Dog, Rags. We need to talk. I need your help." He leaned against the wall to help muffle his side of the conversation.

"Sounds serious."

"It is. It could cost me my shield."

"Can you give me a clue?"

'I've been ordered off Karen's kidnapping."

"Let me guess? You're going rogue and want me to be point."

"Something like that."

"Is she worth it?"

"Yeah, she is. Can we meet somewhere?"

"My gut tells me it's Taco time. Meet me at Ojedas in Lewisville in an hour. We're not likely to run into anyone we know. You buy."

The line went dead. Rags pushed away from the wall and headed for his car.

25.

When Paul returned to his office his desk phone was ringing. He picked it up, "Ragsdale."

"Anything new on Karen?"

"Henry?"

"Yeah. Anything new on Karen?"

"Not to my knowledge. I've been pulled off the case."

"Why?"

"The lieutenant thinks it's a publicity stunt. He said if it's a real kidnapping it belongs to Highland Park and the FBI."

"You can't change his mind?"

"No. He's getting a lot of flak from the Mayor's office to solve the rape cases. He told me to concentrate on the rapes or look for another job."

"I may have a lead. What do I do with it?"

"What kind of a lead?"

"Clint said Blair once told him he lived on a farm near the Red River when he was a boy. I got on the computer and checked the Grayson County Tax Assessor's records. They have a listing for a Blair farm off Hagerman Road outside Pottsboro. You go toward Dead Woman's Pond..."

"You're not funny Henry."

"Really, that's the name of this lake. Anyway, the old Blair farm has no address, but its still on the tax rolls. The property's not being worked and the house is abandoned. It's one of those places the government seized so they could damn the Red River for Lake Texoma. The property's not on any road that I could find so you can't use your Garmin or a map. The farm appears to be isolated and in part of the wildlife refuge."

Paul closed his eyes, took a deep breath, warning synapses firing in his brain. Don't discuss Karen on this phone. Too many ears.

After a few moments of silence Henry spoke. "Paul, are you still there?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking." He chewed on his lower lip, opened his eyes and said, "Look, at best you're basing your guess on the gut feelings of a thirteen-year-old and that an old abandoned farm is still there and in use. That's not enough evidence for the Lieutenant to let me check it out. "

"Someone needs to."

"Henry sit tight. Let me think." I can tell Rawls and Barker about the cabin without getting fired. They can follow up.

"Okay Henry, here's what we'll do. Clint is having a sleep-over with Paul, Jr. As soon as I drop them off at school in the morning, let's meet for coffee."

The only response was the faint electrical hum of an open phone line. "Henry...Henry are you there?" The line was dead.

26.

"Uhh..."She scrunched her lips and made a face. _What did I eat?_ Karen shivered and with the shaking the nausea that slept in her stomach awoke. In that twilight world half way between sleep and consciousness she sat up and heaved. The acid burned half way up her throat. She spit trying to eliminate the vile taste that contaminated her mouth, but there was no moisture. Licking her parched lips with a sandpaper dry tongue only added to the discomfort. She yawned; working her mouth from side to side and took a shallow breath. Now almost fully awake she raised her head and squinted. Its dark... must be a power outage or a blown fuse.

With a deep breath and a full yawn she stretched. I'll have to crawl to get to the fuse box. Still groggy, Karen lifted her legs to drop them over the side of the bed. Startled, her eyes popped open. Why am I on the floor? She struggled to her knees. A sharp pain raced from temple to temple and the turmoil in her stomach found its escape, sending the acidic contents exploding upward to spill onto the floor.

Wet, and then dry, heaves followed with the foul bitter taste of bile. When the violent purge ended, Karen slumped to a sitting position. Shivers raced across her skin. She pulled her legs to her chest and wrapped them in her arms. Her bottom was cold, the floor was hard and the only warmth came from her bare breasts pressing against her thighs.

Startled fully awake, Karen stood.

Where are my clothes? Why is it so dark? She closed one eye and moved her hand in front of her face. In the darkness that surrounded her, there was only the slight sense of movement. She closed the other eye...Oh God, I'm blind. "Clint. Clint, help me." The blackness that surrounded her ate her cries leaving only a faint hollow echo.

Her stomach knotted and shivers began. She took a deep breath, but there was no feeling of air entering her lungs. She took another breath...then another. "Clint? Clint?" She screamed.

Without visual information or knowledge of what lurked in the dark waiting for her first step, or if that step would send her plunging into a bottomless hole, she slowly turned, arms extended, reaching, and feeling... nothing. "Clint," she sobbed.

When the tears stopped and her breathing settled to a rapid gulp of air her panic subsided. It's only a dream. No need to panic. It will end soon. Karen took another deep breath, but no air reached her heaving chest.

It's a panic attack. You've had them before... Breathe into a bag....I don't have a bag. Easy... Think... Cup your hands and blow into them. Take short shallow breaths of the carbon dioxide. Move... the dream will change if you get in another position..

She knelt and crawled forward. Her ears strained for something familiar; the protective groans and popping sounds of her home, the sounds of the street, the wind. Instead there was heavy breathing and the rustle of moving bodies lurking in the black that surrounded her. She could hear the padding footfalls of feet and the soft slurping of feeding. Chills, followed by tremors raced from limb to limb. She opened her eyes wide trying to see what stalked the darkness.

A faint light traced a straight line along the floor even with her eyes. It made a sharp right angle turn upward then disappeared in the dark. That's a door. "The storm must have blown a fuse. I've been dreaming," she mumbled. She stood; stretched out a hand, and took four careful steps until she touched the door. Her fingers glided along the smooth vertical surface until they reached the raised molding where they changed directions and moved downward to search for the knob. Where is it? I must be too close to the edge. She ran her hands up and down in an arc, and then in frustration spread her body across the center of the door. Where is it? She wind milled her arms in a circle, reaching, searching in all directions. There's no knob." She screamed, and moaned, "Oh God, it wasn't a nightmare."

Karen placed her back against the door facing the dark shroud that blanketed the room. In front of her, just beyond her vision something seemed to crouch. "Who's there?" she whimpered. To the right there was movement. Hands reached out of the dark from the left. "What do you want?" She screamed, spun and pounded on the door. "Help... Let me out." Her blows rained on the wood until pain forced her to stop. "Please let me out. Please." She snapped her head forward, striking the door, again and again like a metronome. "This can't be happening again," she wailed. "It's not fair. It's not fair," she moaned in a whisper. The shuffling and moans grew louder and came closer. She could hear the slobber jaws and licking tongues. Her muscles released and she crumpled to the floor, folding into a protective fetal position, gasping to breathe. Panic consumed her. Her feet and hands grew hot. The finger tips burned. She gulped air in short rapid wheezes, unable to fill her lungs.

Finally she surrendered to panic. It consumed her until hyperventilation robbed her of consciousness. "Clint" she mumbled in anguished moments of awareness before her fears released her to an exhausted sleep.

When consciousness returned she kept her eyes closed. Happening again? She wrapped a lock of hair from behind her ear around her index finger. What did I mean? Repeatedly she un-wrapped and wrapped the lock, searching through her memory.

Unable to find an answer Karen opened her eyes to search the darkness for threats. A faint gray gloominess pulled her eyes upward. A window. Relief surged through her. The tape is loose on a black plastic sheet. She quickly looked around the gloom that surrounded her. I'm in a room.

Her self-confidence and control returned. Her eyes probed the shadows. There are no monsters. My imagination created the nightmare. "Now I can get some answers and find out where I am and how to get out of here."

Karen stood and walked along the wall. The window is high. This must be a basement. The room was constructed of raw cinder block the color of damp concrete. Across from the door an army style cot was pushed against the wall. A thin, dirty mattress covered the lacework of metal springs. A foot above the bed, a long heavy-duty dog chain dangled from a ring anchored in the wall; the free end attached to a leather cuff resting on the floor. She shuddered at the sudden image of a deranged masochist standing over the girl at the fish hatchery, or the one on the levee. At least I'm not chained. She retreated and placed her back to the door. Oh God, did he kill them here?

Her breath suddenly came in short, shallow gasps. The muscles of her back tightened and laced her chest and shoulders with pain. She choked back the bile that rose in her throat. "No," she screamed. "Not again. Not ever again." A thought wormed its way into her consciousness. "What did Henry say when we went in the biker bar?" Startled she reached for the lock of her hair at the nape of her neck, twisted it around her finger, and searched her memory. "Don't panic. Don't show fear," she muttered quietly.

Karen forced her breathing to slow. She took several deep breaths, held them and then when her nerves stopped trembling moved, from the door into the room. Where is the sound coming from? I'm alone. She stopped, closed her eyes, and turned slowly seeking the source. It's coming from above. She opened her eyes and studied the ceiling. Anchored high in a dim recess of wooden supports she spotted a video camera and small speakers. "Very funny," she yelled. "I see your speakers and your camera, you sick freak."

Oh God I'm naked and he's taking pictures.

"Let me out of here," the angry scream tore from her throat. She crossed both arms over her breasts and dropped a hand to screen her lower body. "The joke's over, bring me my clothes." There was no response.

_Don't show fear. Set the rules. Seize control. "_ Okay Henry let's see if it works," she muttered. With her shoulders back, and her head raised to her full five feet eight, she assumed a regal bearing and continued her examination of the cinder block room.

It was about the size of her kitchen. She absently rested her hand on a small table. A finger nail picked idly at the green peeling paint. On the table was an old-fashioned lamp of heavy cut glass with a torn flowered shade. A decrepit wooden chair rested half-way under the table. She shook it. That wouldn't support a child. Beside the chair sat a cracked enamel bucket that looked like a thunder mug from an antique store. She glanced around the room. There was no toilet or sink. Karen curled her lip in revulsion.

She reached under the lampshade for the light switch and a brown roach, the size of a small mouse dropped on her hand. She screamed and violently shook it off. Shivers coursed up and down her spine. The roach fell on the bed and scurried under the mattress. "Great, I'm in a roach motel?" When the revulsion subsided, she peered into the top of the shade to make sure a second roach wasn't waiting in ambush. Satisfied it was safe, she pressed the switch. Light flared briefly then, with a faint pop, the bulb burned out. "Damn it," Karen muttered.

She turned to examine the wall with the door, and confronted her nudity in a large mirror. Karen whirled away from the image and glanced over her shoulder toward the camera. With her arms crossed over her breasts, she bent in an awkward position to use her right leg to mask her lower body, and then she shuffled crab-like to the cot and threw herself on the stained mattress.

The slow clapping of hands shocked her. Karen lifted her head and looked over her shoulder, toward the sound. Silhouetted in the light of the open doorway was a tall man dressed in black, his features hidden beneath a ski mask. Tucked under his left arm was a long-stemmed rose. He stopped clapping when Karen ducked her head and screened the sides of her breasts with her upper arms.

"Not the Texas two-step, but certainly some nice moves as you worked your way to the cot. A scornful chuckle filled the silence. The man stepped to the foot of the bed and dropped the rose on Karen's back.

She turned her head and followed him with her eyes as he stepped to the door and reached around the frame. The room was suddenly flooded with bright light. "You're too beautiful to hide in the dark. I almost regret..."

Karen sat up and screamed, "Where is Clint?"

Stark white teeth gleamed through the mouth opening in the knit ski mask. "That is a good question." His mirthless laughter had the warmth of scavenger birds squabbling over road kill.

Abruptly the laughter stopped. "A more important question is how you will act while you're my guest. I'm anxious to find out if your amnesia will vanish or if you will become a victim of post-traumatic stress. Or will the mother lioness emerge cured, and fight through her fears to rescue her cub. Either way, Karen, you'll make me famous."

He raised his left hand and stroked his chin in a thoughtful pose, exposing an alligator skin band and a watch in the shape of the letter D.

Donald has a watch like that.

He gave her a rakish salute with his raised hand and stepped backward into the hall.

Donald does that when he tells someone good bye. He sounds like Donald. Oh God, is it Donald? Does he have Clint?

"Scientific study can be so gratifying," he continued and his cruel laugh faded as he closed the door.

"Wait," Karen screamed and jumped to her feet. "I'll do what you want. Leave Clint alone." She pounded on the wood. "Please."

27.

The asphalt state road had stopped at the wildlife preserve and for the last a half mile Henry bumped toward the lake on a rutted dirt road in need of grading, searching for a side road to an abandoned farm. He slowed his van to a stop. _Those crushed weeds look like a car went into the woods. Better check before the weeds spring back to normal and hide the tracks._

He let his idling engine pull the van slowly forward off the road and followed the faint indentation of grass and weeds into the underbrush of honey mesquite and red cedar, wincing as bushes, thorn vines, and stiff, waist-high weeds scratched and slapped at the paint. _This is really messing up my ride._

He eased over the rough ground for about two hundred yards until the passage made a sharp turn. Henry stopped and studied the thick growth that formed a tunnel over the narrow trail. Don't want to stumble onto someone's meth lab and get shot. He left the engine running and eased the van door open, took a deep breath and walked into the weeds. _I'm gonna step on a copperhead and get a gillion redbugs and ticks._ He took another deep breath and clinched his teeth. _This is why I left the farm._

Henry pushed his way through the weeds and vines that were taking over the old road. He knelt at one of the few spots of bare ground and examined the indentation of a tire. "Lone Ranger, car use this trail," he whispered in a mock Indian accent. "Tonto scout ahead for ambush and get fanny full of buckshot." He almost laughed; instead he snorted and added under his breath, "Scout? I'm making enough noise to wake the dead."

Feeling foolish, he continued with caution, ducking and stooping among the roadside bushes, until he could see a clearing beyond the turn. Across the clearing a weathered wood house blended so well with the trees he would have missed it except for the dark blue van.

He turned and took a step back toward his van and the cell phone. _Paul, I need help._

A sudden sensation of anxiety seized him. He stopped and looked over his shoulder toward the old farm house. _What if she's in there and hurt? What if she needs help now?_ There were too many questions.

Crouching, he ducked from bush to bush, and then dashed across the clearing to the side of the blue van. Mud was smeared across the Oklahoma plates hiding the numbers. The van screened him from the house as he moved down its far side to the passenger window. He wiped dust from the tinted glass and peered at the dark interior.

Henry made a quick decision, ducked low and rapidly retreated to his vehicle _. Got to get this off the road and hide it before I do anything._ He started the engine and gave the motor just enough gas to turn around, and headed toward the state road. At a slight incline he reversed the gears and eased the van backward between two bushy red cedar trees. Satisfied it was hidden from the cabin he let the engine idle and dialed his cell phone.

"Paul, Henry."

"Where are you?"

"I think I found Blair's house. It's about a mile off an abandoned dirt road that leads to the wildlife preserve. "

"I told you to wait."

"Listen to me, Paul. This is important. What was the description of the rapist van?"

"Could be navy or black; a work van with no cargo windows. The only witness said it was dark, with a shag carpet interior, and some sort of straps attached to the wall. Why?"

"It's here."

"Are you parked on the abandoned road?"

"No. I found a place where a vehicle left the road and followed it into the woods. My van is hidden between some cedar trees."

"Stay put. I have to pick up Paul Junior and Clint at their school. As soon as I can locate Stormy I'll leave them with her and head your way. Stay away from the house. I need to check to make sure it is the right van before I call the sheriff. It may be nothing."

Henry closed the phone and tossed it on the seat, a resigned smile on his lips. Sorry Paul, what if she needs help now. He stepped to the ground and eased the door shut.

****

Inside the old farm house, Karen was unaware of the passage of time. She crouched, naked, cold and shivering against the raw concrete walls in a corner. The wobbly chair with its loose legs denied her a place to sit. Sleep was impossible with the bright studio lights and filthy mattress that reeked of spilled bladders and only God knew what else. The musty odor of mold from the old broken linoleum floor tiles assaulted her nose causing it to run. She snuffed. In her confused state even the stench of her own waste in the thunder mug had ceased to bother her. The nausea of an empty stomach was only a memory hidden in the dull ache of her head.

Through swollen eyelids she surveyed her cinder block prison for the thousandth time, no longer searching for an escape, but for company; something to talk to, to explain her fears and confusion over how she became imprisoned. But the lights kept her cell mates hidden in the cracks and crevices of the walls. She squinted into the overhead glare. "I tried to turn them off but I couldn't reach them and there is no wall switch." When she realized she was trying to talk to a cockroach a harsh, painful cackle broke from her cracked lips. "I'm losing my mind," she croaked.

'Then it's time for the experiment to begin."

"What?"

Startled Karen looked toward the door. Her captor was casually leaning against the facing, his white lab coat open, his arms crossed. A smirk filled the mouth opening of his ski mask. "Okay, Donald you've had your fun. Take off that silly mask and let me out of here."

"Clever girl." Doctor Blair removed his mask and smiled, " What gave me away?"

"Your watch. Now give me my clothing and let me go."

"Not yet my dear, it would ruin the experiment."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've proven how smart you are, so I'll give you a clue, amnesia and PTSD."

"I don't understand. What does post-traumatic stress have to do with me?

"You have it."

"Impossible."

"No its not. Women and even children get stress when subjected to life threatening events. Most get over it, but your case is special. It's called dissociates disorder or transient global amnesia. Your mind refused to deal with a traumatic event and moved into a fantasy world. It created a new reality for the small town East Texas girl who fled a share cropper home and became a Dallas model and television personality." A superior smile played across his lips.

Karen stared at him, shocked.

He cocked an eyebrow as if waiting for her applause.

For the first time in their long relationship, Karen saw how cold and dead his eyes remained when he smiled. _How could I have misread him so badly? He was my therapist....We dated and discussed marriage._

Then what he said registered amidst the anger and confused emotions. "You know who I am?" The words had a bitter taste. She knotted her fist. "You used me."

"Certainly, how else could I document my experiment?"

"What experiment?"

"It's really very ingenious. I believe that if the PTSD mind is forced to relive the same experience it will strengthen and cleanse itself. You have retrograde amnesia, which I will prove is a severe form of PTSD. If my thesis is correct, and I'm sure it is, I can cure both."

"You're sick," Karen screamed.

Donald sprang away from his leaning position against the door frame with cat-like speed and seized her hair. He slapped her across the face, then back handed her as she straightened.

Stunned Karen twisted her neck, and threw her weight against his grip and tried to bit him. Donald's fist crashed into her mouth. She slid to the floor.

When consciousness slowly returned she was lying on her back on the dirty mattress, the rickety chair and ancient table with its heavy milk glass lamp were on her right. Donald was standing at the base of the cot. His lab coat open, his pants halfway down his legs. He lifted a foot to pull it free of his trousers, leaned forward for balance, and clutched the back of the chair for support.

Karen snatched the lamp off the table, screamed, "You bastard," and smashed the heavy glass against the back of his head. He fell on the chair. It held him for a moment, and then Donald and the broken chair collapsed and hit the floor. Karen bolted off the cot and out the door.

28.

Henry stopped and listened when he reached the steps onto the porch of the old house. The faint chug of a generator was the only sound. He quietly eased onto the porch and tiptoed to a partially open window. What this? The outside looks like it's ready to cave in.

The window opened on a room that was sound and furnished in a rustic western motif, cow hide chairs and sofa, and a Navaho rug hanging on the wall. Another rug was bunched up in a mound on the floor beside what appeared to be an open trapdoor. Someone must be in a cellar of some sort.

Henry studied the room. They'll hear me if I walk across the floor.

"You bastard," a woman screamed.

"Karen," Henry yelled. "I'm coming." He raised the window, stepped over the sill, and raced to the trap door. "Karen, it's Henry," he yelled and plunged down the stairs. A naked body slammed into him as he reached the bottom stair. "Oh sweet Jesus," he groaned, lost his balance, and fell head first into the concrete basement wall.

Karen caught the hand rail to keep from falling and ran half way up the stairs before looking back. "No," she screamed. "Leave him alone."

Donald locked eyes with Karen and sneered, "You're mine...You can't get away. You're mine."

She froze; held by his predator eyes, unable to move.

"We haven't finished my experiment. Afterwards..." He raised one eye brow and flashed a contemptuous smile. "I made you. You're mine and when I'm through with you...? We'll see..." The thought hung, unfinished. Donald looked down, aimed a kick at Henry's head, and lunged for Karen.

When he dropped his mesmerizing eyes, the fear attraction that gripped her was broken. She turned and fled up the stairs, through the outside door, onto the porch. Karen ran to the dark blue van. _Don't be locked. Please don't be locked_. It wasn't. She slid under the steering wheel, grabbed the key dangling from the ignition, gave it a quick turn and it roared to life. "I'm coming Clint."

Karen stomped her foot on the accelerator and the van surged forward, choked on the sudden flood of gas and died.

Spasms racked her body. She removed her foot from the gas pedal. Tears flooded her eyes until she could no longer see the interior of the van. "I can't leave Henry," she whispered. "Donald will kill him." She scrubbed at the tears with her fist and took a deep breath.

Karen threw open the van door, ran back into the farm house, and down the stairs to the basement. Henry and Donald were no longer in the hallway. The door to her prison was open. A child's story popped into her mind. Come into my parlor said the spider. She leaned against the wall, unable to respond to the invitation. Her arms and legs began to shake. Her breath came in quick, gulping lungs of air. _No_ , her mind screamed. _I won't panic. I can do this._

Karen forced her arm up along the wall and sent her hand exploring until it reached the edge of the door opening. She gripped it with her fingers and slowly pulled herself forward, one step, then another, and another. At the door she hesitated, sucked in a deep breath, and entered. "Donald..." a sharp pain speared her skull and darkness engulfed her.

****

Awareness came in a slow spiral upward through throbbing pain toward a bright haze. Karen groaned, cracked her eye lids, and snapped them shut, blinded by the glare of the studio lights on the ceiling. Her fingers searched for the source of the pain that held her head in a vice. Her fingers moved through wet matted hair and discovered a swollen ridge behind her right ear. "Ooh...,"she gasped.

Karen sat up. The room spun, and vertigo sent bile up her throat. She covered her ears to pounding, but silent pain, closed her eyes, and sat still waiting for the nausea to pass.

"Karen, are you awake?"

_Am I hearing things?_ The voice was so weak and raspy she wasn't sure if she heard it, or if it was a product of her scrambled mind.

"Karen?"

"Yes?" She opened her eyes, and turned toward the voice. "Oh my God, what did he do to you?" Henry lay on the floor, bruised and bleeding. She rolled off the bed, rushed toward him, and slammed into the concrete floor when the chain around her ankle came up short. She fell hard. The breath knocked from her.

"Henry," she gasped and gulped air into her burning lungs. "I...I can't reach you. I'm chained to the wall. Can you move this way so I can help you?"

"Just listen." A deep cough shook his body and a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

"Don't talk. It makes you cough."

"We don't have much time. There's something I need to tell you." Another cough increased the flow of blood from his mouth.

"Henry, please don't talk. You're bleeding internally and..."

"Please Karen. This is important." He cleared his throat, swallowed, and waited a moment. His face contorted by the painful effort. "I... I've tried to protect you and our son..." His voice trailed off in what sounded like a sob. "I'm so sorry." He shook with a seizure of coughing.

"What are you talking about? Where's Donald?"

"He said he was going to hide my van in twenty feet of water." Henry's voice gurgled and he choked on blood.

"Don't talk. Save your strength. Someone will come."

"No. They won't find us. The roads abandoned and my vans in the lake." He cleared his throat, coughed and cleared his throat again. "Fourteen years ago we met at a party. I was on crack and drinking." He gagged, caught his breath and with a harsh rasp in his voice continued. "We danced." His breath came in gasps. He whispered, "I did something bad." He sobbed and his voice broke with emotion. "I..." Tears flowed down his cheeks. "...woke up in an alley. You were beside me... all bloody and..." A racking cough shook his body. He spit blood and moaned, "I'm so sorry. I would never hurt you. I don't know what I did...Don't tell Clint he's my son."

"Henry, you're a fool to the end." Donald was standing in the doorway wearing a long white lab coat. "You're not Clint's father. You were passed out drunk. Karen was gang raped by my frat brothers. When we finished with her I dumped her in the alley beside you."

Henry lifted his head and choked on the blood rushing from his mouth.

"Donald, you're a doctor. He's hurt. Please get him to a hospital."

"Oh, I can't do that. Science requires we explore all possibilities in our experiment."

"I'll do whatever you want."

"Of course you will," Donald smiled.

"But first our fool must learn his place," Donald brushed back his long lab coat, raised his foot and drove his heel into Henry's ribs.

Air exploded from Henry with the whine of a ruptured balloon. His eyes rolled back and his head slumped to the floor.

Donald raised his foot.

"No, you'll kill him." Karen screamed, stood, and rushed at Donald, her hands and fingers extended like claws. "I'll...she fell hard when she reached the end of the chain. Grabbing the chain with both hands she pulled herself erect and yanked.

Donald clapped, and howled, "Bravo, bravo. What an interesting display of muscles rippling across the naked female body. What are you going to do for your second act?" He stepped away from Henry and leaned against the mirrored wall, an insolent smile on his face. "The chain is anchored to a steel rod that is buried in concrete. But please keep trying; your anatomical show is quite entertaining."

Karen had never noticed how evil his smile was. Now she realized why she thought his smile was unique. His full mouth and eyes never seemed to work together. She yanked the chain again and then dropped it. She quickly covered her breasts with crossed arms when his eyes followed their movement.

Donald turned back to Henry and lifted his foot again.

"Donald, please don't hurt him anymore."

"But I must. My research demands it. Did you know it is theorized that personal pain or the threat of death doesn't cause female victims of PTSD the greatest anguish? It is the threat of death or injury to a loved one. I've always wanted to test that theory."

"Don't hurt him anymore. He's bleeding internally."

"So he is," Donald smiled. "So he is." He moved to Henry and raised his foot.

Henry groaned.

"Your experiment..."

He turned back toward Karen and smiled. "But don't you see? Henry's death re-creates the original agony that caused your amnesia. It's poetic. It's better than Shakespeare. Today we have the death of a sacrificial love. Fourteen years ago it was the death of your innocence and precious virginity." Donald clapped his hands and spun around in a little jig. "It's not as much fun as watching your rape or attempting to match the lust of my eight frat brothers but I'll forgo that in the name of research. This is perfect."

_Keep him talking._ "What's the connection with Shakespeare?"

Donald turned back to Henry and nudged him with his foot. "Henry, are you still with us?"

Henry groaned and raised his upper body so he could prop himself up with his elbow.

"Good boy. Don't go away. Listen while I explain our little tragic drama so Karen can understand it. Now Henry, tell her what you meant when you said you tried to protect her. Let me see, how did you phrase it?" The pause was drawn out. "Oh yes... and our son." Donald's laugh echoed from the bare concrete walls.

"You're mad." Karen's voice quavered with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

"Hardly my dear, Henry is the one who is mad for thinking that Clint was his son. Even in a drugged state and with force he should have known you would reject his seed."

He smiled and shook his head. "Karen it saddens me that in your anger you failed to see opportunity. When I publish my findings I will be world famous and sadly you will only be a footnote, a faded rose that could have bloomed in my garden." He suddenly lashed out with his foot. "Tell her what you meant Henry."

Henry exhaled, in a raw explosion, and fell back, motionless.

"Stop it," Karen screamed. "Donald, please, I'm what you want." She covered her mouth with her fist. _Donald's gone beyond reason. He's insane._

"Oh, it's much too early to stop our experiment. First it's time for a confession and then the piece de resistance." He lashed out with his foot.

"Stop it," she screamed.

"Tell her Henry, how you paid her hospital bills, convinced the television station to give her an audition, and how you spend your nights guarding her from the serial rapist." Donald erupted with laughter and leaned against the wall to catch his breath..."against me."

The laughter suddenly stopped like a thrown switch. Donald wiped his eyes. "Where were we?" He crossed to Henry and raised his foot.

"Please Donald, I'm what you want," Karen pleaded.

He turned from Henry and in two quick steps had Karen by the hair. "What I want is for you to shut your mouth. No. That's not correct. What I want is for you to fight me, like you fought my brothers fourteen years ago. Fight like I'm stealing your virginity." He slapped her with an open palm. "Fight and scream like your life depends on it because I assure you it does." He slapped her again and shoved her backward on the cot.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. "You'll have to kill me before I let you rape me again."

"I didn't rape you then, but I will now. Eight of my brother's had that pleasure. When my turn came you'd passed out. I slapped you, trying to wake you so you could scream for me, like you did for them. You didn't respond. You cheated me. You deserved the beating I gave you. In therapy you sought an answer for your memory loss while I sought this moment when I would hear you beg and scream." He removed his long white lab coat, folded it neatly and placed it on the table.

Like a bird mesmerized by an approaching snake, Karen stared, unable to move. His smile sent cold chills up her spine. He unbuckled his belt, and pulled his zipper down. He grinned, "Now it's my turn."

"Please Donald. You don't know what you're doing. This is wrong. Remember you are a doctor. You took an oath..." She dropped her legs over the side of the cot to stand.

He slapped her with an open hand that rose from his hip and crashed into her jaw. "Scream bitch. I want to hear you scream."

Karen fell back, shook the flashing lights from her head, and pushed herself erect. "No damn you, no."

"Fight me, damn you!"

29.

Earlier that day, Paul had met the boys in the Principal's office. "I have to go to Pottsboro. Stormy is on a remote with the Oklahoma storm chasers and I can't find anyone to stay with you guys. You'll have to go with me."

"Where's Pottsboro?" Paul Junior asked.

"It's near the Red River on the Oklahoma border. Henry thinks he's located the Blair farm. That is where we are going."

"Is that where booger brains has my mom?

"We don't know if your mother is there or even if Doctor Blair has your mom."

"He does. Come on. Let's go."

"Wait up," Rags stopped him. "You agree to follow my orders or we won't go."

"Yeah," both boys yelled at the same time and bolted out the office door.

By the time Rags reached the Jeep, Clint's exciting chatter had infected Paul Junior and the boys were planning a dramatic and heroic rescue with guns and fist flying.

"Hold it," he stopped them before they could enter the vehicle. "Here are the rules. One when we get there you will stay in the Jeep with the doors locked until I check the property. Two you will obey any order I give you. Agreed?"

They nodded.

"Paul?"

"Yes sir."

"Clint?"

"Yes sir, but if my Mom..."

"Clint, no ifs. No arguments."

"Yes sir."

"Okay, mount up."

"And leave this dump in our dust." Paul Junior quickly added. Both boys climbed in the Jeep giggling.

It wasn't long before the monotony of the drive replaced their initial excitement.

"Are we there yet?" Clint asked.

"Let me see," Rags scratched his head and cleared his throat, "Ah... by my score it's Clint three and Paul Junior two."

"What score are you keeping, dad?" Paul Junior asked. "Are we playing some game?"

"Yep," Rags replied. "And you're behind. Clint has asked 'Are we there yet one more time that you have.'"

"Well, are we?" Clint asked.

"Same answer as last time."

"Not yet," both boys shouted.

"When I was not much older than you boys I would drive this far just to go to a movie."

Paul Junior clamped his hand over Clint's mouth, "Don't ask any questions or we'll spend the rest of the day hearing about life on a West Texas ranch....It's boring. Trust me...boring."

"It was not," Rags said.

"If it wasn't, then you tell a boring story, Dad."

"Hey that's not fair." Ragsdale made a face in the mirror and reached to the passenger seat and picked up his cell phone. "Keep it down. I need to call the Grayson Country Sherriff."

"Tell him we're coming to save my Mom from Booger brains."

"No we. When we get there you two will stay in the car."

"Dad, can't we even watch?"

"No."

"We won't get in the way," Clint said. "I promise."

"Can we listen to you talk to the Sherriff?" Paul Junior asked.

"I'll use the Blue Tooth so you can hear it through the radio. Now quiet down while I make the call. I don't want him to know I'm leading a juvenile swat team."

Rags pushed the number for information on dash screen and turned the radio up so the boys could hear.

"Information. Say a city and state."

"Texas, Grayson County Sherriff's Department."

"I'll connect you." There was a switching click and...

"Sherriff's Department... dispatch."

"This is Dallas Detective Paul Ragsdale....Sherriff Higgins please. He's expecting my call."

"He's on an emergency at the lake. I'll patch you through."

The buzz of an empty line came through the radio speakers and then...

"Sherriff Higgins."

"Hello Sherriff. This is Paul Ragsdale of the Dallas Police Department; we spoke about the old Blair farm. I'm approaching Pottsboro on 1417. How do I find you?"

"Normally, I'd go with you or send a deputy but we're in the midst of a search and rescue operation. A fisherman reported seeing a van go into the lake and we're checking for survivors."

"Understand. Can you give me directions to the Blair farm? I have a friend who is there waiting for me. I'll locate his car and he can lead me to the house." Rags said.

"From Pottsboro take Farm to Market 120,"The Sherriff's boomed over the speakers. "It becomes Hagerman Road. Go past the old Hagerman Cemetery to the Dead Woman Pond Road."

"That sounds sinister."

"Yeah, it does, but like most strange Texas names there's a story that goes with it. When I have more time I'll fill you in while you buy lunch."

"Deal."

"Beyond the pond," he continued, "there is an old road that turns south into the wildlife refuge. When you run out of asphalt set your trip meter and after about one mile of gravel, dirt and weeds; the farm house should be in thick woods on the right."

"Okay. Got it. I'd feel better about this if you were along in case this thing is hot."

"I asked around and no one has seen any activity out that way. You may be chasing a goose."

"It wouldn't be the first time."

"I hear you. The old farm is abandoned and overgrown. It doesn't seem likely your victim is being held there," the Sherriff said.

"You may be right, but I need to check it out."

"We're at the lake near the farm if I can, I'll break away and come into the area by boat. Don't get trigger happy...and watch out for snakes."

30.

Donald stood over her. "You want to fight? Good. Come ahead." His fist knotted, waiting for her to rise. "Let's see if you remember the Krav Maga defense I taught you."

She pushed off the cot and his fist crashed into her forehead knocking her onto the shattered chair.

Remember the first rule is end the fight before it gets out of hand."

Her hand closed around a broken leg. "Not again, damn you," Karen screamed and swung the chair leg against his kneecap.

"Eeee-yow-eee," he screeched and collapsed holding his knee with both hands. "Oh damn, damn that hurts. I'll kill you..."the yell died in his throat.

Karen slammed the leg into the back of his head. Donald fell forward onto his face.

She pulled herself onto the thin mattress and stared at Donald's crumpled body, trying and failing to recognize the man she thought was her friend and healer.

Her unfamiliar violence and the flood of adrenaline opened a flood of memories and laughter suddenly erupted. She jumped to her feet, gasping for breath between her near hysterics and she shouted, "Donald, you did it. I remember my name. I'm Kathleen."

"Kare...enn..tie him."

"My name is Kathleen Logan."

"Tie him."

"He healed me. I know who I am. I'm Kathleen..."

"Tie...tie..." blood tinged drool spilled from Henry's mouth.

'Oh God, Henry...I'm so sorry. What did you say, I'm confused."

"Tie him." He cleared his throat. "Tie Donald."

"How? There's only this chain. She yanked on it and took a step. A stabbing pain shot up her leg. She looked down I stepped on the broken lamp. She lowered herself to the cot and raised her foot. The chain attached to her ankle rattled but it was the blood that dripped from an inch long sliver of milk glass that attracted her attention. Carefully she grasped the glass shard with her thumb and forefinger and pulled it out. The cut was not deep, but like all foot cuts bloody and painful. _Let it bleed to cleanse the wound._ She smiled. _That sounds like something my mother would say._ She shifted her leg and the chain rattled again. This time she looked at the cuff around her ankle. It was leather, about three inches wide, padded, and held together with a braided hasp and a lock. I wonder.

"Tie him." Henry's words were barely audible.

"What did you say?"

"Tie him...knocked out." Henry coughed. "Tie him then get free."

"With what? All I have is this chain."

"Lac..." a bubbling rasp followed by a moan choked off the word. "Shoes," he gasped.

_Shoe laces...of course._ She knelt beside Donald and tugged at a shoe.

"Uhmmm," Donald grunted and shook his foot out of her hand.

In panic she grabbed the shoe and yanked. He grunted and kicked free.

"Untie...," Henry moaned.

Her fingers fumbled with the knot, freed it and slipped off the shoe. Quickly she removed the lace from the eyelets. A shudder ran through her. You have to touch him. Get it over with. She seized Donald's arm and rolled him onto his side so both arms were behind his back. Quickly she slipped the lace around both thumbs and pulled his hands together.

Donald groaned, raised his head. "What... what the hell are you doing? Get off me." He yanked at his hands. "Yow," a gasp of pain burst from his thumbs as the slip knots tightened. "I'll kill you," Donald screamed.

"Not today. You might want to hold still. If you keep yanking on those slip knots you could lose your thumbs."

"You bitch."

"Sticks and stones...you wouldn't happen to have a key to the lock on my ankle bracelet?"

Donald lashed out with his feet. Aiming a kick at her legs and missing. His trousers flew from his ankles.

"Your pockets? Of course. Thank you, Donald. Always, the perfect gentleman." One by one she dumped each pocket on the concrete floor until a key ring tumbled out with a welcome clunk.

She selected a small key from the ring. "Bet this is the right one." She bent, fitted it into the lock on the ankle restraint. "It is." She freed herself and dropped the key ring on the old table, then stood and circled Donald. "Now it's your turn."

His eyes slit of hatred and frustration followed her. He squirmed and attempted to turn with her. He kicked at her legs.

She quickly limped past the reach of his feet, got behind him and whipped a loop of the chain over his head.

He tried to jerk away.

Karen pulled the loop tight.

"Aggglh."

Karen smiled and dropped a second loop then slipped the lock into two chain links. "That should hold you." She lifted her foot. With jaw tight and leg muscles taut, her foot descended to stomp Donald's head. "Here's a dose of your own medicine doctor."

Suddenly, only inches away from his face, her foot stopped. Her nerves, and muscles, screamed do it. She stepped back, fighting the Impulse to kick and stomp him.

"Can't do it, can you, Donald hissed. "You still have androphobia. Now do as you're told. Untie me."

She met his eyes and held them. "No, Donald, I'm no longer afraid of men. You can't frighten me into obeying you. I won't free you. As much as you deserve it I won't stomp and kick you because I'm not the psychotic sociopath you are."

After a deep breath, her heart quieted and she said, "Clint was right to call you Doctor Booger Brains. You're insane." She turned away. "Henry, hang on. I'm coming."

"Clothing," Henry gasped.

"What?"

"There's someone upstairs."

Karen stood and limped toward the door, leaving a blood trail from her cut heel. "Down here," She yelled into the hall, "We're down here. We need an ambulance."

"Karen," Henry croaks, "You're naked."

31.

Rags slowed and turned onto an old asphalt road with weeds growing out of the cracks. "This could be Henry's road. It's going in the right direction and it's in bad shape." He set the trip meter. "Watch on both sides for anything that looks like a road or where the weeds and brush have been mashed down."

Rags slowed the Jeep when they had gone a mile. "Did anyone see a road?"

"No," the boys chorused.

"Henry said about a mile." He stopped the Jeep. Rags opened the door, and then turned back to the boys. "I'll go look around. Remember the rules. Stay in the car, keep the windows rolled up and lock the doors."

"Detective Ragsdale, can we help you search the woods for Henry's van?"

"Yeah, Dad we could fan out and have a broader search pattern."

"And we'll come back as soon as we find the van," Clint said.

"Six eyes are better than two, Dad."

"What about the rules?"

"Technically we won't be breaking them if all we're doing is walking in the woods looking for Henry's van."

"Paul, you were easier to deal with before you discovered logic," Ragsdale smiled and tussled his son's hair. "Okay, watch where you step. We're here to find Clint's mother not feed the snakes."

Rags watched the boys push into the tall weeds and bushes at the edge of the old road. Paul Junior had a stick and was beating at the undergrowth or probing ahead as he walked through the weeds to the trees. Clint, without any experience in the woods was charging ahead. "Boys pick up a long stick and wave it ahead of you. Listen for a buzzing sound. It could be a rattler looking for a fight. If you hear it stop and slowly back away."

"I know Dad. You've been telling me that since I was five years old."

Clint looked at Detective Ragsdale, nodded and smiled.

"It's never smart to go stomping into the woods. This close to the water there could even be a cotton mouth waiting to sink his fangs into your leg. If one of you gets snake bit we'll have to call off the search for Clint's mom and head for the hospital."

They pushed, pulled and ploughed through the dense undergrowth. Rags slapped a mosquito and heard both boys slapping. "Don't touch any poison ivy, oak or sumac," he whispered.

Clint whispered back. "We had some in our yard...but not like this. It's everywhere."

"Try not to get it on your clothing." Rags cautioned. "Walk around it."

"Dad," Paul Junior whispered. "Come over here."

Ragsdale and Clint pushed their way through the scrub vegetation. "What is it?"

Paul Junior pointed to the torn ground and weeds. "Tire tracks. I followed them in that direction. They came from a bunch of cedar trees."

"Stay here while I check."

When Rags returned Clint asked, "Did you find Henry's van?"

"Keep your voice down. There's an old farm house and a blue van in a yard full of weeds and vines."

"Is Henry at the house?" Clint asked.

"The tire tracks crossed the yard and kept going beyond the house. I would guess Henry's van is in the water, which means there's trouble."

"Did you see my Mom?" Clint interrupted.

"No, Clint. I followed the tire tracks to the lake, and then circled the house. I didn't get out of the woods. You boys go back to the Jeep. Take my cell phone and call the Sherriff. Tell him we could use some back up.

"I'm gonna stay here and help rescue my Mom."

"Clint, we had an agreement."

"But that was before..."

"You gave me your word you would stay in the car."

"But..."

"I'll come get you as soon as I can," Rags said. "Now go. If anyone approaches the car don't open the door. Sit on the horn and I'll come running." He turned and worked his way through the woods toward the old house. When he looked back the boys were gone.

****

They stayed in the woods until the old road turned away from the house then they quickly scurried across it and, darting from tree to bramble clump, to downed limbs, they finally dropped to their bellies and crawled.

Paul Junior was the first to reach the van. He stood and looked in the passenger window. "Clint," he whispered and motioned for him to stand and look.

"What is it?"

"Straps bolted to the walls."

Rage gripped Clint. "He tied my Mom in here." He reached for the door.

Paul Junior grabbed his hand. "Don't open it. It might set off the alarm."

"I want to wreck it so he never uses it again."

"It would make too much noise. Let the air out of the tires."

"Your Dad will hear it," Clint whispered.

PJ glanced toward the house and pointed. "Use that fire wood. Put it behind each tire and run before dad comes around the house."

32.

"Karen, they're coming," Henry repeated. "They're on the stairs." He gasped as a hacking coughed stole his breath.

She spun around, turned her back on the door and frantically scanned the room for something to cover her body. Donald's long white lab coat was neatly folded on the table. Quickly she slipped into it and turned back to the door as two men in uniform burst into the room waving guns.

A tall thin man in cowboy clothing, hat and boots bellowed. "Don't anybody move till we straighten this out. Deputy, free that man and keep an eye on the woman while I check the injured man." He stepped to Henry, holstered his gun, and knelt.

"No, don't free him," Karen yelled.

The Sherriff looked up and snapped in a no-nonsense tone, "Watch both of them while I check this injured man."

"He's dangerous," she pleaded.

The Deputy, a muscular weightlifter type, glanced at Karen, smiled, "Yeah, sure he is." He picked up the key ring from the table and unlocked the chain around Donald's neck. "You're gonna need your pants Bub." The officer bent to pick them up.

Donald struck; the knife edge of his hand slicing into the big man's throat.

A rasping whistle rose as the Deputy struggled to suck air into his lungs through his crushed larynx. He doubled over.

Donald hit him with a chopping hand strike to the back of his neck. The sound of a dull crunch came through the bone and neck muscle. "Doctor Bub, Deputy Redneck,"

Donald snarled.

The officer collapsed. His head slammed into the solid concrete floor and he lay still.

Donald grabbed his pants, stepped over the collapsed deputy and said, "Show a little respect for your betters." He charged out the door.

"No," Karen screamed and hurried to the downed officer. The sheriff turned from Henry in time to see his deputy down on the floor and not moving. The woman was standing over him. He pulled his gun and rushed at her.

"He's getting away," she yelled and pointed toward the door as the sheriff spun her, grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back.

"Let me go, damnit, I didn't hit the deputy, I was kidnapped."

"You're the one?" The sheriff released her and quickly checked the deputy's pulse. His eyes flared. "Damn that son-of-a-bitch." He stood and raced out the door.

****

Rags crept up the stairs and onto the porch, testing the integrity of each of the aged wooden steps. This feels solid. The house looks like it's been rebuilt using old wood. He crept to the open door and eased it open. Rag's raised his foot quietly settled it on the boards inside the room. His body shifted forward for the next step when a figure sprang at him out of the floor from behind a large crumpled up rug in the center of the room.

Years of marine Corp and police defensive training triggered an automatic reflex. He ducked his chin to avoid a hammer strike and turned his hip to block a knee aimed at his groin.

The turn saved his testicles but left him with a numb and momentarily nonfunctioning leg. The muscles in his upper thigh knotted into the cramp with the spasms of an agonizing charliehorse. The strike to his neck bounced off his shoulder and hit his temple. The unexpected attack knocked the detective down. Rag's head hit the floor with a body shaking impact. Bright lights flashed through a throbbing mental fog leaving him stunned, and vulnerable.

"Well if it isn't my old friend Detective Ragsdale. Sorry I don't have time for a chat." A blow struck Rags on his cheek. His head rocked and the fog thickened. Disoriented, he thought he heard, "Damn. Oh damn that hurt. You son of a bitch you broke my toe."

The slap of retreating bare feet rang through Rags mind as it cleared. He blinked his eyes, sat up and braced himself with both hands on the floor until the room stopped spinning.

A sudden roar of the engine pulled, Rags his knees. He crawled to the door. He's making a break. His head cleared and the leg cramps eased. He grabbed the frame and pulled himself to his feet. Got to stop him and find Karen. He held the door frame until the spiraling images in his head settled into the real world.

The van engine was racing and the vehicle was rocking back and forth, but not moving when Paul stepped onto the porch.

Donald got out of the vehicle and looked under it. "Damn you Ragsdale," he yelled. He pulled a large stick of firewood from in front of the wheel on the driver's side and ran to the passenger's side and bent down.

Paul slipped off the porch and quickly moved to the back of the van.

"Damn dirty son-of-a-bitch... I'll kill you," Donald's angry scream was followed by the crash of a heavy object crashing into the weeds and bushes. He slapped the side of the vehicle repeatedly as he moved to the rear of the van and stooped to get the third chock of fire wood.

Rags stepped from cover and with all his weight stomped on Donald's bare left foot. The sharp edge of Paul's hard leather heel cut a deep gash and exposed shattered bones. Donald shrieked and grabbed his foot and fell to the ground.

"Well if it isn't my old friend, Doctor Donald Blair. I'm sorry. Did I step on your foot?"

Donald looked up and Rags fist slammed into his mouth. The Doctor's head slammed into the wheel well, the metal trim sliced through his cheek and removed the top half of his ear. His eyes flickered; he made an attempt to stand, and then collapsed into a puddle of his blood.

Rags rolled Donald onto his stomach, removed a pair of hand cuffs from a belt holder and pulled the doctor's arms behind his back.

"It could have been a good fight if you hadn't tripped on a vine and caused him to hit his head." Rags looked up as a tall man stepped off the porch. "I was hoping you needed some help. I'm Sheriff Higgins." The officer walked around the end of the vehicle. "You must be Detective Ragsdale. Use my cuffs. It'll keep me from having to do extra paper work since you're out of your jurisdiction."

Paul nodded. "You should call an ambulance Sheriff. I think he broke his foot when I tripped and he could have a concussion."

"I called the EMT's from the house. My deputy, some fellow, and a lady need attention in the basement."

"There is a basement in this old farm house?"

"It just looks old. It's got a trap door, dungeon with chains embedded in the walls and an observation room. The Realtors can advertise as the perfect getaway for another Dallas nut case. If you've got one, you could have two. Now I've got to check all these old abandoned farms for dungeons and kidnap victims."

The faint howl of a siren interrupted the sheriff.

"I'd better get to the road and flag down the EMTs."

"Sheriff, please tell the boys in the jeep they can come to the house."

"You brought kids?"

Rags just nodded and waved as he bounded up the stairs onto the porch.

"Dallas had a juvenile swat team?" The sheriff moaned. "Why am I surprised?"

Rags smiled and headed through the porch door, down the trap door stairs and into the basement prison. "Karen, I came as..." The words wouldn't come. His throat tightened and moisture filled his eyes.

"Paul." She rose from Henry side and raced into Paul's arms. "You came."

"I thought I'd lost you before you were mine," Paul choked and opened his arms.

His words were smothered in a kiss. "Not in this life time."

"Karen, I'm so..."

"Oh, Paul I got my memory back. I'm not Karen Larsen. I'm Kathleen. My name is Kathleen Logan."

Pounding feet raced across the ceiling and down the stairs.

"Paul! Someone's coming." She trembled and hid her face in Paul's shoulder. Her whole body began to shake. "It's Donald, he's back."

Paul tightened his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

"Mom," Clint yelled as he rushed into the room and squeezed between his mother and Detective Ragsdale.

Kathleen released Paul and wrapped her arms around Clint. "Oh I've missed you. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, me and Paul..."

"Paul and I."

"Aw Mom, let me tell you. We put fire wood under the tires of booger brains van and..."

"First let me tell you who you are. You are Clint Logan, and someday we'll find your father."

Epilogue

Two weeks later

"Details at ten on seven. I'm Kathleen Logan, good evening.

"Great show Kare...Kathleen. You really nailed it." Bob Bullard shouted as he rushed across the studio to the news set.

"Thanks Bob."

"Uh, I know I've been hard on you...and, well, I want to apologize.

"The ratings were good, weren't they?" She cut him off.

"Good, we knocked their socks off! Your kidnapping and resurrection garnered the highest ratings for a newscast in Dallas history! All the networks are clamoring for feeds." His sentences ran together in his excitement. "The entire advertising community wants you for endorsements. We had to assign a secretary to handle your personal appearance requests. The networks have been running the story. They want to steal you. I told them we have you under contract, and speaking of the contract, I'd like to take you to dinner so we can talk about extending it."

"Sorry Bull, I'm beat."

"Okay, how about next week?"

"You promised a month off if I'd do the news through the ratings. I did and I'm accepting your offer."

"It's Friday and you're tired. I know I am. Let's talk about it Monday."

"I'm leaving tomorrow with the boys for Alpine."

"Boys?" Liz asks as she walks over from the weather set. "Boys, Is that plural as in more than one?"

"Paul, Paul junior, and Clint are taking me to my old home town to see if it will help me recover some childhood memories."

"Uh, this sounds like girl talk," Bullard turned to leave. "Don't forget I have a rain check for dinner." He stopped and returned to the two women. "Karen, think about an extension."

"Kathleen."

"Sorry," he muttered. "Old habits." He walked off without waiting for her response.

"Maybe I should get kidnapped, if that's what it takes to tame the savage beast," Liz whispered.

"It's the ratings. Station management gave me a month off and Bull tried to take credit for it. Then he begged me to stay for the ratings. I didn't argue so he knows he owes me for making him look good."

"Do you have dinner plans or is Paul still on the Lieutenant's spit list?"

"Yes and no. I guess I'll eat after I go to church."

"It's Friday."

"I've been trying to get up the nerve to go to confessional, but I'm not sure if I sinned or how to explain to the priest the last fourteen years and Clint."

"I didn't know you were Catholic."

"Neither did I until my memory started coming back."

"Still hazy."

"Yep."

"Want me to come with you?"

"Confession is a private thing. Thanks, but not this time."

****

A knocking noise next to her ear startled Kathleen. She opened her eyes. An elderly man with a mane of wind tossed silver hair was tapping on the car window with his knuckle. She reached for the door locks before his black robe topped by a white collar registered among her confused thoughts. She lowered the window. "Yes Father."

"Hello. I hope I didn't startle you, but I've noticed you sitting outside the church every night this past week. Won't you come in? I promise we won't bite. We'll have some tea and chat, or if you like just sit without talking and enjoy a quiet moment together."

"I..."

He opened the car door and offered her an aged and palsied hand.

"I'm Michael O'Connell, the parish priest."

Kathleen smiled at the trace of an Irish accent. "You've been in Texas a while, but you came from Boston originally."

"You have a good ear."

When they entered the church Kathleen walked to the holy water and crossed herself.

"You're Catholic?"

"Yes Father, at least I was, as I'm just discovering..." her voice trailed off

"I know. I've been following your reports on television. I don't want to seem pushy, but if you're ready, I will hear your confession."

"I...I don't know. I have tried to find the words, but I can't...It's been so long.... Until recently I could only remember waking up in Baylor, a Baptist hospital, so I assumed I was Baptist and have raised my son as a Baptist. It's all so confusing."

"Is that why you have been parked out front every evening?"

"Yes, Father."

"Let me help you." He led her to an elaborate mahogany booth and opened the door.

Kathleen settled on the plush velour bench and made the sign of the cross. A plaque with the words, 'Act of Contrition," was screwed at eye level in front of her. Contrition? Am I guilty of moral shortcomings or misdeeds? The sound of a sliding screen drew her attention to the lattice grid to her left. A Crucifix hung over the screen. Without thinking Kathleen muttered, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been fourteen years since my last confession, and I..." her voice trailed off as she stifled a sob. After all these years I remember.

Blinded by the tears that filled her eyes, she fumbled in her purse for a tissue.

"What sin have you committed?" The priest's voice prodded her though the screen.

She snuffled, "I can't...I don't know... if it is my sin or...I don't know what to do. Is that a sin?"

"Tell me why you're confused?"

"My son is 13. He has been thrown out of three schools for fighting. He won't say, but I think it's because of a lie I've been telling him since he was small."

"What did you tell him?"

"That his father was an air force pilot and was killed in the Gulf War."

"Was he?"

"No...and now Clint knows I lied. He checked military files on the internet. God I hate computers." She put her hand to her mouth and then mumbled, "I'm sorry Father. I shouldn't have said that."

"I'll let you in on my secret; so do I. Now why don't you tell me about Clint's father."

"I can't. I don't know who he is," she blurted. "And...and I don't want to lie anymore and lose Clint's trust."

"Then don't."

"I have to tell him something."

"Why?"

"Because he caught me in my first lie and now that my memory is returning he wants to know about my family and search for his father."

"That's understandable. Why can't you give him what he wants?"

"I don't know who his father is," she moaned. I...I... was gang raped."

She broke into the injured shriek of an injured puppy and filled the confessional with the sound of her sobs. "If I tell him he's a bastard he will hate me and himself."

'Take your time. Cry it out," the soothing voice came through the lattice work.

Kathleen caught her breath and whispered, "He's in that awkward age between being my little boy and a man. He doesn't understand everything, but he knows enough that I would lose his respect and his sense of self-worth if I told him the truth."

Her deep sobs shook the confessional. The old priest whispered, "But if you lie again you would lose his trust."

"What can I do?"

"If he already has to fight the school yard bullies, whatever you tell him won't change that."

"He's all I have. My parents were killed in a car accident and I was shuffled from foster home to foster home since I was his age."

"Why?"

"The wives wanted me out as soon as the husbands noticed I was..." She paused to gather her thoughts.

"Go on."

"...so I have firsthand knowledge about self-esteem and being rejected by adults and kids. I can't tell him he's the product of a brutal rape. It will define our relationship and imprint the rest of his life."

"You can tell him the truth in terms he can grow to understand," said the priest.

"How? What can I say that won't destroy him and his trust in me?"

"Tell him how blessed you are to have him. That his birth and life have erased all the bad feeling about his origin. Tell him an abortion would have been the easy choice, but you chose to take something wrong and made it right. Reassure him about how blessed he has made your life and that you love him."

"You're suggesting that I gamble on his understanding when it would be so easy to tell him that part of my memory has not returned."

"How much time would that buy?"

"I could tell another lie and hope he never discovers the truth."

"Do you have a candidate in mind and will he agree?"

"Henry Morgan. My friend and videographer who died from a beating while trying to rescue me. Clint would accept that. He liked Henry."

"How long before he found out you had lied again? How long before he wanted to meet his grandparents and other relatives?"

"That would be okay. Henry always thought he was Clint's father. He was very religious and I'm sure he mentioned something about Clint to his family. And...and...I 'm very interested in someone. He has a son Clint's age. How do I tell them that Clint is a bastard?"

"What about you? Can you spend the rest of your life feeling guilty about one more lie to your son? One more lie, that could damage your new relationship, and Henry's memory?"

"I won't lie to them. I don't think I can."

"The philosopher Immanuel Kant said that a lie robs others of their ability to make rational decisions and set their own goals. Don't forget that to lie is a sin. It violates the Lord's Commandments."

"What would you do?"

"Pray for the right decision," he murmured.

AUTHOR

Dallas resident Bob Gaston is a 20-year veteran broadcast reporter and television anchor with network assignments at the White House and U.S. Congress. Additionally, he covered the news in Washington D.C., Dallas, Houston, Baltimore, Norfolk, Mobile, and Galveston. Following his broadcast career, Bob served five terms in the Texas Legislature, and is a veteran of the Marine Corp and the Air Force.
