 
### FIRE BABY

### A Novel by

### Will Decker

#

# Copyright 2014 by WILL DECKER

# Smashwords Edition

# WILL DECKER has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

# All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased, or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

# FIRE BABY is a work of fiction. The resemblance of any characters to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, brands, media, situations, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

# A special thank you to everyone that has made this story possible. My beta reader, my proof reader, and to you the readers. I sincerely hope you enjoy this work of fiction.

# Will

#

Table of Contents:

Mike

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty One

Twenty Two

Twenty Three

Twenty Four

Twenty Five

Twenty Six

Twenty Seven

Twenty Eight

Twenty Nine

Thirty

Thirty One

Thirty Two

Thirty Three

Thirty Four

Thirty Five

Thirty Six

Thirty Seven

Epilogue

More by Will Decker

#

# Discover more exciting books by Will Decker:

# UNREQUITED LOVE

# FIRE BABY

# HYBRID KILLERS

# DRIVEN

#

# The 'HEÄLF' Collection:

# MORTALITY REVISITED

# CLONE WARS

# DAY OF NIGHT

# REGENERATIONS

# HORSPAW 2006

#

# The 'Mac" Collection:

# THE WITNESS

# TOXIC RAIN

# BETRAYAL

# RECORD KEEPER

# DEATH IN THE DUNES

# WITSEC FAIL

#

# SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2ND Ed

# 

#

### Mike

Mike Hennessy has worked the streets of Portland for more than 20 years; first as a beat cop and more recently as a Lieutenant Detective. He has been honored many times for his bravery, often taking risks that most would never consider and always putting his job first, doing whatever it takes to close cases and bring bad guys to justice.

But Mike is more than just good at his job; he is excellent at it. Because unknown to anyone else, Mike possesses what he believes to be a very unique talent; an ability that lets him literally get inside the heads of his suspects; an ability that with the passage of time and experience, Mike has come to know as a dangerous and potentially deadly curse.

When Mike is assigned the headline grabbing psycho-serial murder case in which more than 20 horribly mutilated bodies, all young, all female, all blonde hair and blue eyed, have already been discovered along the banks of the Columbia River Basin from Portland east to Pendleton, the suspect whose head he gets inside doesn't play nice. And it isn't long before Mike discovers that the killer is not only aware of his ethereal presence each time he enters into the sociopath's subconscious thoughts, but the psychotic killer is also able to interlope back into Mike's subconscious whenever Mike lets his guard down; such as when he dozes off or sleeps; something Mike has never experienced in all of his other cases since first discovering this unique ability. And it's getting worse as he can no longer slip into the evil being's head undetected. And Mike is losing a lot of sleep lately. At least, this is what Mike would have you believe.

### Prologue

Unable to pull my eyes away, I stare in horror as the blade slices cleanly through the tender pink flesh, a hot crimson liquid rising to fill the void left by the departing steel. Slowly, deliberately, the blade rises from the red tinged flesh and finds another, yet untouched span of milky white skin, again slicing deeply, leaving in its path a pink valley like the parting of the Red Sea that quickly fills with her hot, crimson blood.

Something snaps deep within my soul, a torrent of pain ripping through my gut as I try in vain to block out the horrendous scene slowly unfolding before me. My hands are shaking of their own accord and tears of salt laden sweat run unabated over my bushy brows, burning mercilessly into my eyes. The chilly night air seeping into the unheated basement through the many broken windows in the warehouse above flows unabated over the sweat lathered muscles of my back and forearms; the flow of blood to my manhood intensifying with each quickening beat of my heart.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I am draining her of her life and there isn't a damned thing I can do to stop it! I am locked inside this head and it isn't letting me out; there is no release. He knows I'm here and he's enjoying every damned second of it. It's as though he is drawing more pleasure from my tormented anguish than he is the physical pain being inflicted on the young woman lying naked and tortured on the table before him. And although she still lives for a time, she is one of the early ones, the first in what will become a long line of tortured victims.

### Chapter One

The streets are quiet. It's 2: AM; not unexpected for it being a Wednesday. The air is cool and dry, the sweat ladened collar of my shirt lying heavily against the back of my neck. The police scanner in the unmarked sedan is even quieter than the darkness of night itself. Considering everything that had gone on during the day, beginning with the fight down at the courthouse between two opposing attorneys that couldn't leave their work in the courtroom, to the idiot that tried to rob a bank while riding a stolen child's 20" bike and brandishing a green plastic squirt gun at the drive-up window, all the way to the medley of bar fights strung out across town and into the evening, it had grown too damned quiet to be good.

And I had dozed off again.

My eyes were only closed for the briefest of moments, and yet, the nightmare had burned itself into my subconscious, bringing out the cold fear in my soul and the sweat from my pores. It was as if I were in the killer's mind, seeing through his eyes, sharing his thoughts, even feeling the high that he's feeling and yet, unable to control any of it. But even worse than not being able to control his actions is the helplessness that washes through me from being unable to stop him.

Reflexively, I start to roll up the window and reach for the heater knob when a bright flash peels across the eastern sky above the outline of rooftops, their darker silhouettes momentarily visible against the murky sky. Slowly continuing to crank the knob, I subconsciously count off the seconds in my head, waiting expectantly for the crash of thunder when I am suddenly startled by a loud clap on the roof of the car.

Bolting upright in the seat, I instinctively grab for the Glock 23 tucked securely in its holster beneath my left armpit. Yet, even as my body goes through the motions of self-preservation, my head turns toward the passenger's door where I immediately recognize the grinning face of Emmanuel 'Manny' Hernandez, my soon-to-be ex-partner, staring back at me.

"Damn it Manny!" I angrily shout at him, his face looking distorted against the flat glass of the window as he laughs uncontrollably.

Still laughing, he steps back and pulls the door open. "You should have seen the look on your face, man," he says a bit breathlessly, trying to steady a cardboard tray with two cups of take-out coffee balanced precariously in the shallow divots while extending it across the seat toward me.

Pissed, I grip the wheel of the sedan and stare forward, ignoring the proffered coffee despite the delicious smell assailing my nostrils. "Go ahead, take one," he insists, pushing the tray even closer toward me, his voice almost serious as he studies me, taking way too much pleasure in my anxious state.

Turning, I give him a Go-to-Hell glare and reluctantly extract one of the coffees from the cheap cardboard tray just before he pulls it away, takes the other in his free hand and tosses the tray on the dash where it quickly disappears among all the other forgotten garbage lying up there.

Sliding into the seat and pulling the door closed, he looks over at me, a mischievous grin lingering on his face. "Man," he says slowly, savoring my anger as if it were a choice piece of meat. "You really should have seen the look on your face. I thought you were going to shit yourself or go into cardiac arrest or something."

Manny, like all the rest of the guys back at the squad room are unaware of my unique ability. If he had any idea what I was seeing in the moments just prior to him startling the heebie-jeebies out of me, he might believe his own statement about me having a heart attack, or even shitting myself for that matter. But unaware of the latest horrific scene that just played out in my mind, he is quick to take all the credit for my agitated state of being.

"You need to chill, man," he adds, his voice turning serious.

"If you weren't playing your childish fucking games all the time," I grumble, letting the rest of the sentence trail off. There wasn't any upside in arguing with him; I'd learned a long time ago that with Manny it seemed the more agitated and argumentative I became, the more he enjoyed it.

"Anything happen while I was gone?"

I take a sip of the coffee, mildly surprised that he hadn't sabotaged it, and look at him with an expression that says, "Would I be sitting here calmly sipping coffee with you if something were going down?" My short answer is simply, "No."

He gets the drift and slowly turns away, when suddenly his attention is drawn forward, through the front windshield. "Up there," he whispers anxiously, nodding toward a slow moving Chevy low-rider as it creeps through an intersection 2 blocks away, a Latino face looking out the rear side window momentarily lit up by the moody overhead streetlight, his eyes staring blankly in our direction.

Before I can answer Manny, the vehicle with its passenger has passed through the intersection and is lost from sight. But then, moving in the same direction at the same rate of speed is a white, windowless delivery van, the driver staring straight ahead, his attention riveted on the low rider directly in front of him.

Without a word, we quickly roll down the side windows and toss our coffees out before springing into action. While I turn the key, bringing the engine to life and pulling the shift lever into drive, Manny subconsciously checks his backup weapon by running a hand down the side of his leg to his ankle, a move that I hadn't registered him ever doing before, and we'd been working a few cases together now.

Straightening up in the seat, he pulls his service automatic from the shoulder holster beneath his left arm and ejects the clip. After a quick check to verify it's full, he slips it back into the Sig .40 caliber and chambers a round. As if in reference to his manhood, Manny has always preferred the larger .40 caliber Sig P226 to the standard issue 9mm that I carry, and his backup is a Smith and Wesson double action .38 revolver with a semi-modified barrel.

Satisfied that he has a round in the chamber, he looks straight ahead and says, "Hang a left here and step on it, let's get ahead of them. I'd rather be waiting for them than arrive late to the party."

Doing as he suggests, I turn left one block before where we saw the vehicles going by and head west on Durban Street, running parallel and anticipating that if they haven't sped up we can easily get ahead of them. We have a good idea where they're headed, and we want to be set up before they arrive. This deal has been in the making for a long time, and only thanks to Manny's snitch dropping a dime earlier this evening were we apprised of it. In fact, if I took the time to think it through, it seems like this entire case has been all Manny and his snitches' intelligence reports while I've just been along for the ride. Of course, this isn't the serial murder case that was just recently assigned to me. But rather, it's 'old' business that just reared its ugly head at an inopportune time.

Accelerating hard, we shoot up the dark and deserted streets, barely slowing as we blow by darkened businesses and through signed intersections while speeding up for the few with flashing yellow lights, typical for this time of the night. Manny seems to know exactly where we're going.

According to Manny's new snitch, our destination is a small warehouse complex that houses several construction type businesses and a lot of open ground consuming an entire city block strewn with leftover construction material and heavy equipment. There is only one way in with a vehicle, but lots of holes in the chain link from all the neighborhood kids that rip off materials during the night and then sell the same materials back to the businesses during the day to come up with their drug money. And even though the businesses know they are buying their own materials back, they are paying pennies on the dollar and keeping the neighborhood thugs from doing worse. Call it insurance, call it public relations, or call it whatever you will, it beats the hell out of getting sand in your equipment fuel tanks or a Molotov cocktail on the roof.

While the low rider and the white van will be turning south into the warehouse complex gate, Manny and I will drive along the southern boundary of the fence until we clear the end of the lot and take up a position out of sight on the west side of the complex behind the few single-story buildings. Having surveyed this area before, Manny isn't concerned about finding a precut entrance through the fence.

As we leave the pavement, I kill the lights and tear along the dirt lane running parallel to the fence, Manny watching out the side window for the two vehicles while the sedan kicks up a hail of gravel and dust that is practically invisible in the dark, even with the low wattage lights scattered around the complex.

Just before we turn the corner and pull in behind the nearest of the buildings, Manny tensely alerts me, "Here they come."

Their headlights sweep along the fronts and edges of the buildings, just missing our unmarked cruiser before being engulfed in their own cloud of dust from the dry packed clay of the yard churned up under their tires. The vehicles have no sooner stopped when we hear male voices talking excitedly and car doors banging shut as the occupants pile out and head toward the building next to the one we're concealed behind. It is also the only building with a light on inside and two more late-model sedans already parked outside. All of the other buildings in the compound appear dark and deserted, which is the way they should be at this time of the night.

If Manny's intel is correct, the white van is hauling in a major shipment of heroin and the low-rider is carrying the most dangerous drug dealer on the west coast, all the way up from L.A. This is going to be one of the largest drug busts in Portland in close to 2 years, and that is why Manny and I are here now. With the big case I've just been assigned and my recent promotion to Lieutenant, which actually prompted the Captain to assign me the serial case, anything less would have been handed off to a subordinate. And even now, if it hadn't been for the short notice Manny's snitch gave us, I still might have handed this off to one of the other equally competent detectives; it's not like I'm a publicity hound looking for recognition or accolades.

It isn't coincidence that my promotion came as a result of my work in narcotics. Before the visions of tortured young women were manifesting themselves in my head, I was having visions of drug deals and shipments, which made it easy for me to get ahead of the players. After their arrests, some even argued that I had set them up, because there wasn't any other way for me to know they were going to be hauling on that particular night. But it was easy to credit my intel to anonymous snitches and not the real source.

I made a lot of enemies doing my job so well; people that won't readily forget the grief I bestowed upon them. But I will be putting all of that behind me now that I am working homicide. After tonight, if I never lay eyes on another kilo of meth or a bale of weed, or a dead junkie with a needle hanging out of their arm it will be too soon.

Something else that has been on my mind since leaving the station house earlier is the knowledge that this will be the last case I have to work with Manny Hernandez. A bust of this size will be a good way to end a strained partnership; not all opposites attract, and Manny and I are extreme opposites that have not melded. Manny likes to play it loose and off the cuff with a flamboyant playboy style while I prefer a more planned and thought out approach. He parties in all the hip night spots while I go home to a cold Bohemian beer and Hungry Man from the microwave. But with this bust behind us we can both go our separate ways on a high note. At least, that's the way I'm looking at it.

"I'll call in backup," I whisper, slipping out the door with the mic to the radio in my hand.

"Hold off on that until we know for sure what's going down," he quickly replies, giving me a look to make sure I'm on the same page he is.

Though it doesn't feel right, I flip the mic onto the front seat and pull out my Glock, gently working the slide and making sure I have a round in the chamber. At most there are only 6 suspects and they're all in one room; backup does seem like overkill for a couple of experienced police officers, especially since we have the element of surprise on our side. We can call for a wagon after we make the arrests. That's the way Manny and I have been working it in the past, which steams my Captain to no end. Others in the station house even refer to us as a couple of hotdogs, but I don't see it that way. We just get the job done and let others do the cleanup work.

### Chapter Two

As I step around the front of the car and make my way in a hurried crouch toward the hole in the fence, I'm suddenly struck by a sharp, blinding pain in my right temple. Stumbling over my own feet, I instinctively reach up and put a hand against the side of my head as though to press the pain away, my other hand still gripping my weapon reaches forward, connecting with the steel chain-link fence setting off a loud rattling sound up and down its length.

Anxious, glancing nervously to the left and right, Manny hurries up beside me, resting his free hand on my shoulder to steady me. Whispering frantically as he looks toward the front of the building where the men entered, he asks "What is it man? You all right? You made enough noise to wake the dead."

Though his voice is anxious, I fail to register any real concern for me or even fear that we might lose the element of surprise, which could turn events against us very quickly. The pause does, however, give me time to catch my breath and the pain ebbs away almost as quickly as it struck. Yet, there is a familiarity in the residual pain and it quickly registers into a feeling that I recognize all too well; the bastard's inside my head, watching through my eyes, silently residing within my consciousness.

He can talk to me, or more specifically, communicate with me if he is so inclined. But for now, he is simply along and watching; watching and waiting.

If I were alone in my apartment I might be able to force him out, drive him back to the Hell that he came from. Or I might even learn something valuable by his presence, despite how unnerving it is. But now is not a good time for distraction, and he is definitely distracting.

When I don't immediately answer, he asks again, "You alright, Man? If you're not up to taking the lead..."

The tone of his voice is much more challenging than sympathetic. There is no doubt that he is pushing me to continue forward, to be the first through the fence and hence the first through the door of the warehouse, and now the presence in my head suddenly speaks up.

It doesn't really speak, in the sense that you would imagine two people conversing through the use of their vocal cords and sound. It is more of a thought being forced into my consciousness where it can't be ignored. If I didn't know what a demented being generating these thoughts was, I might appreciate the warning that he is now imprinting in the forefront of my mind. But as I realize his concern for my current wellbeing, I also realize that his thoughts are entirely selfish; he has other, more dire plans for me and he is only watching out for me so that my demise and suffering comes at his hand and no one else's.

"No, I'll be fine. Just give me a minute," I rasp through the receding pain, sweat seeping from the pores on my forehead and feeling chill in the night air as I force myself upright, letting his hand slide from my shoulder; his touch neither steadying nor comforting.

Having been inside other people's heads gives me an edge in recognizing the momentary confusion that I am sensing in this being's thoughts. It also gives me an edge in recognizing the individual that is projecting into me.

"Just give me a minute," I rasp back, taking him in with a sideways glance and noting that he doesn't make eye contact with, but instead quickly looks away, his nervous demeanor adding credibility to the evil being's warning inside my head.

Taking a couple steps back, I lean heavily on the hood of my unmarked sedan while purposely keeping Manny in the peripheral of my vision. Suspecting someone of something and believing them capable of something are two entirely different things, and Manny just confirmed the horrendous depth of his corruption. I would not have been surprised to confirm that he was taking kickbacks and turning a blind eye to the drugs and violence being perpetrated on the general public by certain gangs within his old neighborhood, and currently his jurisdiction as an officer of the law, but I am taken aback by the knowledge that he is probably up to his eyeballs with complicity in the death of his former partner.

The gun still held in my right hand, I slowly turn to face him, watching the revelation and surprise in his eyes as he comes to know that I am on to him. "They didn't come charging out of the warehouse despite all the noise I just made because that isn't the plan. Am I right?" I ask, my voice cold and level as I wait for the move that I know is coming.

"What plan?" he nervously sputters, feigning naivety, his face a twisted smile. "What are you talking about? There is no plan."

"Put both your weapons on the hood of the car and then take a slow, steady step backwards," I tell him, my voice calm and steady. "I'm going to call backup now and we'll deal with this the right way. No one has to die tonight, especially you," I add, hoping that he does what I asked, but not believing for a New York minute that he will.

Watching his eyes, I see the indecision playing back and forth. All the scenarios of how this could play out are running through his mind while he weighs the odds of being able to kill me before I can stop him.

"Don't try it, Manny," I say softly, not expecting him to take my advice and not even sure I want him to.

His eyes flicker even before the conscious thought to draw down on me has fully formed and his hand twists the 40 caliber sideways, bringing the ominously large barrel to point in my direction. Reading his eyes, my own hand is already rising from the hood of the sedan, the barrel of my weapon swinging to come in line with his heart even as my finger gently squeezes against the trigger.

Both weapons explode simultaneously, the lead slugs propelled toward their respective destinations by the forceful burning of fuels and expanding gasses. I feel the impact of the 40 caliber slug even as the sight of Manny's body is twisted sideways from the impact of my own slug tearing into his right side, spinning him away in a cloud of smoke and atomized blood mixed with flesh and fabric from his jacket.

The impact of his weapon throws me backwards, and I stumble over my own feet, landing hard on my back, the wind knocked out of me. Gasping for breath and unable to draw in any air, I become aware of movement off to my right, just beyond the chain-link fence and I think to myself, "I'm going to die."

"Bullshit!"

The thought is angrily imprinted in my consciousness, but the thought isn't just mine. And then the first glorious lungful of air reaches my chest, and I roll away to my left, trying to put as much of the sedan as I can between me and the fence.

Even as I move, I hear the pop, pop of several weapons firing and feel the ping of dislodged dirt and rock chips peppering me through the thin fabric of my trench coat.

"Move it, move it, move it!" echoes inside my head. Whether the thoughts are mine or the interlopers, I have no idea, I just listen to them and roll all the faster.

A bullet strikes the back side of the front tire next to my head and the car drops down on the rim, the quick deflation of the tire kicking up a small cloud of dust in my face. Had I made it under the car like I first intended, I would be dead now, crushed by several tons of iron. My breathing is a series of ragged gasps, each breath bringing more clarity to the situation. I draw my weapon up against my chest and hold it steady with both hands. At any moment, the thugs from the warehouse are going to move out to my side, flanking me and taking away what little protection the sedan is offering. I need to take the battle to them before that can happen.

Pulling in a ragged chest full of air and holding it, I roll out and away from the relative safety of the sedan, coming to a stop in a prone position, my arms stretched out above my head. Bringing the 9 mm to bear on the tattooed thugs, I sight along the barrel, ignoring the muzzle flashes from their weapons and the whiz-pop of bullets flying by my head faster than the speed of sound. With a calm that surprises even me, I squeeze the trigger, taking the nearest in the upper thigh.

Wounded, the young man screams like a girl and drops his weapon as he clutches at the wound in his leg, his hands turning dark in the dim light as blood flows over them.

A bullet kicks up dirt in front of my face, causing me momentary blindness and driving me back to the limited safety and concealment of the sedan. Reaching up, I pull open the door and come face to face with Manny. With a wild look in his eyes and blood drooling from his mouth and down his chin, he grins at the sight of me, only inches separating us.

Next to his head the 40 caliber rests on the passenger's seat cushion, still held loosely in his right hand.

"Why Manny? Was it the money?" I asked, aware that he is only moments from death.

He smiles, a display of bloodied teeth creating a ghoulish effect. "If you have to ask, you'll never know," he whispers, and then falls into a fit of coughing that ends with him hacking up a bloody lunger before he settles deeper into the hard cushions of the front seats.

"Don't tell me it was about respect, Manny, because you had that right here on the force until you threw it away." The door glass suddenly shatters from the impact of a bullet and rains down slivers on us. I instinctively duck, and then finish my thought, determined that Manny take it with him to whatever Hell is waiting for him. "They don't respect you, Manny," I almost shout, wanting him to hear me even as his eyes are drifting away with the sleep of the dead. "They only used you! You were nothing more than a fucking puppet!"

My words fall on deaf ears, his spirit no longer bound by the confines of flesh and blood. All I can do for him now is pray; so I silently pray that he took my last words with him to ponder for all eternity.

"I like this side of you," comes the interloper's thought.

"Get the fuck out of my head!" I fire back while turning my back on Manny's lifeless corpse and prepare to take the battle to the thugs beyond the fence.

Only then do I realize that I am surrounded by silence. Furtively, I steal a glance through the missing glass of the door and see that the gang members are making a hasty retreat to their vehicles, two of them dragging the wounded one between them as they head for the open side door on the van.

Although the gun battle is over, I stay hidden behind the relative safety of the door as I hear motors coming to life and the sound of gravel being kicked out from beneath accelerating tires. Only then do I notice a stiffness and pain in my left arm and look down to see a growing blood stain emanating out from just below my left shoulder. Cautiously, I flex the fingers of my left hand, opening and closing them into a fist and feeling relief that they function just fine.

With timidity, I raise my left arm and am almost surprised that it moves, though there is a sharp pain just below my neckline and running through my shoulder blade, causing me to take a sharp inhalation of breath. Miraculously, the bullet struck the flesh just below the collar bone. Whether it is still lodged inside me or went through, I have no idea. I am just thankful to be alive. The impact had been enough to literally lift me off my feet and throw me on my back, knocking the wind out of me.

With the sound of the thugs growing quieter with distance, I gingerly get to me feet, half expecting to find another, more serious wound and falling back to the ground. But nothing so dramatic happens, and I reach into the car, unraveling the microphone cord from under Manny's body and pressing the send button. It takes only a moment to identify myself, give a location and mention that an officer is down. With backup on the way, I slowly work my way to the fence and climb through, suddenly curious to see the place where I was supposed to die tonight.

### Chapter Three

The warehouse is just that, a warehouse. Aside from a lot of dust and gravel on the floor and windowsills, it is empty; not even the normal items that that you would expect to find in a warehouse being used at a construction site. It was immediately apparent that the place had been cleaned out in anticipation of what was going to go down here tonight or because this had been used to store drugs coming into the area but wasn't any more. Of one thing I am certain, it is only because of the voice in my head that I'm still alive and Manny isn't.

Almost as if realizing that fact for the first time, I turn around and hurry back to the car. Leaning in through the driver's side, I carefully place a finger against the carotid artery of Manny's neck and verify that he is indeed dead. His actions tonight remove all doubts regarding his involvement in the drug and human trafficking business running up and down the I-5 corridor.

But to set me up for a hit? To what end? What was the point in it? Why would he want me dead now, after being transferred away from narcotics, all the way to homicide with a huge serial murder case to occupy all my time and energy?

Sirens are echoing through the streets and within minutes I can see the flashing of their lights. A black and white is the first to arrive and he shows up on the opposite side of the fence, inside the compound. When he recognizes me standing by the unmarked sedan, he leans back into his cruiser and speaks into the radio, directing the bus and his sergeant, whom will undoubtedly be coming since it's an officer involved shooting, down the alley.

After dropping the mic on the front seat, the young officer hurries over to the fence, his right hand hovering just above his service revolver.

"You won't be needing that," I reassure him, nodding at his sidearm while showing him my shield.

Visibly relaxing, he steps through the hole in the fencing and then suddenly stops just short of the open driver's door when he realizes that he's looking at a body draped across the front seat. Without a word, he turns and fast steps toward the rear of the building. I look on in silence as he leans against it, his last cup of coffee surging up in his throat and spewing down the side of the building in a dark stain that will undoubtedly be there for a long time to come.

Sheepishly, he wipes at his nose and mouth with the back of his arm and tenderly pushes off from the building before walking unsteadily back to join the new arrivals, the bright flashing lights from the ambulance reflecting off his watering eyes.

Another black and white arrives from behind the building, these officers clearly more familiar with the area than the first one to arrive. Before the medics even verify that Manny is indeed deceased, a dark, unmarked sedan with blue and red lights flashing in the grill comes tearing down the side alley, a cloud of dust giving chase.

Before it even comes to a complete stop, our precinct captain jumps out from behind the wheel. At the sight of him, the cops that had arrived earlier quickly grow quiet and get about their business as it relates to an officer involved shooting slash homicide scene.

In his normally gruff manner, Captain Easton quickly takes charge of the scene, shouting orders and shooting questions that demand answers. At least, until he realizes that his newly appointed Lieutenant Detective has a bullet in his shoulder, and then his demeanor suddenly changes, and he shows nothing but concern for my wellbeing.

While I'm sitting on the back of the ambulance having my wound looked after, an older EMT having helped me out of my jacket and suit shirt, Captain Easton begins grilling me, yet his tone is conciliatory, not hostile, he just wants to know what went down. "What the Hell happened here, Mike?"

Before I can reply, the EMT inspecting my wound with a bottle of antiseptic and gauze anxiously interjects, "This man is in need of surgery, sir. We really should be getting him to the ER. He's lost a lot of blood and could have interior muscle damage."

When no one responds to his comment, the EMT stubbornly continues, "The bullet is still in him, and even though he isn't feeling much pain right now, that could change in a heartbeat."

The Captain runs his hand through his head of thick, greying blonde hair in frustrated resignation and says, "We'll pick this up later." Not waiting for me to reply, he looks at the EMT and says, "Get him out of here." And then he quickly adds, "I'll have a union rep swing by the hospital. Don't say anything to anyone until he gets there."

When I don't immediately respond, he gruffly asks, "You hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you. But I don't need any union rep, I didn't do anything wrong here," I weakly argue, my strength evaporating with my receding adrenaline. Although I knew I'd been shot, the reality of it hadn't sunk in. What had sunk in was the fact that I'd been set up and that really pissed me off.

Gently, the EMT places an adhesive bandage over the topically cleaned entrance wound, and then lends me an assist with a strong hand beneath my right arm as he guides me up into the back of the ambulance. Captain Easton reaches for the door handles to shut them behind us just as the coroner's rig pulls up next to my unmarked sedan. The ambulance quickly forgotten, he moves off toward the coroner, a barrage of questions forming in his mind even though the poor man from the coroner's office hasn't even had a chance to assess the situation, much less the body.

"Go ahead, lay down on the gurney," the EMT instructs, a strong hand gripping the upper part of my right arm to steady me.

Without warning, a sharp pain shoots through my right temple, blurring my vision and throwing off my equilibrium. When I stumble, the EMT grabs my other arm and hurriedly lowers me to the gurney while softly saying, "Steady now. Let's just get you down here and make you comfortable for a few minutes." And then, in a more commanding voice, he calls out over his shoulder as he pulls the rear doors shut, "Code it, Ken. He just went down."

### Chapter Four

"Get out of my head!" I suddenly cry out, the visions in my mind of young women being brutally murdered, tortured, and mutilated are clearer, stronger, more pronounced than they've ever been before. It's almost like reliving all the murders way back to the first.

"It's okay," comes a soft, soothing, feminine voice, pushing the terrible images from my head.

Her grip is firm, yet gentle, as she restrains my flailing right arm.

"Where am I?" I ask, confused, my head hurting like a mule has just kicked it.

"United Methodist ICU. You've been shot. We removed a bullet from your left shoulder, but you lost a fair amount of blood. The bullet did quite a bit of muscle damage, but looking at you, I have a feeling you'll recoup just fine. However, you probably have a splitting head ache. Am I right?" she asks, smiling knowingly.

"How'd you know," I grumble, studying her full figure within the tightly fitting blue scrubs.

"Normal with blood loss. Your brain is starving for oxygen, much like having a hangover. I'll give you something in your IV that'll help," she replies, giving me a smile that is intended to relay a conciliatorily nature as she moves toward the door, satisfied that all the dials and gauges are within acceptable limits.

She returns almost immediately, as if there is a cart loaded with medications sitting just outside the door. In reality, I have lost all sense of time and may have even dozed off in her absence. Inserting a hypodermic into the IV line, she says with a genuine smile, "This might make you a little drowsy, but it should take care of the pain."

Within moments, my head stops hurting and my eyelids droop, the weight of them too much to bear. "Damn," I mutter groggily in anger as I lose the battle against the light, allowing darkness to overtake me.

To my surprise, I awake in a parking lot, the sun high and hot directly over my head, heat shimmying across the asphalt. Dressed in my work suit, the familiar feel of the Glock 23 tucked comfortably beneath my left arm, my shield hooked on the front of my belt where it's visible with my trench coat hanging open. We have just arrived at the scene of another body dumping, this one in the middle of a major fuel station parking lot; a relatively busy place just off the main north/south highway running through eastern Oregon with several witnesses. Unfortunately, by the time we arrived, a small crowd of locals have also gathered, polluting the witness pool and firing up the gossip mill.

"Fan out and work the crowd," I instruct my junior detective Bobby Ames, my own eyes already scanning over the prospective witnesses, trying to decide which one to hone in on first. "Someone had to see something, just don't scare them off before you get their statements," I add, though it's not necessary. Detective Ames is experienced at working crime scenes; he knows how to interrogate witnesses without alienating them. And, he's been on this case month's longer than even I have been.

Stepping away from him, I haven't even taken two steps toward the crowd of more than twenty onlookers when I see a woman in denim jeans and a light blue and white patterned blouse with reddish brown hair and dark shades looking back at me. It takes a moment for me to realize that unlike the others that are hoping to catch a peak of the body, she is focused on me, which I find strangely unnerving. As a rule, people don't generally intimidate or fluster me. Yet this woman, and I refer to her as a woman, because even from this distance, I can see that she is no longer a young girl. Instead, she is a finely built thoroughbred with shapely curves in all the right places. Though I'm not aware of it, I have seen this woman before in my travels. Still, the sight of her takes my breath away and I feel a familiar stirring in my groin.

"You okay boss?" asks Bobby. Though he is my most junior detective on the case, he is by far my most intuitive detective aside from myself. "You look like you've just seen a..." and then his voice trails off as his eyes follow mine and he sees the woman that has captured my attention. "Why don't you take that one, boss?" he finishes with a knowing wink as he heads off in another direction.

"Yeah, why don't you take that one, boss?" taunts the voice in my head with a chuckle. "If you don't, I think I just might."

Suddenly feeling possessive, though I have no reason or right to, I silently shout back, "You stay away from her!"

"Ooh, someone likes this one," the voice swoons in response.

"I'm warning you, stay away from her." Though I threaten, I know my threats hold no water.

It takes me a moment to realize that while I was carrying on an argument in my head, my feet have carried me forward till I am standing almost directly in front of her. At this distance, it is impossible to ignore her smoothly tanned and lightly freckled features, the way her browned skin flows sensuously down the front of her throat, disappearing behind the light cottony fabric of her blouse as it rises over two proud mounds of perfectly proportioned breasts, the sun glittering vibrantly in her subtly tinted hair. She looks good, too good. What chance does an old guy in his late forties like me ever have with a woman of this caliber?

Where did that thought come from?

"Excuse me, can I ask you a few questions?" I blurt, feeling a desire to take her somewhere private.

"Yeah, you want to take her somewhere private all right," taunts the voice in my head. "You and I both know you want to do more than just get her alone. That would just be the start of it." There's a silence for a moment and I begin to think he has left, when he suddenly says, "She would make a great masterpiece, a grand finale!"

"Get the fuck out of my head!" I scream, aware of a bright light shining into my eyes and blinding me.

"Another bad dream?" asks the nurse that gave me the sedative earlier, though I have no idea how much earlier that was. Seeing me studying her with a complete lack of comprehension, she quickly goes on, "It's all right. You've been asleep for almost 48 hours. We've moved you to the recovery ward, in case you're wondering about the bright sunshine. Morning sun comes in this side of the building, hence they set up recovery here. Some shrinks decided that morning sun was important to patients in recovery, more so than a late afternoon sunset. They didn't even consult with the staff that sees to the patients before tearing the entire wing apart and moving beds and equipment hitherto and fro. But the light is nice, since it seems like we usually just get rain and cloud cover. It is rather cheerful."

I'd been watching her the entire time she rattled on while moving from first one side of the bed to the other, checking everything and assuring my comfort before noticing that I'd been squinting the whole time since she entered.

"I'm sorry, would you like me to pull the blinds?"

"No, that's alright. But if you could help me get a drink of water," I rasped gruffly, finding it difficult to move my bandaged shoulder and the connecting arm.

"No problem," she lightly replies, pulling a fresh straw from her uniform pocket and slipping it from its sterile sleeve before dropping it into the glass of water and holding it next to my lips.

Sensing my unease with being helped like an invalid, she continues on in her chirpy manner, "Don't worry, your manhood just needs a little while to recuperate. By tomorrow, you'll be fully able to tend to your own needs. In the meantime, you just let me know if there's anything else I can do for you," she adds with a knowing wink.

Asking her assistance with the water was one thing, there wasn't any way in Hell I was going to let her handle my manhood; at least not the way she was intending to help. I'd crawl over burning charcoals on bare hands and knees if that's what it took to reach the restroom. My pride was only going to stoop just so low.

"I'll be back in a little while with your lunch," she smiles, moving briskly toward the closed door before suddenly coming to a brusque stop and turning back to face me, her face serious. "Mr. Hennessy."

"Please, just Mike," I interrupt her with a forced smile, absently thinking that in her own way, she isn't bad looking. She's a larger girl than I would normally find myself attracted to, but she has a pretty face, kind blue eyes, and small dimples at the corners of her mouth. I wonder if she's married and if so, how does her husband tolerate her long hours at the hospital. Of course, I am just assuming that she puts in long hours based on the fact that both times I've been awake since arriving here she has been the only person present to look after me.

"Okay, Mike," she says, the smile on her face never missing a beat. "I just thought you should know, there have only been a few people stopping by to check on you. And your captain," she actually looks down for a moment, growing uncomfortable with what she is about to say.

"It's okay," I softly assuage her, the few sips of water having moistened my throat, making it easier to speak. "He's not as bad as he first appears."

"It's just that, aside from a younger feller, one of your junior detectives, I believe, he's the only one that seemed genuinely concerned for your wellbeing." She hesitates, her composure unsure, and it didn't fit her otherwise sure and confident demeanor. "I guess," she hesitantly stutters, growing even more uncomfortable of her position. "I guess, I just thought that maybe you might have some family that would be worried after you. If there is a wife, I could call her, let her know where you are, though I would have thought your department would have taken care of that." She hurriedly adds, "Really, I'm sorry, it's none of my business. I'll let your captain know that you are up to visitors now. There was also an attorney from your union here to see you."

With that said, she turned briskly toward the door and started forward. But before she can escape, I stop her short with only two words, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says without turning around.

### Chapter Five

The nurse has barely left the room when the doctor that operated on me walks in. Before addressing me or even so much as acknowledging me, he picks up my chart at the foot of the bed and silently studies it for a few moments. "Mr. Hennessy, how are you feeling?"

He might have been the doctor that saved my life, but his bedside manner left a little to be desired and I took an immediate dislike toward him. Truth be known, it was probably because my pride felt slighted in that he completely ignored me until he'd checked my chart, wanting to make sure he got my name right before addressing me.

"It's Detective Hennessy," I correct him without offering the use of my first name. "And in reply to your question, I feel great. When can I get out of here? I have a job to do," I reply, unable to keep a hint of annoyance out of my voice while remembering that I'm still lead detective on an ongoing serial murder case.

"Though the wound was what we would normally call a flesh wound with no serious threat to your life, it did tear up quite a bit of muscle tissue and you lost a lot of blood," he replies, not acknowledging my attitude, but clearly playing down the seriousness of my wound. "We're going to keep you on fluids overnight while we continue to observe you. You should be good to go by tomorrow evening. The shoulder will be stiff for a week or two, which you will notice in the use of your left arm and hand. But if you follow the recommended physical therapy and don't hesitate to use it, you will regain full use with no limitations before you know it."

That was his way of saying, "Don't woos out because of a little pain and you'll be fine."

"Thanks Doc," I calmly reply, adjusting myself deeper into the pillow as if to make for sleep.

He takes the hint that I have no further interest in chatting with him and returns the chart to the foot of the bed before retreating out the door, his soft slippers immediately drowned out by the sound of normal activity in the hall.

Whether he did it due to his haste or if he intended to, he left the door standing wide open. Yet, it doesn't take me long to realize that it was definitely intentional as more and more people strolling by gaze in on me as if I am an oddity on exhibit, eliminating any hope for privacy. This was the doctor's turf and he was making that abundantly clear to me, the arrogant detective that just happened to find himself on it.

After a few minutes of looking back at the gawkers, I'm contemplating pulling the IV out of my arm and getting out of the bed just to shut the damned door. It seems like everyone and their mother has to stop and look in at me. Some are fellow patients pushing their IV drip hanging from a pole on wheels to visitors heading to and from their visits. But all of them seem to have one thing in common, they pause to look in before seeing my uninviting expression and move on. Don't they have anything better to do?

When I hear the nurse's voice in the next room trying to coax someone into eating their lunch, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. There is no doubt in my mind that she will close the door for me after dropping off my lunch and restore my sense of privacy. Why am I in a private room, after all, if not for privacy?

Like a whirlwind, she comes flying through the open door. "Okay, Mike," she starts gaily, grabbing the chart for a quick confirming glance before returning to the food cart in the hallway and making her selection for me.

As she comes back through the door, her face says it all. "I'm sorry, Mike. But the chart says you're on strict fluids, no solids for another twelve hours. This is all I have for you until this evening," she says apologetically, setting the tray in its lock position while raising the head of the bed, the only items on the tray a large bowl of wiggly green gelatin, a white plastic spoon, and a napkin.

Unable to help myself, I ask, "That wasn't just updated on my chart, by any chance?"

Picking up the chart again, she quickly glances at it and acknowledges what I already knew with a simple nod of her head. "Don't worry about it," I start before self-consciously pausing to look at her name plate for the first time and feeling like a bit of an ass myself for not having taken the time earlier to get to know her name before continuing, "Denise. It's probably my fault, it's not like I made any brownie points with the doc earlier."

Choosing not to acknowledge my uneasiness, Denise smiles her unarming smile at me and says, "He is probably one of the best surgeons this hospital has, but that doesn't preclude him from being an arrogant ass."

Returning her smile, I thank her for confirming my assessment of the man, and then add, "I understand that I will be able to get out of here by tomorrow evening."

"Yes. Though you won't be one-hundred percent, with normal use and therapy, the stiffness and pain should pass pretty quickly. You just don't want to favor it or it will remain weaker and take much longer to mend." She spoke as if I already knew all this, which I pretty much did, thanks to the doc. And then, as if suddenly concerned that I might push myself too hard, she adds, "So long as you don't tear the stitches, you should be fine. I'm sure the doctor told you about the muscle damage," she continues, eyeing me with an almost hungry expression on her face. "You want to be careful of those stitches, because if they tear, you will start the bleeding again."

She pauses for a moment, her expression suddenly uneasy and her voice an octave higher with nervousness, she hesitantly says, "If you want, I can give you my cell phone number and you can call me when the stitches are ready to come out. I wouldn't mind coming to your place so you don't have to come back here."

"Wouldn't your husband have a problem with that?"

"Not married, any longer."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," she quickly replies, her relief at not being instantly shot down clearly evident in the upbeat change of her demeanor. Her smile back, she continues, "He's still alive, no thanks to me, and he left me with the most precious thing in my life, my son."

At the mention of her son, her face lights up even more than it had been. "How old is he?"

"Thirteen," she proudly responds. And then, without my prompting, "He's into football, girls, bikes, and pretty much everything that makes a mother worry. Sometimes, I actually wish he would become one of those kids that does nothing but sit in front of the computer monitor hour after hour playing video games. But no such luck, I got one that needs to be outside in the fresh air, rain or shine, mud or snow."

"You are obviously very proud of him. That's good. What's his name?"

"Robert, but I call him my inspiration."

"Yeah, that would be great," I say, referring to her offer.

"My number will be at the bottom of your release form. I won't be on tomorrow to see you out. Eleven days in a row with three double shifts thrown in for good measure are about all I can handle. Tomorrow, Robert and I are going shopping, probably get him those new bearings he's been harping on for his skate board, and then the day after, I'll be right back here, picking up as though I've never left," she says nonchalantly, not looking for nor expecting any sympathy, just stating it as it is in her chirpy, upbeat way.

"Just don't short your time with your boy. You can't ever get that time back," I comment, pretending to know what it's like to spend time with a child, or even someone you love.

"Don't worry about us," she chirps cheerfully. "I only work shifts when Robert is at school or in bed. For the most part, he never even knows I'm not there, just that I'm really tired most of the time he sees me."

Speaking from a place of experience this time, I softly reply, "He knows when you're not there, trust me. And even if you're tired when you are there, he don't care."

Moving toward the door, her smile brighter than I've ever seen it yet, she says, "Call me." And then the door swings shut and she's gone. And though I'm not sure why, I am sure that I will be calling her.

Moving my left arm across my chest, I reach for the glass of water, the pain in my shoulder mild compared with the pain that had been in my head. The glass shakes in my hand, reminding me of the damage that a slug can do. Then, after taking a sip through the straw, I cautiously set the glass back on the tray trying not to spill it and pick up the plastic spoon with my right hand. Whether from the lack of blood or the residual effect of the sedatives, I hardly get half way through the green gelatin before I begin dozing, probably helped along by the diminishing sun as it climbs beyond the roofline and no longer shines so brightly into the room.

"You want her, don't you?"

"Get the fuck out of my head!"

"You didn't even have to ask which one I was referring to," the voice chuckles, like dripping slime into an abyss, the darkness hungrily eating it up.

Without even trying to bring up her vision, I am catapulted back to the sun-drenched parking lot, the hot brunette suddenly standing before me, her expression portraying confusion, as she asks, "Sir, did you want to ask me something?"

She's removed the tinted shades, her eyes flashing brown with green flecks in the bright sunlight, her lips moving sensuously with each syllable. If I had to venture a guess, I would put her age at mid-forties, but a very well preserved mid-forties.

"Sir, are you okay?" she asks, her voice filled with concern.

Shaking my head, I quickly reply, "Yeah, yes, I'm fine. It's this heat, I guess I'm not used to it yet." There is something familiar in her profile; I've seen this woman before, but I can't remember where or when.

"Oh, that would also explain your pale complexion," she jibes, a smirk on her face. "You're not from around here, huh?"

"No, I guess I'm not," I reply, not sure where I am, but knowing it isn't Portland; it never got this hot in Portland, no matter what time of the year.

Not wanting to appear like a fool before this heavenly creature, I quickly fall back on procedure and ask her, "Can I get your name, address, and a number where you can be reached?"

"Sure, if you promise to look me up," she quips, that same smirk turning up the corner of her mouth.

As a rule, women of her caliper don't make passes at dogs like me, so I readily assume she's just having a little fun at my expense, and my demeanor turns more serious, almost sounding angry as I repeat the request.

Feigning an exaggerated pout, she puts the shades back on and places her hands on her hips. "No sense of humor, huh cop? Okay, we'll play it your way."

"You better keep an eye on this one, 'cop'," chides the voice in my head. "I think she already has your number."

"I'm not going to tell you again, you stay away from her. She has nothing to do with you and your sick business. Now get the Hell out of my head," I silently hiss at the voice in my head, possibly from misplaced anger at being ridiculed by a lovely woman.

"Lara Offrage. 541-555-4675. I live out on the Bar K Ranch, just south of town," she states matter-of-factly, oblivious of the argument going on inside my head.

"What's your occupation?" I ask, the voice having left for the time being, evident by the lessening of pressure inside my skull.

"I work woodland fires."

"Interesting line of work for a female," I comment, being as politically correct as I can be and still show that I'm impressed. "I would think such work would be very physically demanding," I continue, pretending to be assessing her firm, well-defined physique for the first time.

"Yeah, and if you want to question me, could you get on with it? If you just want to look me over, I don't have time. This is my busy time of the year and I've got places to be," she suddenly states, no longer the demure kitten, but visibly upset at being goggled over like a piece of meat.

Procedure. Fall back on strict procedure. "The body over there," I start, nodding in the direction of the coroner's wagon. "Did you see how it happened to be there?"

"No. I was inside grabbing a coffee and a six pack for later."

The comment throws me off, and I can't help but sneak another look at her, noting the flat tummy and firm buttocks. She definitely didn't look like your typical beer guzzling momma from down at the local pub and grub.

"Did you happen to see any vehicles racing out of the parking lot? Or, let me rephrase that, do you think anyone else here in this crowd might have seen something that you didn't? Maybe they were already out here when you came out? Can you point out anyone that might fit that description?"

"Yeah, everyone," she says with that same smirk again turning up the corners of her mouth, making her appear even sexier than she already did. I don't know what she was doing to me, but I couldn't stop myself studying her, wanting to know everything about her, every little detail. For reasons that I couldn't begin to fathom, I knew this woman was going to inhabit every piece of my being if I let her. Moreover, I think she got past the indignation of my first stare, because if I'm not mistaken, I think she's beginning to enjoy the attention that I'm giving her.

And she isn't even real, just a figment of my imagination.

### Chapter Six

When next I awake, Captain Easton is standing at the foot of my bed watching me.

"Captain," I utter through a parched throat.

"Detective," he replies, running his hand through his thick thatch of greying blonde hair in an attempt to push it back into place. "How are you feeling?"

"I've felt better."

"The union attorney is outside, if you're up to it."

"Yeah, let's get it over with. Anything I should know before hand?"

"I trust you Mike. Just give him the facts as they are and don't lose any sleep over it."

"He set me up, Captain. He was going to let them shoot me for God's sake. It's not like I had any choice in the matter," I angrily tell him in my defense.

"I know, Mike. Save it for the attorney. Telling me is just preaching to the choir," he says with feeling. "The forensic evidence that has come back already only reinforces your side of the story, and as soon as the gang squad picks up one of those lowlifes, they'll confirm that Manny was dirty. I'm sure of it." He winks, saying, "I'll let him know you're ready to see him."

"Hey, Captain," I say, stopping him before he reaches the door. When he turns around to face me, I solemnly remark, "Thanks for everything, but especially for believing in me."

"You're the best damned detective I have, Mike. After all you've done for this department, what else could I do?" he replies, his voice serious.

"I still mean it, Captain. Thanks for having my back."

Suddenly feeling self-conscious and awkward, the captain turns and hurries out. Within a moment, the union attorney walks in carrying a brief case that he sets on the foot of the bed and flips open. After removing a sheaf of papers and shuffling through them, he politely asks how I'm doing.

"I've had better days," I reply, feeling like the proverbial captive audience.

"Bear with me and we'll get through this as quickly and painlessly as possible. My understanding is you were forced into using deadly force against a fellow officer in self-defense. Is that correct?" he asks, getting right to the point.

"Yep, you pretty much summed it up," I replied, liking the attorney's direct approach.

"Good. Now tell me everything leading up to the event, but just the facts, we don't want or need anything that came from intuition or, as others have said, gut instincts."

I give him all the details, such as they are, and he reminds me a couple of times to explain myself before reminding me again that he doesn't want to hear any supposition, just the facts. All the while I talk, he takes notes. I am surprised at how quickly I grow fatigued. It becomes a chore just to keep my eyes open and I worry that I might slip up and say something that I shouldn't.

When I finish, he calmly states, "You will have to suck up the mandatory administrative leave until the full investigation is over and I'm recommending 40 hours of one-on-one counseling with the department psychologist. You might want to consider doing the counseling while you're on administrative leave. It will be paid for by the department, of course," he quickly adds, as if I might be concerned about the cost.

"Look, is this counseling really necessary, or something you're just recommending for my benefit? Because if that's the case, I don't think it's really necessary," I calmly argue, trying to feel him out and see whether I will get away with playing hooky or not.

"Let's consider the counseling as a pre-emptive strike. If you get sued for wrongful death or the investigation takes a turn for the worse, and the department moves toward taking disciplinary action against you, having voluntarily taken the counseling without being forced to will show a willingness on your part to help yourself, which will go a long ways toward getting you out of any predicament with as little scathing as possible."

"You don't really believe I could be found responsible for negligence or worse, do you?" I ask him, appalled at the thought of being punished for simply defending myself.

"I just want you to be aware of all the possibilities, Mr. Hennessy."

"It's Detective Hennessy, and I don't anticipate that changing anytime soon." I take a deep breath and calm myself before continuing. "Look, I've just been assigned a huge case. It's imperative that I get back on the job as soon as possible. Every day I'm away from this, another innocent person could become a victim."

"Yes, your Captain filled me in. He was very overt in explaining the importance of having you at the lead of this investigation. I will do everything within my power to get you back in the wheelhouse posthaste. But you still have to understand, there are some things that I have no control over, and the administrative leave is one of them." He pauses and takes a deep breath before wrapping up with the reshuffling of papers and setting them back in his briefcase. I couldn't help but wonder why he'd even opened the damned thing to begin with, he never even looked at any of the papers. "Detective, as soon as you're released from the hospital, get a counseling session lined up and go to it. I'll be in touch. Meanwhile, if there is anything you want to add to the information that I already have, give me a call. Here's my card. Enjoy your time off. Good day."

Leaving his card lying on the bed where he left it, I watch his back as he heads through the door. Leaving the door standing open, I see him pause briefly and share a few words with the Captain before he heads off down the hallway and Captain Easton strides back into my room, this time leaving the door ajar. I have a feeling hospitals make him uncomfortable and he doesn't intend on staying any longer than necessary.

"Okay, Mike, now you know where we stand on this. You get an appointment for counseling and I'll see what I can do about reducing the mandatory administrative leave."

"I appreciate that Captain."

"Don't thank me, it's only for selfish reasons that I'm going to see if the rules can't be bent this one time. I know you were forced into a bad situation and only reacted in self-defense. Nothing can change what happened, but there's no point in letting this situation have a negative effect on an ongoing case."

"Still, I appreciate all your help. There's no place I'd rather be right now than leading up this investigation," I emphatically reply.

"I'll give you a call at home tomorrow and let you know how I make out," he says, moving back toward the door as his hand runs through his hair for the umpteenth time. He clearly can't wait to get out of here and I can't say as I blame him one bit. I can't wait to get the Hell out of here either.

"I take it that means I won't be returning to work tomorrow," I tease, giving him a tired smile.

Turning briefly before going out the door, he scrunches up his face in frustration, and then pulls the door shut behind him, unable to hide the knowing smirk before he ducks out of sight. I can't help but smile at his reaction before suddenly remembering just how tired I am.

Turning to face the window, I notice that this side of the building is in full shade now, making it late afternoon or early evening. With my thoughts going over the past few day's events, I consider all that has happened to me and where the murder investigation is going without me guiding it. So much can happen in a matter of hours, much less days.

And then there's Denise. I'm not sure what to make of that situation just yet. Part of me wants to call her and see where it takes us. While another part of me insists that it doesn't have any future and that I'm just a lonely old man. She isn't my type, for one thing. At least 10 years my junior, possibly more, and she has baggage. Not just her size, though I have never been attracted to larger women, but also a son. A male teenager. Is she looking for someone to be his father figure, and she doesn't really have any interest in me beyond that?

No, she didn't strike me as that type of person. Her interest in me stems from somewhere deeper, less selfish, and I shouldn't be so judgmental without so much as giving her a chance and getting to know her better.

With those thoughts circulating through my head, I knew I'd made up my mind to call her when it came time to get my stitches removed, even though I would continue debating it right up until that moment came to pass and I'd made the call.

541 area code was outside the Portland metro area. That could only mean that the next murder was going to take place outside my jurisdiction, if my dreams held true. But where? 541 included the rest of the state of Oregon, a fairly large territory to cover. Of course, I could have just ask the hot babe in her tight-assed blue jeans where the hell we were. That would have been too easy, though, huh? I reprimand myself for not thinking of it at the time, though in my defense, she was pretty damned distracting.

My thoughts drifting back to that sun-drenched parking lot and the dry heat, I suddenly realize that it has to be somewhere in Eastern Oregon. I've spent a lot of time on the western side of the Cascade Mountain range to know there isn't anywhere like that over here, especially not in the Willamette Valley. It's too wet or too humid.

With all these thoughts and more swirling around inside my consciousness, sleep didn't come as quickly as I would have thought, considering the fatigued state of my body. But eventually sleep did come, and with it, the recurring dream and the serial killer's haunting voice.

"Take her. Just take her, you know she wants you as bad as you want her."

"Just shut the fuck up and get out of my head!"

I'm back in the heat-drenched parking lot, standing next to the latest victim, the coroner on his knees laying out the body bag next to her prone body. She was in a fetal position the first time I saw her, now she is laid out as if being prepped and measured for a coffin, yet I know it is only because of the coroner doing his job.

Ignoring the goading voice in my head, I squat down to put myself at eye level with the coroner before asking him to call me the minute her toxicology screen is done and whether he could tell if she were dead before she was dumped or if she died shortly thereafter.

To the latter request, he slowly replies, his mannerisms reminding me of a farmer leaning on the property line fence shooting the breeze with his neighbor, neither one in any hurry to get anywhere, speaking slowly, measuring each word, "The answer to your latter question is an easy one, even for an inexperienced ME like me. Although I've been the county coroner around here for more years than I care to remember, I haven't had to deal with many murders. Usually, I'm called out because some kid wrapped his car around a telephone pole, or grandpa slipped on a tread and fell into the combine machine while trying to make an adjustment without taking the time to shut it down. But this, even though it isn't natural, this," he hesitates for a moment, his aging grey eyes turning toward the young corpse with sadness and regret, "this shouldn't be."

"No, it shouldn't," I solemnly agree. And then coax him into answering my question concerning time of death with respect to the dumping of the body. "She was in a fetal position when medics first arrived."

"That's because whoever left her here took the time to pose her," he absently replies, his thoughts drifting somewhere else.

"How can you be sure?"

With a sudden snap of his head, his eyes refocus and he reaches for the body bag before answering, "The body's already gone through rigor. If she'd been alive, no matter how seriously injured, even with this heat, she would just now be entering the rigor mortise stage of death. Also, because of this heat, I won't be able to pinpoint the time of death until I get her back to my clinic and run some tests."

"Okay. Thanks Doc, just keep me in the loop if you would," I reply, handing him my card before rising to my full height and turning toward the crowd that is still standing beyond the caution tape, their interest still not sated despite the glaring heat of the unrelenting sun as it rises into mid-morning.

"Why don't you just ask me your questions?" asks the voice in my head. "I could tell you things about that girl you couldn't even begin to imagine," it sneers, the evil dripping so thick it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

"What's her name?" I nonchalantly ask.

"Now you're trying to trick me. You already know her name. In fact, you know a lot more about her than you're ready to admit."

"You can't blame me for trying," I calmly reply, my eyes searching the crowd for the woman that I secretly labeled 'Fire Baby', both because of her occupation and because I find her so irresistibly hot.

When my eyes don't immediately fall upon her, I experience a moment of panic, and then I see her. She is moving away, back toward the tight grouping of vehicles near the main entrance to the AM/PM store, her interest having waned, and I feel a moment of hurt and disappointment. Even from this distance, I can see the sway of her ass accented by the tight fitting denim, the proud rise accenting the tight curvature of spine in the small of her back. "How does a woman hold herself together like that?" I silently mouth, a tightness developing in my groin area.

"Man, you got her bad. I'm really going to enjoy that one."

"You sick bastard. You stay away from her," I angrily hiss. As I look on, she climbs into a Chevy pickup truck and slowly drives out the far side of the parking lot, turning south and quickly getting lost to sight. "Besides, she doesn't fit your profile," I silently argue as reasoning returns and my moment of impotent rage passes.

"You're the only one that seems to think I have a type," the voice retaliates.

"Young, Caucasian females, barely out of their teens, preferably blonde with blue eyes and under 5 foot 6 in height. Slender in build, but not too thin," I state for the benefit of the voice.

"Wow, you think you really know me, don't you?" the voice laughingly taunts.

"I know you well enough to know that you're not invincible. You're going to slip up, and when you do, I'll be there to take you down. And if the opportunity to put a bullet through that sick head of yours presents itself, I will do it without hesitation," I state almost matter-of-factly, the slightest hint of my rage still showing through.

"We have something more in common than you think, Mike," it teases.

"We have only one thing in common, you sick asshole, and that is I plan to be present when you die."

"Such harsh words. You don't have to be like that, Mike," the voice soothes. "But I won't take it personal, I know it's your job to catch me. Still, we have something in common now, even more than just this game of cat and mouse that we're playing."

Growing tired of his game, I relent. "Okay, asswipe, what do we have in common?"

"Aside from your presence when I die, her, your Fire Baby."

### Chapter Seven

"Good morning," comes a cheerful female voice followed immediately by a sharp beam of sunlight in my eyes, forcing me to squint at the source of morning cheer.

"What time is it?" I ask, still squinting against the sun streaming relentlessly through the windows.

"Almost nine. Time to check your vitals and get you ready for discharge, unless you want to spend another day under our wonderful care?" she says spritely, moving along the side of the bed, the chart in her grasp for easy reference against the dials on the monitors.

Setting the chart down on the bed, she takes her stethoscope from around her throat and places the buds in her ears before placing the microphone against my bare chest, and then expertly moving it around, pausing with each move to take a quick listen before sliding it to another spot and listening again. I study her up close while she does her exam of my vitals, noticing the smooth skin with just a light covering of peach fuzz along her cheeks, the little sleepers in her ears, the tight blonde curls of short cropped hair. Standing approximately 5 foot 8, her shape almost indiscernible in the loose fit of the blue scrubs and yet, cute in her own way. Very efficient.

Putting the stethoscope back in place around her neck, she takes my wrist in her left hand and holds it steady while reading the dial on a watch on her right wrist for ten seconds. When she finishes, she gently sets my hand down and moves toward the door. When she is almost at the door, she suddenly stops and turns back to face me. "Everything looks good Mr. Hennessy, so I'm going to sign off on this and leave it with the duty nurse. She'll see that someone brings you your clothes, since they had to send them to the laundry to get the blood stains out. Normally, family members will bring our patients clothing from home for our departing guests, but since that didn't happen, Denise had them sewn up and labeled so they could be added to the hospital linens. I'm sure you remember who Denise is," she smiles.

"I do, thank you."

"Whoever brings you your clothes will also escort you down to the front entrance. Is there anything you need or have any questions before I leave?"

"Yeah, what happened to the other Doctor?"

"Rotating shift," she simply replies as if that explains everything.

Without further ado, she turns and heads out into the hall, turning right and going past the nurse's station, presumably to drop off the chart and alert the duty nurse to my departure. Taking a deep breath, I suddenly feel anxious to get going. Without giving it another thought, I pull the IV from my arm and push the stand out of the way before swinging my feet over the side of the bed and slowly rise to my feet, my hands holding onto the railing for support while I let the clouds clear in my head.

Pushing off from the bed, I gingerly walk to the bathroom, my equilibrium getting better with each step. After taking care of business, I freshen my face and head back into the room just as a nurse enters carrying a bag of fresh laundered clothing. "Here you go Mr. Hennessy. Denise had this sent out for cleaning. She said you might like some fresh clothing to put on, make you feel like a new man."

"Thank you," I simply state, taking the proffered laundry, recognizing the trench coat through the clear plastic and noticing that the bullet hole was no longer visible, as well as any evidence of blood.

"I'll be back in a few minutes to take you down to the front entrance. Do you have someone picking you up?"

The question caught me off guard. I didn't have any family or close friends to call so I hadn't really considered it. "I think the department might be sending a car by for me," I sheepishly reply. "If not, I'll probably need a cab to take me home."

Smiling disarmingly, she quickly replies, "Why don't we just line up a cab for you? I'll make that call and be right back."

"Thank you."

On her way out, she pauses to close the door, turning and smiling back at me with something akin to sadness or sympathy in her eyes. I simply nod and look away, the sun coming through the window reminding me of my recurring dream.

Sensing his presence, I demand, "Okay, asswipe, what's her name?"

Almost immediately, I hear a reply in my head. "Who?"

Angered by his presence, and yet knowing it might be the only way I can get ahead of him, I encourage him to talk. "You know who I mean. The victim you dumped in the parking lot. The young woman that you take the time to pose before abandoning."

"Oh, I see. You want me to tell you who she is because she hasn't been killed yet and then you can get to her before I do," the voice calmly states. And then, taking on an angry edge, shouts loudly through my cranium, "Well you're too fucking late, Detective. While you slept away the night in your warm comfortable bed, I was busy. She's already dead."

"Nooo!" I scream in anguish, my anger mounting.

"Ha ha ha! You can't get ahead of me. When will you learn that your job is picking up the pieces? The fucking pieces that I leave for you," the voice laughingly taunts. "Don't you get it detective? You wouldn't even have a job if it wasn't for me. I've made you who you are."

The nurse returns just as I finish pulling on my suit jacket. "Here are your personal things," she says, handing me a large manila envelope. "I have a set of wheels outside for you to ride in." When she sees me raise my eye brows, she quickly adds, "Hospital policy. But if you want, I won't object to you walking."

Putting my wallet in my breast pocket, I smile at her, saying, "Thanks."

With the familiarity of my clothing, I can't help but miss the comfortable weight of my Glock tucked neatly in its normal place beneath my left arm. But I have no doubt that my weapon is in an evidence locker somewhere, probably being tested for ballistics to verify it was the piece that took Manny's life. It will be a while before I see that weapon again, if ever. Also, the Captain is probably holding my shield until I am released from administrative leave and can return to duty.

When we reach the main entrance, I am greeted by my junior detective, Bobby Ames, looking preppy in his freshly pressed suit, only recently graduated from the academy. A football scholar from Harvard with a youthful outlook on the world, very optimistic. He is a good kid, quick on the uptake, but with a lot to learn.

"How are you doing sir?" he says, smiling brightly.

"Thanks," I say to the nurse as she turns back to her chores, leaving me standing in the doorway.

Over her shoulder, the wheelchair rolling along in front of her she calls out, "Anytime."

"Did you have a nice stay?" he asks, not put off by the fact that I hadn't acknowledged his original question.

"Just fucking wonderful," I grumble, not quite ready for his upbeat attitude after my little conversation with the voice in my head. "A real vacation."

"Sorry sir," he quickly apologizes, the wind having been sucked out of his sails by my sour demeanor.

"Bobby, unless you did something to warrant it, don't ever fucking apologize, it's a sign of weakness, and in this business, you never show weakness. Even if you're having a hard time standing on your own two feet, you always put up a brave front. People don't expect anything less from a cop."

"Yes, sir," he replies, his smile returning as he realizes I'm not upset with him personally. Like I said, he's quick on the uptake.

"So, Bobby, where are you taking me? Downtown or home?"

"Home, sir."

After a moment's hesitation, I comment, "Yeah, that's probably for the best." I can't help but notice a wave of relief wash over his face.

We walk to his car in silence, but once settled in, I ask him where we're at on the serial case and if the task force has made any headways in my absence. When he informs me that most of the men have been temporarily assigned to my shooting of a fellow officer, my gut reaction is a mixture of anger and frustration. Anger at the fact that so much attention is being given to what should be an open and shut case of self-defense, and frustration at the time and resources being used on something other than a major murder case.

Just the thought of the time wasted while being in the hospital and now the potential possibility that there might already be another victim out there only makes me more anxious to get back to work and re-take charge of the case.

"Bobby, I want you to do something for me when you get back to the office," I start, having made the split second decision to take him under my wing and promote him to my right hand assistant. Logic dictated that I needed someone to do my grunt work if I intended on getting anything done, even if I were allowed to return to work immediately. The time for micro-managing was over.

"Yes, sir, whatever you need," he quickly replies, pulling out into traffic and heading toward NE Portland where my ramshackle apartment sits, hopefully not occupied by any homeless vagrants that found the door unlocked. I found it easier to simply leave the door unlocked than worry about losing a set of keys. It's not as if I have anything of value worth stealing.

"First off, quit calling me 'sir'. I can live with Boss or Lieutenant, your choice."

"Yes, sir, I mean Boss, Lieutenant, Boss. I'll call you Boss, sir, I mean Boss," he stutters nervously.

"Boss is good," I calmly remark, letting him relax. "Now, when you get back to the office, run a search for any new victims within the last twenty-four hours, but expand the territory away from the Columbia basin." I think for a moment before adding, "Include the entire state." Before he can tell me that such a search will draw in a lot of chaff, I add, "Tighten the search parameters to females under 30 years of age, blonde hair, blue eyes, height under 6 feet and slender of build. At this time, anything outside of those parameters, I'm not interested in. If that changes, I'll let you know and we can expand them."

"Boss," he says a bit hesitantly, unsure of the use of the word yet. "Is there something I should know about?"

"Not yet, it's still just a hunch. But if it pans out, we'll have our work cut out for us. In the meantime, just do as I ask and don't discuss it with the others. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Boss," he quickly replies, his confidence with using the term growing quickly. Like I said, he's quick on the uptake, a smart kid.

When we pull up to the address he was provided by the Captain, my apartment, he hesitantly looks out the side window, perplexed by the state of disrepair and all the garbage on the street, but not just my building, every building in the neighborhood.

"I'm a believer in the old adage that we should live where we work, Bobby. Since this is where most of the crime takes place, this is where I need to live to have the greatest impact on it."

"Do you want me to come in with you, Boss?" he hesitantly asks, concerned for my safety.

Pushing open the door and stiffly climbing out, my body still protesting from the trauma it'd been through, I turn back to face him and gruffly remark, "I don't need someone to hold my hand, kid, I need someone to get on that search."

"Yes, Boss."

"You call me the minute you have something. You hear me?"

"Yes, Boss, loud and clear," he quickly replies, pulling the shift lever into drive.

"Good," I say, pushing the door shut and heading up the path of broken concrete toward my apartment.

### Chapter Eight

As I climb the three warped and rotting plank steps leading up to the dilapidated front porch, my neighbor Suzy waves from her front window. Dark as charcoal, wide as the door jamb, and with a heart bigger than all of Texas, we met shortly after I moved in. Her boyfriend, a junkie that used her to support his habit, and I, didn't see eye to eye on anything, especially when he got angry and took it out on Suzy, which was most times.

One humid summer night shortly after I'd moved in, he took a knife and cut her because she didn't have any money left after paying her rent. His dealer was pressuring him to square up, threatening that if he didn't make good on what was owed he was going to lose the use of a leg. I heard the commotion through my open window and it was interfering with the Mariner's game on TV.

Without even thinking what I was doing, short of being pissed off that his yelling and her screaming were drowning out the calls from the umpire, I went over and pounded on her screen door, even though I knew I was going in whether I was invited or not.

With no response from inside, I flung open the screen door and stomped angrily through the living room. Going straight to the kitchen where the noise was coming from, I don't stop until I reach the doorway and see him standing in front of the kitchen sink, his right arm around her neck, a long butcher knife gripped tightly in the same hand, waving it about wildly, the slashing movements coming close to her overly ample breasts.

Seeing me standing in the doorway, her screaming stops as she looks pleadingly into my eyes like an animal caught in a trap. I smile back at her, trying to reassure her, noting that a steady stream of tears have recently washed down her face and soaked into her cotton halter top.

When the scumbag finally realizes the reason for her silence, he turns his blood shot eyes in my direction, his 6 foot 3 inch frame of emaciation towering over Suzy. At first he just looks, not sure he can trust his eyes, squinting a couple of times before realizing that I'm real and then finally recognizing me.

"I know you," he yells, maintaining his grip on Suzy. "You're that fucking shithead that lives next door."

"Yeah, that would be me," I casually remark, not raising my voice though my anger is mounting.

"What da fuck you want?" he spits out through yellowed and decaying teeth, the knife still waving crazily close to Suzy's breasts. I'm not normally an advocate for women's wear, especially when it comes to the brassiere department. But that night I really wished Suzy had taken up wearing something a bit more restraining. The sharp edge of the knife was coming awful damned close to nipping off some of her ample breast, possibly a nipple, and that would be a crying shame, all things considered.

It's then that I see the blood and realize he's already cut her; whether by accident or intentionally, I don't know and I don't care. It wasn't called for and he's going to pay for it.

Taking a step toward him, I calmly state, "Hey asswipe, I came over here because you were making so damned much noise I couldn't properly listen to my ball game on the TV. But that was before I knew you'd gone and hurt my friend Suzy here." He looks at me, confused and not understanding what I'm trying to tell him. Yet, despite the incomprehension, he realizes that I'm getting closer to him, and he tries to take a step backwards, coming up hard against the side of the counter.

"Stay back," he blurts, not sure what to make of me and quickly growing unsure of himself.

Taking another step toward him, he suddenly presses the knife up beneath Suzy's throat, threatening to cut her again. Ignoring him, I look at Suzy and ask her where he cut her.

"My leg," she says calmly, not understanding what I'm doing, but not able to do anything else either.

I take another step forward, placing myself less than 2 feet from him, easily within reach of him. "Can I see?" I calmly ask her, still ignoring him as if he isn't even in the room.

"Hey, back up," he says, even more confused by my actions.

Innocently, she turns and leans over to point out the cut in her right thigh that he'd inflicted earlier. When she does, the scumbag lets the blade slip from the proximity of her throat and I bitch slap him hard to the side of his face with the back of my right hand. The blow catches him completely by surprise and when he jerks back, I follow through with a solid left uppercut, my arm moving above Suzy's back and catching him in the front of the throat, knocking him backwards away from Suzy.

Stumbling backwards, he lands against the counter, the hand holding the knife going down into the sink as he reaches out to stop himself falling. When his elbow connects with the porcelain lip of the sink, it hits a nerve and his fingers go numb causing him to drop the knife into the sink with a clear metallic sound.

Meanwhile, I've grabbed Suzy by her left arm and pulled her out into the living room before turning back and re-entering the kitchen. Walking up to the dirt-bag where he's still got one arm in the sink to hold himself up, I sucker punch him in the gut with my left fist, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to double over. As his face comes down, I bring up my right knee, driving it into his nose and shattering the cartilage within, a spray of blood suddenly shooting over the floor and counter.

"Ah, man, now look at what you done went and did. Who do you suppose is going to clean that up?" I ask, watching him closely, his eyes out of focus.

Moving slowly, he begins to raise his head, still stunned by the sudden turn of events. When he is almost upright, I grab a handful of greasy hair at the back of his head and drive his face downward against the countertop. The impact is enough to knock him unconscious and he crumples to the floor. For good measure I give him a swift kick in the chest, almost certain by the sound my foot made upon contact that I broke at least one, maybe two ribs. Confident that he isn't going anywhere on his own, I head out into the living room to check on Suzy.

After calling the duty officer and asking him to send a car to pick up the douche bag and a bus to treat Suzy's wound, I explain to her what's going to happen next. Together, we are going to press charges and her boyfriend is going to go away for a long time. For both our sakes, it can't be any other way.

Suzy followed through, first by pressing charges and then by showing up in court and giving testimony that put the dirt bag away for 5 to 7. We've been friends ever since, sometimes even going to each other's place for company or to share a dinner. Let it be known, however, Suzy isn't really much of a cook. She's also had a few new boyfriends since, none of which seem to last more than a couple of dates, especially after they find out that her neighbor is a cop and that we're friends. So it's no secret that we look out for each other's places and she always has a warm smile for me.

Pushing through the warped door and seeing the Spartan interior of my abode, I can tell right away no one has been there since I last went out; all the dirt is right where I left it.

Letting the door swing shut of its own accord, I head straight through the living room, glancing at the TV as I go by and then continue on through the doorway on the left into the kitchen, saying a silent prayer that I'll find a couple of Bohemians in the fridge. Not to be disappointed, I grab one and push the fridge door shut with my elbow as I flip the top off the bottle.

With a cold beer in my hand, I head back to the living room and drop into the threadbare recliner positioned directly in front of the TV, the only two pieces of furniture in the room. I have a bed, single, in the bedroom with a single dresser and a steel pole anchored on the wall running from one side of the room to the other with all my clothes clinging to it with coat hangers. The only window is boarded up, a pull shade to hide the boards. The only other furniture in the unit is a Formica table with two matching chairs in the kitchen, a throwback to the fifties, the red Formica chipped and cracked, the chrome trim rusted in places. All in all, a very depressing place to be. Fortunately, I don't spend much time here, and I make it a habit to never invite anyone in except for Suzy, who never judges me.

Long before the beer has a chance to grow warm, I doze off in front of the TV after tuning to an all-news channel on the off chance I might catch something about the serial case.

The ringing of my cell phone startles me awake. I had forgotten that it was in my trench coat pocket, the coat now hanging over the back of the chair and the phone almost next to my head. The half-full bottle of beer, now warm from setting between my legs, goes rolling to the floor, the beer foaming out in a rush as I twist around only to be further awakened by a sharp stab of pain emanating from my left shoulder.

"Damn," I cuss, finally pulling the coat over my shoulder and retrieving my cell in time to see it's a call from Bobby.

"Yeah," I grumble, groggy, in pain, and now mad at the world in general.

"You told me to call you if I found anything, remember?" he says. And then, when I don't immediately respond, he quickly adds in his defense, "Any new cases involving a young female, blonde hair, blue eyes..."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. What did you find?" I ask, cutting him off as my thoughts clear.

"I found a couple of good prospects actually, but only one that really stands out, mostly because of the time frame. The body was dumped early this morning, posed actually, in a fairly busy parking lot with a few people around."

"Yeah, I already know all that," I mumble impatiently, suddenly trying to will him into hurrying up and give me all the details. "But where was it? What town?"

"A little place over in eastern Oregon called Duncin. It was in the AM/PM parking lot; kind of a hotspot for your morning coffee if you're a local. Not really your typical location for a murder, though," he adds, his voice sounding like he was questioning it.

"What time is it?"

"Huh? You mean now or when the body was dumped?"

"Now, now, what time is it now?" I impatiently ask.

"Almost eight PM," he says. And then incorrectly assuming that I'm asking because I'm concerned about him getting enough rest and not overworking, adds, "It's okay, Boss, I don't need much sleep."

"Good, pick me up in an hour, we're going to Duncin," I state, flipping the phone shut and breaking the connection. "Guess it wouldn't hurt to get in a shower," I mumble to myself, tenderly rubbing my left shoulder while shuffling toward the bathroom, the spilled bottle of beer all but forgotten.

Getting out of the shower, I put the same clothes back on since they'd just been laundered, and head out into the living room, taking a moment to clean up the spilled beer.

When I see Bobby pull up to the curb, I head out the front door. Seeing me coming, he quickly opens his door and starts to get out. Before he gets fully erect, his head just above the roof, I wave him off, indicating for him to stay put. Like an inflatable doll losing air, he settles back into the driver's seat and pulls the door closed before reconnecting his seatbelt. My intention is for him to drive so I can get some rest, I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.

### Chapter Nine

"Did you clear this with the Captain?" he asks before we even pull away from the curb.

"It's a lead," I state, as if that's all that needs saying.

His voice betraying the uncertainty of his involvement, he says softly, a bit hesitantly, "I was only supposed to get you home from the hospital, not take you to eastern Oregon."

"Don't worry about it, kid. Consider me a ride-along and your just following up a new lead."

"Ride-alongs can't get involved in cases, they're just supposed to observe," he weakly protests, hoping beyond hope that I might change my mind and tell him to turn around. "The Captain's going to be pissed when he finds out that you're in eastern Oregon, and he's going to be even madder at me for driving you."

Turning to look at him, I say with empathy in my voice, "Bobby, trust me, I won't let you get into any trouble. If the Captain gets pissed it'll be with me, not you. He'll know that I browbeat you into taking me and that you're just trying to be a good Junior Detective. But I assure you, once he finds out what we discover, he'll forget all about being upset with us."

After a long pause, he nervously inquires, "Do you really believe this murder is connected to our serial case?"

"Bobby," I start, pausing to sigh as if weighing a heavy burden. "I think this murder is just the start of a whole other direction this case is going to lead us. In fact, I never did buy into the theory that our boy was restricting himself to the Columbia Gorge."

"Then why haven't we investigated further afield before?" he asks, glancing sideways at me as the river flows by on our left.

"Because it wasn't my case before." I take a breath, settling myself deeper into the seat in an attempt to get more comfortable before closing my eyes and sighing with resignation, "And no one ever asked me my opinion."

Between the hum of the tires and nothing to occupy my hands, I quickly fade off to sleep.

"Oh, she's a sweet one."

"She's not your type. Why the interest?"

"Because she interests you, she interests me. Is that so complicated?"

The view through his eyes is that of lying prone on a low knoll overlooking an older, yet well maintained 2-story structure with a small community of tents erected off to the side. I am about to ask him what he is waiting for when the front screen door swings open and Lara steps out dressed in faded jeans and a light yellow cotton blouse. It takes me a moment to realize that the view is through a pair of high-powered binoculars.

At the sight of her my heart skips a beat and my breath catches in my throat. For the briefest of moments, I'm not sure if it's lust, love, or fear that causes the restriction in my chest. Even though I'm not physically lying there on the hill with him, I can taste the scent of the raw earth in my nostrils as I take a breath to speak, "You leave her alone," I hiss through clenched teeth.

"You know I can't do that. And besides, you want her in your own way as much I do in mine."

"She's not your type," I argue, barely able to maintain control, even though I know my debate with him is an effort in futility. Trying a different tack, I ask him, "What can I say or do to make you leave her alone?"

"Ha ha ha," he laughs in my head, amused by my frantic efforts to dissuade him from making her a future victim. After a long pause while we watch Lara climb into her pickup truck and fire it up, a feeling of loss washing through me at the sight of her going out the driveway and heading past on the road below our position, going toward the highway and possibly town, he says, "Don't go getting your knickers in a twist, I'm not ready for her just yet. This little excursion is just research. I'll make sure you find my latest subject before the sun sets tomorrow."

"No, not another so soon," I cry out to him, literally begging him.

His voice laughing sadistically slowly fades into the recesses of my mind as I open my eyes to the bright lights of an all-night service station.

"Where are we?" I ask, glancing at the clock on the dash and noting that it is after 11 PM.

"We're about to head south away from the river basin. I thought it might be a good idea to fuel up before we head out into no-man's land," he smiles, glancing over and meeting my gaze. "What's wrong? You're not looking so good Boss. Have a bad dream?"

"Yeah, something like that," I reply, wondering why the terrain in my dream seemed so familiar. It was almost as if I'd been there before. But then I quickly dismiss the thought, realizing that almost all of eastern Oregon and most of the southwest United States looks the same to an unschooled city boy.

With a full tank of fuel and a bag of Thin and Crispy chips to go with our bottled water, we head south on the highway to Duncin. At this hour, I'm not expecting anyone that can help us to still be up. But I am expecting at the least there to be an officer on duty that can share the files of the most recent murder case in their jurisdiction with us. Don't all small towns have a desk sergeant on duty at night to take 911 calls?

"So," he slowly starts, as if nervously treading on thin ice, yet unable to leave it alone any longer. "Want to talk about it?"

"About what?" I grumble, knowing full well what he's referring to, but not sure I want to take him to that dark and lonely place of mine just yet. In fact, he would be better off never knowing about the place in my mind where I hear voices. Even though it wouldn't take much effort to prove the reality of it to him, it wouldn't do him any good to know. It's better that he just think I'm a natural born detective and let the mystery of my expertise remain just that, a mystery. I'll share everything else I know with him and teach him all there is to know about this trade of hunting down human killers, but not that. That's going to remain my little secret; despite the lonely path it places me on, that secret must always remain mine and mine alone.

"Did you dream about getting shot? I know I would have nightmares forever if I'd been shot, especially by my own partner," he says. And then, as if suddenly realizing what he'd just said, he self-consciously back-pedals, stumbling over his own words, "Not that I think you would ever shoot me, Boss. That's not what I meant."

"Keep it up and I just might."

"Sorry, Boss," he replies, contrite.

As we leave the streetlights of the little port city behind, the only light to be seen is the illumination of our headlights on the asphalt as it unwinds in front of us, a never ending stream of white paint on the right and alternating yellow stripes on the left. I close my eyes and wedge my bottle of water between my thighs so it can't fall over when I doze off, and I have every intention of dozing off, it's the only way I'm going to get ahead of this asshole killing pretty young girls.

"You think you're so damned smart, Detective. You should know by now that I'm only showing you what the Hell I want you to see," he hisses in the deep recesses of my mind.

"If you don't want to share with me, why are you here? Why not just remain silent and follow my investigation from the silent depths of your sick and putrefying mind?"

"What would be the fun in that?"

"You're going to slip up, asswipe. And when you do, I'm going to nail you."

"Admit it Detective, you're enjoying this as much as I am. Every murder that I commit makes the news because of the sweet Modus Operandi that I have become famous for. And even when there aren't any leads, you're off and running like a dog on a scent while everyone else is sitting and spinning. Just look at you now. No one else figured out that my handiwork isn't just to be savored in the Columbia Basin. But you did. And when your Captain realizes the importance of this new avenue to explore, you will rise even higher in his standing, and everyone else's standing too. The media are going to want your story and your take on every new crime scene that you're at. It's only a matter of time before you become a media sensation and you'll owe it all to me. I'm going to make you famous."

"You can kiss my ass. If I garner any notice from this case, it's going to be when I place my handcuffs on your wrists or put a bullet through your black heart," I hiss back.

"I'm so glad it was you that found me, Detective, because you are a spirited one, even if a tad delusional," he laughs.

"I haven't found you yet, asswipe, but I will; it's just a matter of time, trust me."

"If you find me, Detective, it will be on my terms, and it won't be because you're arresting me, trust me."

"Where's the latest body?" I quickly ask, hoping to catch him off guard in his talkative mood.

"You'll know soon enough," the voice laughs tauntingly as its presence fades from my consciousness.

Slowly, I grow aware of a set of red lights ahead of us as consciousness returns. Glancing at the clock on the dash, I realize that I'd been sleeping for more than half an hour.

Seeing me sit up, Bobby comments, "Hey Boss, did you have a good nap?"

"Yeah, I did. Getting shot really takes a lot out of you," I add, as if having to justify why I keep dozing off. "How much farther?"

"Those lights up ahead should be Duncin," he replies, backing off on the gas to keep a safe distance behind the car ahead of us, which we have overtaken. "Shouldn't be but a few minutes now."

"When we get there, let me do the talking."

"Yes, Boss. But at this time of the night, who are we going to be talking to?"

"Whoever's still awake."

### Chapter Ten

Driving down the main thoroughfare through town, which is also the Washington/California highway, we pass a stalwart granite building with large cascading steps leading up to a pair of massive wooden doors finished with a dark stain, or so it appears beneath the dim yellow sodium bulb suspended above it by a horizontal steel pole protruding out about 5 feet or so from the face of the building with a simple metal shade protecting the bulb from possible hail stones. Just beyond the building's front is a driveway, within which is parked a single vehicle sporting lights on the roof and marked down the side with the wording SHERIFF. Without having to tell him, Bobby swings into the lot and pulls up alongside the solitary vehicle, which is also parked directly in front of a side door leading into the building. Above the door, added as an afterthought, is a simple white placard with the woods SHERIFF stenciled on it in plain black letters.

There are several tall windows leading away in either direction, only one off to the right giving any hint of a light within. "That's probably going to be the desk sergeant," I say, nodding toward the window. And then, as if an afterthought of my own, I add, "I wonder what fuckup he pulled that warranted him the night shift?"

"So this is what I have to look forward to when we get back to Portland and the Captain finds out that I drove you over here?"

"There's hope for you yet, kid," I chuckle, pushing open the door and stepping out of the vehicle, bending and stretching while letting the circulation reach down to my feet again.

The first thing that strikes me is the air, it smells of manzanita still lingering after the day's heat. It's a pleasant odor and I subconsciously think it's an odor that I could get used to. After breathing deeply of it, I notice also that the air is cooler than in Portland without the dampness that I have come to associate with the cold. It's a dry, comfortable coolness; great sleeping weather.

When we get to the door, the first thing we notice is that it's locked for security. To the right of the door is a hand-painted sign that says, Ring Bell for Service. Directly below the sign is an old door bell, the wire running to it hanging loosely down the side of the door jamb.

"I guess we push the bell for service," I absently comment, pressing the button with my right thumb.

Not hearing anything, I begin to wonder if it even works, when suddenly the door swings out, almost hitting Bobby in the face. Framed within the opening, silhouetted by the incandescent lights suspended on chains from the high ceilings, is a rotund man with a holster riding high on his right hip.

"Yes?" he bellows, able to see our features as we look into the light, but not the other way around.

Instinctively, I reach for my shield and realize all I have is my official police ID, which I hold up and introduce us, noticing that Bobby has his shield pinned to his belt and visible. "Detective Hennessey, Portland Police, this is Detective Ames. Can we come in?"

"Sure, come in," he says, turning his back to us and retreating through a door just a little ways in on the right. Before we can follow him through it, however, he pauses and indicates for us to continue on down the hall before closing the door behind him. "I'll meet you down there."

A short distance down the hall is a waist high window with bars in it, reminding me of a western day's bank. By the time we reach it, the deputy is already seated behind it, waiting for us, looking comfortable and in his place.

Looking at his name tag, I address him accordingly, "Deputy Mann, we're hoping you can help us with an investigation we're working on."

"A little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you?"

I take an immediate dislike to his tone of voice, but you don't catch many flies with vinegar, so I play nice guy to see if I can draw any sympathy out of him. "When the killer decides to stay in our jurisdiction, so will we, Deputy. We're not here to step on any toes, we're just looking for a little help, is all. We've just spent several long hours on the road getting here and all we want is some information about a recent murder in your county. In fact, I think it was in this town where the body was dropped."

Before I can continue, he cuts me off. "You mean that young girl? Made all the news. We've been overrun with reporters from all the major stations. Most people didn't even know Duncin existed until that young girl's body was dropped over at the AM/PM Fuel Stop."

"Was she a local girl?"

"Not from around here," he states, not embellishing further.

"Would it be possible to get copies of the report?"

"I would need to check with the Sheriff first. Nothing goes out of these offices without his approval," he says, almost smiling at the sense of power he feels from being able to withhold information from us. I have to remember that we are outsiders, and it isn't helping that we're from the city, actually any city.

"I don't mean to be pushy, but can you check with your Sheriff so we can get out of your hair?"

Pivoting his large frame around and glancing at a large round clock mounted on the back wall, he turns back with a grin and says, "Be glad to, in about five and a half hours, that's when he comes in."

"Are you serious?" I spout, not sure if he's pulling our legs or not. "You can't just give him a call at home and ask him?"

"No, I can't. The last desk sergeant to bother the sheriff at home doesn't work here anymore. And I don't intend to be the next to go," he says with determined finality.

"So what do you suggest? We've just driven more than three hours to get here and now you're telling us we have to wait at least another five before we can get any information regarding a murder?" I blurt, exasperated.

"There's a Super 8 motel about five miles up the road. I suggest you go and get a good night's sleep and come back at a more reasonable time in the morning. You don't want to be waiting here at six sharp though because the Sheriff, he kinda likes to have a cup of Joe and a tacky bun before he gets moving, which can last him a half hour or better."

Turning toward the door, Bobby catches me by surprise when he asks Deputy Mann, "Where was the girl from?"

"She was a runaway from Portland. I just figured you were here for that reason," he states matter-of-factly.

Unable to restrain myself, I demand, "If we had known she was from Portland, why would I have asked if she were a local girl?" I almost added dipshit to the end of that, but my restraint kicked in by that point. Clearly this guy just has an authority complex. I should have left the file request to Bobby, we might have it by now.

"You just asked if she were a local and I answered your question," he replies, placing his beefy paws on the counter and leaning forward in a display of dominant superiority.

Giving Bobby a knowing nod, I turn without a word and retreat down the hall and out the door, leaving Bobby to gather what information he can. The Deputy clearly isn't going to give me anything. But Bobby isn't an authoritarian figure and for that reason, he might relate more to him. It's worth a shot; I clearly ain't going to get anything out of the guy.

Bobby comes out just a few short minutes behind me, the tired look on his face revealing the success of his questioning. Pulling open the driver's door, he flings his valise over the back of the seat where it lands on the back seat and then literally drops into the driver's seat with a loud exhalation of breath.

"It was worth a try," I softly comment. "He surely wasn't going to give me anything."

As if he hadn't even heard me, he slowly states, "It was a dark sedan. Man of average build and height, collar pulled up on a grey trench coat to hide his face, no one saw the plates on the car. He lifted the body out of the trunk and positioned her on the pavement as if it were a normal everyday occurrence. Until he got back into the car and drove off, no one even realized what he'd done or what he'd left behind. And by then, no one remembered much in the way of details." He pauses to take a breath before continuing. "Parents reported her missing two days prior to her being dumped in the parking lot. It was presumed by both missing persons and her parents that she ran away from home because of an argument they had the day before over her seeing her boyfriend on school nights."

"Damn, Bobby, I'm impressed. You done good."

"It's easy when you speak to someone as an equal and not from a position of authority," he says. And then, before I can ask him what he means by that, he adds, "If you still want to see the file, we need to be back here about 7 AM."

"Let's go get a couple of rooms," I reply, biting my tongue to avoid making a snide remark that I will only end up regretting.

The ride to the motel turns into fifteen minutes of silence. But once we reach the Super 8 and walk in through the lobby doors, Bobby asks how we intend to pay since we don't have travel authorization from the Captain.

"We'll put them on my credit card. Just let me worry about it and get yourself a good night's sleep," I tell him, knowing that I will get authorization when we bring back solid information. At least, that's what I was banking this whole trip on.

"We could share a room," Bobby tentatively states, watching my face for a reaction.

"Trust me, the way I snore, you'll be glad you got your own room," I reply with a forced smile, pulling out my wallet as we reach the counter. With the rooms covered and our keys in hand, I tell Bobby to go ahead while I park the car, since we'd left it in the breezeway just outside the door. To my surprise, he doesn't argue and instead, heads toward the elevators without a word, his valise tucked snuggly under his left arm.

After parking the car, I head up the back stairway to the second floor where our rooms are located. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, I turn and look out on the parking lot, making a mental note of the laundry building and the few vehicles in the lot. Nothing of note stands out and I continue on to the room. Dropping my coat on the bed, I head into the bathroom and take a long hot shower. When I come out, I collapse on the bed. Glancing over at the clock on the nightstand, I notice that it's already after 1:30 in the morning. If I had been alone, I probably would have simply dozed off in the car while waiting for a restaurant to open so I could get some coffee in me before looking up the Sheriff. But with Bobby in tow, I need to do this properly, and frankly, I couldn't remember a bed ever feeling so soft.

"Hey Detective, I'm glad you could join me," comes the evil voice, sounding almost as if he were a friend and I'd just arrived for a backyard barbecue.

The first thing I notice is that it's dark, the night air chilly, but not damp. Then I realize that I recognize it and that we must be somewhere in eastern Oregon. My field of vision is limited to what I see through his eyes and right now, he is looking down at a young girl, his heart beating fast, his breath in short quick rasps; he'd been sexually aroused, but the climax has passed. The girl appears to be 18 or 19 years old, her only remaining apparel a sheer bikini panty, her torso smeared with blood, her eyes lifeless and clouding; his sick acts already sated him.

There is a knife in his right hand, the handle slick with blood and gore. He looks up as if it's a chore to tear his eyes from his handiwork. I can feel the pride he's feeling over what he has done. To him, what he has done is some kind of accomplishment. My stomach lurches and I want to throw up which causes him to laugh.

We are on the side of a farmer's access road with weeds growing up in the center of it. One way leads to green, recently baled alfalfa fields, the other probably back to the highway.

"Why her?" I ask, fighting to control my quaking innards.

"What, you don't recognize her?"

"No, I don't."

"You walked right past her at the hotel. She was pushing the cleaning cart down the hall," he says softly, taking his time with his words. "Just another inferior human that didn't warrant your attention. The working class rarely garner our notice. They're just there, day in and day out. No appreciation for the tasks they perform, toiling silently through each day. Their only purpose is to further us in our endeavors, Detective."

"What makes you so damned superior?" I ask, hoping he'll slip up and I'll discover something about him that we heretofore didn't know. Just his attitude suggests that if he works for a living, he must be in a position of authority.

"Nice try, Detective. But this isn't about me, it's about you," he says with a chuckle. "Which makes me have to ask, how's it going with your new apprentice? Is he catching on? Are you teaching him everything you know?"

"This has nothing to do with him," I quickly reply, momentarily caught off balance by his question.

"Yes, in that you are right. Maybe I should be asking you how Lara Offrage is. I'm going to enjoy that one, Detective."

At the mention of her name, my heart suddenly races and I can feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead, accenting the chill of the night. "Leave her alone. She doesn't fit your profile."

"No, she doesn't fit my normal profile, but for you, I'm going to make an exception. Don't you get it, Detective? I'm going to do her for you."

"Leave her alone!" The thought of this evil asswipe even being near to Lara drives me to the edge of reason. If there was a way to get through the ether that separates us, I would have traversed it at any cost, even if it meant the ultimate price. "Leave her out of this," I hiss, a terrible rage welling up inside me.

"Oh, this is good," laughs the voice. When he stops laughing, he calmly states, "I would love nothing more than to hang around and torment you, but it will be daylight soon, and as you can see," his eyes sweep over the mutilated corpse, "I have some unfinished business to take care of."

"It's only a matter of time, but I'm going to get you," I hiss, the anger raging within me.

"As long as you keep following my trail, you will always be one step behind and I will continue killing and mutilating these second-class humans."

Though he dismisses me in his mind, I continue to linger, trying to hold onto the connection with a soft touch so as not to make my presence known. And, for a while, I believe I am succeeding, as he wraps the body in a plastic shower curtain, no doubt removed from the hotel when he kidnapped the girl, and almost gently lays her in the trunk of his sedan before getting behind the wheel and turning the ignition.

"That's all you get tonight, Detective."

And with those words, I am suddenly back in the hotel, tossing and turning, the sheets wet with perspiration, a sharp pain streaking through my head. Bolting upright in the bed, I grab my cellphone and call the front desk, my breath coming in short rasps as I fear the answer to my question.

"Super 8. Front desk, may I help you?"

"Yes, this is Detective Hennessy in room 238. Do you have a cleaning service that works at night?"

"Yes sir, we do. Is there a problem?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I spilled something in the bed and I was wondering if I could get a clean turnout. I'll gladly pay if there's a charge," I quickly add, making it clear that I want the service immediately.

"No charge sir. I'll have the maid come around right away."

"Thank you," I reply, closing the cell and knowing that no one was coming to give me fresh sheets.

Noting the time is almost six AM, I quickly brush my teeth and take a quick rinse in the shower before getting dressed. Just before I reach the door, there is a knock on it. Missing a step, I hurriedly yank it open, hoping against hope that it's the young girl I saw in my dream and that she has just arrived with clean linens.

"Bobby," I blurt, seeing him standing there. Leaning out, I look up and down the hallway, which is empty.

"What are you looking for, sir?"

Heading back to the bed, I grab my valise and head out the door with Bobby close on my heels. Sensing my urgency, Bobby asks, "What is it, sir? What's going on?"

"Do you remember seeing a young woman pushing a cleaning cart when we arrived last night?" I ask as we take the steps down to the parking lot two at a time.

"Sure," he replies, giving me a quick smile as he adds, "She was kind of pretty, hard not to notice if you know what I mean."

"She was supposed to bring me a fresh set of sheets last night and she never showed up," I replied, not sure if I should tell him anymore for fear of not being able to explain my suspicions.

"I'm sure she just got busy. This is a large place, after all."

"Did you see many cars in the parking lot last night?"

"You got a point there."

"Come on, let's swing by the office first and see what the manager has to say. Besides, maybe he can suggest a place between here and Duncin that brews a decent cup of coffee."

The manager isn't any help at all except to keep apologizing for the maid's not showing up to my room to change out the sheets. But he promises that he'll locate her immediately and get her to take care of my room before she does anything else.

"When does her shift end?" I ask, wondering if maybe she'd left early without checking out.

"She works the 11 to 7 shift, just like the store," he smiles, making a weak attempt at levity.

When neither Bobby nor I respond, his demeanor quickly turns serious. "Let me check and see if she left early this morning."

"Does she leave early often without checking in with you?" Bobby asks, finally taking a serious interest. I can't help but wonder if his sudden interest in this girl stems from something more primeval, like below his belt.

"No," he quickly replies, punching keys on his console. "No, according to this, she's still here," he says, looking up.

"What does she drive and where does she normally park?" I ask of him. When he hesitates, I quickly add, "We're cops, for crying out loud."

"Ah, yes, of course. Silver Honda, one of those little economy things. It should be around back near the laundry facility," he quickly replies, nodding to the right over his shoulder.

"Come on, Bobby, let's check it out," and then in a more conciliatory tone of voice add, "I don't suppose you could recommend some place between here and Duncin that serves up a decent cup of Java?"

"There's a small store right on the highway just as you come to Duncin. It's an AM/PM Fuel Stop or something like that," he says, and then with a smile adds, "You wouldn't connect a place like that with good coffee, but from what I hear, it's not bad. The girl that works there prides herself on being quite the barista, if you know what I mean."

"I believe I do," I reply, turning toward the door and following Bobby. When we get outside, I ask my Junior Detective, "Do you know what he means?"

"Not a clue."

As we turn the corner and head toward the rear of the hotel, I suggest to Bobby that he collect the car and meet me over at the laundry building. From here, I can see the silver Honda parked just outside the door, a steady stream of steam blowing out a vent just to the left of the door. To myself, I'm wishfully thinking, "Let her be in there doing laundry."

My visions usually happen at the same time that the murders are being committed, so I'm wondering how long it will be before we receive a call on it. And then I remember, this murder is the same as the one we came to Duncin to investigate, they are not in our jurisdiction so there is no reason for anyone to call us. As frustrating as it is, it's going to be up to us to go to the county sheriff and ask him if any murders have been reported lately.

Why did it take so long to have visions of the Duncin murder? Did the perpetrator purposely block it from me, or does distance effect my visions? Or was I just too preoccupied with Manny to take note of it? Self-preservation and all. It was the same evil voice in my head that warned me of Manny that also killed the girl and dumped her body at the AM/PM in Duncin.

Of course, we're just assuming the girl was killed in Duncin or its proximity. Until we get the entire report, we shouldn't be making such presumptions. Duncin might have just been a convenient place to drop her once the deed was accomplished. The body could have been transported all the way from Portland. Time of death, which will be in the report, will help place her demise, hopefully.

Even before I reach the laundry facility, I can tell it's unoccupied. Bobby pulls in alongside the little Honda just as I open the door and step inside.

My gut instinct was right, it's unoccupied.

Glancing to the left, along the bank of dryers, I note that two are running, but the dials are almost expired, which means they could have been running for most of three hours, based on the maximum time-set on the dials. Bobby steps past me and opens one of the washers, none of which appear to be running. "Full of damp bedding," he says, closing the door and looking about the room.

"I'm getting a bad feeling about this, Bobby."

"Shall we tell the manager and do a search of the hotel?"

"We'll tell the manager, but we don't have time to search the entire hotel by ourselves." I think for a minute while making mental images of the laundry room before continuing. "Let's stop by the office and let the manager know that he needs to do a search for her. We'll call back after we talk to the Sheriff and see if he found her."

"I could stay and help with the search," Bobby offers.

"No, I want you with me, just in case we don't have to come back this way."

### Chapter Eleven

The coffee really wasn't that bad for a quick-mart, and when Bobby got a look at the coffee barista, he was instantly glad that I hadn't let him stay behind. In fact, he was so smitten with her, he offered to pay for our coffees and tacky buns just for an excuse to get a closer look at her and exchange a few words with her, which judging from her body language, went very well for him.

It was almost 7:30 AM by the time we re-entered the Sheriff's department. He was buried deep in a report that looked fresh, along with a state trooper and two other deputies that showed all the earmarks of having just arrived.

At the sight of us, they all turn as one and grow silent, except for the Sheriff, who looks me in the eye before glancing at his watch and says, "You must be the detective from Portland. I was told to expect you."

"Detective Hennessy, this is Detective Ames. We're here about the Portland runaway that turned up at your quick-mart."

"Sheriff Krupp, these are Deputies Lowe and Hanes and this is Oregon Trooper Smith, out of Bend. He's with the state forensics lab," the sheriff says, nodding at each of the men in turn.

An exchange of nodding heads and a couple of handshakes later, Sheriff Krupp dismissively states, "Since the girl came out of Portland, I asked my deputy to pull together everything we have and make copies for you. You can pick them up at the desk out front on your way out."

"Thank you," I start, but Trooper Smith cuts me off before I can continue, almost as if he knows where I'm going and he's intervening before I can say something that I'll regret.

"It would appear that your timing here is rather uncanny, Detective."

Now it's my turn, since like him, I too suspect that I know where this conversation is going, and decide to play ignorant. "How is that?"

"You arrive last night, you spend the night at the Super 8 down the highway, and this morning, we find the body of a young woman that works the night shift at the Super 8 strung up in a tree alongside a county road just a few miles south of the hotel off the main highway. And like the young girl that you're here investigating, this young woman is also blonde and also carved up. Is that coincidence, Detective?"

For the first time, I study the man in the dark blue uniform more closely, sizing him up. He stands approximately six feet tall and holds himself upright, his body muscular, but not overly so. We are close in age, mid to late forties, and his face is clean shaven and deeply tanned from many hours of eastern Oregon sun streaming through a windshield. His eyes are blue and penetrating.

He watches me studying him, unflinching. "I'm working a serial murder case, maybe you've heard it about? You do read, officer Smith, was it, don't you? It's been on the front pages of every major paper in the state." I pause, meeting his gaze. "They're called serial murderers because they kill more than once. We don't know yet how many this asswipe," stressing the word asswipe, "has killed, but we know now that he isn't limiting himself to the Columbia Gorge or Portland area. He's here, Trooper Smith, whether you like it or not. The only thing I am trying to figure out is, did he just move into the area, or is he just passing through? Because if it's the latter, we need to broaden the scope of our investigation, because I have a sick feeling we're going to find more open cases with the same MO."

"You may be right. I apologize if I sounded accusing, but it's not often that we have 2 murders in such a short span of time or in such close proximity." Turning toward the Sheriff, Smith says, "Sheriff Krupp, let's take these boys out to the sight where we found the last victim." When the Sheriff begins to protest, Smith quickly silences him with a wave of his hand. "These detectives have more background on the potential subject than we do. If they'll get us what they have so far, we'll include them here. Tit for tat," he finishes, turning back with a smug smile.

"I'll call my Captain and get copies of everything coming your way. Do you want it here or in Bend?"

"We'll keep the center of our investigation in Bend for the time being since that is where our lab is located. If it turns out that our victims are tied to your case, Detective, we might be broadening the boundary well beyond Duncin."

"When can we get out to the latest scene?" I ask Smith, ignoring Sheriff Krupp. It was obvious that he and I were never going to be friends, as he sat behind his large wooden desk stewing over this turn of events. Though I have no doubts that the sheriff's reaction toward me and my junior detective is strictly territorial, it still rubs me wrong.

"I'll lead you out there," Smith quickly replies, noticing Sheriff Krupp's displeasure and choosing to ignore it. "The crime scene boys should still be out there gathering evidence, but I'm sure the coroner has already collected the body. It'll be taken to Bend for our state forensics team to go over."

"I assume the other victim was taken there also."

"Correct," he says, leading the way down the hall toward the side entrance to the parking lot.

As we pass the desk sergeant, I pause long enough to collect a thick manila envelope with the words Portland written across it in felt pen. Without turning, Trooper Smith says over his shoulder as he pushes the door open, "It isn't much, but it's everything we've got."

"Thanks," I reply, following him out the door and stepping around to the passenger's side of our sedan while giving Bobby a quick nod toward the driver's side.

Only because of Trooper Smith's presence here this morning do I really believe that we got everything on the first murder. Sheriff Krupp in his adolescent view of things would have purposely left information out if he thought he could get away with it. That's just the type of person he put me in mind of.

Before we'd even left the lot, I had the sheaf of photocopies out on my lap, looking for the autopsy report and a cause of death. Even though we knew the victim had been severely butchered, I had to know how much was done to her while she was still alive and how much came after the fact.

To my disappointment, the latest results from the autopsy aren't in the file yet, just the preliminary inspection notes. I make a mental note to ask Smith about it. Even so, the coroner was able to determine that almost all of the injuries were inflicted while the victim was still alive, based on the initial investigation, just like all of his previous victims.

Of course, that wasn't anything I didn't already know if I were to trust my visions and the voices in my head.

We continue south on the Washington/California highway approximately 3 miles beyond the Super 8 Hotel before turning left onto a county farm road. Just a short distance up the road, we crest a low rise and the flashing lights from emergency vehicles become visible. The trees in this area are few and far between and yet, the perp managed to find one within 20 feet of the shoulder next to a gate leading into a wheat field that afforded him convenient parking while he committed his evil deed.

My first thought is that if there were any fresh tire tracks, the emergency vehicles and personnel had obliterated them by the way they'd pulled into the field and along the shoulder in both directions. "Are people so damned lazy they'll trample over evidence to avoid having to walk a few feet?" I angrily hiss.

"Maybe they checked the area over for evidence before they drove all over it," Bobby says with no conviction in his voice.

"Of course they did," I sarcastically agree as the car comes to a stop on the shoulder of the road close behind a private pickup truck with red volunteer fire department plates mounted above the state motor vehicle plates. "It looks like they invited the entire population to the party too," I add exasperatedly, nodding at the red plate for Bobby's benefit.

Trooper Smith pulls up behind us while one of the deputies from the sheriff's office parks across the road facing oncoming traffic so he can get closer to the scene, confirming my first suspicions about people being too lazy to walk a few extra feet. Bobby sees me eyeing the deputy and clears his throat to get my attention before I make a sarcastic remark that I'll regret.

Just as Smith catches up with us walking toward the tree, my cellphone rings. Pulling it out of my pocket, I see Captain on the screen. Though I desperately want to ignore it, I realize that I can't, and if I had been thinking, I would have called him before he had a chance to call me. At least I had some news pertaining to the serial investigation to share with him, which should help my cause a little.

"I need to take this," I say, turning back toward the car and leaving the others to continue on without me. "Good morning, Captain," I mouth cheerily into the phone.

"Damn it, Mike, what the Hell are you doing in Duncin?" he shouts back. And then, before I can reply, he continues, "I just got off the phone with a Sheriff Krupp. He called me to verify your official capacity with this department. Now when I get a call like that, I have to ask myself just what the Hell you did to piss this guy off, especially since I just told you to go home and get some rest."

"I can explain, Captain."

"Is Detective Ames with you?"

"That's my fault, Captain, I..."

"I know it's your damned fault, Detective. That kid is too damned wet behind the ears to do something this stupid on his own." He pauses to catch his breath and I envision him running his hand through his hair before continuing in a calmer voice, "Just for the record, I told Sheriff Krupp you were on official business. I don't know what you did to ruffle his feathers, but I got the feeling that if I had told him anything less, he would have arrested the two of you. And while it might do you some good to sit in their caboose for a night or two, I couldn't let that happen to Detective Ames."

"I appreciate that, Captain."

"If only I could believe that you really do," he says, his voice growing softer. "So, since you returned to work without official orders, what do you have for me so far?"

"I've been able to confirm that our serial hasn't been limiting himself to the Portland area or the Columbia Gorge. I went over the file from the first one in Duncin and it has all the earmarks of our guy. We just arrived at what is possibly his most recent crime scene, a young woman that worked the night shift at the motel where we stayed last night. She was found this morning along the side of a county farm road just off the main highway, about three miles from the very bed I slept in last night, Captain. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear this asshole was toying with me." I couldn't tell the Captain about my visions or voices, he wouldn't understand. In fact, he might go so far as to have me committed for psychiatric evaluation, work related stress and all.

"How would he know you were in Duncin last night when even I didn't know that?" the Captain grumbles into the phone. There's a long pause before he continues. "But with all the media attention this case is getting, we can't afford to overlook any angle. The mayor might be relieved to hear that it isn't limited to just his city. That will take a little of the spotlight off our department, at least for a while. But if we follow up with your idea that the perp is toying with you, then we have to look internally, and not just at the people who knew where you spent last night because you told them, but also everyone that might have access to your charge card, which practically opens up this investigation to the entire department."

"Yeah, I don't like it any more than you do, Captain," I commiserate, watching as a white suburban slowly rolls by, its single occupant, a middle-aged woman behind the wheel with her hair tied up in a bun, gawking out the window in hopes of seeing something you don't see every day so she can tell everyone at the beauty salon about it.

Although I wish I could tell him where my suspicions stem from, I know he wouldn't understand. But at the same time, I feel guilty that the department is going to be wasting manpower and resources on a dead end, when the Captain suddenly addresses me by my given name instead of Detective. "Mike, you're a good detective. You know I believe that and not just because of your conviction record. But that is only part of the reason I brought you on to head up this investigation." He hesitates for a moment, sorting his thoughts and weighing the benefits of what he's about to tell me before continuing. "I needed someone above reproach."

"You've come to suspect that our un-sub is a cop?" I blurt, incredulous.

"Not just a cop, Mike, but an officer of the Portland Police Department."

"That doesn't fit in with the latest evidence I've just pieced together, Captain, unless we have officers working in eastern Oregon."

"Obviously, I did last night, Detective," he says slowly, letting the unspoken words sink in.

My world spins as the realization of what he is suggesting takes root in my consciousness. And then the disbelief turns to anger. "Captain, if you're investigating me for these crimes..."

"Whoa, hold up one minute, Mike," he interrupts, his voice loud in my ear. "That's not what I'm saying at all. I sure as Hell wouldn't have assigned you the lead on this if I thought for one minute that you might be involved. I just said that I assigned you this case because I needed someone above reproach. Think about it for a second."

"Surely, you don't suspect Bobby?" I ask, growing more incredulous by the minute.

"Until you give me a firm suspect, Detective, I'm going to suspect everyone except you and me," he says, his tone conciliatory.

I take a deep breath before replying, "I appreciate your vote of confidence in me, Captain."

"I know it isn't necessary to say this, Detective, but this conversation stays between us."

"Of course, Captain. And I'll get you the file on the Duncin murder ASAP. If we stay another night, I'll overnight you a copy along with my notes from this latest one. Otherwise, I'll bring everything I have back with me." It's my turn to take a breath and consider my words before continuing. "Captain, I'll keep my eye on Bobby, Detective Ames, but I think you're wrong on this one. If this un-sub has a link into our department, I'll find it, wherever or whoever it is, and I'll take care of it."

"I'm counting on you, Detective," he says, and then the line goes silent.

The conversation took the wind out of my sails. Partly because of what I knew that I couldn't share with the Captain, and partly because there was a bit of possibility in what he suspected with regard to a connection to our police department. Putting me, an outsider to homicide on such a large case can only mean that he had these suspicions before he ever mouthed them to me.

Dropping the cell phone back in my coat pocket, I head in the direction where the others have gathered around a medium sized fir tree, the lower branches having been removed many years ago to accommodate oversized farm equipment using the access road into the field. As I draw nearer, I see strands of orange nylon baling twine still dangling at different heights from the tree and the first thought that comes to mind is that the crime wasn't preplanned. The twine is sun-bleached from exposure and was probably lying on the ground near the field access, more than likely abandoned during some past field work.

Retrieving my notepad from an inner pocket as I walk up to the others, I ask, "What do we have so far?"

Smith begins the dialogue. "You can see where the EMTs cut her down," he says, indicating the loose ends of twine still clinging to the smooth bark of the tree. "Unfortunately, they were the first ones on scene and they didn't think to take pictures beforehand. However, one of them did have the foresight to leave the loose ends of the twine in the tree so we'd be able to see precisely where and how she was bound."

"How considerate," I mumble to myself, and then quickly apologize when everyone turns toward me. "Sorry. Please continue."

"These aren't big city EMTs, Detective; they're local volunteers. Their first thought was for the victim, not the integrity of the crime scene," he states almost apologetically.

"Sorry," I repeat, feeling abashed.

"Based on the blood pooling at the base of the tree and yet no blood trails leading to it, we're assuming that the butchery was started somewhere else and that he transported her here in a prone position possibly wrapped in plastic or a tarp, something waterproof. She didn't begin to bleed out fully until after he strung her up, but some of the wounds are older than others. Her ankles showed ligature marks and the lowest twine is here," he says, pointing to the lowest piece of twine on the tree. "Which means she wasn't only secured to the tree, she was suspended from it, a good 8 to 10 inches off the ground. This coincides with the distance between the other pieces of twine and the victim's overall height."

"Were her hands tied behind the tree in a downward position or above her head?" I ask, trying to visualize the entire scene. Plus, suspending her off the ground while tying her hands in the lower position behind her back would indicate another level of cruelty as her weight would be forcing her shoulders up and out of position, which would be very painful and eventually with the steady downward pull of her weight, dislocate the shoulders.

"The coroner will confirm, but I believe he tied her arms behind her back, on the backside of the tree. The EMT that initially cut her loose was too upset to remember clearly, but he thinks her arms were behind the tree and not above her head."

"Sick bastard," I cuss under my breath.

"Yes, Detective, it was one sick bastard that could do this to another living human. Would you like me to continue?"

"Yes, please," I humbly reply, scribbling notes.

"We believe that after he trussed her to the tree, he finished her off with either a box cutter or a short-bladed knife, something that was extremely sharp. He severed her Achilles tendons and several arteries below the ankle to create a slow bleed out."

"Could it possibly have been a scalpel?" Bobby asks, then throws me a nervous look.

"Good question, Detective," I quickly remark to set him at ease, and then look at Trooper Smith for a reply.

"Once again, the coroner will likely confer, but I'm leaning toward some type of box cutter or readily available instrument. But whatever was used, it was sharp." He looks first at me and then to Bobby before continuing, "If her wounds were anything like the other victims, we're dealing with a madman that enjoys cutting up young women just for the sadistic thrill of it. After slicing along veins the entire length of her legs, he circumcised her breasts before removing several of her organs. The only part of her that he didn't desecrate was her face."

"You've just described every other victim of his that we've found to date," I remark. "Except for the method of restraining them, which is different in each of the scenes, he slices them from stem to stern. Even the organs that he removes but doesn't take with him, are the same." I knew most of this from reading the in-house police reports even before this was my case. For reasons that I can't explain, I've always had an interest in it.

When Smith raises an eyebrow questioningly, I add, "We haven't figured out the significance of the organ removal, Trooper. Since he leaves them behind, we have ruled out souvenirs. In fact, as far as we've been able to determine, this sick bastard doesn't take anything from the victim or the crime scene, and he's very adroit at leaving nothing behind, either."

"Except victims," Trooper Smith finishes.

### Chapter Twelve

With Bobby following along close on my heels, I walk a short distance in both directions from the crime scene, studying the few pieces of trash lying in the ditch and not seeing anything of interest. With nothing more to do here, I ask Trooper Smith if he's going to head back to the Super 8 or continue on south to Bend and the forensics lab.

"I'll be heading south to Bend. They should have a preliminary on the victim by the time I get there," he says, his gaze absently studying the surrounding terrain. "The deputies will forward anything of interest from the hotel. But I have a feeling they won't find anything more than the abandoned cleaning cart."

Reaching out and shaking his hand, I remind him that we'll be looking for those full reports when they're ready, but we're going to head back to the hotel and see what we can find there. "There's always that chance something got overlooked," I remark, turning and retreating to the parked sedan.

Bobby didn't need to ask if I wanted him to drive, he'd pretty much figured out that the chore had been delegated to him. As we pull away from the crime scene and he does a 'U' turn on the highway to take us back to the motel, he asks, "How long have you been following this case, Boss?"

"There was something about the first crime scene that sparked my interest, and even though it wasn't my case and I hadn't been asked to get involved in any way shape or form, I kept myself abreast. I've read all the reports, spoke with the officers involved and followed the news reports religiously. If I hadn't been working on a major drug bust for the past 6 months, I would have petitioned the Captain for a piece of it. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, it does," he softly replies, deep in thought. "Just one other thing."

"Sure."

"With your intimate knowledge of the case, how did you miss the eastern Oregon connection until now? You never suspected that he was working farther afield than Portland and the Columbia Basin?"

"Until this case that you discovered and made the connection to, I'm not sure he was operating out of the known territory." I let my gaze drift over to him. He's a young man, well-built, good looking from a young girl's point of view; the type that mothers want their daughters to bring home for Sunday dinner. And though his innocence is apparent in his humble appearance, I don't see much in the way of naivety; there is more depth to his character than first impressions disclose.

"Good point," he agrees, pulling into the Super 8 lot and parking in the breezeway by the office.

As we climb out of the sedan, the manager from the night before comes out to meet us. "They didn't find anything," he says, clearly distressed. "They've been through every room, occupied or not. I don't know how she could have been kidnapped and I didn't see anything? I don't sleep when I'm on duty, honestly," he whimpers, his voice cracking, his bloodshot eyes on the verge of more tears. "I liked her," he continues, wracked with guilt. "It's not like we ever went out or anything, but she'd come down to the office on slow nights and we'd sit and talk. She was nice."

While he's rattling on, I steal a glance at Bobby's face. Like the night manager, he too is stressed by the young girl's demise. Although he'd not had the opportunity to meet her, he actually remembered her pushing the cart around when we checked in, which could only mean that he'd been physically attracted to her at the least.

"Do you know where she was last seen or known to be before she was abducted?" I ask of him, figuring we needed a starting point or we'd just be spinning our wheels in a place of this size.

"They found her cart abandoned in the laundry room, so they're assuming that's where she was...," he stutters and breaks down, the tears finally breaking free in a torrent down his cheeks.

Reaching out and placing a steadying hand beneath his left arm, I guide him to a wrought iron bench next to the door, and slowly ease him down to it. "Here, take a seat. Would you like a drink of water or something?" I ask, looking toward Bobby.

Holding his head in his hands and leaning forward onto his knees for support, he shakes it and says, "No, thank you. I just can't believe she's really gone. My God, who's going to tell her parents?"

"Don't you worry about that, we'll take care of it. Are her parents from around here?" I ask, retrieving my notebook and pen from my breast pocket.

"Yeah. They own the Bar K Ranch east of here." He hesitates to catch his breath and clear his sinuses. "They're going to be devastated."

"How long has she worked here?"

"She only works here during the summer break from college. In fact, she told me one night that her folks felt better with her working here than being out on the ranch with all the summer help."

"Why's that?"

"All the young men that work the fire crews. Her parent's ranch is the staging ground for this area," he ends, as if that said it all.

"Aren't there women on the fire crews too?" I ask of him, thinking of the woman in my dream.

"A few. But they know how to take care of themselves. Tina was naïve when it came to men," he adds, smiling at me.

"You stay here. We're going to look around for a bit. If we have any more questions, where can we get hold of you?"

After jotting down his phone number and address in my notepad, Bobby and I set off on foot toward the laundry room. We look the place over with an eye for detail, but neither of us notice anything out of the ordinary. While Bobby walks around out front, studying the ground for something that might have been dropped, I study the floor inside for the same reasons.

With no luck, we head together through the rear entrance; the same entrance that our victim would have exited the building from her last time going out to the laundry room. We spend more than 3 hours checking supply closets and talking to the few remaining guests still in their rooms to no avail.

With noon coming on, I suggest to Bobby that we go hit the AM/PM for a cup of coffee and something to eat. His demeanor is sullen as we retreat to the car. The night manager is no longer around and I assume he's headed home. Because there isn't really a crime scene at the hotel, it was determined that they would remain open as usual.

When we pull into the parking lot of the quick mart, I tell Bobby just to bring me a large cup of coffee, black, while I take a short walk around the parking lot, trying to wrap my head around the drop site. Without a word, he heads into the front doors while I head off in the general direction of where the first eastern Oregon victim was dumped.

Because it is lunch time, there are quite a few vehicles coming and going from the lot. Though it's no surprise, I laugh silently at the fact that most of them are pickup trucks, until I see the Chevy pickup truck coming toward me with the woman from my dreams. Her hair is tied back and she's sporting a pair of dark shades over her eyes, though I have no doubt they're hazel brown with light green flecks.

I can't help but stare at her as she approaches. The feelings I have toward her defying logic, since I haven't even so much as met her yet, at least not that I can recall. And still, I can't help but feel we have a connection, something that definitely needs investigating. For reasons that make no sense, I can't deny feeling a deep seated need for her.

It is with some surprise when she swerves from her destination and pulls up to me, stopping so that I am even with her rolled down window. Speechless and feeling self-conscious for standing out in the middle of the parking lot, I continue staring at her. She smiles warmly with no hint of shyness and asks with a sensuously husky voice, "Are you a cop?"

Smiling back at her and feeling like a damned fool for being so tongue-tied and fearing that I might say something stupid, I simply reply, "Yes."

"You must be here because of the body that was dropped off here."

"Yeah," I reply, exhaling softly. And then my automatic police response finally kicks in. "You didn't happen to see anything by chance?"

"No, I was just coming in for my morning coffee when the cops showed up. I heard that some sicko dumped a young girl's body right here in the parking lot," she pauses for a second and her smile widens, making her even more beautiful than I first realized, if such were possible. "In fact, I think you're standing right on the spot where they found her."

Involuntarily, I look down and then take a step back. Laughing now, she says, "I was only kidding. I'm not sure where she was actually laying. By the time I arrived, they'd already loaded her into the meat wagon."

"You got me," I smile back, thinking if she only knew to what degree she had me. "Would you mind giving me some information?"

"Sure," she easily replies, still smiling as if I were a good looking guy trying to get her number for a date, which if it wasn't so inappropriate of me to do so, I would be, even though I don't consider myself a good looking guy.

Pulling out my notepad and pen, I say, "How bout we start with your name, number, and address?"

Before she gives me anything, she says with a smile, "Let me park and get a cup of coffee. Then I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Sure thing," I remark, stepping back and returning her smile while watching as she puts the truck in gear and pulls up beside the unmarked sedan just as Bobby comes through the door with a couple of coffees and a paper sack with God-only-knows-what for lunch.

When he sees me out in the middle of the parking lot, I signal for him to pull the car into a less trafficked part of the lot and start walking in that direction. Something tells me that Lara, even though she has no idea that I already know her name and address, will pull her truck over to where Bobby and I are when she comes out of the store and sees that we've moved.

"You want to swing by and see Sheriff Krupp on our way out of town?" Bobby asks with a smirk.

"I don't think he has anything more to add to our investigation," I reply, accepting the proffered cup of coffee he was extending my way. "Sit tight for a minute, I need to get some information from this potential witness," I add, watching as Lara's pickup sidles up next to our sedan.

Bobby barely acknowledges the truck and instead tears into the bag, probably planning to get his eating out of the way before I expect him to drive us back to Portland.

Climbing out of the sedan, I step up to the side of the pickup with my notepad out. Fortunately, in the few minutes since we'd met, my heart has had time to slow down to a regular pace, and although being near her still has an intense effect on me, I'm more in control this time and less flustered than I was earlier. Still, it takes all of my self-control to stop myself from reaching out and touching her, wrapping my arms around that firm body and pulling it in close to mine, while taking her scent deep into my nostrils, filling my senses to overflowing. She could do that to me.

"Hi again," she says, smiling, the sunglasses now hanging from a cord around her neck. Her eyes are the clear hazel brown with hints of green flecks just as I remembered them. It would be so easy to get lost in their depths. "What do you want to know about me?" And then, before I can speak, she says, "Lara Offrage. No real address. Right now my mail is sent to the Bar K Ranch. It's about four miles south of town; three down the highway and about a mile up the county road. All the local fire crew lives out there during fire season, about forty of us." And then she chuckles softly, adding, "It's actually a tent city, looks like a refugee camp but for all the trucks and equipment. Oh, my cell number 541-555-4675, but reception is spotty."

"Lara. Nice name," I lamely remark, staring hard at my notes as if I might learn something I didn't already know. "Where do you live in the off season?"

"Wherever the wind takes me," she smiles, and I suddenly wish I could go there with her, wherever there was.

She is even more beautiful than in my dream. Her hair is medium length, auburn highlights from the sun, her skin a soft, creamy brown with a spattering of freckles. Although her body is proportioned well, it wouldn't stand out in a crowd. But to me, she is perfect in every sense of the word. And though I have seen her in my dream, I am still taken aback by her, suddenly wanting to know everything about her, and not just because I feel she might be the next victim in this investigation. But where did she come from, what kind of life experiences have tempered her personality, everything about her, I want to know it all.

The rise of her breasts appear firm and alluring. It wouldn't do to ask her age, but I would have put it in the mid-forties, yet a very desirable mid-forties. Working on the fire line has kept her in great physical condition and it was causing quite a stir in my lower extremities. As much as I didn't want to break off contact with her, I knew that if I didn't in the next few minutes, I was going to embarrass myself. The thoughts she was stirring in me were not politically correct for an officer of the law.

Handing her one of my cards, I look her in the eye and say in my calmest voice, which sounds husky with emotion even to my own ears, "If you don't hear from me before the end of fire season, would you give me a call before you head out of the area and let me know where you're off to, just in case I have more questions for you?"

"Absolutely," she replies without hesitation. And then I think I see a cloud of disappointment pass over her face, but it's just as quickly hidden by her smile, as she reads the card and asks, "Does this mean you're heading back to Portland, Detective Hennessy?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid it does," I answer her, trying to come up with something more to say, if only for a reason to detain her longer as I don't want her to leave.

To my surprise, she extends her hand out the window and says, "It was nice meeting you, Detective Hennessy."

Taking her hand in mine, I'm instantly surprised by the softness of it, yet impressed with the firmness of her grip. It might be my imagination, but I thought I felt a current flow from her hand and into mine. "Mike. Please, just call me Mike."

"Okay, Mike. We'll see you around," she says, turning forward in the seat and placing her shades on her face before putting the truck in reverse and backing up, her eyes moving from one wing mirror to the other.

Reluctantly, I step back, still watching her. In fact, unable to tear my eyes from her. When she stops and puts the truck in drive, she lifts a couple fingers off the wheel in an intimate wave. In response, I raise my right hand slightly. Though I stand there with a stupid grin on my face, I want to stop her, warn her somehow and tell her that there's a sick bastard out there hunting her and that I might be the only one that can keep her safe. But I realize how crazy that would sound. So instead, I continue watching her in silence as she drives off.

When she reaches the exit that leads out onto the highway, she glances at me in the side mirror. Seeing me still watching her, she smiles in the wing mirror and raises her right hand, giving me a quick wave before accelerating out onto the highway and heading south toward the ranch.

For the briefest of moments, I consider following her, using the pretense that we need to speak with a few of the other fire crew, especially since our latest victim is a family member of the ranch's owner. But the sheriff's department has that jurisdiction and my appearance out there would seem lame at this point. It might even be seen as stepping on a few toes and that's not something I need right now. Another call to the Captain and I might never see my gold shield again. He's putting up with my shenanigans at this point only because I'm bringing him results, even if they are skimpy at best, they're more than we had.

### Chapter Thirteen

"Did you know her?" Bobby asks when I climb back into the sedan, picking my coffee off the dash where I'd set it when she pulled up.

"Why would you say that?" I ask, both concerned and a little perplexed by his question. How had I acted in her presence that he would think there was something out of the ordinary?

"Two things, actually," he says, purposely avoiding my eyes, a sly grin plastered on his face.

"And those would be?"

"First off, you tripped all over yourself at the sight of her, and second," he pauses, sneaking a peak in my direction as he checks traffic before pulling out onto the highway.

"And second?"

"And second, the way her face lit up at the sight of you. I may be inexperienced at this sort of thing, Boss, but an idiot could tell there was some kind of chemistry going on between the two of you," he says with a big smile, finally looking in my direction as we cruise north on the highway, heading toward the Columbia River and eventually Portland.

Though I thought that I had handled myself both professionally and maturely in her presence, the thought that she might have been equally attracted to me, or even if it wasn't equally, at least a little bit of attraction toward me, set my heart to racing, immediately lifting my spirits. And before I know where my thoughts are going, I am reconsidering that trip to the ranch, possibly checking out the fire camp and doing some interviews, maybe enlisting Lara to help with introductions and showing me around.

Yet, I can't think of any good reason to speak with her in particular. And speaking with the others at the fire camp won't gain me anything that I won't receive in Trooper Smith's report within a few days, except possibly that dreaded phone call from Sheriff Krupp.

No, it's time to head back to Portland and get the monkey off my back with regard to IAD and the shrink. If they have more questions regarding my performance and the shooting of a fellow detective, then let's get it done and over with. Furthermore, it won't hurt to check in with Nurse Denise and have her look at my shoulder. Even if the stitches aren't ready to come out, the bandages should probably be changed. Fortunately, it isn't hurting any more when I twist around, such as getting in and out of the sedan. In fact, unless I twist my shoulder around from a standing position or lift something heavy with my arms extended, I'd almost forgotten that I'd even been shot. And yet, it might just be this wound that proves I killed Manny in self-defense.

The ride back to Portland is non-eventful and except for discussing a few minor details of the case, we ride along in silence. It is just after 6 PM when Bobby drops me off in the street out front of my unit. True to form, Suzy is up at her window looking out. So long as she lives in the neighborhood, the Neighborhood Watch Group is going to be rather redundant.

"I'll see you at the station in the morning," I tell Bobby, pushing the door closed with my right hand, my trench coat over the same arm I'm also holding my valise with.

Looking up, I smile at Suzy, who quickly leaves the window and steps out onto her porch.

"Hey, Handsome," she calls out. "Want to come over later for something good to eat?"

Without even realizing that I'd done so, I'd weighed the situation and the consequences of accepting or declining before replying, "I'd love to, Suzy. You got anything to drink, or should I run to the store?"

"Honey, when you get an invite from Little Suzy, you just worry about bringing that skinny little white ass over and I'll take care of the rest," she replies lasciviously.

"I won't ever let it be said that you don't know how to treat a man, Suzy," I reply with a smile. "See you in about an hour?"

"Okay, Babe," she says, returning the smile before turning to head back into her unit.

Upon entering my unit, I do a quick visual scan of the living room, noting that of the few items I have, nothing's been disturbed. Closing the door, I drop my valise next to the threadbare recliner and place my trench coat over the head rest before continuing on to the bathroom. I stop in front of the mirror where I see an age weary man with a five o'clock shadow and dark rings beneath his eyes from a lack of sleep combined with a load of stress.

Setting out my razor and a bar of soap, I debate hitting the shower too, but quickly dispense with the idea. I'd just showered that morning and I haven't done anything as of yet to work up a sweat, which gets me to thinking about my plans for the night. Going over to Suzy's for an evening meal and drinks usually meant me spending an all-nighter in Suzy's bedroom, which is perfectly fine between two consenting adults.

But that was before Lara. Now, for reasons that made absolutely no sense, I knew the night wasn't going to end with me in Suzy's bed. Since I first saw Lara in my dream, and I prefer to refer to the visions of what the perp is seeing as dreams, being intimate with anyone else no longer feels okay. In fact, anything more than dinner and a few drinks with Suzy would feel like cheating, even though I don't have a relationship with anyone, especially Lara.

After shaving and washing my face, I head to the kitchen and take stock of what's in my own fridge. Except for a couple of Bohemians, it's bare. "I'll have to bring in some staples one of these days," I mumble to myself, thinking I might be entertaining guests one of these days. Though in all my time of living here, the only visitor I've ever had was Suzy, and then she quickly dragged me back to her place as if she were afraid of catching something.

With a little time left to kill before Suzy was expecting me, I flip on the TV and to my amazement, they're covering the latest murder and how it might be connected to the Columbia Basin murders. One of the seedier papers had given the perp a nickname, but thankfully, the major networks and newspapers had declined to use it.

There's a photo of the latest victim in the upper right hand corner of the screen while the reporter questions her parents. They are standing outside, the backdrop a corral with a couple of horses prancing around in it and a view of the treed hills off in the distance. The entire scene looks like it came right out of a magazine, and while I should be listening to what they have to say, I find myself instead looking at the background in hopes of seeing the fire camp, or maybe even Lara, though I know the odds are slim at best.

When the weatherman comes on, I flip it off and head out the door.

Walking slowly, I cut across the dirt and weeds to Suzy's front porch. Climbing the steps, I notice the door standing ajar and I head on in, knowing she left it that way just for me.

"Hey, Suzy," I call out, heading through the living room toward the kitchen and the wonderful aroma emanating from it. "Damn, something smells good," I comment, seeing her broad figure bent over an open oven as she tests something for doneness.

The little dinette in the opposite corner is laid out with silverware and plates along with two clear beverage glasses filled with ice and two un-opened bottles of Bohemian. She remembered that I liked my beer on ice and she was finally going to fix one for herself instead of sharing mine all night, not that I've ever minded. We've shared a lot more than just drinks.

The detective in me kicks in and I suddenly wonder what has changed. Separate drinks means less intimacy when it comes to Suzy. Did she know or suspect that there was something going on in my life, even though I wasn't sure myself what to make of it. Women and their intuition have a way of knowing these things even when guys don't have a clue. Yet, how could that be, I just got home an hour ago?

Slipping into the chair nearest the door, I watch as she pulls a large pan from the oven and sets it on a flat stone that she'd set on the countertop to the right of the stove just for the purpose. "Damn, that not only smells good, it looks utterly delicious," I comment, appraising the golden browned cheesy crust of a deep dish Lasagne.

"I remembered you telling me one time how much you enjoyed Lasagne when you were in the Army. I figured if a mess-hall cook can impress you with his Lasagne, than I couldn't go wrong."

"Suzy," I slowly start, suddenly concerned that she is putting more into our relationship than is actually there. Now, more than ever, I realize that second glass of ice is definitely a red flag, and if I was smart, I'd be making excuses to get the Hell out of here, and quick.

"Yes, Love," she smiles sweetly, a large knife in one hand a pot holder in the other.

Having seen this woman upset, I'm suddenly not sure this is the best time to voice my thoughts. Maybe I'll just wait until we're both sitting at the table and all she's holding in her hands is a fork and maybe a butter knife with a dull edge. It's not like I haven't been wounded once already this week. At some point, you have to grow a little gun-shy of being injured; it's just a matter of survival.

"Just wondering if you would like me to pour your beer," I innocently reply, smiling back.

"Oh no, just pour one for yourself. I ran out of room in the freezer and decided to put the rest of the ice in a second glass so I could leave the cube trays out," she smiles. "There was a sale on frozen Tilapia, you know, that Japanese fish that I like. Well, I picked up way more than I had room for, but I just couldn't resist. So now you know, if you run out of ice, don't ask," she laughs, cutting the Lasagne into squares and placing a piece on a plate before setting it down in front of me.

My relief must have been evident, because she gave me a scrutinizing stare before asking, "You feeling okay, Honey? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"Oh yes, never better. Just anxious to dig into this scrumptious looking plate of Lasagna," I reply, seriously relieved that I'd read something into nothing. "What are you drinking?" I ask, popping the top on one of the Bohemians and pouring it into the nearest glass of ice.

"I'll just sip off yours, if you don't mind," she replies, planting her wide beam on the chair across the small table from me while throwing me a knowing smirk.

Now this is the Suzy that I have come to know and love. She might be expecting some unbridled passion later on in her boudoir, but this won't be the first time her wine and dine approach leaves her unsatisfied and longing for something more.

The Lasagne tastes even better than it smells, and washing it down with an iced Bohemian beer just doesn't get any better. Moreover, Suzy's company is entertaining as always and a pleasurable distraction from the IAD investigation hanging over my head, which I will have to deal with tomorrow, as well as the headache of being in charge of an investigation that just grew exponentially in size.

"What's her name?" Suzy suddenly asks, setting my glass down between us with a heavy hand and a resultantly loud thump.

"Uh?" I blurt innocently, looking up into her concerned expression.

"Your mind is a million miles away, Mike. Since you've been on other cases in the past and they never seemed to bother you, I can only assume this distraction of yours is a female. Are you going to lie to me and tell me that I'm wrong?"

For the first time since we'd met, I detected a hint of worry in her face. She is feeling something for me that I can't reciprocate; I never should have let our relationship progress beyond the night that I saved her from her abusive boyfriend. But she is so easy to get along with. She has a sweet disposition hidden by a rough exterior which she uses to insulate herself from the meanness of the world in general. If you have a problem, any problem, you can always count on Suzy to do whatever she can for you.

Because I care as much as I do for her, I lie.

"It's the case, Suzy. I've been assigned lead on the Columbia Basin serial murder case. No more gangs and drugs, just sick bastards that get inside your head like a disease. It's so much worse than working narcotics, seeing victims that, well, you don't need to hear any more of that. My junior detective and I just got back from eastern Oregon where two more young victims were killed, one of them less than three miles from the spot where I lay sleeping. In fact, she was abducted from the very same hotel where Bobby, my junior detective and I were staying." Suzy's expression grows concerned and she reaches across the table to comfort me with her touch. When it's obvious that she's about to say something, I cut her off. "Also, I am being investigated by our internal affairs department for shooting my ex-partner and my Captain has ordered me to attend mandatory psych evaluation. In fact, I'm currently on administrative leave, I don't even have a badge or a gun right now." I smile at her, and say, "It just doesn't get any better."

"I'm so sorry," she swoons, pushing herself up from her chair and stepping around the little table to wrap her thick arms around my neck and squeezing affectionately. For the briefest of moments, I consider leading her to the bedroom, knowing she will go willingly with me if she thinks it is what I want or need.

"I should probably be going," I say, putting my arms around her waist and hugging her against me.

"Please don't be upset with me," she quickly replies, sensing that she is pressuring me. "I have no right to you and if you did find a girl out there, I would understand." She pauses for a moment before continuing, her voice solemn. "I'm no fool, Mike. I understand our relationship, probably better than you do. I have no illusions about where we're going. One of these days, and this might even be it, you or I are going to find the right person, and though we can both deny it, they will come between us, pushing us back into our own lives. And maybe that's what we need."

Laughing, I push her to my arm's length and look into her large brown eyes. "Suzy, you dear dear girl. Did you hear anything I just said? There's a lot going on in my life right now. I need to go home and get a good night's sleep so I can tackle the world afresh tomorrow, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, as they say."

"You've never been a very good liar, Mike. But that's okay. You go home and get some rest." She pauses for a moment before continuing, "But if you need anything, anything at all, you know where I lay my head and my door will always be open to you."

Standing, I wrap my arms around her and pull her tight against me, the size of her breasts holding me at bay. She was more than I deserved and one of these days she was going to find the right man for her own. And with her passion for life and food, he was in for a lot of treats.

"Thanks for everything, Suzy. Especially for being so understanding," I say, moving toward the front door. It isn't necessary for me to explain further, those last words told her everything that I couldn't just come out and say.

"I hope it works out for you, Mike. Good night."

### Chapter Fourteen

Back at my unit, I head straight for the fridge and one of the remaining Bohemians. Popping the top, I drop into the recliner and pick up my valise from where I'd dropped it earlier. Pulling the sheaf of papers out, I spread them as much as possible on my lap and set the empty valise back on the floor next to the chair.

"What am I not seeing?" I mouth, flipping slowly through each page, looking for something that I might have missed in my earlier scan of the file. Hopefully, tomorrow when I get to the office the autopsy reports from the state lab will be waiting for me. Surely, they can't be that busy in Bend that the coroner couldn't get right on a case of this magnitude. If it were the Portland forensics lab, I would have set up shop in the hallway outside their lab and waited for information. But they don't have the bodies. So no matter how frustrating it is to wait, my hands are tied.

Then again, the autopsy probably isn't going to tell me anything that I don't already know. It's not like I wasn't present for the last two murders, after all.

It's been a long day and although I am bushed, I consider turning on the TV to see if they're reporting anything new regarding the investigation. But as quickly as I consider it, I change my mind. If anything, the reporters are probably looking to me to provide the updates.

Yet, I'm not ready to sleep and possibly let the evil voice back into my head where it will torment me until the sun comes up again. Taking a swallow from the bottle, I turn back to the papers lying on my lap and begin placing the ones with no relevant information back into the valise when one slips out of my hand and floats gently down to the floor. Using my foot, I carefully slide it back, trying to get it within reach. Looking down at it, a name jumps out that I immediately recognize.

Lara Offrage.

Without thinking, I shove the rest of the papers back into the valise and scoop up the errant sheet from the floor. The first thing I notice is that it's a synopsis of several of the witness statements taken at the scene of the Portland runaway victim's dump site, the AM/PM Fuel Stop parking lot at approximately 6 AM. Although Lara wasn't the one to call 911, she was there at the time the body was placed along with a few others that, according to the statements, had ridden into town together.

So why had she told me that she hadn't arrived at the parking lot until after the body had already been removed? Maybe I needed to look her up again, after all, and get the correct version of things, though, in all the excitement it's not uncommon for witnesses to make mistakes.

Reading deeper into the report, it doesn't escape my notice that all the others that she rode into town with that morning are male.

Why this particular bit of information should be of concern to me takes me a moment to understand, and then it hits me, I'm jealous. Never before had I cared enough about a woman to give a shit if she were faithful or not, and here I am, discovering I have the ability to feel jealousy for of all things, a woman that I'd only met the one time.

"Grow up, Mike. You're acting like an immature asswipe," I grumble softly, reading through the rest of the report. "Still, it would have been nice if the officer doing the interview had asked you which if any of the others was your boyfriend," I chuckle softly.

Sitting back in the recliner, the single page lying on my lap, I begin to fantasize what it would be like to have a woman like Lara, and not just in the biblical sense, but in every sense. Would she complete me? Would she always make me feel like a man? Could I even satisfy a woman like her? Or would I come up short, leaving her needing something more than I'm capable of giving her?

"You don't really believe you have a chance at a woman like that?" comes the voice, taunting me into answering him.

"Why are you here? Wasn't it enough that you killed that girl so close to me last night?"

"That was just to show you that no one is safe from me. You could have been in the next room when I took her for all you know. It wouldn't make any difference, just like it won't make any difference what you do to protect this woman that you seem so smitten with," the voice laughs.

"Stay away from her," I half plead, half beg, my voice tinged with desperation. "She doesn't fit your MO. You have no business with her, you sick bastard."

"Don't you get it yet?" he growls in frustration. "I'm doing this for you. It's all about you, Mike. I'm not sick!" The voice is growing angrier as it continues. "The young, blue-eyed blondes had to die because they are the type that garners the media's attention. But we have that now, don't we, Mike?"

"Yes, you have that. So why don't you just stop? Turn yourself in. I'm sure I could get the DA to give you a deal." Trying to appeal to his ego, I add, "You're a celebrity now. You have the public's full attention."

"Shut up! Shut up!" the voice screams angrily in my head. "No one is turning themselves in. My work has just begun. In fact, look what I have for you tonight," he says, turning his head to the side until I can see the woman lying spread-eagled on the top of a dumpster in a poorly lit alley, the reflection of broken glass scattered on the ground. The woman is naked, her body covered in blood. It takes me a moment to see that one side of the dumpster is standing open, while she lies on the adjacent closed lid.

"What have you done?" I demand, growing sick at the sight of another mutilated body.

"You seemed to have a problem believing that I could kill anyone other than young, blue-eyed blondes, Mike." He moves in closer, focusing on her features. "See Mike, look close, you'll see that her eyes aren't blue and she isn't so young. Even her hair is the wrong color, if we believe what you're professing in my profile. Look Mike, her hair's black! Not blonde. She might even have a little Asian in her lineage." His feelings of pride and contentment course through my veins, radiating in my head. He is pleased with what he has done, especially since he believes it means something. "I put the organs that I removed from her flabby, worn out body in the dumpster so everyone will know that it was my handiwork. I don't want you wasting your time trying to prove there is a connection to the others. We have so much more important things to spend our time on."

"Why?" I whimper, overwhelmed with helplessness.

"Because you said I couldn't kill outside my MO," he laughs. "You honestly believed that this fire fighter woman that you've attached yourself to could be safe from me simply because you deemed it so. So I ask you now, Mike, do you still believe she is safe?"

"But why? Why do you want to kill her? I don't understand."

"Because I want everyone to feel what I feel, Mike. When I slowly cut her flesh and let her life blood run out, she will feel my pain. But that is only a temporary sensation of the physical body. Only after she experiences this physical pain will she know what it's like to be at someone else's mercy when that someone else doesn't give a shit about you. She will know, and so will you Mike, because I want you there with us at the time I enlighten her."

"What if that isn't what I want?" I ask, trying to reason with the sadistic bastard.

"Women hold it over us, Mike. They think nothing of toying with our emotions and then dumping us when we no longer hold their interest. Don't tell me you've never had a woman play with your emotions like a cat toying with a mouse, only to pounce and kill when they tire of you? Don't tell me you haven't been there in your most vulnerable of states when some woman has determined that the fun is over. I know better, Mike."

"I'm sorry that you've been treated so shabbily by a woman. You have every right to be angry," I say, trying to reason with him and grasp some understanding of what motivates him. "But that doesn't give you the right..."

He cuts me off before I can continue, "It was my mother!"

"Your mother?" I echo, perplexed.

"For years she fawned over me, always telling me how much she loved me. She took care of me when dad left. And then, simply because she wanted to do something else with her life, she told me to get a life of my own and left me. No warning or nothing. Just packed her bag one day and left without so much as a 'by your leave'."

"That would piss me off too. But why me? What do I have to do with any of this?"

"We're brothers, of a sort, Mike. Remember when your dad left you? It was my mother that he left with!" he says as if that explained everything.

"I was in college when my father remarried," I explain. "Not a small child. I was a mature adult, my father did what he felt was best for him at that stage of his life and I applaud him for it."

"My mother took your father from you when she left me. Women do that to men all the time. You're more upset and damaged than you realize, but in time, you'll come to understand. In the meantime, while you're learning the reasons behind your pent up anger, I'm going to expose them. With all this attention, they'll have to change their ways."

"You're sick. I have no pent up anger," I argue, thinking that I need to get ahold of my dad and find out more about his second wife's family, even though she passed away a year or so back. This might be the lead I was hoping to ascertain from my exchanges with the sick bastard. This could make his presence in my head all worthwhile.

"You just wait until I do that hot babe for you. Then you'll understand. There is nothing sweeter than revenge. Fire baby. I like that. In fact, I think I'll light that one up in more ways than you could even imagine. Of course, you're such a dullard anyway, you'd be lost without my creative genius."

"You're not exacting revenge," I vehemently argue, knowing now that I will never get through to him and that if I ever get close to touching a nerve, he will change the playing field to suit his needs, sick as they may be. "Just leave Lara out of this. She has nothing to do with your sickness."

"Your fire baby will be my hottest moment yet. In fact, she could be my defining moment."

I jerk awake to the ringing of my cell phone. "Yeah, Detective Hennessy."

"Boss, it's Detective Ames. We got us another body, not that far out of your neighborhood."

"Shit, Bobby, what time is it?"

"Almost six AM."

"Pick me up, would ya."

"On my way."

"And Bobby."

"Yeah, Boss."

"Don't sound so damned chipper."

### Chapter Fifteen

"Damn, you look like shit, Boss. Did you even make it to bed last night? Oh, wait a minute, let me rephrase that, did you even get out of those clothes last night?"

"Just shut up and drive," I rasp, flipping my valise onto the back seat and then dropping heavily into the passenger's seat. Tired and feeling hung over even though I'd only drank a couple of beers the entire evening, it was all I could do to brush my teeth before Bobby arrived. I didn't need some junior detective telling me what I already knew. "So this makes three victims in three nights?"

"Yes, Boss," he says, maneuvering the sedan through the back streets with an almost uncanny familiarity toward our destination.

"You've been on this case almost since the beginning, haven't you?"

"Yes, Boss," he says again, waiting for the real question. "I was brought in by Lieutenant Rogers when they first figured out that it was a serial they were tracking."

"He's a good man."

"Yeah, I learned a lot in the short time I worked for him."

"So, tell me Bobby, is it my imagination or is our perp picking up the pace?"

"It's not your imagination, Boss. We've never had victims pile up this fast. Of course, we can't be certain that we were tagging all the victims to the right un-sub. There may be more victims out there that we don't know about or just haven't made the connection to this case yet. But with that aside, we were connecting a new victim every three days or so to this case. Right now, we've got twenty bodies sitting in morgues all up and down the Columbia Basin, twenty-two if we add in those at Bend. And this one," he nods toward the flashing lights directly ahead of us, "makes twenty-three."

"We have to get ahead of this bastard, Bobby."

"Isn't that why the Captain brought you in as lead?" he asks, his tone sincere and respectful.

"If we're lucky, he won't be disappointed, cause I'm sure it wasn't easy for him to pull Rogers. Decisions like that come at a price."

"We won't disappoint him, Boss," he says, glancing over at me with a disarming smile.

Climbing out of the sedan, I notice that my shoulder has started paining me again. Reaching back inside, I grab my trench coat, not because it's cold or damp, but because I use the pockets to carry things I might need when working a crime scene in the field. In a way, it's my backpack. Or as some would see it, my security blanket, the way I'm never without it.

Slipping it on now to free up my hands, no one questions it; everyone that's ever seen me at a crime scene knows this is normal for me. In fact, anyone that's ever seen me anywhere, knows this is normal for me. With notepad in hand, I duck under the crime scene tape and walk up to the dumpster, the body still on display as the medical examiner takes a temperature from the largest part of the remaining body followed immediately by a series of pictures. Seeing me, he reaches into his bag and produces another set of latex gloves, which he extends toward me.

"No thanks, Larry," I tell him, waving off the courteous gesture. Larry is probably the oldest medical examiner on staff for the Portland ME's office. We've worked just enough cases together to get familiar, yet we've never taken to socializing away from the job. "Just tell me what you got so far."

"I got a bad feeling, Mike. That's what I got so far," he grumbles, dropping the gloves back into the bag. "Now I hear there are a couple more down at the state forensics lab in Bend."

"Yeah, they should be sending you their findings. I told them to get us copies of everything they have since we're primary on this sick bastard's work."

"I'll keep my eyes open. In the meantime, I can tell you that the cause of death here was exsanguination. It started with many small cuts near the extremities that extend inward toward the center of the body, if you will," he says, pointing out the clean slicing cuts that flayed open the skin, revealing bright pink flesh in the tracks. "He eventually graduated to an almost surgical removal of several of the less relevant organs, the first being the kidneys and then moving on to the bowels and sexual genitalia. It's all in the dumpster, literally dropped in the open side." He pauses to take a breath before adding, "Unlike the earlier victims, this one was alive through most of the cutting."

"I'm sure this question has been asked before, Larry, but what are the odds that our perp has some medical training or experience?"

"If the sick bastard has any training, it's very limited. My guess, based on what I've seen of his victims, is that he's learning as he goes along. He might have started with some basic hunting skills such as skinning rabbits or cleaning squirrels. Possibly dressed out something larger like a deer or elk. Maybe even grew up on a farm where they butchered their own pigs or cows. With each victim, his cuts become more defined, more precise in what he's after. The first victims he cut up looked as if he were hunting for the organs, now he knows where they are and he spends less time getting to them, which means the victims live longer for him."

While the coroner is telling me this, Bobby has walked up next to the dumpster so he can study the victim with scrutinizing intensity. Larry notices me watching the younger detective, and shrugs his shoulders as if to say he doesn't understand the fascination some people have with the dead, but that it's not uncommon.

When Bobby walks around to look behind the dumpster, I ask Larry more questions regarding the victim and any personal effects that were found.

"Her purse and clothing was thrown into the dumpster before the blood and organs reached them." He steps over to a small folding table that he set up near the coroner's van and I follow him. Without touching anything because he hasn't analyzed any of it, he says, "Her name is Jasmine Booth. Female, 5 feet 6 inches, 153 pounds, brown hair, hazel eyes, born July 4th, 1954."

"That would make her 59 years old."

"Yep, and she isn't a blonde with blue eyes, either."

"He wants to show us that his profile is flexible," I think aloud.

"Or, he wants to show us that no woman is safe," Bobby says, walking up and looking down at the little table covered with evidence.

Bobby's comment catches me off guard. "Why would you think that?" I question him.

"It just seems obvious to me," he says distractedly, lowering himself for a closer look at something on the table. "That's a wedding ring. She's married?"

"It would appear that way," Larry replies. "But she might just be one of those divorcees that continues to wear her wedding ring after the fact to keep the dogs at bay, especially if she works as a waitress."

"Follow up on that, Bobby," I instruct my junior detective. "If she's married, she's definitely the first." And then, when he doesn't move, I look at him and growl, "What are you waiting for. Call it in and get someone on it."

"Yes, Boss," he quickly stutters, stepping off toward the sedan while fishing out his cellphone.

When he is out of ear-shot, Larry asks, "How's he working out for you?"

"Like any green kid. The potential is there, but whether I can bring it out in him is still to be determined."

Larry laughs softly, walking back toward the dumpster and the victim. "Well, if anyone can, it's probably you." The sun is starting to show as a dull brightening of the sky. "I better get this poor lady to the lab. It won't be long before the news crews begin showing up."

"Yeah, I'm sure someone picked it up on their scanner."

"Hey," he says, laying out a bag for the corpse. "Don't you live somewhere around here? I heard you moved into a neighborhood like this because you wanted to be where the criminals were, less travel time to work or something," he chuckles.

"Yeah, not too far."

"I couldn't do it," he says softly. "I don't have that living on the edge type of personality I guess," he chuckles softly, slipping the bag around the corpse. "I have a real need for going home at night to a nice house in a nice neighborhood. Some might call it boring, I call it peace of mind."

"We each live our lives our own way, Larry. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Not unless the way we live our lives is by taking other lives," he says, zipping up the body bag.

"Couldn't agree with you more," I softly agree while giving him a hand placing the bag on the gurney. "Look, Larry, I have to head into the office."

"I know, forward my report as soon as possible," he says, giving me a conciliatory grin.

As I head toward the sedan, Bobby is walking toward us. Before I can ask him what he learned, he says, "Divorced, not quite a year. I have her maiden name in my notes here if you want it," he adds, holding up his notepad.

"No, that won't be necessary, just include it in your report. Come on," I say, continuing on past him toward the car. "There isn't anything else for us here. Let's get down to the station house before the morning rush hour is in full swing."

While Bobby maneuvers the car through traffic, I question him about the victim, but only after glancing at his notepad and realizing there isn't anything on it I can decipher due to his penmanship.

"She worked as a cocktail waitress off Killingsworth, down near the port," he says when I ask him about her employment.

"That would explain her trim figure," I reply, absently adding, "It's amazing what a woman will put herself through for a few extra dollars in the tip jar."

"It's more than just a few extra bucks in the tip jar, as you so callously put it," he fires back, my comment obviously striking a nerve with him. He goes on to emphatically explain, "That extra buck or two can mean the difference between paying the rent and putting food on the table or looking for shelter on the streets and going hungry."

"I'm sorry, Bobby," I quickly apologize. "My comment wasn't meant to be derogatory toward working women. I was just trying to explain why the woman might have kept herself in such good shape. But you obviously have some kind of a connection here."

He's silent for a long moment while he considers his next words with care. I can see him mulling different thoughts over in his head and wait patiently for him to speak.

"My mother," he says softly, hesitantly. "She's my connection, as you put it."

"Sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he begins, his voice growing stronger. "When I was still too young to remember, my dad left. Just went out for a pack of smokes, as the saying goes, and never came home. He left my mother with no groceries, the rent past due, and me."

"She did a Hell of a job raising you, Bobby. She must be extremely proud of how you turned out."

"She is, but it wasn't easy getting to where we are today. She had to, as you say, stay fit and trim to boost tips. We went without a lot, but she always managed to keep a roof over my head, a warm bed, and food on the table. I didn't realize until much later just how hard of a time she was having until I wanted to play football and she couldn't come up with the money for the after school activity bus fare and I ended up walking home the first night after practice." He pauses, fighting back a bitter emotional memory. "That was a long walk, but it gave me time to think and put my priorities in perspective."

"Like I said, Bobby, she done real good raising you. She must be proud."

### Chapter Sixteen

After entering the side door to the precinct, we head our separate ways, me heading to my office and Bobby heading to his desk in the fish bowl. The first thing I notice upon entering my office is a thick manila envelope laying on top of my desk along with a mess of While You Were Out of the Office memos. Picking up the envelope, I note right off that it's a copy of the forensics evidence from Bend. My name is 3rd on the list of recipients, the Captain and the ME are above mine, which is to be expected. But what is IAD's doing under mine?

It only takes me a second to make the connection, and then my temperature sky rockets through the ceiling. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm stamping down the hallway to IAD's offices. Their door is locked, which is standard protocol because of the nature of their investigations. I rap my fist against it hard enough to rattle it in its frame, the noise causing everyone in the fish bowl to turn and look up from their work.

To my relief, the door opens and Detective Samson, one of the officers that spoke with me originally at the hospital, is standing there. He steps aside and indicates for me to come in. His calm demeanor would indicate that irate cops hammering on their door is a regular occurrence, and I can't help but think it probably is.

"Have a seat, Detective Hennessy," he says, heading toward an almost full pot of coffee. "I just put the pot on a minute ago, you look like you could use a cup."

"Do you mind if I stand?" I angrily growl back.

"Actually, I would prefer you take a seat, Detective. And please, close the door." Though his words ring of pleasantries, his voice has taken on a note of authority.

Thinking quickly that this isn't the battle I need to win, I push the door to and slowly pull out the chair sitting across an old wooden desk from what I assume is his and settle into it.

"Here," he says, setting a cup of coffee in front of me. "We just got copies of the state forensics reports out of Bend. I haven't had much time to look at them yet, but what I've read makes for some pretty interesting reading. Have you had a chance to look at them yet?"

"I just got here. They were lying on my desk," I stoically reply, considering a strategy of questioning for him that won't alienate him before I find out what they suspect and why. Despite his earlier moment of authority, his demeanor now seems almost friendly and that causes me to increase my guard even more. I've been a detective long enough to know that befriending someone is just another strategy to use when you're after information; especially if the information you're after will incriminate the one you're questioning. Simple interrogation one-oh-one.

"I have had the opportunity to read through your personnel file, Mike. You don't mind if I call you Mike, do you?"

"Do I need my union rep present?"

"No, I don't think it'll come to that, do you?"

Though he's telling me what he wants, he ends it in a question so it appears to be my choice. "Good, because I'm kind of one of those guys that prefers taking care of his own business, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, that's what I gleaned from your file, too. You prefer a hands on approach to getting results. I can respect that, Mike, so long as the hands aren't doing anything illegal to get the end result you're after. That would be vigilantism."

"My hands aren't dirty, Detective Samson, if that's what you want to know. But maybe I should get that union rep in here after all," I remark, not liking his insinuation that I might be willing to cross the line if that's what it takes to get the end result I want. Yet, that wouldn't explain murdering people. What end result could I possible want that would entail murdering innocent people?

"No, no that won't be necessary, trust me." He takes a sip from his mug and carefully sets it down atop his desk, being sure not to plant it on any papers for fear of leaving coffee stains on documents. "Mike, your jacket reads like a regular hero. Your record is exemplary. You have one of the highest conviction to arrest rates of any detective that's ever worked for this department. No more unnecessary roughness complaints than would be expected from a cop that does his job diligently. On paper, Mike, you are the ideal detective. In fact, I'm surprised it's taken you this long to make Lieutenant."

"It's never been about rank."

"Yes, I can see that. As long as you're doing something that gives you a sense of accomplishment, you're quite content. Neither do you have a problem taking orders from your superiors, whether you agree with them or not. But if given a choice, you do things your way and damn the consequences. Sound about right?"

"In case you haven't noticed, most of the detectives in this department work the same way, or they wash out in a short time," I clarify, though I know he's aware of it. "Detectives have to be self-motivated and hardworking or they're in the wrong line of work; no mystery there."

"We could probably go on like this all day, but we both have more important things to do. So Mike, I'm going to cut right to the chase. We went through everything. Your file, Detective Hernandez's file, the crime scene evidence, all the police reports and statements. In fact, we even pulled in a few of the suspected gang members that the gang force recommended we speak to, and they confirmed that the word on the street was that Manny was a dirty cop. We don't know why at this point he tried to kill you, but we do believe he went to that place with the intent of seeing you dead, either by his hand or that of a gangbanger. We may never fully understand why. So for the record, as far as clearing you for that shooting goes, we've already done it and moved on."

Despite the immense relief I feel at his words, I remain stoic in the chair, not giving up anything. Detective Samson is working me the same way I have worked countless suspects myself, and this is usually when the hammer falls, just when you think you've been cleared and are home free. And here it comes. "Here's the problem we're having, Detective," he says, and I notice immediately it's no longer Mike; the familiarity is being pushed aside for the illusion of authority. "Almost everywhere you go, another victim turns up."

"Yeah, that hasn't slipped past me either," I nonchalantly reply.

He rises to put himself at a higher level than me, a technique intended to increase his illusion of authority and intimidation; he obviously doesn't know me as well as he thinks. "We haven't done all our homework on the earlier cases yet, because frankly, there's quite a few. But just the last two are more than we can ignore. You go to eastern Oregon to investigate a murder and see if it's connected to the case you're working on. While you're there, a victim is nabbed right out from under you."

"She wasn't right under me, Detective. Believe me, if she were under me, I think I would have noticed her disappearance."

"This is not the time to be flip, Detective Hennessy. You return from eastern Oregon and a body shows up almost on the same block that you live. The coincidences are adding up," he says, planting his hands on the edge of the desk and leaning over me, when he suddenly straightens up and takes a step back, "Damn, you don't only look like death warmed over, you smell like it."

"I appreciate the compliment, Detective, but I haven't been sleeping too well lately and I just came from a crime scene with a victim that had been dissected. The stench of death kind of gets under your skin, if you know what I mean. Moreover, I've had a lot on my plate lately and I've been pretty busy," I reply, my voice almost strained from trying to remain calm. And then, the anger rumbling through me, I rise to my feet and add, "But I don't believe I've killed anyone, yet."

"Sit down, Mike," he says softly, dropping tiredly into his own seat. "It's not like we suspect you. I mean, damn, we're not that stupid."

"Then why the intensity?" I calmly ask, wanting to believe him this time.

"Really, it's irrelevant. We were only assigned to investigate the Hernandez shooting, and we've done that, and like I said earlier, you've been cleared of that. It was clearly a justified shoot. You're Captain has your service piece and shield. He'll give them back to you just as soon as you're cleared to return to duty. Which makes me have to ask," he continues, his voice rising, "what the Hell were you doing in eastern Oregon when you haven't even been cleared to return to duty yet?"

"Like you said yourself, damn the consequences," I reply, eliciting a knowing smile from him.

"If I may, I suggest you get down to your Captain's office so you can officially get back to work."

Rising, I say thanks, and then add, "The next time I'm investigated, I promise I won't give you so much attitude. I can see now that you're only doing your job just like I'm doing mine."

"The next time, Mike?"

We exchange knowing smiles and I head out the door, saying over my shoulder, "Thanks for the java."

Before I head down to the Captain's office, I head back to my office and close the door. Within a minute, I have my dad on the phone. He's in his 80s, but still very with it cognitively.

"Hey son, how you doing out there?"

"I'm doing good, dad. How about yourself?"

"Doesn't do me any good to complain. Every time I do they just put me on their ignore list," he says with a chuckle. He'd been in assisted living now for more than two years. And even though he raised holy Hell when I first suggested it, he adjusted well and even seems to enjoy living there since adjusting to the routine and making some friends. "So what's up? I know you didn't call me this early in the day just to say hi."

"Actually, I was wondering about something, Dad, and I was hoping you might be able to clear it up for me."

"Shit."

"What's wrong Dad?"

"Oh, that Nurse Ratchet is at the door. Hold on a minute, son."

While I wait, my ear to the phone, the buzzer goes, indicating that I have an internal call coming in from the Captain. I don't want to just hang up on my dad, but I can hear his voice in the background speaking with a woman and it doesn't sound like he's going to get back to the phone anytime soon.

"Damn," I mumble, pressing the button to disconnect from my dad and connect to the Captain. "Yes, Captain, what's up?"

"You got a minute to come down to my office? I got something for you and then we need to have a briefing with the rest of the taskforce, get everyone up to date and working on the same page."

"I got something going on right now, but I'll be there within ten minutes, if that works for you," I tell him, hoping to reconnect with my dad before heading down to his office, and if not that, at least glance through the latest reports from the state forensics lab.

"See you then," he says, and then cuts off.

Pushing redial, I get a busy signal and realize that dad is either still talking to the nurse or he's forgotten that he left me hanging on the phone. Making a mental note to try again later, and if I still get a busy signal, call the care center's office and let them know that my dad's phone is off the hook.

Meanwhile, I tear the manila envelope open and dump out the sheaf of papers. A lot of them are copies of the same report I brought back from Duncin, but more than half of them are new or referring to the latter victim, Tina Jones from the Bar 'K' Ranch and the subsequent interview with her parents and most of the fire crew that are camping out there.

It takes me only a minute to flip through the interviews until I come across Lara Offrage's name. The information that she provided the deputy doing the interview matches what she gave me this time. Though I don't know why I would have expected anything different; it's not as if she was a suspect, and witness testimony is subject to change without notice, and not because they're intentionally trying to hide anything.

Kicking back in my chair, I continue studying the information taken from her, absently wondering why I was so obsessed when I didn't even know the woman. Yeah, I knew her name and what she did for a living and that she had beautiful eyes; damn, I could get lost so easily in those eyes. I also know her phone number and could call her at any time. But would she like it if I called her, especially with no particular reason to do so, or would she think that I was stalking her? Possibly even creep her out?

Pushing everything back into the envelope, I get up and head down the hall to the Captain's office. Pausing, I tap on the door jamb before entering. He's on the phone like usual, but cuts it short at the sight of me and hangs up. Getting to his feet, he reaches across the desk and shakes my hand. Still standing, he runs his right hand through his head of thick, grey blonde hair.

"You look like Hell, Mike, but I'm glad you're up and about," he says with no indication of humor.

"Yeah, so am I," I reply equally dry.

Still standing, he opens a drawer and pulls out my service weapon and shield. "They're finished with ballistics on the weapon, so you can have it back. IAD will probably be calling you in for a last run at you, but for all intents and purposes, it was a justified shoot, you've been cleared."

"Yeah, they already took their run at me and gave me that bit of news, sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for. I'm just glad they got on and wrapped it up in a timely manner. You're my best detective and I need you working this case with all your faculties focused on it, no distractions. That's what I told the mayor and that's what I told the governor, so if they had any influence in getting IAD to get off their asses and wrap it up, so be it."

"Thanks, Captain, I appreciate that."

"Don't mention it," he says, and then giving me another scrutinizing once over. "Seriously, Mike, you look like Hell warmed over. Why don't you go down to the lockers and take a shower, get yourself cleaned up and then we'll have that meeting," he says, his voice fatherly and sympathetic. "I'll let everyone know they'll be on in one hour and to bring everything they have. Also, if you have an extra set of rags to put on, I suggest you consider doing so, you stink like Hell."

"Yeah, like I ain't heard that before."

Overlooking my attempt at brevity, he drops tiredly into his chair and says with finality, "One hour. Close the door on your way out."

### Chapter Seventeen

It had been a long time since I'd had a reason to go down to the patrol officer's locker room. The entire facility was one large room of concrete block construction painted a drab yellow. The ceilings are low with long fluorescent bulbs suspended from them, every other bulb burnt out, adding to the overall ambience. On one end are metal lockers with benches running between them and on the other end of the room are the showers, which are nothing more than spigots protruding along each wall and several large drains spaced out down the center of the floor. The lighting is poor, the floors cold, and I can't help but feel that I'd just entered a Draconian dungeon.

Although I don't have a spare set of clothes, or even soap and shampoo, I am able to scrounge up a used bar of soap and a partial bottle of Pert Shampoo abandoned in the showers. After soaking in a hot stream of water for almost fifteen minutes, I use a ream of paper towels from the dispenser by the sink to dry myself. The stitches in my shoulder, though not infected, looked red and irritated, and the warm water started them itching. If for no other reason, I need to see Denise and have her look at them before I scratch them and infect them.

With no option for clean clothes, I throw my undershorts and t-shirt into the garbage bin, preferring not to put dirty under garments next to a clean body. Unfortunately, that isn't a solution for my pants and shirt, but such is life. Maybe if I keep my coat on, no one will notice the stench or wrinkles.

Stopping by the sink, I glance in the mirror. The face looking back at me, though clean, still looks like Hell warmed over. The shower did nothing for the dark circles or sallow cheeks; only a good night's sleep will take care of those.

On the walk back up to my office, I consider the possibility of maybe slipping back after the briefing meeting with the other members of the taskforce and catching a few winks. Yet, I don't consider it seriously if for no other reason than I know myself better than that. By the time the meeting's over, I'm going to feel as if I wasted too much time already and I'll feel a need to make up for it.

Of course, there's always the possibility that someone comes up with something new and the task force will be going in a new direction with new leads. Or is that just wishful thinking? Any lead will be a new lead.

I'd barely considered the possibility of new information when my thoughts go back to what IAD Detective Samson had said. Although they'd only been assigned to investigate the shooting of a fellow officer, he gave me the distinct impression that they briefly looked at the possibility of my involvement in the murders. In fact, if what he said is true, they're still investigating my involvement by going ahead and checking my timeline against the prior murders, if for no other reason than to rule me out. Doesn't IAD have enough to do without working serial murder cases?

Which brings up another question that I should have considered prior to speaking with IAD; since I can rule myself out as a suspect, what other officers were around when the prior victims were killed? And not just Portland cops, but municipal police, county deputies, state troopers, the entire gamut of law enforcement. Or am I opening a can of worms that might do more harm to the case than it will good?

For the time being, I should probably keep these ideas to myself. In fact, I won't even share them with Bobby.

Bobby. Detective Ames.

He'd been with me when the last two victims were killed. He's been assigned to this case almost since the beginning. If anyone was looking to build a career on a single case, this could easily be that case, and a detective's career could be launched by it, his career.

Now I'm just thinking stupid. I need to get some rest.

When I enter the conference room, most of the detectives on the task force are already there, sitting around a large wooden table with cups of coffee in personalized mugs, notepads, and even some electronic pads setting out in front of them, eager to get started and get the meeting over with. The Captain isn't present yet, but that's normal.

"Good morning, everyone," I say, taking a seat near the head of the table, which is always reserved for the Captain. I have barely sat down and pulled the papers from the manila envelope when someone sets a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. "Thanks," I say, nodding at him. "While we wait on the Captain, pass these around the table so everyone can take a quick look at them. Anyone that wants copies, feel free to make them, just remember they stay in-house, not for distribution to the media. Anyone that's seen pictures of the earlier victims will see that these are just more of the same."

"At least until this morning," the Captain says, striding into the room and throwing down a loose sheaf of papers. "This is the latest we have from the ME. Her name is Jasmine Booth and she's not only a brunette instead of a blonde, she's 59 years of age." He drops into his seat, setting a mug of coffee down on the table in front of him. "Something has changed, and if we're going to get out in front of this asshole, we need to figure out real quick what it is."

While the others seated around the table are busily making notes of the Captain's latest information, Bobby speaks up, using my name to give his idea credence, since he's only a junior detective and no one would give him the time of day otherwise. "Detective Hennessy and I were thinking earlier that the perp might be trying to make the point that no woman is safe from him."

Someone across the table from him demands, "Why? What's that supposed to mean? It's not as if we're protecting all the older brunette females while leaving the young, blue-eyed blondes unprotected like some sort of sacrifice to him. That's just shit. That don't make any sense at all."

"We're here to voice ideas and share what we've learned to date," I state loudly, defending Bobby from an overweight and under-achieving slouch of a detective named David Larrs, the person that was most likely the school bully back in his day and carried the immature attitude with him into adulthood. "If you have something more, Dave, we'll be glad to listen. But if you're just going to criticize everyone that's trying to contribute here, put a damn cork in it."

When Dave just looks quietly down at the papers being shuffled around on the table, I press forward, "Dave, if you don't have anything else to add, we'll move this meeting forward."

His response is a muffled, "No."

Though I want desperately to explain why Bobby and I had been sharing that idea earlier, I know that telling this group of men and women, most of them seasoned officers with years of experience under their respective belts, would only get me pulled off the case and possibly put on administrative leave for psychiatric evaluation. There isn't any way for me to explain that this case has gone way beyond personal. Yet the un-sub's deviation from his normally young blonde haired, blue-eyed victims and instead targeting the mature woman on the dumpster is a clear message to me and me alone. He wants there to be no mistake that at some point he is going to go after Lara Offrage for no other reason than my obsessive attraction for her. No matter what else happens, I can't allow my attraction for Lara to turn into a very real fatal attraction in the literary sense of the word. I have to catch this bastard before there are any more innocent victims, especially Lara Offrage. And although I feel that I have the best chance of getting ahead of this murdering asshole, thanks to my unique ability, I can't discount what the task force brings to the table in terms of experience and intuition.

"So, Mike," the Captain starts. "Would you mind bringing everyone up to speed on how you discovered the connection to the first eastern Oregon victim, the one in Duncin? And should we be looking for more victims outside of Portland and the Columbia Gorge?"

"Actually, Detective Ames, or as most of you probably know him, Bobby, made the connection after checking for homicides with similar victimology. It was his hard work that prompted me to insist on taking a trip to eastern Oregon, which also put us on the scene of the second victim there within hours of it occurring," I explain. "I had planned on assigning someone to pore through the homicide records of the state coroner's office to see just how far afield this butt-wipe is operating, but if someone would like to volunteer, that would be even better."

"I'll do it," says Dave. "How far back do you want me to look?"

His sudden change of attitude takes me by surprise, even though I know it's all for the Captain's benefit. But whatever his motive, I don't really care, as I don't believe he's going to find much anyway. More than likely, he's just going to lock himself in his office and we won't see or hear from him again until the next briefing. "Let's start with a couple of years and see what you find. If it's slim pickings, dig deeper."

"Will do," he says, sliding the loose pages from the latest autopsy report to the next place at the table, now there's no more need to act distracted.

"Thanks. Keep us updated on any possibilities you find." Looking at Detective Janus, who's almost due to go on maternity leave, I add, "If you find any cases exhibiting the slightest possibility that it might be one of our un-sub's, have Detective Janus follow up on it. If our guy's been operating in other parts of the state, he might have slipped up, leaving a clue or a lead that ties him to something currently unconnected to this case and eventually to an ID of the bastard."

The Captain chimes in with his own suggestion. "If you go back more than five years with no luck, expand the search to our neighboring states. There's always the possibility that our guy moved here from somewhere else where he's been honing his skills." He looks at the faces around the table for a moment before his eyes settle on me and he asks, "What else do we have? What makes his modus operandi unique and what could he possibly do that would take him to eastern Oregon?"

Rising, I take a deep breath and exhale it, glancing around the table, waiting to see if anyone else wants to speak. When my glance around the table is met with silence, I say, "If no one has anything to add to what we already know, I'll just briefly summarize the high points that we know to be fact." I begin with the victimology, since all we have for evidence is the victims themselves. In broad detail, I go over the descriptions of the cuts inflicted on the victims, the discarding of the organs after taking the time to remove them, that as far as we can tell, he takes no souvenirs, and that each corpse is positioned and staged and how we haven't been able to decipher the significance of the staging. When I finish, I ask if anyone has any thoughts on either the significance of the positioning of the bodies or the removal of the organs.

When I am again met with silence, I frustratedly ask, "Would anyone care to spend a little time investigating the reasons that some psychos position their victim's bodies and more specifically, what the different positions might signify to them?"

"I'll do it while I wait for Dave to come up with homicides to follow up on," says Detective Janus.

"That would be great."

"I have a question, too," Detective Janus says, drawing my gaze before continuing. "Do you think it's possible that the organ removal and staging of the bodies is nothing more than grandstanding for attention?"

"That's a good question, Detective. I'll give the local FBI's Special Agent in Charge a call, maybe he can get their Behavioral Analysis Unit to work up a profile on this guy, and if not, at least give us a reason why we're finding what we're finding out there," says Captain Easton, pushing his hand through his hair.

When the Captain stops speaking, I pick up with, "Excluding the victims themselves, it might be worth keeping in mind that our unknown subject knows something about evidence collection. Our CSU team, in addition to the state's forensics lab and multiple county coroners have come up with zip to date. I hate to admit it, but this guy is good. We have no DNA, no fingerprints, no tire tracks, no nothing. It's almost as if he were a ghost."

"He's not a ghost, and we will catch him," the Captain says with conviction.

Sensing that we've reached the end of the briefing and anymore time sitting in this room is just wasted time, I say, "If there isn't anything else, I expect everyone will make what copies of the autopsy reports they feel are pertinent to them. Otherwise, let's get out there and shake some trees. Maybe we can put this guy away before Detective Janus goes on maternity leave."

There is the shuffle of chairs sliding on hardwood floors and people hurrying for the door when the Captain says, "Mike, need you in my office."

With a nod to Bobby indicating that I'll be back in a few, I follow the Captain down the hall to his office. When we're both inside, he says over his shoulder, "Close the door."

"What's up Captain?"

"This case is drawing a lot of heat, Mike. I brought you on because we need results, you know that, right?" he starts, his voice betraying the stress he's feeling as he pushes his right hand through his head of thick hair, a nervous habit.

"Yeah, I know that. And I'm doing everything I can to get results," I start. "I've only had this case a few days, Captain, and a couple of those were spent in the hospital recuperating from a gunshot wound. Now, I know I don't have anything solid to back up my claim here, but I am making progress, Captain. You're just going to have to trust me."

"I do trust you, Mike. But I need something to get the brass off my ass, is all. Between the mayor, the governor, and the media, my ass is being ground to hamburger."

"I know this isn't what you want to hear, but we've already expanded the case out of Portland and the river basin areas."

"Yeah, thanks for that. Instead of solving the case, it grows to include jurisdictions all over the damned state. Just what the Hell you going to do to me next?" he says with a forced smile, his hand pushing back his hair. "By the way, just because Internal Affairs is off your ass doesn't mean you can slide out from seeing the department shrink. It's mandatory, and if it weren't that you were in charge of this investigation, you'd be sitting on your ass at home watching reruns while you wait for a release to return to work. So don't make light of it Mike. Just make the time and get it over with."

"Just for you, Captain," I say, heading toward the door with a shit-eating grin on my face.

"I'm serious, Mike. You're being given a lot of leeway here, don't make me regret it."

"Thanks, Captain," I reply, my tone suddenly serious, though I have no idea when I'm going to be able to make time for a shrink. Hell, I don't even have time for a proper shit, shower, and shave.

When I get back to my office, I drop tiredly into the chair behind my desk and consider what to do next. Picking up the phone, I press redial and immediately receive a busy tone in response. My gut reaction is to call the care center's office and report my father's phone as being off the hook. But I just as quickly discard the thought and decide instead that I'll just try again later. Instead, I dig out the most recent phone list I can find and look up the department's mental health office.

Hesitantly, I punch the numbers into my phone and prepare to wait. When a voice comes on the other end before I even hear it ring, I form a mental image of ghouls waiting to pounce on unsuspecting souls.

"Dr. Mathews, may I help you?"

"Hey Doc, Detective Hennessy."

Before I need to explain the purpose of my call, he quickly says, "Detective Hennessy, so glad to hear from you. I've been expecting your call."

"You have?" I ask, still surprised by the quick answering of the phone followed now by the instant recognition of my name, and why is a doctor answering their phones?

"Yes. Your file came across my desk just this morning. In fact, I just finished going over it, hence your name is still fresh on my mind." He pauses for a moment before continuing, "I really wasn't expecting to hear from you for a couple of weeks, that's the average response time for individuals that are required to attend mandatory evaluation, but your calling this quick is a good sign."

"Good in what respect?" I ask, discovering to my surprise that I actually like this guy's candid approach.

"For you to be calling this soon tells me that you're either serious about being helped, which is hard to believe because you haven't even determined whether you need help yet or not, or you simply want to get it over with so you can move forward, putting the shooting and all the bullshit that goes with it behind you. I'm thinking you fall into the latter description. How am I doing so far?"

"Let's set a date and time."

### Chapter Eighteen

When I finish going over the latest autopsy report and the compilation of police reports from all the officers that had attended the crime scene, it is nearing five o'clock and the back of my next is aching severely from a combination of stress and bullet wound. Fishing Denise's number out of my trench coat pocket, I give her a call and verify that she is still willing to look at my wound on her time. Just the sound of her voice has a relaxing effect on me.

After verifying her address and setting a time of 7 PM, I get up and walk down the hall to the Captain's office, planning on sharing my appointment with the shrink with him. I figure if he is having a bad day, the news will cheer him up. When I get there, however, his office is already dark, so I continue on down to the fishbowl where I figure I'll find Bobby and let him know that he's on his own for the night. I figure if I can't cheer up the Captain with one piece of news, I can at least make my subordinate happy with another, giving him the night off from me.

The fishbowl, or open space where all the detectives have assigned desks and phones at their disposal is relatively quiet at this time of the day, most of the detectives having already left for the night. To my surprise, Detective Janus is still at her desk, the computer screen in front of her absorbing all of her attention. Not to my surprise, I notice Dave's desk is abandoned.

"Hey, Bobby, anything new," I say, pulling up a chair next to his desk.

"Detective Janus gave me a couple of news clips from down in the valley that she thought might be connected," he says, turning away from his monitor to face me.

"I thought Dave was supposed to be doing that," I grumble softly, not wanting Detective Janus to hear me questioning the pecking order when she is just stepping up because someone else is dropping the ball. "Any idea when Dave left or where he was headed?" I ask, my voice calm despite the growing frustration.

Glancing surreptitiously around the room before answering, he hesitantly replies, "I wouldn't know, Boss. He never made it back here after the briefing."

"That explains why she's hunting down the prospects," I grumble. And then, shaking it off, I ask, "So, any other possible victims we can tie to this case?"

"I got one here between Tillamook and Lincoln City and another further south near Florence, both on the coast. I won't know for sure until we get the full reports on them from the investigating agencies. Right now, they're still open and unsolved, that's about all I can tell you."

"Good work, Bobby."

"Tell Detective Janus," he quickly replies, nodding toward the woman with the bulging tummy staring hard at her monitor. "If it weren't for her, we'd have overlooked these too. She has quite the eye for details," he adds admiringly.

"I'll let her know her efforts aren't going unnoticed. Meanwhile, when you finish up here, take the rest of the night off. Be available if I have to call you tomorrow. Otherwise, keep after this and let me know when you can confirm whether those cases are part of this investigation or not."

"Will do, Boss," he says smiling. "Thanks."

Walking over to Detective Janus's desk, I stand there quietly for a moment silently watching her before she realizes I'm there. "Detective Hennessy," she says, turning away from her monitor after putting it to sleep.

"Detective Janus," I reply with a smile. "Detective Ames tells me he's following up on some possible cases you pushed his way. He also let me know that if it weren't for your keen eye to detail, we would have overlooked these cases altogether. I want to tell you that I appreciate your efforts."

"It's nothing," she smiles back.

"It might not be much to you, but it sounds to me like you have a special ability to see things others don't."

"We're not even sure at this point whether they'll become part of this case file or not," she humbly argues, clearly uncomfortable with accolades, even if they're just a few praiseful words from her superior.

"You're right, that's still to be determined. But we wouldn't even have that if not for you. Thanks."

"You're welcome," she simply responds. Like Bobby before me, I too take an immediate liking to her. The department is going to miss her when she finally does go on maternity leave; we sure could use more like her and fewer like Dave.

Turning, I walk away, saying 'good night' over my shoulder, my feet dragging and every joint in my body protesting with stiffness.

From the fishbowl, I head out to the rear parking area where employs leave their personal vehicles and find my Jeep right where I'd left it that fateful night I went out for the last time with Manny, my former partner. Seeing it sitting there, the ragtop and faded blue paint so familiar it makes me feel as if I'd just come home from a long and arduous journey. If it wasn't just cold metal and plastic, I would give it a hug.

"Did you miss me?" I whisper, climbing up onto the plastic covered driver's seat and leaning over to reach beneath the passenger's seat. Tucked into the springs, my fingers find the hard outline of the ignition key. Straightening up, I simultaneously extract the key from its hiding place and slip it into the ignition and turn it. A move I've perfected with repetition.

Without hesitation, the engine springs to life and then quickly settles into a smooth rhythm, the headers and dual exhaust emitting a low rumbling growl, a throwback to my younger days. Now in my mid-forties, it is probably time to consider trading it in for something more civilized. Yet, I can't bring myself to do it, despite freezing in the cold, baking in the heat, and usually getting wet when it rains. The old girl has never let me down, and for that reason alone, I owe it a debt of gratitude.

Jumping onto the 205 loop and then taking the highway 26 exit drops me into an older part of town, now mostly low income and shabby, unkempt store fronts, every exposed surface covered in graffiti. And yet, just a block or two off the main road puts me in a very middle income neighborhood with nice yards and well-kept homes.

Pulling into the driveway of Denise's ranch style home, I instantly notice a basketball hoop hanging over the garage door and for the first time remember that she told me she had a thirteen year old son from her first marriage and that the father wasn't in the picture. Under normal circumstances, this would send up red flags and I would be making excuses with a preference of a nurse removing the stitches at the hospital, just in case I needed a shot or something.

Yet, I didn't get any inclination that Denise was on the prowl for a husband. All I got from her on our prior meeting was a mutual attraction, and not sexual. A spark might have passed between us, but it was a casual, relaxed spark that felt comfortable. Maybe, in time, the relationship could grow into something more than a casual friendship. But for now, I think we were both content with just trying on each other for friendship.

Her car isn't in the driveway, so I assume she put it in the garage to keep the driveway clear for her son's recreation, the basketball hoop. Backing out of the drive, I decide to leave the jeep on the street, not knowing what her son's routines are. Before I even shut the engine off, two boys come charging out of the front door, the one in the lead carrying a basketball. They hit the concrete running, the ball dribbled twice and then heaved at the hoop.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the dark haired one that was in the lead coming out of the house and tall for his thirteen years of age, is Denise's son. The other boy, much shorter with red hair and glasses, must be a school friend of her son's.

Walking up the driveway, they both stop and look at me. "Hey guys," I say, giving them my friendliest smile, first impressions and all.

"You must be Detective Hennessy," the taller one says, holding the ball in front of him.

"I am. But you can call me Mike. You must be Robert," I reply, extending my hand.

"I'm Robert," the short red-head with Coke bottle lenses pipes up, giving me a look that speaks volumes. In his opinion, I just struck out.

"My apologies. Your mother told me what a good student you were, but she never described you," I say, tripping all over myself and extending my hand to him next. So much for first impressions.

He takes my hand and gives me a single limp shake, acting as if I don't matter anyway, and then says, "Mom saw you pull in. She's waiting for you if you want to go in."

He was giving me an easy out, but I wasn't ready to leave him with an impression of me that was anything less than stellar. "Would you mind if I throw a few hoops with you first? I haven't had the pleasure of throwing a ball for quite some time."

Without waiting for Robert to respond, the taller one bounces the ball to me. "Horse. Have you ever played it?"

"Like I said, I haven't handled a basketball for quite a while." I bounce the ball a few times, getting the feel of it, then turn to Robert and ask, "You alright with that?"

"Sure, whatever," he says, stepping off to the side of the concrete to give me room while his buddy moves to place himself beneath the basket. Without a word, the shooting order had been established.

Dribbling the ball down the drive a little distance, I decide to make my first shot a tough one. Pivoting around like I would have done when I was a kid, I roll the ball into my right hand and wind up, lobbing it skyward with everything I can muster behind it.

An excruciating pain immediately tears through my shoulder and I go to my knees, suddenly aware of a wetness running down my chest beneath my shirt and coat, which I had left on to conceal my weapon in the shoulder holster tucked beneath my left arm.

Leaning forward, my breath caught in my chest, I plant my hands on the concrete to keep from going all the way down. To my surprise, Robert and his friend come running, the ball all but forgotten. While his friend holds back, Robert comes right up to me and puts a reassuring hand on my good shoulder and asks, "Are you all right? Mom said she'd sewn up a bullet wound in you. Did you feel a tear or rip with the pain? Moving like that you might have torn the stitches out."

Shocked and surprised by his suddenly caring attitude, and even more so by his take charge decisiveness, I look at him anew. "You know, I think I did," I hoarsely rasp.

Putting his hand beneath my right arm, he says, "Come on. We'll get you in the house and mom can take a look at it."

The blood is soaking the front of my shirt beneath the coat and when he sees it, he simply remarks, "Yeah, it looks like you tore the stitches all right. Come on, we got to get you inside."

While Robert has no qualms about being close to someone that is bleeding and in pain, his friend turns a ghastly shade of white and takes several steps backward, giving us room to go by as we stumble drunkenly toward the house. When we reach the door, it suddenly swings open and Denise is standing there. Her face is calm and with makeup on and a nice floral patterned blouse and blue jeans, looks like a much younger, much more attractive version of the Denise then the one I'd met at the hospital. Despite my pain, I can't help but think maybe I had misread the situation; she wasn't so bad looking after all.

"Get him to the couch, Robert," she says, turning and hurrying down the connecting hall, which I simply assume leads to the bedrooms and bathroom where she must have a first-aid kit. Meanwhile, Robert manages to guide me to the couch, but I refuse to sit for fear of getting blood on their furniture.

"Then come this way," he says, unflustered and still holding my right arm, my left dangling limply by my side.

Turning, he guides me through the doorway to the left and into the kitchen. Letting go of my arm, he pulls a vinyl covered chair out from the kitchen table, and then helps me down onto it.

"Thanks," I say, giving him a weak smile through the excruciating pain.

Without hesitation, he begins helping me out of my trench coat. Aware that I don't want to get blood on it if at all, he is extremely careful, having me lean forward while he maneuvers it out from under me and over my shoulders. I am almost free of the coat when Denise comes hurrying in, a first-aid kit in one hand and a couple of terrycloth towels in the other.

She hesitates only briefly at the sight of my weapon, and then instructs Robert to put a pot of water on the stove and to bring it to a boil while she undoes the holster strap, carefully placing it and the weapon on top of the fridge where it is conveniently out of sight for the time being. If she noticed that the blood soaked into the leather was of varying degrees of age, she didn't acknowledge it.

"What happened?"

"Forgot that I'm not a kid anymore," I smile at her as she cuts my blood soaked shirt away with a medical scissors, revealing my upper torso. The blood hasn't reached my pants yet, so she quickly takes one of the towels and wraps it tightly around my waist to soak it up before it can.

For a man of my age, I take a lot of pride in my body, working out whenever time allows and trying to eat right when possible. There isn't much marbling in this steak, if you know what I mean. Whether a woman like Denise even notices or not, I have no idea, she isn't being outwardly passionate at the moment, just clinically formal and in charge.

When Robert turns back toward us, a large kettle atop the stove, Denise instructs him to an upper cabinet on the far side of the kitchen. "There's a bottle of Montego Bay up there," she says. "Bring it to me, please."

Opening the cupboard, Robert immediately realizes the bottle is out of his short reach. Fortunately, his friend has just come into the kitchen, still ashen, and easily retrieves it from the cupboard and hands it to him, telling him that he needs to get home before it gets too late. "Alright," Robert replies. "I'll see you in school tomorrow."

With that, the tall kid heads out of the kitchen and within a moment, the front door slams. Robert sets the bottle of spiced rum on the table and turns toward the cupboard above the sink to retrieve a few glasses.

Feigning innocence, he places three glasses on the table next to the bottle. "Only two, Mister," his mother sternly orders, unable to mask the smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

"Ah," he protests, picking up one of the glasses and returning it to the cupboard, and then returning to the table and pouring a large shot in each glass.

"Help yourself," Denise says, busily cleaning the area around the bullet wound. When Robert reaches for one of the glasses with a smirk on his face, she quickly scolds, "Not you, Mister."

Taking one of the glasses, I thank her and see it off in a single swallow. The bottle of rum clearly told me that she wasn't intending on giving me any pills for the pain.

"Whew, I needed that," I say, eyeing the second glass. "Thank you."

"You looked like you needed something," she says, and then pulls the remaining stitches out of the torn wound. "You're going to want another before I start sewing," she calmly remarks, setting up a needle.

When I reach for the second glass, she quickly stops me. "Wait a minute, Mister," she says, using the same tone of voice with me that she used with her son just a moment earlier. "This is my glass," she says, taking it from in front of me and putting it to her lips. Mimicking me, she drinks it in one large swallow. "Whew, I needed that too," she smiles, setting the glass down on the table and straightening herself up before going to work with the needle and thread.

As the needle slides through my skin and flesh, I can't help but flinch. "Robert, you want to pour us another round?"

"This isn't fair," he grumbles, pouring two more glasses.

Before I know it, she sets the needle down, ties off the thread and snips it close to the wound. Picking everything up, she walks over to the stove and drops it all into the pot of boiling water. Returning to the table, she picks up both glasses and offers mine to me. "Bottoms up," she says, seeing her glass off in one large swallow.

Not wanting to be shown up by a woman, I meet her gaze and repeat the gesture with a smirk. "You fix a mean drink, Robert," I say, holding her gaze as I set my glass on the table next to hers, the pain in my shoulder and neck receding with the heat of the alcohol as it hits my empty stomach. "They don't give you this kind of painkiller in hospitals," I joke.

"If they did, we nurses would never get any peace," she laughs, the sound of her voice comforting.

Robert shakes his head in frustration and says, "I have homework to do if you guys are just going to get drunk."

Watching Robert as he heads out of the kitchen before turning to face Denise, I ask, "Where the Hell did you find that kid?"

"Are you suggesting that I'm not capable of raising a kid that well, or that my genes could never put forth such an intelligent human being?" she sternly asks. And then, before I can mouth a reply, she warns, "Careful how you answer that, now."

Reaching for the bottle, I pour us each another round and hand her glass to her, saying, "If I could take credit for a kid like that, I would be so proud you'd have to constantly be pulling my head out of the clouds."

"He is the center of my life. I don't know where I would be without him."

"A toast," I say, holding my glass up. "This is to you and a wonderful boy." Then, before she can protest, I add, "And then you need to put the bottle away."

"In that case, cheers," she says before downing half the rum in her glass. "We still need to dress your wound to protect it from infection. Your little stunt with the basketball just undid all that fine work you received at the hospital, you know."

"How did you know I tore the stitches playing basketball?"

"Are you serious? You must have known I was watching for you and sent the boys out when I did so Robert would have a chance to meet you on his turf."

"Damn, I never had a chance, did I?" I laugh, feeling more comfortable in her presence than I ever had with any other woman. Her whole demeanor put me at ease and I wanted, no needed actually, to spend more time with her.

The bandaging went quickly under her efficient skill and I found myself trying to find an excuse to make my stay last a little longer, and I think she was too. "Is it wise for you to drive after three drinks?" she ask while slowly putting her first-aid kit back together and cleaning up the kitchen.

"No, you're probably right, I should let the alcohol pass through my system before I get behind the wheel. It probably wouldn't look too good for a cop to get a DUI."

"Let me see what I can find you to wear," she suddenly says, as we'd both forgotten that I was sitting at her kitchen table without a shirt.

As she moves past me, I reach out and grab her wrist. When she turns to face me, I say, "Tonight probably isn't a good night, what with such short notice and all. But I feel indebted to you and I really would like to see you and Robert again. So, if your schedule isn't too busy, let me take the two of you out some evening for dinner. Nothing fancy, just food, and an opportunity to get to know each other a little better."

"I'd like that," she smiles. "Now, don't go running off before I return and I'll put some coffee on."

Rising to my feet, I immediately grow light headed, and before I know it, Denise has an arm around my waist and is setting me back into the chair. Smiling, she says, "I guess I don't have to worry about you running away any time soon."

"Actually, I was just going to offer to make the coffee while you find me something to wear," I say, my head still spinning. "Guess I got up too fast."

"You're under-estimating the shock to your body," she says smiling down at me. "Just because you're a man doesn't mean you have to be all macho all the time, especially around me. I like you for who you are,"

"I knew that," I reply, my head steady. "I've never felt like I have to be anyone but me when I'm around you, and I like that."

"Good. Then you'll stay put until I return. I don't want to find you sprawled out on the floor when I get back."

"Promise, I'll be right here."

No sooner than she's out of the kitchen then Robert comes in and takes the chair opposite mine. "So, you're a cop, huh?"

"Yep, I guess I am," I reply. "And you're a thirty year old in a thirteen year old's body. That was pretty impressive the way you took charge out there in the driveway when my wound tore open."

"It was nothing."

"Well, I happen to think it was something pretty impressive. So what kind of hobbies do you have? What are your interests?"

"Is this an interrogation? Because, if you want to date my mom, it's all right with me," he says, throwing me for a loop. "My mom hasn't been on a date since, well, I can't even remember. It seems like all she ever does is work."

"Whoa. Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, Robert. I like your mom, I really do. She's quite the lady, but I'm not here to start a relationship, at least not that kind. I would like to get to know you and your mom better, but that's only because I want to be her friend at this point, just her friend, Robert. And yours too with time, if that's okay with you," I say with sincerity.

"Yeah, that's cool," he says, suddenly jumping up and running into the living room just as his mother enters the kitchen.

"What's cool?" she asks, handing me a blue striped bowler shirt. "It's the only thing I could find with the buttons on the right side for a man."

Taking the proffered shirt, I hold it out in front of me and say, "It'll be fine. Thank you."

Heading to the counter where a drip coffee maker is setting up against the splash guard, she repeats her question, "What's cool?"

Slowly, I get to my feet, using the table to steady myself, and slip the shirt on. It's a little tight in the chest area, but wearable. While I button it up, I softly tell her in a voice that won't carry beyond the kitchen, "I have Robert's permission to be your friend. Of course, if that's okay with you."

She smiles, clearly pleased that her son has given his stamp of approval, and says, "I'd like that very much."

"Does that mean you and Robert will have dinner with me some evening soon?"

"Absolutely. But right now, when was the last time you've had a decent meal, because frankly, you look like shit."

"Damn, you don't believe in beating around the bush do you?" I laugh, dropping heavily back into the chair. "But to be honest with you, I haven't had anything to eat for more than 24 hours."

"Then don't plan on leaving that chair for a little while longer, because as it just so happens, I have two large pizza's in the fridge and Robert and I haven't had supper yet either. Of course, we at least had lunch today. So, you'll stay if I put them both in the oven?"

"Sounds like an offer I can't refuse."

From the living room, Robert yells, "All right, pizza!"

### Chapter Nineteen

When I get back to my unit at the row house a little after 10 PM, Suzy steps out on her porch wearing a silvery chiffon night robe and smiling seductively with a Bohemian in each hand. "Are you up for a little conversation before you head off to bed, big guy," she says softly, waving the bottles for further enticement.

Truth be told, I would have been able to resist Suzy if it weren't for the Bohemians. "Just one, sweetheart, and then I'm off to bed. It's been a long day and I'm bushed."

"A beer and bed it is, honey," she says, licking her lips in anticipation.

When she turns to go inside, I quickly suggest that we sit out on the porch and enjoy the warm night air, a novelty here. Her expression betrays her disappointment, but she quickly hides it and instead turns toward the old sofa setting off to the right of the door. "It is a lovely night, isn't it?" she agrees, her voice a notch less passionate than it had been just moments earlier.

Dropping onto the sofa, she carefully positions herself to leave me room beside her. I step up and accept the bottle of Bohemian she holds out to me and then retreat to the top step and carefully lower myself down to it, favoring my left shoulder. "You know I don't have anything contagious," she says, further disappointed by the distance I put between us.

It would have been much easier to just take the place on the old sofa next to her, but I can't let myself go down that path, especially knowing full well that it will only lead to her bed and a night of passionate lovemaking. And as tempting as that is, for reasons I can't explain, I feel guilty just thinking about it. I also need to get some rest.

"No, Suzy, it has nothing to do with you," I tell her with all honesty. "I had a little setback today with my shoulder and I really do need to get some rest so it can start healing properly."

That is as close to the truth as I intend on sharing with her. Like Denise earlier this evening, guilty feelings of cheating plague me whenever I have thoughts of taking our relationship further than just the friendship that we have agreed to, even if that agreement is only because of me.

After the evening of friendship that Denise and I shared, the moment at the door when I was leaving grew awkward. Her eyes and body language were begging me to stay. Yet, her heart wasn't going to risk the rejection that was sure to come by pursuing her immediate needs. And while a part of me really wanted her to throw our friendship agreement out the door and make a play for something more, I was overwhelmed with relief that we parted ways with nothing more than a warm hug and a peck on the cheek.

She quickly rises to her feet, suddenly overcome with concern. "Michael, you should have come to me. I would have taken care of you. Can I get you anything?" she asks, no longer thinking of a raucous night in the sack, but only concerned for my wellbeing. "Come inside, let me take a look at it," she says with the best of intentions.

"No, no, Suzy. It's alright, really. I did something stupid and I tore the stitches out. It had to be cleaned up and re-stitched, nothing serious," I tell her, letting her believe that I had gone back to the hospital. There wasn't anything to be gained by telling her otherwise. "But I do need to get some rest."

"I'm sorry. It was selfish of me to think that you would just drop everything and come running because I wanted something from you. Please forgive me for being so inconsiderate."

Pushing myself to my feet, I wrap my arms around her full figure and whisper in her ear, "Suzy, you have no idea how it pains me to leave you standing here on the porch, but I really do need to get to bed, my own bed. If anyone is being selfish, it's me. Can you forgive me?"

"Honey, I not only forgive you, I will give you a rain check," she says with a hungry smile. "Now you run along and get some sleep." And then, before I can take a step down, she quickly adds, "Do you need me to give you a hand getting to your unit?"

"No, no, Suzy, I'll be fine," I say, pulling away from her lingering grasp.

"Well if you need anything later, you just give me a call and I'll be right over," she replies, looking forlorn and dejected by my leaving.

After entering my unit and closing the door, I lean back against it and take a deep breath, wondering what the Hell was coming over me. Leaving two women wanting me in the same night was unheard of, despite having been recently shot. What was that woman over in eastern Oregon doing to me? It was bad enough that I can't get her off my mind. But now I'm becoming a saint and saving myself for her? Just the thought has me questioning my sanity. Sure, she's a pleasure to my eyes. Yet, in the too short of time that I got to spend talking to her, how can I know we'd even be compatible? Or, more importantly, would she even like me?

So many unknowns and only one known; the sick bastard that is killing women all over the state of Oregon has picked up on my feelings toward this wildfire fighting lady, and he is determined that I should feel the same degree of loss that he felt in his life by taking her away from me before I even get to know her.

Whether this beautiful woman and I could ever have a relationship or not is not going to be determined by him! Whatever it takes, I can't let him get his sadistic hands on her.

But what can I do? She's not even aware of the danger she's in and I can't tell her without coming off sounding like a damn fool. Yet, I can't just ignore the threat to her life either. I have to do something. But what?

Strolling to the bathroom with feet that feel like they're encased in lead, I take care my nightly toiletries and head to the bedroom. Sitting in the dark on the edge of the bed, I remove my shoulder piece and place it under the extra pillow with the butt lying towards me for easy access. One can never be too careful, especially in this neighborhood.

With no small amount of trepidation, I lay my head on the pillow and stretch out atop the blankets. It's warm and comfortable tonight, no need for covering up. For a long time, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, fearful of what I'm going to hear or see when I eventually close my eyes.

With a start, I come awake to the sound of someone opening and closing my front door. To my surprise, the sun is already up and peeking through a multitude of cracks in the dark heavy drapes.

"Detective Hennessy! Boss, are you up yet?" comes a familiar voice from the living room. "The door wasn't locked and I saw your jeep out front. I hope you don't mind that I came in, but I have some good news, I thought you might want to hear."

"Bobby, is that you?" I growl, my voice gravelly from sleep.

"Yeah, it's me Boss," he says, standing in the bedroom door with two cups of java and what appears to be a small bag of donuts. "I brought you some coffee and donuts for the ride to work."

"Damn, what time is it?" I grumble, looking for the clock that should be on the bedside stand.

"Almost seven," he says, way too cheerfully. "Did you hear? I bear good news. Detective Janus was already at the office. She set everything up for us."

"What the Hell are you talking about? What is she setting up for us?" I ask, pulling on a clean pair of pants and a fresh shirt off the clothes bar before retrieving my weapon from under the pillow.

"A road trip, Boss. We're going to the coast and points south," he says almost gleefully. If I didn't know any better, I would have sworn he really enjoyed going over to eastern Oregon with me, or why else would he be so damned excited about going on a road trip with me this time?

"Give me a minute," I say, heading into the bathroom to brush my teeth and take care of my morning constitution. It doesn't escape my notice that I slept uninterrupted through the night. No dreams or voices and I feel more alive than I have for a long while. Just the possibility that our un-sub took the night off for a change gives my spirits a lift. That or Bobby's contagious.

When I come out of the bathroom, I find him sitting comfortably in my tattered recliner eating on a donut, a cup of coffee in hand. "Make yourself at home," I sarcastically remark, heading into the kitchen and seeing the second cup of coffee and the remaining bag of donuts on the Formica table top.

While Bobby was making himself comfortable, I'd managed to grasp the gist of what he'd said when he first arrived. "It sounds like we have some cold cases to follow up on," I remark, the bag of donuts in one hand and the coffee in the other. "So, are you going to sit there all day or drive?"

"Right with you, Boss," he says, jumping out of the recliner and hurrying past me out the door. Over his shoulder, he says, "I'm assuming you're going to leave the jeep here?"

"Yeah, it gets better mileage that way," I reply, suddenly curious at my sarcastic mood. Am I going to be like this every time I turn down a willing woman? Because if that's the case, people are going to get a little tired being around me. Then a new thought strikes me as I carefully lower myself into the front seat of the unmarked sedan. "Did you take this rig home last night?"

"No sir, Boss. I picked it up this morning before coming to collect you."

"You've been to the office already?"

"Yeah, Detective Janus called me earlier. She has an appointment this morning, something to do with her pregnancy, she tried to explain it to me, but I told her I would rather remain in the dark about some things. She laughed like she thought that was funny or something. I was serious. But anyway, to make a long story short."

"Yes, I wish you would," I say, interrupting him.

He throws me a sidelong glance as he maneuvers through the morning traffic, following the surface streets instead of trying to negotiate the highway. "Anyway, she called me about 4:30 to let me know that she would be gone by the time we showed up but that she'd found some cases we would definitely find of interest and was going to leave them on her desk for us." He turns a quick glance at me, his face alight.

"You obviously have more for me," I grumble, chewing on a chocolate glazed donut and following up with a swig of lukewarm coffee.

"Detective Janus went on to say that, even though we will want to talk to the detectives in the other jurisdictions in person, she found enough in the files to say with utmost certainty that our boy has been all over the state," he says, his face beaming with excitement.

"Okay, you got my interest. We'll confirm her research soon enough with a road trip," I say, looking at him with a curious expression.

Sensing me studying his profile, he turns with his stupid grin and says, "What?"

"You," I flatly reply. "What has you so hyped you can't wipe that shit-eating grin off your face? I know it isn't just the fact that we're going to be traveling all over the state of Oregon together for the next few days on the department's dime. So what is it?"

"This is going to be one of the largest manhunts in Oregon state history and I'm one of the lead detectives. It doesn't get any better than that," he says, smiling from ear to ear. "We're going to be famous."

I could have told him all the pitfalls of notoriety and being scrutinized 24/7 by the press, but I couldn't bring myself to burst his bubble. Soon enough, the state's Criminal Investigation Service was going to take over and my task force was going to be relegated to oblivion, Bobby included. We were going to be digging through musty files and filling out paperwork while all the real police work would be done by the state boys.

Seeing that it is going to take us a little while longer to reach the office, I decide to try dad's phone again. To my surprise, he answers on the second ring, "Hello."

"Dad, it's me, Mike. How are you doing?" I say, seeing if he even remembers that he dropped my call yesterday and thinking that I won't bring it up if he doesn't.

"I'm going to breakfast. What do you need?" he asks, his voice curt, not even acknowledging that I'm his son or wondering how I'm doing.

"Dad, I have to ask you a few questions. But if this is a bad time, I can call you later. Would that be better for you dad?"

"Nah, go ahead and ask your questions. Food taste like shit around here anyways."

Although I wanted to ask him how he was doing and how he was getting along in the care center, I was afraid of going down a path that I wouldn't be able to come back up. Instead, I go straight to the heart of my reason for calling, "I'm sorry to hear that dad. But listen dad, do you remember Lorna, my stepmother?"

"Of course, I remember her. She gave up everything to be with me and look where it got her," he says, his voice suddenly sounding distant, almost as if he were drifting back in time.

"I need to ask you a couple of questions about Lorna's family, dad. Do you think you could answer them for me?"

"Nope, can't help you with that, son," he says, his voice growing stronger as clarity comes back.

"Why is that, dad?" I ask, both confused and disheartened by his comment.

"She left whatever family she had when she joined up with me. I don't know what was going on there, but she left them behind and never spoke of them again. Even when she was lying on her deathbed, she never asked me to contact them and let them know that she was dying. Not so much as a by your leave." He pauses for a moment and I figure his clarity is fading out again, but then he suddenly asks, "Why the interest in her family?"

"Oh, it's nothing, dad," I reply, not sure how much to tell him. Or rather, how little I can get away with telling him.

"Listen, son," he says, his voice stern. "You didn't call me up before breakfast with questions about Lorna's family for nothing." He pauses, and I think he is waiting for me to explain myself, when he softly says, "I'm doing good, Mike. Some days are better than others, but all in all, I'm not complaining. Listen, if you get some free time, stop by and see your old man. Maybe you and I can get out of here and go have a beer or something together. What do you say?"

"Dad, I know a lot of water has passed between us, but some days you just simply amaze me," I tell him, holding back tears. "I'd really like that."

"I'm proud of you, son. You take care of yourself and remember, I'm buying," he's chuckling as the line goes dead.

"Goodbye dad," I whisper into the phone, knowing the chances of me ever getting by the care center or the two of us going out for beers is slim to none. We were never close and grew even further apart with time, especially after he remarried. I had assumed all this time that when he met Lorna he had gotten involved with her family and didn't need his own anymore. After talking with him just now, I realized that couldn't have been further from the truth.

"Everything okay, Boss?" Bobby asks, seeing me listlessly holding the phone and staring into space.

With a jerk, I come back to reality, and answer him. "Yeah, I guess it is." And then I realize that I hadn't gotten the information that I'd called for and with a start, say, "No, actually it isn't. I was hoping to tie up some loose ends, but I guess that's not going to happen."

He knew better than to ask if he could help, since it appeared that it was a family matter. Somehow, I would have to find a discreet way of investigating Lorna's family on my own. Until then, it would just have to fester in the back of my head.

### Chapter Twenty

Bypassing my own office, I head straight to Detective Janus's desk with Bobby close on my heels. As promised, there is a small sheaf of printouts, each page a different cold case file, some dating back almost five years. All told there are close to twelve pages.

"Come back to my office, Bobby, we'll go over these together," I say, extracting the list of the cases that Detective Janus put together in order from Portland west to the coast and then south to Medford before turning east to Burns and then north to Bend, Pendleton, and the Columbia River. "I'll start making the calls as we verify them on the list, so we'll need to check them off in the order that Detective Janus has them on the list," I state, handing him the list of case numbers coinciding with the jurisdictions that investigated them.

"Could he be a truck driver?" Bobby ask from behind me, looking over the list of places we were possibly heading, as we make our way back to my office.

As we pass the Captain's office and I see him sitting alone, I turn to Bobby and hand him the sheaf of pages, saying, "Meet me in my office. I need to run this little road trip by the Captain before we go anywhere."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Tapping on the wooden door jamb and then walking in, the Captain looks up and asks how it's going. "We might have us some new leads, Captain. Detective Janus found us a few potentially linked cases scattered from one end of Oregon to the other. Detective Ames and I are going over them now to verify what Detective Janus suspected. If they pan out, Ames and I will be going on a road trip, possibly going to be gone for a few days to a week," I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can while shaking on the inside. This could be the tipping point where he calls in the state investigators or holds us back due to funding, preferring instead that we just have the various jurisdictions on the list fax us or snail mail us what evidence they have.

It never occurred to me that he would suggest I send another subordinate with Detective Ames while I remain back here to coordinate everything. If this wasn't my first case as lead detective, I would have seen it coming.

"Maybe you should send Dave with Ames so you can stay on top of everything as it comes in," he says. "I know you're not crazy about Dave, but Detective Janus isn't in any condition to go on a road trip."

"Captain, Dave isn't in any condition to go on a road trip," I blurt without thinking.

"Close the door, detective," he sternly orders, and I know that I have just screwed up any chance of me going along with Detective Ames.

"Captain, you know what Dave is like," I begin, pleading my case.

To my surprise, he pushes his hand through his hair and says, "Screw Dave. I'm not sure we'd even notice his absence if he retired tomorrow. But that isn't my concern. I made you lead on this case because I believed you could bring something different to the table, and until lately, we were simply running around taking reports as the victims piled up. It was thanks to you thinking outside the box that we discovered this case might be even bigger than we could have imagined."

"Detective Ames might be given the credit for that," I say, though he continues on like he never even heard me.

"How will your being out on the road effect everything else that is going on right now? You've got mandatory psych evaluation time scheduled. You've got detectives in the field following up leads, even if they're doomed to go nowhere, and you've still got stitches from a gunshot wound in your shoulder."

"Dr. Mathews will understand if I put him off for a little while, all things considered. And as far as the rest of the task force, most of them are just going over old case files looking for something that we might have missed the first time around or they're going over the files from the three latest victims," I explain, my voice steady. "Captain, if Ames or I come up with anything on this trip, we'll have the state investigators at our disposal and I'll be right there to oversee all the evidence firsthand. It just makes sense for me to do this."

"Okay, I'm going to back you on this, but I want daily reports at the least, hourly if you find anything that can help. Don't leave me hanging to deal with the brass on my own. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Captain."

When I get to my office, I find Bobby sitting in the visitor's chair with the preliminary reports spread out on the top of my desk. If I'd left anything lying on my desk, it was gone now. Going past him, I drop into my seat and pick up the next case file in order, asking him if he's found anything, good, bad, or indifferent.

"She's good, Boss," he says, as I notice for the first time that each of the case synopsis has a sticky note attached to it with Detective Janus's reasons for including it in the investigation. "Here, look at this one. It's the first one on the list, takes us to Estacada, little logging town just southeast of Portland."

Pulling my eyes from the one I'm studying, I look down at the one Bobby's pushed my way. "I know where Estacada is, Bobby. It happens to be a suburb of Portland. Why haven't we seen this before?" I remark, reading over her notes before actually looking at the case file synopsis.

"Probably because the Forest Service was the lead agency on the investigation. The victim was discovered on National Forest land," he replies as if that explained everything.

"Yeah, but the Forest Service LEOs would have handed it off to someone, whether it be the county or the state or even the FBI," I argue, looking at Detective Janus's notes before moving on to the actual case synopsis. "The body, a young female, blonde hair, blue eyes was found along the road, tied to a tree near the La Dee Flats off road riding area. The organs were crudely removed, but it could have been the work of animals, they'd started feeding on the corpse. The body hadn't been discovered for almost a week after estimated time of death. So we can't really be sure if the un-sub took a souvenir or not. But still, this reads almost identical to the second victim near Duncin if you overlook the animal damage."

"Yeah, it's pretty much a no-brainer," Bobby says, his youthful slang slipping out in his excitement. When he sees me raise an eyebrow at his verbiage, he quickly pushes the next case synopsis under my nose. "This one would have sailed right by me. But after reading Detective Janus's note, I see the connection too."

"Wouldn't it make sense that we're looking for victims that were sliced and dissected?" I ask, assuming that if the victim wasn't mutilated like the others, it wasn't our perpetrator's work.

"Nope," he says, gloating. When I raise an eyebrow at his familial reply, he quickly corrects himself. "No, Boss. That's where Detective Janus outdid herself. She figured out that our perp didn't have time to enjoy his work with every victim. And when he didn't have time to leave his trademark, he also didn't take the time to display his victims."

"Then how did she connect them to our case?" I ask, sounding more pessimistic than I intended or actually felt.

"That's where it gets good, Boss," he says, not discouraged in the least by my negativity. Though I was excited to learn about the one near Estacada, which held promise, I was ready to discount the others out of hand, especially since they didn't bear all the earmarks of our twenty three confirmed victims. "Remember when I said that maybe the guy was a truck driver. Well, the trail that he left isn't necessarily a truck route, so we can probably rule that out. However, each crime scene does have something in common in that they are semi-popular areas. Not necessarily populated, but still popular, if you know what I mean. And that's just one of the things that Detective Janus clued in on." When he sees my perplexed look, he smiles and then quickly explains, "The victims in the gorge, for instance. Popular river beaches, but not necessary busy at the time of the murder. Yet, he had lots of traffic near at hand so he wouldn't have to take the victims very far to display them, such as the highway. Any time day or night, there is non-stop traffic on the Columbia Gorge Highway, yet there are trailheads, state parks, you name it, all the places where the actual crimes were committed."

"Okay, I see where you're going with this," I say a bit hesitantly, still not convinced that this in itself would make a strong connection to our case. Even crimes of opportunity could fall into this category.

As if he can tell that I'm not convinced by my expression and suddenly fearing that our road trip might be going by the wayside, he says with a wistful smile, "There's more."

"Yeah, you said this was just one of the things that connected these cases," I reply, trying to sound more optimistic than I'm feeling over the information tendered so far. "What else ties them to our case?"

"All the victims have been cut to some degree," he says, nervously watching my face for a reaction and hoping it's a positive one. "According to the autopsy reports, some of the MEs comment that the cuts are superficial, possibly inflicted post mortem. But if you follow the trail around Oregon and overlay it with the timeline of execution, you will see that it's the earlier ones where you find those comments." He shuffles hurriedly through the stack of papers and pulls out a sheet three or four pages deep. Holding it out to me, he says, "This one, for example. He's getting more courageous or discovering that he gets off on the victim's pain. The cuts, though still superficial, are perimortem, inflicted while the victim was alive. It's only later, about the time his trail enters the Columbia Basin and turns west toward Portland that he starts butchering his victims while they're alive."

"Okay, so Detective Janus went through case files around the state connecting popular areas in secluded places with victims that had been cut?" I ask, making sure I understand. Not wanting to sound pessimistic again, but I have to ask so it can be ruled out, "How do we know that these earlier cases weren't the victims fighting back and that they're just defensive wounds?"

"Even if they're just defensive wounds, the perpetrator was using a knife," he says, growing exasperated with my resistance.

"Bobby, I know you want to see this case solved and the perp put in the chair as much as I do, but someone has to play the devil's advocate so we aren't wasting time and resources on a wild goose chase." With him looking deflated but grounded again, I add, "But this is good work, Bobby. Detective Janus really does have an eye for details. Even if it turns out that these first few aren't connected to our case, we won't have traveled that far out of our way."

### Chapter Twenty One

It's pushing 10 AM by the time we leave the station house with an itinerary in hand and the rest of the task force brought up to speed. Or at least the members of the task force that were available for my impromptu meeting. Noticeably absent was Dave; no surprise there. And of course, Detective Janus. I was hoping she would return before we left just to share a few thoughts with her. But her appointment was running long and both Bobby and I were anxious to get started.

Before leaving, I assigned the Estacada case to another detective on the task force with roots in the Clackamas County Sheriff's department. If anyone can get through local bureaucracy, it's someone that comes from there.

Meanwhile, Bobby and I head west out Highway 26 with plans to jump onto Highway 6 to Tillamook and then follow Highway 101 south to the first crime scene located halfway between Lincoln City and Tillamook, near a place called Sand Lake Recreation area. With Bobby driving, I get on the phone and call ahead to the Tillamook County Sheriff's Department. When I mention who we are and why we're heading their way, they show an eagerness to share what they have with us, even going so far as to get ahold of the lead detective that was handling the case and arrange for him to meet us out at the crime scene with copies of everything they have. I thank the sergeant on the other end of the line and give him an estimate of our arrival time, but let him know that we'll be in touch again when we get closer.

"That couldn't have gone better if I'd choreographed it," I tell Bobby who has his hands full maneuvering through city traffic as we work our way across town. "They're going to meet us at the crime scene and bring copies of everything they have. So, if it's alright with you, I'm going to catch some shuteye. Even though I slept better last night than I have in a long time, my body is still recuperating. If I'm not up when we hit Tillamook, wake me will you?"

"Sure thing, Boss," he replies distractedly, his attention focused on the hectic traffic surrounding us.

"You go west, Detective, while I go east," teases the voice, a vision of wide open desert flying past the side window as we shoot down the highway. "What can you possibly uncover about my old crimes that the officers working the cases haven't?"

Ignoring his question, I ask one of my own. "Where are you going?"

"Come on Detective, don't act stupid with me. We both know where I'm going. Look around, what do you see?"

He turns his head, taking in the scenery as we cruise down the open highway. It's high desert, no trees to speak of, just scrub and sage brush. "Do you recognize where we are yet, Detective?"

"Yes, you're heading south on the California/Washington highway in eastern Oregon," I respond, though we're not really using words, but more like interpreting thoughts.

"Since you recognize the terrain, then you must have figured out where I am going."

"Why are you doing this?"

"You, of all people, should know why I am doing this!" the voice angrily replies, growing impatient with my apparent lack of understanding for his actions. "How many times do I have to explain it to you?"

"Your explanation is a pathetic excuse for you to carry out a sick agenda," I reply, purposely trying to agitate him further. "People move on in life and leave loved ones behind all the time. That doesn't cause them to go out and brutalize innocent people. Only a weak, demented individual would lose control and start killing people the way you have."

"Shut up! Shut Up!" he screams in a rage. "You can't talk to me like this. You have no right!"

"I have every damned right to talk to you any way I please, you sick bastard," I scream back. "What gives you the right to torture and mutilate young women? Huh, what gives you the right?"

For the first time since entering his conscious thoughts, I had angered him by questioning his motives and justification. If he firmly believed in what he was doing, why was I able to bring out his anger so easily?

His thoughts suddenly calm again, he says, "Soon, Detective, you're going to know the same pain that I've felt."

"What pain is that?"

"The pain of losing someone you love."

"To feel the pain you're describing, don't I have to love someone before I can lose them?"

"You love someone, Detective. You're just too unwitting to know it yet. But that will change soon enough."

"Leave her out of this!"

"See, Detective. I don't even have to mention her name and your heart races, your blood pressure rises, and you grow concerned for her safety," he laughs. "You're in love, Detective, just too damned pigheaded to admit it, even to yourself."

"I'm warning you."

"Yes, that little fire baby of yours is going to be a real pleasure," he hisses. "But don't you worry, Detective, I'll be sure and share the experience with you, ha ha ha!"

"BEEEEP!!"

"What the Hell!" I cry out, bolting upright in the seat as I'm startled awake by the sound of a car horn blaring angrily outside my door.

"It's okay, Boss. Nothing to worry about," Bobby quickly assuages my angst, slightly amused by my alarmed reaction.

"Where are we?" I demand, not in the least bit humored by his pleasure.

"Merging onto Highway 6, Boss," he tentatively replies, his expression growing serious at the tone of my voice.

"Turn around. Now!" I order him, my voice raised. I can't shake the feeling of impending doom that the voice in my head has left me with, and I suddenly realize that I have to get to Lara Offrage before our perp does.

Without a word, Bobby pulls over to the side of the road, the car that had just blared its horn at us zipping on by, giving us another long blast of anger. Instead of turning the car around, however, Bobby sits looking at me. "Are you sure, Boss? They're expecting us in Tillamook."

"I'm sure, Bobby," I reply, my voice much calmer than just a moment earlier. "Get us turned around and take me back to my place," I instruct him.

Doing as instructed, he performs a U-turn on the highway and accelerates back up to speed before turning to glance at me, a look of concern on his face as he asks, "What's going on, Boss?"

Unable to explain in a way that he would understand or even make sense to a normal person, I simply state, "An idea just came to me."

"But what about the cases we're following up on?"

"You don't need me holding your hand on this, Detective," I tell him, referring to him as Detective as a show of respect for his abilities. "After you drop me off swing by the station house and pick up Detective Janus. Take her with you. If anyone can teach you the ropes, I believe she can. Plus, I have every confidence that she'll know the right questions to ask in determining if those cases were really performed by our sick bastard or not."

"But she's pregnant," he blurts, clearly disappointed in the turn of events.

"Would you rather take Dave with you?"

"Detective Janus will be fine," he quickly replies, still looking depressed. "But where will you be?"

"I'm going back to eastern Oregon," I flatly remark, not embellishing on why and hoping he doesn't press it.

But then, he wouldn't be a detective if he didn't have a need to ask questions. "What are you going to do over there? We already know everything there is to know about the latest victims from over there."

"I can't shake the feeling that while we're heading down what could possibly be the perp's back trail, he's still working on a new trail over there." I pause for a moment, glancing over at him before adding, "If I intend on getting out in front of him, I have to be where he is."

"But his last victim was in Portland," Bobby reminds me.

"Only because he thought we were leaving him behind, Bobby. He came to Portland to make sure he still had our attention. And what do we do, instead of letting him know that he does, we take off in the opposite direction."

"Is he after our attention, or your attention, Boss?" Bobby asks, his voice suddenly different.

"Does it matter, Bobby?"

"Yes, it does."

"Bobby, I might be wrong about this. And if I am, you will still find the same answers whether it's me with you or Detective Janus. However, if I'm right about this, and my gut is sure telling me that I am, my presence over in eastern Oregon might just save an innocent person's life." I take a breath and glance over at him. For the briefest moment, we make eye contact before his focus returns to the road. "I can't explain it any clearer than that, Bobby," I add apologetically.

After a few minutes of silence, I pull out my cellphone. "I'll give Detective Janus a call and let her know that she's going on a road trip." To my surprise, she answers on the first ring. "Detective Janus, Hennessy."

"Yes, Mike, what can I do for you? Have you made it to Tillamook yet? I'm assuming you and Detective Ames are going to start there, since that case appears to be the oldest."

"Yeah, that's why I'm calling you. Something has come up and I'm not going to be able to go. I need a partner for Detective Ames and I was wondering if you would like to go, since you already seem fairly attuned to the details of the cases."

Hesitantly, she says, "Um, Mike, in case it's slipped your mind, I'm going on maternity leave in less than 2 weeks."

"No, it hasn't slipped my mind, Detective," I reply, not sure how to continue.

"Listen Detective Hennessy," she suddenly says as if she's come to a decision. "I'll make a deal with you. If you quit calling me Detective Janus and just call me Janus and I can just call you Mike, I'd be happy to go on this road trip with Bobby."

Unaware that I'd been holding my breath, it rushes out in a sigh of relief. "Janus, I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't think you were the best choice for the assignment."

"Thanks, Mike, coming from you, that means a lot. Tell Bobby I'll have my bags packed and waiting for him."

"Will do. Thanks Janus." After returning my cell to my coat pocket, I say to Bobby, "You probably heard most of that."

"Yes, Boss," he somberly replies.

The rest of the drive back to my place is almost morose, with Bobby breaking the silence only occasionally to ask specific questions regarding the cold cases that he and Janus will be looking into. And then, his questions are with respect to the types of questions he should ask of the investigating officers.

When we pull up in front of my rental unit, I open the door and reach in through the back to retrieve my ditty bag and trench coat. Glancing at Bobby, I almost feel sorry for the kid. "Bobby, keep this in mind, it's why we're detectives and not patrol officers. Don't worry about what the investigating officers think of your questions. As they bear relevance to the case they're good questions. Maybe if these officers had asked more questions at the time of the murders, the cases wouldn't have gone cold and we wouldn't be dealing with twenty plus confirmed victims all killed by one sadistically demented individual. So ask your questions, and don't back down till you get your answers. You hear me?"

"Yes, Boss," he says, giving me a weak smile.

"And Bobby."

"Yes, Boss."

"Look after Detective Janus."

"You mean Janus, Boss?"

"Yeah, now get out of here and bring me something we can use to put this sick bastard away."

When he pulls away, I head to my jeep and throw my bag in the back before draping my trench coat over the back of the passenger's seat. When I turn around, Suzy is standing out on her front porch.

"Hey stranger," she calls out to me. "You got time for a cup of Joe?" She swings her hips seductively and adds, "I know how you like it."

I can't help but smile at her persistence as I lean on the front fender of the jeep. "Only if you got something sweet to go with it," I teasingly call back before pushing off the fender and heading toward her, unable to resist a cup of coffee before hitting the road.

"How about a nice big slice of homemade chocolate pie? I know it's your favorite."

### Chapter Twenty Two

Sitting at the table, I suddenly wonder why the sick bastard in my head is making such a big deal out of a woman that I have no idea if I will even get along with once we get to know each other on a more personal level. And yet, here I sit exchanging pleasantries with a very warm, loving woman that I'd been intimate with on more than one occasion and the bastard never even acknowledges her. Why?

Is it possible he's reading thoughts in my head that I'm not even aware I'm having?

Even before I knew that I was attracted to Lara, he discovered my latent desire for her. Which makes me think that he was looking inside my head for just such feelings. From the very first time that I was aware of his presence in my head, he was searching for something, trying to find that someone that he could take away from me. And when Lara showed up in my dream, he picked up on the attraction that I felt for her even before I myself was aware of the attraction.

Yet, even now, I can't be sure that it's anything more than a physical attraction that I'm feeling for her. Whereas Suzy has shown me much more than anything that can be summed up as physical. Suzy has a personality that excites, cares, and makes you feel needed all at the same time. Is that love? Looking at her now as she refills my cup, I can honestly say that what I feel for Suzy isn't love. At least not the kind of love that you build a life-long union on.

Are we friends? Yes.

Is she loyal? Absolutely.

Would she forgive me if I strayed? Wouldn't be sitting here now if she didn't.

Do we have a future? That saying best friends forever comes to mind. So does friends with benefits. But at some point in time, Suzy and I are going to have to go our separate ways if for no other reason than I need to let her move on with her life. Because even if she isn't aware of it yet, there's no future for her with me.

"Thanks, Suzy," I say, taking another bite of her chocolate cream pie.

Pushing the last forkful of pie into my mouth and washing it down with a swallow of coffee, I push away from the table and get to my feet. When she looks up at me, concern and disappointment on her face, I suddenly realize that the time to move away from Suzy is nearer than I'd thought.

"I really have to get going, Suzy, if I'm going to reach Duncin before dark."

To my surprise, she remains seated and simply states, "You be careful, Mike." There is no arguing or begging me to stay just a little while longer, which is completely out of character for her, making it even harder for me to go out the door than if she were clinging and begging for me to stay.

"Keep an eye on my place while I'm gone?"

"You know I always do," she replies, still not leaving her chair. No clinging hug or lingering kiss. No nothing.

Although I could walk around the table and give her a hug, even a light peck on top of her head, I opt instead to walk silently and steadily out the front door, leaving her watching my backside in equal silence.

When I reach the jeep, I climb in and retrieve the key from under the passenger's seat. As I pull away, I glance at her place, expecting to see her on the front porch. But it's deserted, no Suzy standing there waving, and I feel an instant sadness grip my heart that I hadn't seen coming.

Working my way along the surface streets toward the nearest highway onramp that will eventually carry me to I-84 and eastward, I wonder if maybe she had sensed a change in me. Ever since I'd had that dream with Lara Offrage in it, I haven't been thinking straight. If my encounter with Denise had happened before seeing Lara for the first time, I may not be heading to eastern Oregon. Instead, I might be shadowing her, waiting for the un-sub to try something against her.

But I've seen Lara, and ever since, I have been obsessed with her, which is causing me concern. Not for her, but for my own mental state. She has become a distraction that I can't afford for many reasons, the main one being that I have a job to do and that job requires me to protect innocent lives. To do that job effectively requires my full attention, especially with a sadistic serial killer wreaking havoc in our state, and part of my attention is definitely focused on a woman currently residing in a fire camp in eastern Oregon.

Cruising down the highway, the hum of the tires and the dual exhaust sounding louder than usual, I decide to pull into a small town and find me a cup of coffee to go while giving my ears a break from the noise. According to the signs along the road it appears that the next town with such amenities is going to be quite a distance yet and my mind drifts off to other subjects, such as, how do I explain my appearance to Lara when I show up in Duncin and especially, out at the Bar K Ranch?

Should I tell her that I'm there to follow up with interviews of all the people currently in the fire camp, to which she might wonder why I didn't interview them when I was last in Duncin and the crime had just been committed? Or should I tell her the truth, or at least as much of it as I can without her thinking that I'm either ready to be committed to the psych ward, or worse yet, stalking her?

With the sun at my back and the heat rising above 80 degrees, the afternoon stretches on as I draw closer to leaving the cooler climate of the Willamette Valley behind. Numbed by the hum of the highway, my mind drifts back to a time not so long ago in the AM/PM parking lot when she reached out and shook my hand. Although it was firm, her touch was gentle, very feminine for a woman that knew the business end of a shovel.

I'd always believed in love at first sight, it just never happened to me. But now, unable to explain the feelings that I was having for a woman that I didn't even know, I was beginning to wonder if this is what love at first sight felt like. And if it was, then I sure as Hell hoped she was feeling it too, or at least something close. Had she given me subtle signs, or was I mistaken?

With the sun falling so low as to glare off my rearview mirrors and into my eyes, I pull off the highway and spot a big yellow and red fast food joint. Doubting the coffee will be anything to brag about, I look left and right hoping to see something with more promise. Seeing nothing but more fast food places, I head into the nearest and pull up to the drive through.

My timing must have caught the help by surprise, as everyone is busy putting together their station for the supper rush hour. "May I help you?" comes a young female voice through the big speaker disguised as the mouth of their icon.

Before I can answer, the thought goes through my head that she could be the next innocent victim if I don't catch the serial murderer sooner rather than later. I just hope this trip to eastern Oregon isn't a boondoggle that costs me in ways that we can ill afford at this point in the investigation. Too many innocent victims have already paid for our inability to catch the bastard.

"Yeah," I sigh. "Give me a large coffee, creamer on the side, please."

"That'll be one dollar. Please pull forward to the second window."

Putting the jeep in gear, I pull forward as instructed, and my mouth falls open when I see the young girl waiting for my money with a large cup of java extended out toward me, two little creamers balanced on the lid.

Pushing the dollar bill forward while leaning out and accepting the cup of coffee, I can't help but stare at her bright blue eyes and long, strawberry blonde hair framing her face, a headband pinning it against the side of her head that has the name of a sports apparel company stenciled boldly across the front. "Thank you," I stutter.

She smiles back, a mouth full of overly white, evenly spaced teeth. "You're welcome. Have a nice day," she says, apparently used to the long stares from her male customers as she slides the window shut to keep the cool air conditioned air inside.

Pulling away from the window, I find a parking space away from the traffic and shut off the engine. Sitting back in the seat, I flip up the plastic lid and dump in the two creamers. Putting the lid back in place, I slowly swirl the cup to mix the creamer in. Being careful not to burn my mouth, I sip through the hole in the lid while thinking through my next move.

With Bobby and Janus working through the cold cases, I don't need to worry that anything will be overlooked. Nor should I be concerned that they will run into resistance from the local jurisdictions, since all the cases are growing cold and I'm almost certain, none of them have dealt with a case as horrific as the one we're looking into. If anything, they will probably be met with the same enthusiasm that I was met with when I originally contacted the Tillamook county sheriff's department.

Moreover, since they will be contacting me nightly with updates, if they run into any resistance, I'll know about it soon enough and can make calls higher up the food chain to keep the wheels moving.

My first move should be to check back in with the sheriff stationed in Duncin and see if there have been any new developments. Moreover, he might appreciate that I'm taking the time to keep him apprised of my presence in his jurisdiction.

The sun beating in through the dirty and faded plastic of the rear window is warming me up, especially with the warmth of the coffee in my gullet. Instead of waking me like I had hoped the caffeine would, the warmth is making me drowsy, and I find my head falling forward, only to catch myself and jerk upright.

"Time to get going," I mumble to myself, turning the key and firing up the jeep. With no air conditioning, the only cooling effect I can garner is going down the highway with the windows open.

Within a minute, I am back out on the highway cruising east, the clock on the dash telling me that it's almost five PM. By six PM I am turning onto the off ramp for the California/Washington highway. Ten minutes after that I am sitting in a diner that caters to the local population sipping a fresh cup of coffee and still studying the menu.

When the waitress strolls up for the third time to check if I'm ready to order, I ask her what she recommends.

"Let me surprise you," she says with a smile, hiding her impatience for fear of impacting a potential tip while sweeping up the menu and strolling away.

The place isn't that busy, and I find myself checking out the sway of her full rear end in the too small uniform, a bit of cellulite showing on the exposed part of her upper thighs. Brunette, five foot seven, one eighty, approximately thirty five years of age. Not a candidate for our serial murderer by any stretch.

She doesn't know it, but she's safe.

Sipping on the mug of lukewarm coffee, I start questioning my own sanity. Every female I've seen lately, I've been sizing up and weighing their potential risk factor against the un-sub's preferred type. It's not a healthy way to look at the opposite sex, and yet, that is what our un-sub is driving me to.

While I wait for my surprise, I look around at the few other patrons in the place. Fortunately, none of them cause me to size them up for their potential risk from our serial perpetrator.

At one point, when the story first ran making the connection between the victims all being the work of one killer, the papers and networks threw out a multitude of names for the suspect. Some referred to him as the Columbia Slasher while others preferred the Babe Hunter. It took a lot of influence from very influential people to get the names out of the headlines, to put a stop to the sensationalism of the perp, and even now, I believe the only reason none of them are being used is simply because they couldn't decide on any one in particular.

But whatever the reason, everyone in the state is aware that we have a serial killer on the loose doing unspeakable acts to his victims, torturing them and eventually killing them with a thousand cuts. Why everyone isn't up in arms screaming for his arrest is beyond me, despite the fact that we are doing everything humanly possible to bring the bastard's freedom to an end.

"You think you know me so well," the voice hisses in my head, a hint of anger flowing through his veins.

"I know you well enough to know that when we eventually come face to face, I will put a bullet in your sick head without hesitation or qualm," I casually reply.

"You came east?"

Not sure why he is asking, my response is hesitant. I want information from him, not the other way around. "I told you I wouldn't let you do anything to her," I finally reply, not feeling it's necessary to say of whom I am referring.

"Enjoy your meal."

"Huh?"

"Excuse me, sir," the waitress says, placing a heaping plate of food in front of me. "Would you like a warm up on your coffee?"

"Ah, yeah, sure. Thank you," I blurt, jerking awake and remembering where I am. Looking down at the plate, I recognize what has to be mashed potatoes and gravy. What's sitting beside it could either be a slice of meatloaf or a chicken fried steak. Whichever it is, the chef was generous with it, as well as the gravy smothering everything on the plate.

When the waitress returns with the coffee, I am tempted to inquire of the mystery meat. However, I decide at the last minute that such a question might come off sounding derogatory, and for all I know, this is the plate the chef is famous for, which, after looking around the almost deserted restaurant again, determine that he can't be too renowned.

"Can I bring you anything else?" she asks, giving me a tired smile. It's been a long day for everyone.

"No, I think this will do me for now. Thank you," I reply as casually as I can.

"Then enjoy your meatloaf," she says with a knowing wink, as she turns to another table.

Halfway through the meal, I finally admit that it tastes pretty good. In fact, it tastes much better than it looks. The waitress made a good choice for me and it will indeed affect her tip.

On the way out, I stop and use the restroom before heading to my jeep. Out in the parking lot, I flip out my cellphone to verify that I haven't missed any calls. It's nearing seven-thirty PM, the sun is almost gone with dusk closing in and Bobby and Janus haven't called yet.

Of course, they may be waiting until they figure that I'll be settled in for the night, which will be closer to 9 or 10 PM. It wouldn't do to catch me on the road, because they both know I would answer it irregardless of the new agency policies and state laws regarding cellphone and radio use while operating a motor vehicle.

With the setting sun glaring in through the passenger's open side window, I head south down the highway, my stomach full of food and my head full of thoughts of Lara. Should I head straight out to the ranch, or wait in the AM/PM parking lot in the morning, prepared to buy her morning coffee and pretend our meeting is simply by chance?

Before I know where the time has gone, my headlights are turning into the side parking lot of the Duncin City Hall, the familiar sights making me question my sanity for returning here after the last visit.

Pulling up in front of the door with the sign hanging over it designating it as the local sheriff's office, I shut off the jeep and fish out my cellphone before climbing out. Just like the last time, no missed calls, and it's pushing 9 o'clock now.

Putting the phone back in my pocket, I take a minute to zip up the side windows on the jeep before pressing the buzzer next to the door.

"Just a minute!" comes a familiar voice from the other side.

And then there's good old Deputy Mann. I wonder again what prompted me to extend a courtesy to one of the most discourteous sheriff departments I'd ever set foot in, much less tried to assist with a murder investigation. I sure hope Bobby and Janus don't run into too many departments in their travels that exude the resistant attitude that this one does.

"Deputy Mann, it's Detective Hennessy from Portland," I yell through the door, expecting it to be opened without further ado.

Instead, to my surprise, he says, "Can you hold your badge up so I can see it?"

For a moment, I contemplate getting back in my jeep and heading to the Super 8 for the night. The dipshit behind the door obviously doesn't understand that I'm here to help, not steal anyone's thunder. After all, we're both on the same team and I'd like to believe, working on the same agenda, to put away a serial murderer.

With a sigh of resignation, I reach into my pocket and flip out my shield, holding it where the light can shine off its bright gold finish.

This time the door slowly opens and Deputy Mann is standing to the side, giving me room to move past him. "How you doing, Deputy?" I ask, sliding past his enormous gut while clipping my badge to my belt where I normally where it. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear his gut grew in the couple of days since I'd last seen him.

"Fine," he grumbles sullenly, looking side to side before closing the door and following me up the hallway toward his window. "What brings you back this way without your sidekick?" he asks, turning into his office behind the barred window and pulling the door closed behind him, clearly intending for me to speak my business with him through the opening in the barred window, same as anyone else that comes into the offices of the sheriff's department. No special treatment for a fellow law enforcement officer here.

Deciding to make it short and to the point so I can get on with my night, I simply state, "He's following up other leads. I'm here because I have reason to believe that our un-sub might still be in the area. Plus, I thought that while I was here this time, I would go out to the Bar K Ranch and interview the members of the fire crew that were staying out there at the time of both murders. Strictly as a courtesy, I thought I would check in with your department and let you know that I was operating in your jurisdiction, just in case I need assistance."

"Real big of you," he states, clearly peeved that I'm here. "Will you be checking in with the sheriff in the morning?"

"That depends," I calmly state. "Not if there isn't any reason to, and right now, since I already let you know I'm here, I don't see any reason to." When he raises an eyebrow, I add, "But if anything should come up between now and tomorrow morning, I will make a point to come back and see him." If he was looking for anything more, he was going to be disappointed, because in my opinion, I'd already done more out of courtesy than I felt obligated to do.

"I'll be sure and let him know that you stopped by," he says, pulling a call pad out and writing a note on it, even though we both know it will be the first thing the sheriff hears about when he shows up in the morning.

Without another word, I turn and retreat down the hall to the exit. Once back in my jeep and safely out of sight of the security cameras, which I am sure he is watching my departure through, I let out a small chuckle. It amazes me that there are still people like him holding positions of authority, even in small town America. But then, having met his boss, I shouldn't be surprised at all.

### Chapter Twenty Three

Heading down the main thoroughfare through town, I wonder at the wisdom of me spending the night in the same motel where the last crime originated. But after a moment of hesitation in which I weigh the alternatives, I find myself heading back to the Super 8. The only alternative I can come up with is sleeping in the jeep, which considering my plans for the upcoming day, don't seem like any kind of an alternative at all.

Within a few minutes, I pull up to the front office and park beneath the breezeway. Climbing out of the jeep, I see the same manager from before standing behind the front counter, his attention locked on his computer monitor, his face highlighted with a greyish white hue that flickers with the changing screen shots. Until I open the door, which sets off a buzzer throughout the management's offices, he is too enraptured with what is on the monitor to notice me.

Startled, he quickly works the mouse in an effort to clear the screen, his actions indicating guilt to my trained eye, and I can't help but wonder if it was a porn flick that had his attention. But whatever it was, it has no bearing on my case and thus I can care less. After all, with nothing to do during the long hours of the night but wait on an occasional passerby to pull over, I might have been tempted to do the same. Smiling at the thought that the day manager is probably checking the history file and is fully aware of his night manager's activities, I stroll up to the counter and ask him how he's doing.

"Uh, just fine, sir." And then recognition sets in, and he asks, "You were the detective that was here the night that Tina was a..."

"Yeah, that was me," I answer him when his voice falters and he isn't sure how to finish the question. "How are you holding up?" I ask, concerned, since I know he felt something for the young woman, even if his thoughts toward her weren't the most honorable. It didn't make him a killer, just another scumbag. Is that how Lara's going to think of me, just another scumbag hitting on her?

"Okay, I guess," he mumbles, probably surprised that someone might actually give a damn.

"What are you watching?" I casually inquire, causing him to squirm and turn a bright shade of pink around the neck and up into his cheeks.

"Ah, nothing, really," he stutters, turning an even brighter shade of red.

For a long moment, I let the awkwardness grow, enjoying the game. And then he suddenly blurts, "I'm writing a novel. But if management finds out that I'm doing it on their time, they could claim the rights to it if I ever get it published." He pauses, nervously taking a breath before almost begging, "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"Are you serious?" I ask, momentarily baffled. Of all the things I suspected I might see on his computer screen if I were to search the history, a novel in progress wasn't one of them. "What's it about?"

"I would rather not say," he hesitantly replies, his back growing stiff.

"I hear there is quite a market for erotica," I tease, suddenly realizing why the sense of shame in his demeanor and attitude.

The look of surprise on his face is precious. "How'd you know?"

"Easy, I am a detective, after all," I smile, thankful that I hadn't walked in while he was in the middle of slapping his monkey or something equally embarrassing. "So, you got a room for me?"

"Yes, of course," he says, quickly turning and pulling a fob off the wall behind him. "Same one you had last time, if that's okay."

"Yeah, that'll be fine," I say, accepting the proffered key and placing my credit card on the counter.

He scans it and hands it back saying, "We'll leave it open ended, just don't forget to sign out when you're ready to leave."

"Thanks," I reply, slipping the card into my pocket and turning toward the door. And then, a thought suddenly occurs me. Turning back toward the night manager, I ask, "I know the state boys probably already asked you for it, but could I get a copy of the register from that night?"

To my surprise, he agrees without hesitation. And before I can tell him that I would be by in the morning to retrieve it, he punches a couple of keys on his keyboard and turns toward the whirring printer. Holding the sheet across the counter, he says, "Here you go."

"Thank you," I reply, accepting the printout and turning back toward the door.

After pulling the jeep into a parking space near the exterior stairs leading up to my room, I stash the ignition key like usual and grab the few personal items that I had originally packed for my road trip with Bobby. Upon reaching the second floor catwalk, I turn and look down at the laundry room, wondering who took over her job. And though it seems like a strange thought, it's just my way of dealing with all the death that has been dumped on me in a relatively short period of time. Most soldiers aren't confronted with the amount of death the sick bastard I'm hunting has laid at my door step.

Momentarily lost in my thoughts, I am suddenly startled back to reality by the sound of my cellphone going off in my pocket. Yet, as quickly as I jump, I am filled with relief, as I realize it must be Bobby or Janus checking in.

Pulling the phone out of my pocket and recognizing the number as that of Bobby's, I flip it open and lean against the steel railing. "Yeah, what do you got?"

"Hey Boss," he replies, his voice having lost the youthful exuberance from this morning. "Not as much as we had hoped."

"But did you come up with enough to include it or exclude it?" I ask, inquiring about the victim near Sand Lake while trying not to sound impatient with his response. When he doesn't immediately reply, I push on, "Was the Tillamook deputy helpful?"

"Yeah, they were all very helpful," he hesitantly replies.

"All?"

"Yeah, when we finished up at Sand Lake, that's where the crime scene was, we continued on down to Florence. There we met up with the Lane County Sand Deputy. Turns out, the victim there was actually killed out on the Dunes, an OHV riding area just south of Florence before being brought back and staged where the body would be easier to find."

"So, what you're telling me is that both victims have something in common. I get that. But were you able to rule them in or out of our investigation based on victimology?" I press, my voice now betraying my impatience.

"We have copies of the police files, including photos from the actual crime scene on the one near Florence. It was just a stroke of luck that the actual crime scene was even discovered," he says, not giving me a direct answer. "Seems like some people out riding in the dunes stumbled across a horrific scene. Thinking that it might be a cougar's feeding site, they reported it to the Sand Deputy. It didn't take them long to run the blood at the scene and match it to the victim that showed up in one of the staging areas just a few days earlier."

"Bobby," I say, my voice seething with impatience.

"Yes, Boss. They are definitely victims from the same perpetrator. Janus read through the Tillamook files while I drove. Just the noteworthy bits she mentioned to me clearly tie the victims to our case. The victimology has too many similarities not to make the connection." He hesitates for a moment before adding, "Janus thinks the Tillamook victim might have been the un-sub's first. The cuts show lots of hesitancy and there aren't as many cuts before the victim dies. She thinks he was experimenting, still in the process of learning how much abuse and torture the human body can tolerate before it succumbs to death."

"Bobby, run this by Janus. Ask her if it's possible that our un-sub is simply killing pretty young women because he thinks it gives him a better chance of grabbing the media's attention versus killing at random? Or if he is doing this just for his own sick pleasure?"

"I thought we had already determined that he's doing this for his own pleasure?" Bobby mentions, basically questioning my question.

"Just ask her, Bobby," I impatiently order him, my mind trying to wrap around the information that our un-sub could be tied to at least a dozen more murders than we'd originally thought. "But that is yet to be determined," I think to myself.

"She feels pretty sure that the perpetrator is doing this for his own sick pleasure, Boss. Yet, if she second guesses herself, she says it's always possible that he picks the victims he does for media impact, especially if you consider that he poses them in semi-popular locations. But she isn't wavering from the fact that he's killing for the pleasure of killing. Of course, when we finally catch up to him, he'll probably have all kinds of excuses to justify his sick and demented actions." The phone goes silent for a moment while he listens to Janus tell him something else, and then says, "She wants you to remember that she's not a profiler, Boss, and those are just her gut feelings."

I almost said that with her gut, it's probably a fairly accurate feeling. But for fear of being politically incorrect, I say instead, "Tell Janus I trust her gut. I doubt if an FBI profiler could do any better, but for what it's worth, Captain Easton is putting in a call to the local FBI office to see if they can get their Behavioral Analysis Unit to work up a profile on our guy."

There's a long moment of silence, and then Bobby asks, "When do you think the FBI will step in and just take over the case?"

"Much sooner than we'd like, Bobby. But if we can't nail this bastard soon, it might not be such a bad thing." I pause before adding, "At least that would take the heat off of us."

I'd never been bothered with pressure before, of any kind, and I wasn't about to let the pressure of not being able to catch this guy get to me now.

Changing the subject, I dredge through my tired mind and realize that I don't remember where they should be going next and ask, "Where's your next stop?"

"Jackson County sheriff," he replies. "Janus called ahead earlier. They have two cases on their books, happened the same weekend in two different areas. They're a fairly rural community, mostly national forest so forest service law enforcement took the lead originally. But with no immediate progress or clues, they got handed off to the county." He pauses for a moment as if waiting for Janus to say something, and then continues, "Janus spoke with the deputy that was assigned the cases when the forest service bowed out. He said they never found the crime scene, just the corpses, and there wasn't much left to look at. Like I said, Jackson County is pretty rural, lots of wildlife. Their idea of a popular area is maybe half a dozen visitors on a good weekend."

"Yeah, you're probably going to run into a lot of that. So, how's Janus holding up?" I ask, concerned for both her and the possibility that she might have to cut the trip short due to her pregnancy.

"Here, Boss, she can tell you for herself," he says, putting me on speakerphone.

"I'm doing just fine, Mike, in case you're worried that I might have to head back to Portland before we finish," she yells from a short distance away, her voice echoing like they're in a small room.

"The thought never crossed my mind, Janus. My only concern is for you and that baby you're carrying," I lie, and then chuckle softly, to which I hear her and Bobby cynically chortling. I can only imagine what words they'll exchange between each other when I can't hear them.

"Seriously, Mike, I'm doing just fine. Bobby has been an angel, he's constantly looking out for me. He makes sure I don't get too much sun, eat when I should, and spend no more time on my feet than absolutely necessary." She laughs when she adds, "My husband should be so attentive."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it."

The next voice is that of Bobby again, asking if I learned anything new yet.

"Nothing yet, but I did check in with your buddy Deputy Mann."

"Is he still the same charming person that he was the last time we were there?" Bobby jokes.

"Except for a few more pounds in the middle, he hasn't changed a lick," I retort. "Look, if anything comes up, I'll give you a call. Otherwise, check in tomorrow evening with updates. Since I'm sure the Captain has already gone home for the night, I'll give him a call in the morning before I head out and bring him up to speed with our progress. Also, fax copies of all the information you gather to the task force. Let them do the deep digging into the cold cases while you guys keep your nose to the trail and pushing forward."

"Okay, Boss," Bobby says.

"Goodnight, guys," I answer him before flipping the phone shut and dropping it back into my pocket. "Damn," I mutter in frustration. "This case just keeps growing and yet, we aren't getting any new evidence or leads. No damned closer to that bastard than we were before! We have to catch a break eventually, don't we?"

Taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly through my teeth, I turn and march into the cover of the hallway leading to my room. Opening the door, I notice that nothing has changed. Not that I'd expected it to. Dropping my stuff on the bed, I drop heavily into the only seat in the room, an overstuffed chair facing a small TV setting on the dresser. If I were to open the top drawer, I would find a Gideon bible, which in my current state of mind, might not be such a bad idea. Maybe an uplifting scripture or two before bed would keep the boogeyman away, or at least the bad dreams.

"If only it were that easy," I mutter aloud.

### Chapter Twenty Four

"I'm just warming up, Mike," he purrs, the edge of the box cutter sliding through the tender flesh with little resistance, the blade new, a virgin for all intents and purposes. "This one is just to give you a teaser for what I have planned on your fire baby. Oh yeah," he continues, his excitement growing. "She's going to be smoking when I'm done with her."

Blood is running down the white skin, looking more black than red in the light of the high beam headlights. The victim is strung up to a limb in a pine tree, her wrists pulled tight above her head, but if there is any mercy to be had, he didn't pull them up over her back, dislocating the shoulders and causing undue pain. Her feet, while touching the needle covered ground, aren't supporting her full weight. A whimper escapes her, despite the bloodied tennis ball tied in her mouth.

My stomach heaves, and I feel hot bile climbing up my throat, threatening to explode. "You don't have to do this," I weakly plead, knowing that I can't stop him.

"Ah, come on Mike," he laughs at my weakness. "Truth be known, you're probably getting into this even more than I am."

"If you know what I'm feeling, and I believe you do, then you know that couldn't be further from the truth," I protest. Lying, I say, "My profiler says you're doing this for your own pleasure. It doesn't have anything to do with being abandoned or seeking attention, though I know there is some truth to what you told me about that."

"Of course that was the truth," he yells back, his voice exposing the anger he was trying to hide from me. "Your father took my mother away from me and they abandoned us. Only a simpleton wouldn't be pissed at him and my mother for their selfishness."

With a suddenness that catches me by surprise, he angrily lashes out with the blade, inflicting a shallow wound the width of her midsection, the short blade opening a gash from one side of her stomach to the other. His action is followed immediately by an outpouring of blood and visceral material including her intestines escaping unabated and sliding slowly down the front of her legs, stretching all the way to the ground.

The release of anger that escapes his mind is almost physical in nature. The action brings a calming to his demeanor that is almost as unexpected as the lashing out had been just seconds earlier.

In that moment, I know with certainty that Janus is right; our unknown subject is doing this for his pleasure and that it has nothing to do with his mother or my father. In fact, my father probably has nothing to do with this; he might not even know this bastard's mother.

The sick bastard probably just pulled tidbits of information from the depths of my mind and concocted a twisted story to draw me into his demented world because he is tired of playing alone and I conveniently became his captive audience. Unfortunately, until we catch him, I am destined to remain his captive, as unable to escape his sickness as his latest victim that is currently strung up before him.

When he turns toward the lights, I make a mental note of their spacing and style, anything that might help identify what he drives. But they appear as generic as the pine tree being used to suspend the young woman, whose attempts to break free are quickly growing weaker with her steady loss of blood. It won't be much longer before she is gone, another victim to add to his growing list.

But he isn't done, not by a long shot. In his mind, he has just gotten started. To help her, the only thing I can do to alleviate her pain is make her demise quicker, though the thought goes against everything that I stand for.

Maybe, if I keep him occupied, he'll just let her bleed out, fading into oblivion with no more pain than she's already suffered. But whatever I do, I can't get him riled or he'll take it out on her again. "Do you have a name?" I innocently inquire, knowing full well he isn't going to give me his real name. Yet, if I can just keep him communicating with me and his mind off the woman. "Do you care what label the media gives you?"

"Sure, I do. Everyone has a name. That doesn't mean I'm going to share it with you," he laughs.

"When the media first latched onto you, they threw all kinds of monikers out, hoping the public would latch onto one, did you ever have a preference?"

"I had about as much preference for a nickname as you like to refer to that vixen of yours as Fire Baby," he chortles sadistically. "She's going to be the life of my party when I get to her," he continues, relishing the anger that he can sense mounting in me. "But don't go getting your knickers in a bunch, Detective. I have more to do before I get to that one."

"Her name is Lara," I seethe through clenched teeth, enraged that this sick monster thinks he has the right to steal my private nickname for her. "And you'll have to go through me to get to her."

"Go through you?" he laughs derisively. "You haven't even figured out where I am, much less who I am, and you think you can get in front of me?" Before I can acknowledge his comment, he continues, "Yes, Detective, I know your every thought. You don't honestly believe that you can "get out in front of me", now do you?"

"I know you're in eastern Oregon, asswipe," I hiss, barely able to control the rage building within me.

"And I know where you are, Detective!" the voice shouts back, his hand taking an abrupt swipe across the front of the poor woman, slicing cleanly through her left breast and leaving it hanging loosely in its wake. Before I can react to his vicious act, he brings his latex gloved hand back across my limited view, the blade slicing into the victim's other breast, cleanly severing it from her torso before finishing removing her left breast.

The poor victim's naked body moves from the impact of the blade, but there's no crying out of pain or other telltale signs of life; she is either unconscious or already dead, and I am overcome with relief and thankfulness that she is being spared anymore pain.

Feeling emptied by my failure and overwhelmed with grief for the poor woman, I watch in silence as the un-sub checks the young woman for a pulse by placing two fingers along the side of her throat. He has average sized hands covered in latex gloves, the same as every law enforcement officer carries in their rig for emergencies. His arms are covered by a long sleeve coat, which I find strange considering the warm weather. Even the nights don't grow cool enough to warrant a coat, so he obviously only wears it to keep from shedding DNA evidence at the crime scenes and to protect himself from blood spatter, though I don't immediately notice any evidence of blood on the sleeve that I can see.

But it tells me something else, he carries a kit!

Like every law enforcement officer that works in the field, he carries a trouble kit. Only his trouble kit isn't so much to help victims of accidents or crimes, it's to protect himself from being caught for perpetrating those crimes.

Our un-sub is either in law enforcement, or he's retired law enforcement, or he's worked in law enforcement at some time in his past. This is the type of information Bobby and Janus need to know.

Not finding any evidence of life, the un-sub quietly goes to work eviscerating the victim, only now he is using a tool that appears to be a scalpel, the box cutter no longer in sight. He works slowly and methodically, no pressure to get the job done and be gone from this place. It can only mean that he has no fear of being discovered anytime soon. His location must be remote, hence the need for his headlights. Furthermore, his thoughts are calm, all traces of anger are gone. He doesn't even seem aware that I am still lingering in his subconscious.

Slowly, his excitement level rising in small increments, he does something that I'm not aware of him doing to any of his prior victims, he removes her eyes, gouging them out and cutting the connecting ligaments with the scalpel. I can feel the blood pumping in his veins as his excitement at this new experience grows.

And then, he places them in the palm of his right hand and rolls the fingers over them, making a fist with the eyeballs concealed inside. Before I can jump out of his head, he strikes the victim a vicious blow to the side of her jaw, shattering the bones beneath the flesh that once carried a beautiful smile and snapping the vertebrae in the base of her neck, her head now flopping over sideways in a manner that it couldn't have before the blow.

Holding his hand up in front of his face so I can't look away, the gruesome sight of her filling the background of the scene, he slowly opens his fist, the crushed eyeballs sliding down and out of his hand like a crushed oyster, only a hint of blue to indicate their original color and beauty.

"Have you seen enough, Detective?" he asks, abolishing all hope that he isn't aware of my presence.

Without a word, I slowly withdraw, finally released from the nightmare. The first thing that I'm aware of is a dull throb in my legs as if I'd been running all night. Yet, I quickly realize that it's nothing more than the result of having slept in the overstuffed chair in my room, the bed still looking fresh and inviting, and unused. Glancing at the drapes, which are dark and heavy, I see slivers of light shining in through the seams and pleats.

Begrudgingly, I push myself upright and slowly, working through the pain in my shoulder, I force myself to stand. I have a long day ahead of me and I need to take a shower to wash the filth of the night out of my pores.

### Chapter Twenty Five

Refreshed from the shower, I begin to wonder who is going to be calling with the latest crime scene information. What jurisdiction is our sick bastard working in now?

Pushing the drapes aside and looking out on the rear parking lot, I realize that it's still dark, not quite five o'clock. The light shining through the stretched seams and pleats is nothing more than the lighting from the rear parking lot sodium bulbs leaking through. Grabbing up my overnight kit and tossing my coat over my left arm, I head out the door and down the rear stairs. My intention is to be waiting in the AM/PM parking lot when Lara shows up for her morning jolt of java.

Jumping into the jeep, I retrieve the key from its hiding place and fire it up. The first thing I notice when the gauges jump to life is that I am down almost a half a tank of gas. In fact, there will barely be enough to reach the AM/PM if the gauge is working correctly.

Angered, I pull around to the breezeway and jump out, marching forcefully into the front office seeking the manager. The same night manager is still standing behind the counter. However, this time he makes no sudden movements to hide whatever he's viewing.

"Yes, Detective, what can I do for you this morning?" he says, forcing a smile as if last night never happened.

"When I parked last night, I had close to half a tank of gas," I angrily start off. "This morning, I'm on empty. How do you explain that?"

"I'm sorry, sir, are you thinking that I stole your gas?" he asks, shocked by the accusation.

For a long moment, I study him, and then realize that although he may be a pervert, he didn't look the type to get his hands dirty siphoning fuel out of patron's vehicles.

"No, that's not what I'm thinking," I reply more calmly. "Have any of your other patrons mentioned anything about fuel being missing from their vehicles?"

"No one has reported anything to me, sir. Of course, I'm not usually on when our guests check out, but if something like that was happening, I'm sure I would have been told to keep an eye out at night."

"I noticed that most of the vehicles in the parking lot are newer," I mutter more to myself than to him. "Most new model vehicles are designed to be siphon proof, which would explain why mine was targeted."

"Pardon me?"

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking to myself," I quickly reply. "Nearest gas is probably the AM/PM in Duncin, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir." And then, in an effort to be helpful, he says, "If you're really low, I can call and have Teddy bring out a can. He works nights at the AM/PM and will be getting off in about an hour. I'm sure he'll only charge you for the gas."

"No, thanks. I think I'll make it just fine."

Turning, I head out to my jeep and fire it up, studying the fuel gauge while I do so to be sure it moves at least enough to indicate that it hasn't quit working. Satisfied that it still works, I put it in gear and head out onto the highway hoping for the best.

Although the AM/PM is less than three miles from the motel, I run out of fuel about a half mile shy and coast over to the side of the road, anticipating a walk and being thankful that the sun hasn't warmed things up yet. In hindsight, I wonder if maybe I should have taken the manager up on his offer to have the gas delivered.

Yet, as quickly as I have the thought, I discard it, since there's no telling what time the gas would have arrived. Grabbing my coat off the passenger's seat, I reach in back and collect my ditty bag. Climbing out of the jeep and feeling a painful stiffness in my shoulder, I silently wonder if it isn't time to get a vehicle with a little more in the way of comfort. Although I'm only in my mid-forties, some days I feel like I'm in my eighties.

Stretching my legs, I slowly set off down the shoulder of the road in the direction of Duncin. I'm thinking to myself that if I'm lucky, I can get the fuel and be back before Lara shows up for her morning coffee, when my thoughts are interrupted by the high pitched squeal of brakes and a pickup swerves onto the gravel shoulder directly in front of me, barely missing me. Before I can assess what's going on, the backup lights come on and it's coming directly toward me on the shoulder of the road.

Still unsettled from my earlier nightmare, my mind jumps to the conclusion that the un-sub has found me and his intention is to bump me off before I can get to him. Reflexively, I pull my service weapon from the shoulder holster beneath my left arm and instinctively sight down the barrel, lining up on the silhouette of the individual driving through the tinted rear glass.

With pressure slowly increasing on the trigger, the brake lights suddenly flare up and the truck skids to a stop less than five feet from me, the driver's door flying open and Lara's arm and upper body swinging out.

A big grin plastered on her face, she calls out, "Good morning, stranger."

Hurriedly, I slip my Glock back into concealment, and step around to the driver's side of the vehicle where I am met with the crispest pair of baby browns, a devilish smirk lighting up her already good looks. "You going to shoot me or get in?" she says, removing any doubt that she'd seen me draw down on her.

Smiling with anticipation of God only knows what and feeling like a school boy that just got caught doing something embarrassing, I skirt around the rear of the pickup truck and climb into the passenger's side. Unable to help myself, I give her a thorough looking over, which instead of making her nervous, she actually seems to appreciate. I like that, a woman mature enough to appreciate a man's appraisal.

Although her top is a different pattern of light cotton material, the jeans could be the same tight fitting pair that she had on the last time I saw her. Sitting on the seat, her curvaceous ass tapering up to a narrow waist, a flat tummy with nice, firm looking breasts above it holding their own and the entire package topped off with a warm, genuine smile, my heart skips several beats and I suck in a mouthful of air, momentarily forgetting to exhale.

"Damn," slips out of my mouth before I can catch it, which only makes her smile brighter.

"What happened, your old jeep break down, Detective?" she says, waiting for me to settle into the seat and put on my seatbelt before checking her side mirror and pulling out onto the highway.

"No, actually someone decided they needed my gas more than I did last night," I tell her, unable to take my eyes off her.

"That's too bad," she says with sincerity.

"Mike," I suddenly blurt. When she looks over at me questioningly, I add, "Please, just call me Mike."

"Okay, Mike," she says softly, almost as if she is trying it on for size, and judging by her smile, I can't help but think it's a fit. Then, after a minute, the AM/PM drawing into sight, she says, "Hopefully Teddy is still around, he works the night shift."

"Yeah, so I heard."

"If he is, you can get him to take you back with some gas. He's a good guy, probably won't charge for anything more than the gas."

"Yeah, I heard that too."

She looks at me, a look of bewilderment on her face, "Then why did you run out of gas if you already knew all that?"

Meeting her gaze, I confess, "This is the part where I tell you that we need to talk, Lara. I have a confession to make, but I really could use a cup of coffee first."

For the first time since meeting her, she appears nervous, almost like a colt about to bolt.

Pulling into the parking lot of the food and fuel store, the gravel crunching beneath her tires, I realize that I need to keep her near me if I'm going to keep her safe. "Lara, let me buy you a cup of coffee and something to eat."

"Let's find out if Ted is still here, first," she says, and I wonder if it's because she plans to use Ted to dump me, when she adds, "If he is, we can get him to go take care of your jeep while you and I talk."

Damn, but I like this woman!

After parking the jeep in front of the store, we both get out and I follow her inside. To my good fortune, a man in his late fifties, balding, and lean with a slightly hunched back wearing an AM/PM baseball cap which must be Ted, is just putting his jacket on and heading out from behind the counter.

"Ted!" Lara calls out, getting his attention.

At the sight of Lara, his face brightens, and he throws her a return wave while heading in our direction. "Lara, good morning," he says, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Ted, this is Detective Mike from Portland, and he has a little problem that we're hoping you can help with."

"Sure, whatever you need," he says without hesitation, looking at Lara.

Fishing out a couple of twenties from my wallet, I extend them toward him saying, "Someone decided they needed my gas more than I did last night. I thought I could make it into the station, but I came up a little short."

Before I can finish, Lara takes over, "Yeah, we were wondering if you could take a can of gas out to his jeep for him."

Picking up where she leaves off, I say, "Here's forty bucks. If you can put five gallons in the tank and bring it on back here, I would really appreciate it." Before he or Lara can say anything, I add, "The keys wedged beneath the passenger's seat," pushing the money at him.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he accepts the cash, saying softly, "I guess I can get Roy or Billy to drive it back for you."

"If you can't find anyone to bring it back, don't worry too much about it. I doubt if anyone will mess with it sitting out there. Maybe Lara here will be kind enough to drop me off later."

When I glance in her direction, her clear, bright eyes are focused on me, and I notice that Ted is taking it all in and not looking to happy at what he is seeing. Whether his interest in Lara is platonic or sexual, I'm not sure yet. But a good looking woman like Lara is bound to draw interest from the male population, that's just nature at work.

"Sure, not a problem," she says, smiling.

"I'll take care of it," Ted offers sourly, making me wonder if it's just me, or if this is really the overly kind and helpful man that others believe him to be.

"Thanks," I begin, when my cell suddenly burps to life. Fishing it out of my pocket along with a ten spot, which I hand to Lara, saying, "Please, black. And get whatever you like. I need to take this call."

Accepting the money, she says something to Ted as she turns toward the coffee machines along the side wall and I head toward the door, figuring I might have more privacy outside. The number on the display is the Captain's desk phone and I am sure he is going to want to know what the Hell I'm doing in eastern Oregon, Duncin to be specific, when I have members of my task force on a road trip around Oregon.

"Yes, Captain," I say, stepping out onto the gravel and noticing that with the rising sun the temperature is already climbing above a westerner's comfort level.

"Mike, I'm glad I got hold of you." Expecting him to grill me for my change of plans, I am taken aback when instead he asks, "Are you anywhere near Duncin?"

"Yes," I slowly reply, suspecting I know where this conversation is going. "What's going on?"

"I just got off the phone with Trooper Smith. They got another body."

"Where?" I ask, thinking back on my dream from the night before.

"About fifty miles south of Duncin near an off road riding area. Her body was strung up in a pine tree at the trail head. I thought you might want to check it out. It sounded like the act was just committed last night."

"Damn," I mumble, though thankful that he didn't, silently wondering why he went after someone else when he was so close to Lara. But at least one of my suspicions was confirmed, he's back in the area. "I'll get ahold of Smith and get directions out to the sight right now."

"Keep me posted, Mike."

"Will do."

Though I knew when I woke up this morning that the un-sub had been busy, I was still hoping that I was seeing the future and not the present; that we might still get out ahead of the sick bastard and shut him down before any other innocent women have to die.

Standing off to the side near Lara's pickup, my thoughts a million miles away, I am still gripping the phone in a white knuckled grip, when Lara's voice suddenly jerks me back to reality, or at least a gravel parking lot in the middle of nowhere.

"You want yours in the truck?" she asks, her smile vanishing at the sight of my careworn face.

Without turning, my voice barely above a whisper, I say, "Yeah." And then, turning to give her a hand with the items as she pulls open her door and climbs in, my eyes glued to her nicely shaped backside, I ask her, "What are you doing today?"

Though every fiber in my being is yelling at me to get my jeep and head south to the latest crime scene, an even deeper yearning is demanding that I not leave Lara alone. But is this deeper craving a selfish need on my part, or a sincere attempt to keep her safe?

Turning to accept the proffered coffee and bag of treats, she says, "Your change is in the bag, by the way." Followed by, "Why are you asking?"

"The phone call, that was my boss," I start to explain, and then turn to head around to the passenger's side before finishing. Opening the door and climbing in, I continue, "He informed me that we have another victim, south of here about fifty miles. In the trailhead of an off road riding area."

"And you were wondering if I'd take you?" she smiles, her mind working behind those beautiful eyes. "I thought your jeep was just out of gas, not broken down?"

"It is, but I need to get going and I still have more questions for you," I reply, my excuse for asking her along sounding weak even to my ears.

"Sure."

"Sure, as in you can come with me today, or sure, as in that's a lame excuse just to have your company today?" I ask, giving her my most innocent expression.

"Sure, as in, I will go with you today. However," she slowly continues, her smile turning mischievous, "I've seen your jeep, remember, and I'm really thinking that maybe we could just take my truck, if that's alright with you."

"Pull up to the pumps and I'll fill you up," I quickly offer, excited at my change of luck and about the day's prospects.

With a full tank of fuel, a couple of cheese sandwiches in shrink-wrap packages, chips, and a case of bottled water, we head south down the California/Washington Highway. While Lara drives, I call ahead to Trooper Smith and apprise him that I'm headed his way. He seems genuinely gladdened by my announcement. I don't mention to him that I have a ride-a-long, because although I plan to question her regarding the other campers in her fire camp, I have come to the conclusion that the main reason we are together today is strictly selfish on my part.

As we approach my jeep, I see a rusted old pickup truck pulled up behind it. When we get even closer, we see Ted and a young kid that looks too young to have a driver's license, pouring gas into the tank from a red, five gallon can. "It looks like he got Billy out of bed to give him a hand," Lara comments, honking briefly and waving at them as we go by. Ted only stares back at me.

"Is that kid old enough to drive?" I ask, slightly concerned for my old girl.

Instead of replying, she throws me a rueful grin, which says more than words. But when she sees the nervous expression on my face, she quickly adds with a smirk, "I'm sure Ted will drive your jeep and let Billy take his truck back. He lets Billy take that old pickup of his everywhere."

"So what you're trying to tell me in not so many words is that Billy doesn't have a driver's license?"

"Billy's been driving tractors and farm machinery since he learned to walk and before that he was probably sitting on someone's lap chugging along in the fields during the day while his mother worked at the restaurant in town." She looks over, still smiling, and adds, "He's probably a better driver than most licensed folks, Mike. Don't let it worry you, you're jeep will be just fine."

"It's not my jeep that I'm worried about," I lie, not wanting her to think I'm so immature that I treat my jeep like a living thing instead of the lifeless hunk of metal that it is. Changing the subject, I begin my questioning of her, "How many seasons have you been at the Bar K?"

"Too many," she sighs heavily. And then, needing to explain herself, she says, "When I first started in wild land fire management, I was just one of the guys. Young, inexperienced, and looking for adventure. It was never intended to be what I did my entire life."

"But you still enjoy it, right?"

"I think I do," she replies, an uncertainty passing like a soft breeze across her face. "Like I was saying, young and all that. But time kinda got away from me. I went from being one of the guys to being den mother." She pauses, looking over shyly for just a moment as if confirming that I'm not a youngster before continuing, "If I don't get out soon, I won't be the den mother, I'll be the den grandma."

Without giving thought to my words, I blurt out, "When I look at you, I see a young woman full of promise and energy. And I seriously don't see you changing anytime soon."

She glances over at me, her smile soft and sensuous. It takes all my restraint to keep from sliding across the seat and planting my lips on hers. I've never wanted to taste the sweetness of a woman the way she makes me want to taste her, and she probably isn't even aware of what she's doing to me.

"So fighting fires is what you've done your entire life?" I ask, wanting to know every detail of her life.

"Yep, my whole life. I guess I'm what you'd call a fire baby."

At the mention of the term fire baby, my mind goes back to the previous night and how the un-sub had referred to her as my fire baby. How would he know of that term, unless he'd been involved in firefighting at some point and time in his life?

"Hold on a moment while I make a quick call," I tell her, fishing out my cellphone. Flipping it open, I push the speed dial for Bobby. "Yeah, Bobby?"

"Sorry, Mike, this is Janus, Bobby's driving."

"Of course he is," I think aloud, realizing that Bobby does everything by the book and would never even consider answering the phone while he was driving.

"What can we do for you, Mike?"

Speaking softly, even though I know Lara can still hear what I'm saying, I begin, "Janus, I know it's been mentioned in passing, strictly off the record anyway, that our un-sub might have some connection to law enforcement. Especially since he never leaves any evidence behind. It's like he knows what the forensics guys are looking for and makes a point of not leaving anything for them to find."

"Okay, strictly off the books, Bobby and I had this same discussion. We're keeping a log of all law enforcement personnel that have had any connection with each case, no matter how minor," she says, unsurprisingly. I had a feeling they would fill the long hours on the road between crime scenes discussing all possibilities and scenarios.

"Great idea," I enthusiastically concur. "Now you can add another angle to your possibilities."

"What's that?"

"Firefighters. Especially wild land firefighters." When my suggestion is met with silence, I begin to explain, "I was talking with Lara and she mentioned that she's what is referred to as a fire baby because she grew up in the firefighting field. It just so happens, I've heard that term used before." And then it suddenly dawns on me, I can't tell her where without disclosing my unique talent, which most people will find more than just a bit disconcerting. Moreover, even if I wanted to share that knowledge with Janus and Bobby, this is neither the time nor the place with Lara sitting beside me, listening to every word.

"Where, Mike," she asks, her voice serious. "Where did you hear that term used before in relation to this investigation?"

She didn't give me any room to maneuver, that's not how her brain worked. It was analytical all the way and now she wanted to put the knowledge in a compartment that she could draw on later if needed. Only problem is, I can't give her any more than I just have.

"I'm not sure, Janus. But when it comes back to me, I'll let you know. Just trust me, I'm sure there's a connection here," I lie. And then in an effort to move away from the subject, I ask, "Did you hear we have another victim?"

"Yeah. Captain Easton called us earlier, right after he spoke with you. I understand you're headed that way now?"

"Yeah, should be there within the hour. I'll make sure you get all the details so you don't have to add it to your route."

"Thanks. We're working another angle too. But until we see if it goes anywhere, I won't bother you with the details," she says, both of us speaking in low tones as if deflated by the fact that we have another victim.

"It wouldn't surprise me if the feds aren't called in after this one," I absently remark, watching the scenery fly by outside the window.

"We'll get him, Mike," she says encouragingly.

"Yeah, but how many more innocent victims before then?"

There's a long moment of silence, and then Janus says, "We're getting close to our next stop. If anything breaks, we'll let you know."

"Roger that," I reply, flipping the phone shut and leaning heavily on the window ledge, my eyes no longer registering the scenery going by as my mind drops into deep thought.

"Who was that?" Lara asks after a few long moments of silence.

"Oh, Detective's Ames and Janus, a couple of my taskforce members," I absently remark, straightening up in the seat and composing myself. "They have a new angle they're working, but didn't want to share it with me just yet. I guess they feel they need something solid before I'll take them serious." I smile at her, suddenly wondering how I could feel so low sitting beside such a lovely creature. "They're good detectives. They just don't give themselves enough credit."

### Chapter Twenty Six

"Would you like a donut to go with that lukewarm coffee?" I ask, lifting the white paper sack and peeking inside to see what she bought.

"Sure."

It isn't necessary to ask her what kind she wants, because they're all bear claws. "How's about a bear claw?" I ask with a smirk, lifting out a couple and setting the bag down before handing her one.

"Variety is totally over rated. If you like something, stick with it," she states matter-of-factly, glancing in my direction before biting into the bear claw. "Yummy," she says through a mouthful of sweet, rich dough.

Taking a bite from mine, I wash it down with a swallow of barely warm coffee, and then ask, "I'm assuming that you're not married."

"Was that a statement or a question?"

"Not sure exactly. My guess is that whichever it is, it's by your choice." And then, before she can comment, I quickly add, "I don't mean for this to sound politically incorrect, but a fine looking woman like you probably has to beat the men off with a big stick, especially working in a predominately male populated profession."

Smiling at me, a mouth full of bear claw causing her to keep her lips pressed together until she can force down a large gulp, she finally says, "That's really nice of you to say, but actually, there aren't that many guys beating a path to my door right now. And besides, I have a strict policy of no fishing from the dock; I don't date co-workers."

"Sorry, I think, but I find that hard to believe," I reply just a tad too quickly.

"What, that I don't date co-workers or there aren't any men beating a path to my door?" she asks with a mischievous grin, taking great pleasure in my discomfort.

Trying to cover my awkwardness, I just as quickly try to explain my comment. "It might be because you intimidate them with your strength and independence." I pause, trying to control my rapidly beating heart while conscious of a warm blush rising into my cheeks. Feeling like a kid in school with a crush on the little girl in the desk beside me, my eyes studying her way too intently, I finally say in an attempt to get things back to normal, "I appreciate you driving me around today. I'm really enjoying your company."

"I thought you wanted to question me about the fire crew," she replies, flashing a sly smile that speaks volumes as she enjoys my unease at my statements.

"I do," I reply, trying to clear my throat with a swallow of cold coffee. "How many people are in the campsite that you're staying at?"

"Not counting a couple of volunteers that are tagging along with their employed brothers or cousins, we have a crew of thirty officially employed. There are three other women in the group, much younger than me, and the rest are men, aged eighteen to sixty six. I don't know them all personally, but I have seen most of them here in the last few years. There are only a couple that are new to the group this year and they're the younger guys," she states, her eyes on the road ahead.

In my head, I'm going over the statements that the sheriff's deputies obtained from the camp, especially those that weren't at the camp the nights of the murders before asking her my next question.

"How well do you know two of the younger men that just arrived this season, I think their names were Jacob and Daniel?"

"Not all that well," she replies before turning a questioning look toward me. "Should I be concerned about them?"

"No, no, not at all," I quickly reply, not wanting her to feel concerned by her fellow camp occupants. "The sheriff's department has questioned everyone in your group and ruled them all out as potential suspects. I don't believe any of them were in the Portland area at the right time to connect them to our earlier victims, I'm just trying to fill in some grey areas for my own piece of mind."

"Whew, you had me concerned for a minute there that I might be living next door to a serial killer," she says, her voice serious.

"No, that's not the case at all," I assure her, suddenly wondering if I should tell her the truth, and not just the part about how I'm concerned for her safety, but also how I feel toward her. "How much farther is this riding area? Any idea?" I ask, trying to figure how much more time I'll have alone with her before we meet up with the state forensics guys.

"We should be coming up on the turn off pretty soon," she answers. "I haven't been out that way since last fire season, but if I remember correctly, I think it's about ten to fifteen miles after that to the trailhead, or staging area as the ATV enthusiasts call it." To validate her answer, she adds, "We patrol out that way on occasion because of the fools that leave their campfires burning while they go riding the trails." She pauses for a moment before shaking her head as though she still doesn't believe what she's about to say, "Hell, some even pack up and leave with their fires still burning in the middle of fire season when everything is as dry as kindling. It's as if they don't have a brain cell in their heads. I can't tell you how many unattended campfires we've put out that could have turned into full-fledged wildfires."

"Yeah, people never cease to amaze me in their stupidity," I concur.

"Here's our turn off," she suddenly remarks, flipping on her signal and slowing down.

The road she turns onto is flat and straight, seemingly going on forever. In the distance, I can see what are low, tree splotched hills. They appear to be about ten to fifteen miles distant.

"Are those hills our destination?" I ask, checking out a rundown ranch yard with a weather-beaten house and a dilapidated barn with half of its roof lying on the ground just off the side of the road. Beyond it there isn't anything but open fields with cattle scattered here and there and an occasional tree for shade.

"Yeah, the staging area is located at the base of that first hill, where the trees start," she replies, taking her speed up to above seventy, her window open slightly for air flow, the incoming breeze blowing her hair around her face, her dark shades adding to her overall appeal. "There are trails running all through those hills. Did the cop you called give you directions so we can find them when we get there?"

"Yeah, it sounds like the crime scene is the staging area."

"That's too bad," she says nonchalantly.

"Why would you say that?" I ask, my interest piqued.

"This time of the year the staging area is a busy place, especially on the weekends, lots of people coming out to ride from all over the state. I don't know what happened, but if it had happened up one of the trails, it might be days before anyone was the wiser. And while you guys do your thing, you'd only have to close off a small part of the riding area to have it to yourselves. But with the staging area, if you have it closed off, you better be putting a sign down on the highway and doing some radio ads to let the people know or they're going to be all over your crime scene."

"Damn, you seem pretty familiar with this sort of thing," I say with admiration. "I think they call them 'Public Service Announcements' when they put an ad on the radio or TV without charging anyone for it."

"Yeah, that's what it is. We do them all the time when we close off recreation areas due to fire danger or while we're actually fighting fire and we need to keep the public out. We put up road closures and signs and even that isn't enough sometimes," she sighs. "Some people think the world revolves around them and we're just getting in their way when all we're trying to do is save our forests and protect them from getting into danger."

"It's kinda like trying to protect people from themselves," I chuckle. "Some just don't get it."

"Sounds like you've been there," she says, looking over at me, and though it makes me nervous that she takes her eyes off the road for such a long period of time, I like the way she's studying me for a change and not the other way around.

"I think anyone that's held a position of authority and dealt with the public in general has had to deal with obnoxious, self-centered people," I commiserate.

"Yeah, but you carry a gun," she jokes. "I'm not too intimidating with my shovel."

"Then why do I find you so intimidating?" I ask, the words slipping out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to engage.

Her head swings in my direction as if my comment has caught her off guard. "I find that hard to believe, Detective," she says, sensuously biting her lower lip as if deep in thought.

I can only imagine what she is contemplating deep within that pretty head of hers. Yet, whatever it is, I know she is completely unaware of the effect her actions are having on me. Just the way she is chewing her lower lip is driving me crazy and she seems to be completely unaware of that little fact.

Deciding that I'm committed now, and my cards are on the table, so to speak, I ask her, "Why do you find that so hard to believe?"

"You're a Lieutenant Detective for what is probably the largest police force in the state. I'm sure you've dealt with all kinds of bad people, really intimidating people," she empathizes. "You have people working for you, you're in charge of a special task force, you're in good shape, and you're a good looking guy with a gentle soul." She smiles almost seductively. "How could I possibly intimidate a man like you with everything that you have going for you?"

"You're absolutely right. There is no logical reason at all for you to be intimidating to me," I reply, a stupid smile plastered on my face as I'm still unable to tear my eyes away from her. "I have dealt with a lot of criminal low-life's that would just as soon stick a knife in your ribs as look at you, and I can answer this with sincere honesty, they've never intimidated me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've always believed that I was or could be just as bad as they were, and hopefully if the situation required it, even worse." I pause for a moment, and this time I turn my head and stare at nothingness out the window, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've never told anyone this before, and I'm not sure why I'm telling you now."

Although my head is turned, I know she hears me and turns to face me. "But truth be told, I don't fear death half as much as I fear becoming attached to someone. When I was younger, I philandered with people that most would consider scary by normal standards. Yet, I wasn't afraid of them because I figured out that I wasn't afraid to die. I believed back then that I had nothing to live for, so what difference did it make? But I feel different today. Actually, I feel different since I first laid eyes on you. It's easier to die than be the survivor." I pause for a moment, meeting her gaze. "That's crazy, isn't it? Especially since we don't even know each other. And that's why you intimidate me, I guess, because you have that powerful of an effect on me. I'm afraid to give in to my feelings for you because I don't think I could deal with the rejection or the loss of you. Does that make sense or sound completely nuts?"

When she simply looks at me in silence, I suddenly add, "If you want to leave me at the trailhead and forget you ever met me, I'll understand. And I promise I won't stalk you."

"It's a staging area."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a staging area, not a trailhead. Remember?"

"Yes, I do," meeting her smile with one of my own.

"Detective, you don't scare me," she says softly. "Truth be known, I still haven't figured out what it is about you that made me want you from the first time I laid eyes on you."

Now it was her turn to blush. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" I ask, trying to lessen the tension that we were both feeling and only managing to increase it.

What was I thinking, bringing up the word love so soon after just meeting her? The word lust might be more appropriate and I sure as Hell wasn't going to tell her that I've been lusting for her since the first time I laid eyes on her. Oh yeah, that would go over real well! Then why not tell her about my visions and the voices in my head too? Shit, she'll be throwing me out of this truck before we even reach the staging area.

"No. But I suppose you do?" she says, her voice growing husky.

"No, I never have before."

Before I can continue, she asks, "Before what? Before you met me? Because if that's what you're going to say, think long and hard on it before you answer. Remember, we're not a couple of teenagers that just entered adulthood. We've both been around the block a few times, had lovers, been in love, and had sex just for the thrill of it."

Now it was my turn to interrupt her. "Hey, wait a minute. Had sex just for the thrill of it? Really?"

Her serious expression suddenly breaks into a self-conscious laugh as she asks, "Did I just say that?"

"From your mouth to God's ears, yes, you just admitted that you had sex just for the thrill of it."

"Damn, you really are a bad influence on a woman," she chuckles, a fire sparkling in her eyes as she glances in my direction.

"I try," I smile, liking the way she squirms self-consciously under my gaze.

Before I can see where this conversation is going, she says, pointing ahead, "There's the staging area now."

My eyes, following her direction, notice flashing lights through a thin stand of trees and scrub brush off to the right of the road. Following the pavement around a slight bend, we suddenly enter into an area that opens up onto a large parking lot with picnic tables and fire rings scattered around the perimeter. At the far end is a toilet and to the right a large kiosk sign with trail maps and literature available for the ATV enthusiasts.

To the right of the kiosk is a group of vehicles, most prominently an ambulance, parked in the hub of the activity. Off to the side, I see a state trooper's cruiser and I quickly instruct Lara to pull in next to it before telling her to wait in the truck. "I might be a while, so if you need to stretch your legs, please do so, just don't get in the way of the deputies working the scene."

Pushing open her door, she indignantly replies, "I've been around crime scenes before, I know better than to get in anyone's way."

"Sorry, I forgot," I humbly reply, chastised by her attitude more than her words.

### Chapter Twenty Seven

When Trooper Smith sees me coming toward him, he quickly extricates himself from a group of law officers, a mixture of Forest Service LEOs and Jefferson County deputies, and heads me off like he wants a few words in private.

"Really glad you could make it in person, Detective," he says, a hint of relief in his voice. "This one is bad."

"Glad to be here, Tim," I say, referring to him by his first name. "They're all bad. So what makes this one worse than the others?" I ask, looking past him at what must have been the tree where the victim was strung up.

"What was left of the poor girl was hanging from that tree," he starts, indicating the one I had suspected. "But we haven't found many of the organs, including her eyes this time. In fact, it appears that she was murdered right here and not just brought out here to be displayed."

Glancing around at the pavement, I comment, "Not much chance of getting tire prints off this pavement. Anything in the dirt around the tree?"

"Aside from most of the poor girl's blood and intestines, not much in the way of evidence. Believe it or not, the group of people that came across her actually cut her down before we got here. They said they didn't think it was right that she hang naked and mutilated for the whole world to see and felt they were doing the right thing out of respect. Of course, if this is like the others, there won't be any viable evidence leading to a suspect anyway," he sighs deeply, a heavy burden on his shoulders. "We did get prints and DNA samples from everyone that got near to the body before we got here so they can be ruled out."

"No organs, no prints, and probably no DNA. So, what do we have?"

"Based solely on the amount of blood at the foot of the tree, she bled out where she was strung up. Add to that the time of death was sometime last night around midnight, based on body rigor, blood congealment, and general condition of the corpse, since we couldn't find a liver to get a temperature from. It's the general consensus here that she was brought from quite a distance, but unlike the others, this one was killed here."

"That could make identifying her difficult, since we don't even know where she came from," I comment.

"In the old days, I'd say we were dealing with a victim from somewhere sunny, based on skin tone. But with the advent of the tanning bed, that doesn't tell us anything." He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales before asking, "How do you deal with all this carnage and not lose it."

"Some days are easier than others," I remark, putting off the inevitable. "Is the body in the ambulance?"

"What's left of it," he replies, leading the way to the rear of the ambulance and swinging the doors open.

Lying on a gurney in the back is a black body bag. Even before I get up next to it, I can tell the victim was of a small stature. Knowing I need to do it and wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible, I lower the zipper on the bag and am instantly struck by the stench, a combination of dead flesh, blood, and the release of the bowels, which either the paramedics or the coroner must have scooped up off the ground and placed back in the young woman's stomach cavity.

"Blonde hair, eye color unknown, possibly five foot three inches tall, slight of build," I remark, glancing out at Smith to where he is standing next to the rear door observing. Since the corpse is evidence, he is simply keeping the chain intact. And then, because I have to observe the entirety of the corpse, I spread the bag open all the way to the victim's feet, which are also missing. When I saw her in my vision, she still had her extremities, which tells me the bastard hadn't finished when we broke contact.

Seeing my reaction, Smith volunteers, "Yeah, he took her feet this time too. Our guess is that she might have stepped on something that could prove evidential so he destroyed them."

Nodding acknowledgement, I slowly zip the bag back up, noticing the empty breast sockets in the chest area. It appeared that the only thing left behind this time were the intestines, still connected in the lower groin area. Everything else was missing, and although you would think someone would get used to seeing such gore and carnage, my stomach still clenched in revulsion, threatening to rise up my throat.

Zipping up the bag, I turn and hurry to get out of the back of the ambulance, suddenly realizing that I'd been holding my breath the entire time I'd been inside. Sucking deeply of the clean fresh air, I can't help but feel as though I will have the cloying stench of death forever stuck up my nose.

While I catch my breath, Trooper Smith closes the rear doors and turns to ask me if I'm all right. "Yeah, just give me a minute," I reply, swallowing down the rising bile and trying to taste the sweet clean air again.

I'm about to ask that he forward on their crime scene reports, when my cellphone rings. Fishing it out of my pocket, I answer it, "Hennessy."

"Hey Mike, it's Janus," comes a soft, female voice.

"Hi Janus, what's up?"

There's a long moment of silence, and I'm about to ask if she's still there, when she softly says, "Mike, I'm in Eugene. Willamette Memorial Hospital. I'll be heading back to Portland just as soon as my sister gets here to pick me up. But I thought I should give you a call first. I wasn't comfortable saying this in front of him, Mike. But I need to get it off my chest."

Suddenly concerned, my voice unsteady, I ask, "What happened, Janus? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mike. It was just a false labor," she says softly, followed by a long silence.

"Thank God, Janus. I'd never be able to forgive myself is something happened to you. I probably never should have had you go along with Bobby in the first place. I should have insisted he take Dave, maybe he could have learned something about how not to be a detective from him."

"Not!" she says, cutting me off. "Mike," she starts slowly, having a hard time bringing herself to tell me something.

"What is it, Janus? You know you can talk to me. I have the utmost respect for you and I never should have put you on the road this close to your due date."

"Mike, don't worry about me. That's only part of the reason I'm calling."

Sensing that she's having a hard time bringing herself to tell me the real reason for calling, I try to coax her while I slowly walk out into the middle of the staging area, away from everyone else. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lara coming toward me from the restroom and I subconsciously turn to the side, indicating that I need privacy. Without a word, she veers away from the crime scene and me, steering her way to the far side of the staging area before turning back toward her truck.

"Janus, clearly you're having a hard time telling me something. Just take a deep breath, tell yourself to relax..."

"I've been doing that most of the night, Mike!" she blurts, cutting me off with a laugh.

"Good, good, then you should have it down to an art by now," I tease, trying to keep her relaxed, because something definitely has her wound up.

"Okay, last night about seven PM, we had just checked into the motel and I began having stomach cramps. I tried to ignore them for about half an hour, you know, thinking it's probably just a reaction to the food. We'd just ate at some seafood place on the pier at Winchester Bay. But instead of getting better, I started feeling worse, so I went over to Bobby's room and he was gone, Mike. I checked the parking lot and the sedan was gone, too. So I went to the office and asked if he had left a message with them in case I needed to get hold of him and they said no, he hadn't left any messages with them. Then I asked them if they knew when he'd left, and they said he never even went to his room, that he'd just waited around the lobby for a few minutes and then jumped in the car and headed north, toward the highway access that would take him east."

When she pauses to catch her breath, the story spilling out of her in one long burst of words, I tell her to slow down and catch her breath for a moment. "He might have just gone out to have a few drinks before hitting the rack last night and found you gone when he got back," I say, trying to sound optimistic.

"Believe me, I was thinking just that, so I left a message with the front desk to give me a call when he returned."

"And did they call?"

"Yeah, it was about six-thirty this morning. I was getting my stuff together and arranging a ride home with my sister when the motel called to inform me that he'd just returned. I even had them swear that they hadn't just remembered to call and that he had indeed just returned, and they swore to it."

"Okay, maybe he just hooked up with a young lady and spent the night with her," I throw out, trying to convince the both of us and not succeeding.

"Mike, he finally called me this morning on my cellphone, confirming our breakfast date. When I asked him where he was last night, he told me he ran into some old friends and spent the night partying with them. But he sounded nervous, not like the Bobby we both know and love."

"Well, unless we learn different, we'll just go with his story, Janus. In the meantime, you take care of yourself, and that little future detective you're carrying around with you," I say, trying to make lighter of Bobby's story than I'm actually feeling.

"Mike?" she hesitantly asks.

"Yes, Janus," I reply, sensing there's more and dreading it if only because of the tone of her voice. "What is it?"

"There's more."

"Go ahead, I'm listening."

"Well, until Bobby said that he'd run into some old friends of his, I hadn't known, but I asked him what his friends, who are from Portland, were doing down here and he said they come here all the time for the riding. That's when I learned that Bobby has a four-wheel drive pickup and a dual-sport motorcycle. Did you know that, Mike?"

"No, I wasn't aware of that, Janus. To my shame, I've never taken the time to get to know him very well since taking him under my wing. But then, I could say the same for you. Hell, Janus, I don't even know if you're married or not and if so, what your husband does for a living, or even if you have more children than the one you're expecting," I spout, disappointed with my blaring shortfall.

"Mike, don't go beating yourself up," she quickly consoles. "Everyone knows that you're a good guy with a big heart. This case is just all consuming. You're not superman and we're all adults here. Believe me, we're not upset with you," she says, making excuses for my selfish, inconsiderate behavior.

"Maybe not, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm still upset with myself," I confess. "So, what does Bobby's off road riding have to do with anything?"

"Well," she starts slowly. "I was going over all the possible crime scenes while Bobby drove, and I noticed that even though the actual murder sights weren't in off road riding areas, the victim's bodies ended up at the staging areas or trailheads of off road riding areas." She pauses a moment for the information to sink in before adding, "Is it coincidence, Mike, that Bobby may have been to each of these areas in the past, which means he has familiarity with them? Moreover, if that's the case, why hasn't he mentioned it to one of us? Just to clear the air, if nothing else."

"You know I don't believe in coincidences, Janus. No good detective does. But I don't believe for one minute that Bobby's involved in these horrific crimes in any way, shape, or form." I hesitate for a long moment before adding, "Let's not share this with anyone else, Janus. Even a rumor of this magnitude could wreck a detective's career. Where's he now?"

"After making sure that I was going to be alright and that my sister was on her way to pick me up, he headed south to the next jurisdiction on our list, Klamath Falls. I called ahead, they're expecting him."

"Alone?"

"I suggested he have someone else from the task force meet him there, but he insisted on going it alone." She takes a breath, and then says, "I see my sister coming. But before I go Mike, you need to know that I have a bad feeling about all of this. Something isn't right. I sure hope he's okay."

"He's fine, Janus, don't worry about him. Just take care of yourself and I'll see you when I get back to Portland. In the meantime, if you're up to it, keep an eye on the fax machine. Trooper Smith will be shooting all the information they've gathered on this crime scene to us, including pictures and autopsy results." I didn't have the heart or see any reason to tell her the condition of the corpse, she'd find out soon enough when she went over the autopsy report.

"How long will you be in eastern Oregon?"

"I'm not sure yet. But I'll keep you apprised."

"Okay, gotta run, bye Mike."

Flipping my phone shut and dropping it into my pant pocket, I turn in the direction of Lara's pickup and see her sitting up on the bank in front of it beneath the trees, taking advantage of the little shade provided. She seems quite content sitting there watching the activity still going on over by the crime scene. Her legs are straight out in front of her and she is propping herself upright with her arms behind her. Just watching her and thinking back on the conversation we were having just prior to our arriving here is causing a stirring in me. A slight breeze blows her hair across her face and she reaches a hand to tuck it behind her ears, her dark shades hiding her eyes. If ever there was a more beautiful and seductive woman, I haven't met her.

"Mike, you still with us?" asks Trooper Smith as he walks up beside me, his eyes having followed mine. "Who is she?"

"I'm not sure," I reply too quickly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you got it bad," he grins.

"Actually, I'm worried about her," I reply, though I don't know how to explain the cause of my concern without once again appearing on the edge of losing my sanity.

"She looks just fine to me," he teases, misunderstanding.

"Oh, she's fine alright," I grin, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. "Where are we at over there?"

"Coroner is finishing up now. Forensics' boys aren't far behind. As far as finding anything significant, can't say as we have," he says, his voice deflated by the disappointment. "Maybe we'll know something after the coroner runs her dental profile and fingerprints and we learn her ID and where she's from. Maybe then we'll get a lead, because so far, we haven't gotten shit," he says frustratedly.

"Do me a favor, Tim?" I ask, using his first name to cement our bond of fellowship between officers of the law.

"Whatever you need," he responds without hesitation.

"When your lab sends the results, can you have them include Detective Janus on the list of recipients?"

"Sure, any particular reason?"

"Nothing more than the fact that I trust her instincts, and she has an eye for details."

"Good enough. I'll take care of it."

"Thanks, I appreciate it."

"By the way, how's your shoulder doing? You look a Hell of a lot better than the last time we met," he asks with genuine sincerity.

"Much better. Thanks for asking." We share a moment of silence as we watch the coroner climb into the ambulance with his assistant. "Looks like we can get out of here."

"Yeah. Take care, Mike. Hopefully we don't have to keep meeting under such circumstances. Maybe next time it'll be to share a beer or something."

"Sounds good. My treat," I smile, shaking his hand before heading toward Lara and her truck.

As Trooper Smith heads toward the crime scene to make sure nothing is overlooked, he calls over his shoulder, "I'm going to hold you to that, Mike."

### Chapter Twenty Eight

"Where are we off to, Detective Hennessy?" she asks, following along behind the ambulance as it heads out of the staging area.

"You've been up here before, so tell me, where does this road eventually go if you don't follow the pavement into the staging area?" I ask, looking out the side window, my eyes going down the dirt track that winds off to the right, away from the pavement and further east, uphill into the trees.

"Want to follow it?" she asks, her voice and expression serious.

"Sure, why not?" I reply.

Although we don't really have the time to go gallivanting around the backwoods, the selfish part of me that wants to spend more time alone with her overrules the logical part of me that is saying we should be heading back to her fire camp so that I can get on with interviewing the other members of her crew.

"Buckle up," she says, when we start bouncing over rocks and potholes.

The road continues winding up the side of the hill, climbing in elevation with each mile we put behind us. When it looks like we can't go any farther, we come upon a large dispersed campsite, complete with a picnic table and large rock fire ring and a small pile of firewood setting next to it that the previous campers had left behind.

The trees have been pruned up from campers scavenging for campfire fuel and the ground beneath them pounded flat and covered with dirt or pine needles, the ATVs having destroyed any brush or grass that might have grown here at one time. The trail that continues on beyond the dispersed site is little more than a rough track barely wide enough for a quad or dirt bike.

Pulling the truck into the campsite beneath the trees and making a hard right maneuver, she brings the front end around so we will be able to see if anyone else comes up the road behind us. The panoramic view is awesome looking out to the west. From our vantage point, we can see well beyond the staging area, the rough section of skid road leading to the staging area weaving in and out of view as it cuts through areas of trees and brush, otherwise exposing anyone coming up it from a long ways off. Even farther out in the distance, we can see the procession of emergency vehicles heading back toward the highway. From this distance they are just dark moving spots, indistinguishable from each other.

While I take in the sights, Lara shuts off the engine and stares out over the steering wheel. Like me, she too is mesmerized by the view. "It's beautiful," she says a bit breathlessly.

"It is," I reply, opening the door and climbing out.

Closing the door behind me, I head toward the edge of the staging area, hoping to find a place where I can sit down with an unobstructed view out to the west. Though I didn't say anything to Lara, I silently prayed that she'd follow me.

Much to my relief, she does. And as if reading my mind, she's brought a heavy horse blanket with to sit on along with a couple bottles of water. Turning to her, I take the horse blanket and spread it out on the top of a picnic table.

"If we sit up here, we'll have an unobstructed view."

"Good idea," she says, climbing up on the table and crossing her legs. "I like it here."

"Here as in right here where we're sitting, or here as in this part of Oregon?" I ask, turning just enough to take in a site that I consider even more appealing than the panoramic one off to the west.

"Here as in eastern Oregon," she says, looking pleased that I'm more interested in her than the view. "I've gone several different places in the off season, but I've always found myself antsy to be back here. I guess that's why I'm the age I am and still doing this," she says, smiling self-consciously. We sit in silence for a long moment, she looking out toward the west and me studying her. Out of the side of her mouth, she softly says, "You're staring at me."

"In all honesty, I can't help myself."

"What are you thinking when you look at me like that? And tell me the truth, I have a tough skin."

"Truth huh? Okay, I'll give you the truth, but you have to promise me you're not going to jump in your truck and make a run for it, leaving me sitting up here," I hesitantly reply, debating furiously with myself as to how much I can or should tell her.

Laughing softly, she turns her bright eyes on me and says, "I promise. You'd have to do something pretty bad to scare me off."

"Okay, then," I pause and take a deep breath. "When I look at you, I see a beautiful, vivacious woman that makes me see my future in an entirely different context. I won't tell you you're hot because that is so overused, but you stir something in me that no other woman ever has. If I could go back in time to when I was just a young buck, I would make it my mission to hunt you down and make you mine at all costs."

"I'm not quite sure how I feel about being hunted down," she replies, giving me a questioning gaze, and for a moment, I'm not sure if I just made her uncomfortable, or if she's teasing me.

"Trust me, I would always be a gentleman, just a very determined one." I continue studying her for a moment longer, before continuing. "Of course, some would say that by now we would have had a huge disagreement and already separated and gone our own ways. But I don't think so. I think we'd have shared many years of a loving and exciting relationship. I don't think we'd have had any arguments that were too big to move past, and if we did, the makeup sex would have blown the roof off of any place we happened to be living at the time. And I believe with all my heart that I would still find you as beautiful and alluring after many years of being with you as I find you right now."

To my surprise, she throws her right leg up on the table and reaches out with both hands, hooking them behind my neck and pulling me toward her as she leans in to me and tenderly places her lips against mine.

Not wanting to waste this opportunity, I gently take her face in my hands, tenderly cradling it, feeling the soft silkiness of her hair while savoring the sweetness of her kiss, my thumbs affectionately caressing her cheeks. I couldn't remember ever feeling so lightheaded when I've been with a woman and I didn't want the moment to end, ever.

Slowly, she pulls back, smiling lovingly at me. Rising to my feet atop the table, I take her hands and pull her up. Facing each other, our bodies only inches apart, I put my arms around her and pull her tight, my lips finding hers. When she responds in kind, the passion flares within me, igniting a mutual fire. Her lips crushing against mine, I slip my tongue between her teeth, exploring the depths of our heat. In turn, her tongue flickers excitedly over mine before brushing across my teeth and then quickly retreats as she playfully nibbles on my lower lip.

With our bodies pressed hard against each other, she feels the growing bulge in my slacks, as I am equally aware of her firm breasts pressed hard against my chest. My hands slide down her back, holding her tightly against me, and then into the small of her back, where they press inward, forcing her lower body harder against my swollen manhood, making her fully aware of the effect she is having on me.

"Ooh, you bastard," she purrs in my ear, her breath quickening as her voice grows husky with emotion.

"If you want me to stop, just tell me," I whisper in her ear, untucking her blouse from her jeans and working my hands beneath it to the bare skin in the small of her back, savoring the smoothness of her flesh while continuing to force her lower body against mine.

"You stop now and I'll be forced to use your own gun on you," she states, her voice trembling slightly.

Teasingly, I nibble on her earlobe, slowly moving my mouth down the side of her neck and pinching the skin with my teeth, all the while her hands are on my back, holding me tight against her. Her breath is loud and hoarse in my ear as her passion builds. When I move my mouth back to her lips, she slips her tongue in and I slowly move my hands up her back until I find the clasp for her bra. With fumbling fingers, I unhook it and move my hands around to cup her full breasts, a trembling sigh escapes her lips as she brings her hands around and begins frantically unbuttoning my shirt.

Taking my cue from her, I reluctantly release the firm flesh of her breasts, and work the buttons of her blouse. While her hands run over my chest, pausing only briefly to squeeze my breasts and suckle on my nipples, I push her blouse off her shoulders and slip her bra off, letting them both fall to the table. Stepping back, I slip my shoulder holster and weapon free and carefully set them on the plank seat of the table before straightening up.

For a moment, I stand staring at her, taking in the beauty of the woman that has been haunting my dreams, and I want her with every fiber of my being. She stands, looking back at me, patiently waiting for me to make the next move. Placing my hands on her upper arms, I pull her close and kiss her long and hard, our tongues fueling the passion that is quickly turning to a white hot flame. My hands slide down her arms, reaching for the belt buckle and snap on the front of her jeans, while my mouth moves to her neck, kissing and suckling her sweet skin while slowly working a path down to her breasts, where I take her right breast in my mouth and suckle it, teasing the nipple with my teeth and drawing great pleasure from the soft moans that escape her lips.

Working down the zipper of her jeans, I'm acutely aware that she is also undoing my belt and zipper, and as one, we push each other's pants down to the table and slowly step out of them, each giving our respective clothing a slight kick to knock them down onto the seat where they will be out of the way.

Pulling her naked body against mine, my swollen manhood presses in between her firm thighs, the touch of her bare skin sending shivers through my body. A slight breeze wafts through the trees, further fueling the effect despite the heat of late day. And then, slowly, I slide my hands into the small of her back while my mouth and tongue work their way down her tummy, tasting every delicious inch of her, pausing at her navel to tickle and tease before continuing downward.

While her hands are on the back of my head, my hands slide down to her buttocks, caressing the soft flesh of her shapely ass, moving slowly but determinedly even lower, pausing only when they reach the back of her thighs. With a gentle firmness, I caress and massage the soft flesh of her inner thighs, my tongue exploring the warm moist depths of her womanhood.

A shudder of pleasure and desire runs through her body as my thumbs spread her, exposing her to even more sensations from my working tongue. Her breath is coming in gasps, her heart racing uncontrollably, and then her hands press hard against the back of my head, her back arching while her thighs spread wider, opening up and exposing everything that makes her vulnerable to a man as she shudders and cries out, the first wave of her orgasm wracking through her body with electric intensity.

Releasing her, I start to rise, my tongue working its way back up her stomach. But she places her hands on my shoulders and pushes me back down. When I misinterpret her intentions, she reaches under my chin with her right hand and, while smiling down at me, says in a voice thick with emotion, "Lay back."

Doing as instructed, she follows me down with her own body, kissing me softly while I fondle her breasts in my hands, savoring the feel of her hardened nipples. And then, kneeling over me, she nibbles on my ear before working her tongue down the side of my neck where she pauses momentarily to suckle, her teeth biting and teasing.

Releasing my hold on her breasts, I take her head in my hands, my fingers tangling in the silky smoothness of her hair, moving with her as she moves her tongue down to my chest, pausing only briefly to bite delicately on my nipples, sending rushes of electric current through my body. For a moment, she pauses and raises her head enough to meet my eyes, and she smiles seductively before using her tongue to ignite a trail of passion down my stomach, pausing only when she reaches my upright and proud member, the lightening rod of my destruction.

With only a moment's hesitation, she licks the top of it, wetting it thoroughly; the sensation of her tongue touching it almost more than I can stand, and now it's my turn to catch my breath in a loud shudder. Lifting her head to meet my gaze, a mischievous smile lighting up her face, she slowly rises, straddling me with her well-defined thighs. Her right hand on my engorged manhood, she guides it into her, slowly, teasingly, pulling back when I arch my back up, trying to thrust deeper. I'm on the verge of losing it, and she is making it harder and harder to maintain control, until finally, she lowers herself down, taking the full length of my manhood deep within her soft folds.

With a muscle control that can only come with staying physically fit through hard work, she squeezes me, and then pulls back. But, knowing that I'm quickly losing control, I arch my back and drive up into her, then pull back, the tightness of her muscles driving me crazy, and with a total loss of control, I explode, deep within the confines of her womanhood. Each burst of my manhood met with an equal tightening of her inner sanctum.

Spent and exhausted, I fall back on the table top, her naked body lying on top of mine, joined together as one, her head lying against the side of my neck, her breathing slowly growing steady and quiet. And then, she raises her head and gives me that mischievous grin before squeezing my limp manhood with her inner thighs. That's all it takes, and within seconds, my manhood is again a solid shaft of iron, her body beginning to gyrate atop me, pulling and teasing the length of it with her hot, moist womanhood.

Sliding my hands down the length of her back, they pause momentarily at the rise of her ass, and then slide down further until they're in the warm moist area where her thighs and buttocks meet. Gently, I caress the smooth, firm flesh, excitement growing with the increased tempo of her breathing and pounding of her heart in her chest as her passion flares. With increasing speed, she rocks back and forth as if on a galloping stud before lifting up and then lowering her body over my manhood, further fueling the passion and quickly bringing us to a climax, as together we reach the pinnacle of our passion and explode together as one.

### Chapter Twenty Nine

The sun is slowly setting in the west as our sweaty bodies lay tangled together atop the horse blanket, when suddenly, the peacefulness of the moment is shattered.

"Enjoy your immoral pleasures with her while you can, because I'm coming for her and you can't protect her."

"No!" I shout, jerking awake.

Lara jumps, startled by my sudden outbreak. "What, what's the matter?" she asks, concerned and even a little frightened by my outburst, her beautiful eyes flitting about, trying to locate the source of my anxiety.

Realizing where I am, I quickly assuage her concerns, "I'm sorry, it's nothing, just a bad dream. I must have dozed off."

Our bodies glued together with dried perspiration from our lovemaking, she pulls herself free and sits up, not making any effort to cover her nakedness from me. I can't help but like the way she is comfortable with her body and not self-conscious like so many women. I also can't help the way I like the sight of her body, from the sparkle in her eyes, the sun glinting in her cinnamon colored hair, to the soft fullness of her breasts, the nice round curvature of her ass, to the muscular stature of her legs. Just looking at her sitting on the table next to me, watching the setting of the sun, causes my manhood to rise between my legs.

Sitting up, I lean into her and kiss her softly on her right cheek. She turns her head and our lips come together, softly, the ferocity of our former passion now something warmer, gentler. With our lips delicately locked together, I turn her on the table top and ease her down onto her back and climb up on top of her, our lips never separating. Tenderly, I spread her legs and slide my shaft into her waiting moistness, her arms around my back pulling me into her. This time there is no rush, no panic to reach a climax. Moving slowly, I work my manhood in and out, excitement growing within me at the slightest tremors of her body and the quickening rush of her breath, as the spark ignites the fuel of our passion and the heat of the fire within grows quickly into another inferno.

Although it takes longer this time, the climax of our passion is just as exciting and breath taking as the last. All thoughts of the voice having been pushed aside in the heat of the moment.

Laying on my side next to her, my body exhausted, my left hand still fondling her left breast, we're watching the sun almost below the horizon now when we notice three sets of headlights coming along the road from the highway. Seeing them, I suddenly realize that during our moments of passion, anyone could have walked up on us and we probably wouldn't have noticed them in the heat of the moment.

"You think they're going to the staging area, or do you think they're coming up here?" she asks, her voice sounding slightly disappointed at the interruption of what could still be a long night of newly found love and passion.

Because there is more than a single vehicle, I don't feel panicked by the possibility that the un-sub might have tracked us here. There is no doubt in my mind that while I was caught up in the heat of our passion, he was watching everything through my eyes, feeling everything I was feeling through my heated blood, every nerve in my body crying out with delight.

And that pisses me off!

What we shared was a private time, not for anyone's pleasure except our own. He had no right to take advantage of my moment of weakness to interlope into my thoughts and feelings. If he thinks he's being cute now, we'll see just how cute he thinks I am when I put a 9mm slug in his cranium.

With the setting sun comes the cooler night air, slowly slipping out of the shadows to brush tenderly across our exposed skin. Instead of suggesting that we get dressed, she slides up closer against me, drawing warmth from my body. Putting my arm around her, we watch in silence as the last rays of light turn from dusk into night, her head resting against my shoulder. Careful not to touch her face, I push the wild strands of her hair up behind her ear, exposing her cheek to my lips, and kiss her intimately.

Slowly, she raises her head and turns to meet my lips, the sweet taste of her mouth on mine causing my exposed skin to tingle in the night breeze, but not from the coolness of the night. With my left hand supporting her head against me, my right hand moves to her exposed breasts, finding the nearest and gently cupping it, the thumb rubbing over the nipple with infinite tenderness. Her breath quickens at my touch, the manhood between my legs quickly responding to her reaction to my touch.

With a tenderness that surprises me in a woman of such strength, she takes my manhood in her hand and slowly runs her fingers along the length of it, first in one direction, and then the other. If it weren't that my juices were at such a depleted level, I would have been shooting into the dark simply from her sensuous touch.

When she pulls away and gets to her feet, I feel immediate disappointment. But then she takes me by the hand and pulls me off the table. Leading me around to the end of the table, away from the bench seat, she backs up to it, and with a hand on either side, raises herself to the table top. Spreading her legs, she reaches out and grabs my shaft, almost roughly pulling me forward while guiding it into her. Wrapping her legs around my waist, she locks her ankles together and forces me deeper into her while leaning back, her arms above her head, exposing her full breasts to my hungry mouth.

Leaning forward, driving my shaft in and out with increasing ferocity, I suck on first one breast, nibbling the pebble hard nipple before moving to the other, and repeating the process, wanting both, but only able to have one. Her feet are kicking me in the small of the back, her body reacting with equal ferocity to the rhythm of my manhood.

Blood. I can feel something wet running down my chest and I suddenly realize that I've torn the stitches again and the wound is bleeding.

With her hands scratching down my back, her feet kicking me viciously, my hands supporting her curvaceous ass, I explode with untamed wildness as she climaxes with me, her voice echoing through the night from her unrestricted cries of passion and release. And then she lies back, trusting in the support of my arms, limp and exhausted.

Carefully, I place her on the table top as she puts her arms around the back of my neck and pulls me close, hugging me and kissing the side of my throat. Only then does she notice the dark rivulet of blood running down the front of my chest, some of it rubbing off on her right forearm.

"You're bleeding," she says, alarmed.

"It's nothing," I tell her, being careful not to bleed on her horse blanket. "If you have a basic first aid kit in the truck, we'll put some gauze over it, tape it up, and I'll be good as new in no time," I say, making light of it to keep from causing her concern.

Jumping off the table and sorting through her clothes, I can't help but study the fine shape of her ass; even in the dark, the lighter tone of her bare skin a hazy outline. Following her around the table, I glance to the west and notice that the headlights are bouncing along the skid road, already having passed the staging area and continuing this way.

"We better make it quick," I comment. "It looks like we're going to have company pretty soon."

"Here," she says, handing me my pants. "Put your pants on."

Slipping into my pants and picking up my shirt and weapon while she slips on her blouse, foregoing the bra, I notice with a grin, before pulling the blanket off the table and hurrying back to the truck. Putting my shirt and weapon on the front seat, I help her fold the blanket, noticing that the bra disappeared without my seeing where it went. Silently, I say a quick prayer that it didn't go back on because she has more plans for us later.

After she stashes the blanket, she comes around to my side of the truck with a small white box containing first aid supplies. "I have some first aid cream if you want to put it on first?"

"Nah, let's just place some gauze over it and tape it down so I can get my shirt on. We can clean it up later and see if I need to have it re-stitched or not," I tell her as she opens the box.

"Your call," she simply replies, mature enough not to argue. Extracting a sealed roll of gauze and unwrapping it, she hands me a roll of surgical tape and says, "Hold this while I get the gauze in place."

Her hands work skillfully with the gauze and tape and within a matter of minutes, I have my shirt on and my shoulder holster comfortably back in place.

"You're self-conscious of wearing a weapon, aren't you?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you never go anywhere without your trench coat. It's become your security blanket. You probably carry things in the pockets that you never use, but you claim that's why you always have it with, when in reality, you're just a little boy self-conscious of his weapon," she says with a smirk.

After thinking about what she said for a minute, I finally concur. "You might be right. For some reason, when I wear my weapon and have my badge stuck in my belt, unless I'm at a crime scene where everyone is doing the same, I feel almost as if I'm showing off. Does that make sense?"

"Absolutely. But if I were you, I'd be so proud of the fact that I have a gold shield and weapon, I'd want to show it off to everyone. I'd go everywhere with it on display." She gives me a teasing kiss, and then repacks the unused supplies into the first aid kit and retreats around the front of the truck.

At just that moment, the first of the four wheelers enters the dispersed camp, their headlights shining right at us. If I was hoping to put on my coat, I missed that boat, as the bright brass of my badge glares in the harsh brightness of their off road lights.

From the other side of the truck, Lara calls out and when I turn, she flips me a bottle of water, her demeanor casual, and I think that it's only that way because she has no idea of the danger she is in. But should I tell her?

A jeep pulls up beside us and the passenger yells out the window, "Wow, is this where the murder was?" having noticed my badge as they pulled in.

"No, that was down below," I correct him, knowing he would probably be so drunk within the hour that he wouldn't even remember having spoken to a cop. Taking a drink of water, I walk around to Lara while the jeep pulls to the far side of the campsite and shuts down. "Are you ready to get out of here?"

She gives me a look that I can only imagine is indecision, and then says, "We should wait until the rest of them get up here. It's a pretty narrow road, especially in the dark."

"Yeah, you're probably right," I agree, thinking that they're more than likely all together, but I was going to be prepared just in case they weren't.

### Chapter Thirty

As the third and final vehicle pulls in, she fires up her pickup and we start down the road. Moving slowly past the vehicles entering the dispersed site, I study them intensely, noting that both are carrying more than a single individual, which rules out the un-sub, if only because everything we have for evidence on him indicates there is only one perpetrator. He works alone.

We ride to the bottom of the hill in silence. Upon reaching the asphalt, she turns into the staging area, pulling past a couple of campsites with ATVs parked around them, their campfires burning brightly with people in folding chairs encircling the flames, and continues on to the restroom. "I'll only be a minute," she says, shutting off her truck and climbing out.

There isn't any electric this far out and hence, no street lamps. It's also too early for the moon to rise yet, so the only light is that from the campfires, silhouettes moving around them in the shadows, yet not near enough to the restroom to cast any useable light.

Not liking that I can't see her and believing that the un-sub knows where we are, I climb out of the truck and sidle up to where I can just make out the door of the restroom in the darker shadows. "You okay in there?" I ask, my voice low.

"Yes, I'm fine," she says, sounding a little impatient with me. When she comes out, she storms past me to the truck and climbs in. "If you're coming, come," she calls over her shoulder.

Moving casually back to the truck and climbing in, I decide that it's time to come clean with her, and try to explain the potential danger she's in. Obviously she doesn't appreciate it when a man acts overly protective. I guess some women might call it hovering. Maybe when I explain why I'm acting the way I am, she'll understand. If I can do it without bringing my special ability to light, I will. But if telling her how I can get inside perp's heads and how this one found a way to get inside mine, I will do that too. Never before have I wanted or needed to be more open and honest with someone than I do with her, and so far, I've failed miserably on that; I haven't told her half of what I should have and yet, she hasn't kept anything secret from me. I owe her the truth.

After settling into the seat, I turn to her and say, "We need to talk, Lara."

"No, it's my fault," she quickly replies, cutting me off. "I'm not used to a man looking out for me, caring for me. I've never been treated exactly in the best of ways by men, so I've learned to look out for myself. I'm sorry if I seemed a little short with you, but now that you've gotten what you wanted, I know you just want me to go away, to disappear."

Leaning across the seat, I take her in my arms and whisper to her between kisses on her cheeks and forehead, "Don't ever think those thoughts about me. I'm sorry for the shabby way the men in your past have treated you, but that's not me. I've never felt the way I do about a woman the way you make me feel. I can't get enough of you, Lara, and I don't see that feeling changing anytime soon." I pause, looking into the dark pools of her eyes. "Please, Lara, I'm begging you to trust me. I want to tell you how much I love you, but I don't use that word lightly, and even I realize that we haven't known each other long enough to know for sure if it's love that I feel for you. But I do know that my feelings for you are strong and they run deep. And with your permission, I'd like to find out if what we have is real, if you'll give me that chance."

When I kiss her cheek, I taste the salty sweetness of tears, and I realize that I have my answer, my lips moving to hers, and we kiss passionately, longingly, neither wanting the moment to end. When eventually I pull away, the sweetness of her tears is lingering on my taste buds. "I don't know what our future holds, Lara, but for now, let's savor what we have."

Wiping at her eyes, she asks, her voice husky with emotion, "Is that what you wanted to talk about?"

Letting her go and sitting back upright in my seat, I stare into the darkness ahead and softly state, "No, actually, it's not."

Sensing the seriousness in my voice, she stares across the darkness in my direction before asking, "What is it, Mike? What do you need to talk to me about if it's not our relationship?"

Just as I'm about to speak, my cellphone goes off. "Just a minute," I tell her, recognizing the incoming number as belonging to Bobby.

Turning back toward the front with a bottle of water in her hands, she unscrews the top while saying softly to herself more than me, "You're beginning to scare me, Mike."

"Yeah, Bobby, what do you got?"

"Hey Boss, unfortunately, not much more than we had before," he answers, his voice sounding tired and defeated. "I had the detective in charge of the case take me out to the areas where the bodies were found, but they didn't collect much in the way of evidence. They were staging areas for off road riding, but that wasn't where the actual murders took place, those are just the places where our un-sub displayed his work." He pauses to take a breath before continuing. "Did Janus call you this morning?" And then, before I can respond, he continues, "She said she would let you know what was going on and that I should just take care of business."

"Yeah, she called, brought me up to speed. False labor, I guess?"

"Yeah, really had me going for a bit there."

"Where are you now, Bobby?"

"I'm in Deschutes County, south of Bend. Little motel on the highway. I figure I'd check in with the county offices in the morning, maybe even go over to the state labs and introduce myself. One can never have too many acquaintances in law enforcement. They have quite a few riding areas around there, so I thought I might see if they have any other cold or unsolved cases that just didn't get connected together and go from there."

"That sounds like a good idea, Bobby," I reply, trying to read more into what he is telling me than just the mere words he's speaking. If Janus had suspicions about him, I didn't want him knowing anything about it at this point. So long as he thought he was above suspicion, he might unknowingly say or do something that could give him away.

"Hey, look, Boss, I'm really tired. It's been a long day, so if there isn't anything else, I'm going to hit the hay. I'll give you a call and check in tomorrow evening, let you know if I uncover anything or if we need to add more cases to our growing list."

"Sounds good, Bobby. Keep up the good work." I pause for a moment, and then ask, "Where did you say you were staying tonight?"

"Why, you planning on stopping by?" he chuckles softly into the phone. "I'm not going to be that far from you, after all."

"No, I have other plans for tonight. I was just curious."

"If I didn't know any better, Boss, I might think you're beginning to suspect even me." Before I can say anything, he quickly continues. "I know Janus was beginning to suspect me, especially after I hung out with some old riding buddies last night."

"No one's suspecting you, Bobby," I quickly lie.

"Well, I can't say as I blame Janus, especially since I've ridden in all of these areas at one time or another. Which brings me to you, Boss. I understand that you've ridden some of these areas yourself with that old jeep of yours. Should I be suspecting you?" he chuckles again, only louder this time as if it's forced. And then, before I can respond, he says, "I'm staying in a little fleabag of a motel on Highway 6. Not sure what the name of the place is, but there's this half-moon on the sign up by the highway."

"Goodnight, Bobby," I say, ending the call and flipping the phone shut, my thoughts torn and conflicted. I really like the kid and based on what little I know of him, I find it impossible that he could be our un-sub, or even involved in these horrific crimes in any way, shape, or form. And yet, I can't just discount Janus's suspicions out of hand without first trying to disprove them. It could just be the detective in me. But what little I know of Janus, she seems to have her act together, and for that reason combined with the fact that she's a senior detective, I have to give her suspicions some credence.

"What are you thinking?"

"That I'm really hungry. Do you realize that all we've eaten today is a few donuts and chips that we washed down with cold coffee and lukewarm water?"

"You're avoiding my question."

"Only until we get some food in our stomachs, I promise."

Without a word, she turns the key and the engine roars to life. Pulling the shift lever into reverse, she steps heavily on the gas and backs up, quickly depressing the brake and dropping the transmission into drive and accelerating out of the staging area. By the time we hit the flat pavement heading west toward the highway, we are cruising over seventy-five. Rolling up the window to lessen the noise inside the cab, I say, "Lara, I'm serious, just as soon as we eat, I'll tell you everything."

In the dim lights of the instrument panel, I see her eyes flash in my direction and realize that until I begin sharing with her, she's going to remain angry with me. "Okay, you win."

"I don't want to win, I just want you to be open and honest with me."

"Lara, I am being completely honest with you. In all my life, I have never felt the way I feel right now toward any other woman. Since I first laid eyes on you, something changed in my life, it's like we were meant to be together," I emphatically declare. "Pull this truck over right now and let me prove to you how much I feel toward you."

Without hesitation, she steps down hard on the brakes and pulls the truck as far to the side of the pavement as she safely can without fear of sliding into the ditch. Fortunately, the road is straight and flat and we'll see headlights long before any vehicles can reach us.

Pushing the shifter into park, she snaps the engine off and turns to me saying, "Okay, Mister, here's your chance to prove it."

Sliding across the seat, I grab her by the shoulders, slipping my hands behind her head and guiding her lips to mine, kissing her long and hard, savoring the sweetness of her with every fiber of my being. Slowly, my lips kiss her cheek, then nibble tenderly on her ear lobe before sliding down the side of her neck, kissing her gently. When her head leans back into the seat, my lips move to the hollow in her throat, my fingers softly massaging the tension out of her neck and shoulders.

Her hands are on my back, and when I feel them tense, the nails clawing into the muscles along my shoulder blades, my mouth moves hungrily down the front of her blouse, the smoldering coals of our earlier passion instantly flaming back to life. To my delight, I discover that she hasn't put her bra back on, almost as if she knew that we weren't finished and when the time came around again, she had no intentions of stopping me.

Moving my hands around to the front of her blouse, I hurriedly undo the buttons and push the light cotton fabric aside, exposing her breasts to my hungry mouth. Cupping them in my hands, I suckle first one and then the other, pausing momentarily to nibble on the hard little pebbles, eliciting soft moans from deep within her, while her nails claw through the fabric of my shirt, scratching the skin beneath.

When it becomes painfully obvious that we aren't going to stop, she pushes me back onto the seat and leans over, placing my hands on her breasts while she undoes my slacks and releases my swollen and erect manhood. While I'm still fondling her breasts, she undoes her jeans, kneeling on the seat, and pushes them down and off from around her feet. Her legs now free to move unencumbered, she lifts her left leg over me and facing me, straddles my manhood with her hot and hungry body, taking the full length of me into her.

"Whew!" she exhales, her body trembling from her toes all the way to her head.

Guiding her breasts to my mouth, I reach around her muscular buttocks and squeeze the firm flesh, pulling her tighter into me. Tugging playfully on her right nipple with my teeth, I let it slip from my grasp and move my mouth up as she lowers her head down to meet me. We kiss long and hard, our tongues exploring the depths of our longing for each other before touching and teasing, toying.

Slowly, she rocks back and then forward again, moving just the part of her that pulls on my shaft causing my back to arch up, driving deeper into her. My hands slide into the small of her back and massage the muscles there, pulling her soft tummy against my chest, and I imagine how easy it would be to stay like this forever.

Then she places her knees to either side of my hips and begins thrusting up and down, her breaths growing in rapidity. "What are you doing?" I breathlessly ask, when I suddenly notice headlights in the rearview mirror. They are still a ways off, but understanding blossoms and I begin matching her rhythm, the pace quickly turning feverish till I explode within her depths.

She slumps forward against me with a mischievous grin and says a bit breathlessly, "I need to get my pants on."

Glancing over my shoulder, I see that we don't have much time, and I quickly slide my own up and redo the belt, leaving the shirt untucked. As soon as she has her pants pulled up, I suggest that she get the truck moving while I clumsily work at pulling up the zipper and redoing the snap. Then after copping a free feel, to which she pushes my hand away with a rueful grin, I button up her blouse, all the while taking my time and stealing glances.

"You're an animal."

"I just can't get enough of you," I smile, my left hand stroking her hair, when a thought suddenly occurs to me and I turn to look over my shoulder again. "There's only one vehicle coming. I wonder why all three aren't together anymore?"

"Maybe they're on a beer run."

"Yeah, I suppose that's possible," I agree, though I'm not really convinced.

Looking at me with a suspicious gleam in her eye, she asks, "Why is it so important to you whenever there's a single vehicle approaching? Should I be scared?"

"That's what we're going to talk about. But I still have a few things to think through before we do and I'm having a hard time on an empty stomach."

"Are you sure it's from having an empty stomach, or is something else distracting you?"

"Yeah, that might be part of my problem too. But as long as you're with me, you have nothing to worry about, okay?"

She looks over at me, her face serious. "I know that, Mike. I've never felt safer."

"Good. So, where do you recommend we eat?"

"That depends on whether you're treating me to a motel tonight or if your intentions are to use me to get you back to your jeep in Duncin and then send me packing back to the ranch?"

"Now that I have you, you're not getting away that easily."

"Then I know this family run place in Redmond that makes a mean skirt steak with a side of chili and cornbread muffins smothered in butter," she says, licking her lips for effect.

### Chapter Thirty One

We pull into the restaurant parking lot at almost nine-thirty PM. Even the late evening crowd is gone and we have the place almost all to ourselves. Before entering, we take a few moments to tuck in our shirts and straighten out our clothes. Although I made it appear that the choice of places to eat was left up to Lara, it was my intention all along on coming to Bend after talking with Bobby earlier. Since he couldn't give me the name of the motel that he was staying, but did manage to describe the sign up on the highway, I intended on staking it out and seeing whether or not he spent the night in, or if he heads out like Janus said he did the night before.

But first, we are both starving. It has been a long day with little to eat and a lot of energy burned making love and a well done steak sounded awful damned enticing, making my mouth water just thinking about it.

Of course, I wasn't going to tell Lara of my plans to stake out one of the members of my task force until I told her the rest of why she and I are going to be spending a lot of time together for the near future. I only hoped she looked forward to it as much as I am.

Reaching back into the cab for my trench coat, Lara grabs my arm and restrains it. Looking me in the eye, she says, "Tonight you're with me and I want my man to show off a little. Do you mind?"

Hesitantly, I drop the coat on the front seat and close the door. Feeling conspicuous with my weapon in the shoulder holster and my badge clipped to my belt in plain view, we head into the restaurant.

Holding the door for her, she throws me a wink as she slides by me, whispering sensuously, "You look hot."

We enter the darkened interior of the restaurant before she sees me smiling back at her.

Immediately upon entering, we are accosted by the delicious aroma of many foods mingling together, the overall result setting our mouths to watering, accenting the hunger pangs in our bellies.

"Mmm, I know what I'm having," she purrs, pausing to read the sign that says to seat yourself and a waitress will be right out to take our order.

"You haven't even seen the menu yet."

"I told you, they make a mean skirt steak. You should try it."

Following Lara to a booth with a window that looks out on the highway, we have barely sat down when a young girl comes out wearing a white apron, and despite the late hour, is still pert and smiling. "Can I get you guys something to drink?"

"Yeah, can you bring us a couple of coffees, and I'll have a Bohemian, bottle if you have it. You want something besides coffee?" I ask, looking toward Lara across the table from me.

"Yeah, make that a second on the Bohemian, and I know what I want if you want to take my order, I'm starving."

"Two coffees, two Bohemians, and what else can I get for you?"

"Skirt steak, rare, hash browns, baked beans, and French dressing on the salad," Lara rattles off before looking toward me.

"Second that, but make the steak well done, thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll be right back with your beverages."

"Damn, it smells good in here," I start, trying to make small talk.

But she isn't having any of it, and quickly demands that I tell her what's going on. Glancing toward the kitchen to make sure no one is coming, I say, "Can you wait until we get our drinks, I don't want any interruptions or people overhearing me."

Instead of answering, she simply huffs and sits back in the seat, crossing her arms in front of her beautiful breasts, and giving me an impatient glare. Fortunately, the drinks arrive almost immediately, the young girl setting a bottle and empty glass along with a full mug of coffee in front of each of us before asking if we need anything else while we wait for our food.

"No, thank you."

"You food shouldn't be too long," she replies, heading back toward the kitchen where the sound of our food hitting a hot griddle can be heard all the way into the dining room.

Looking around the dining room, I see two other couples eating their meals, both of whom are far enough away that I shouldn't be overheard. Meanwhile, Lara has opened her bottle and put it to her lips, forgoing the glass. Just one more reason I can't help but like this woman; no airs and graces, just call it as you see it.

Opening my bottle, I take a long pull on it, and then place it on the table in front of me, my hands holding it for comfort. "Okay, I'll tell you what I can."

"I expect you to tell me everything, if I'm in danger."

Getting up, I move around the table and slide in beside her. Reaching out, I take her hands in mine, a gesture that although she isn't accustomed to, she doesn't immediately pull away. Despite being a strong, independent woman, I want her to know that I'm going to be here for her no matter what it takes or for how long it takes. "I'm not sure where to begin, but first, you know that I'm investigating a series of murders."

"Yeah, I know all about that, the serial murderer, and now the case is expanding to more than just the bodies that were turning up in the Portland area and the Columbia Gorge, but also eastern Oregon."

"Right. But as it turns out, that's just the start of it. Now it appears that our boy has been busy all over the entire state, not just here. I've had members of my task force going down the coast to different jurisdictions and then working their way east to Klamath Falls and then back north, up to the Columbia Basin. Their job isn't to investigate cases, just to verify if certain unsolved murders in these areas are indeed more victims from the same bastard that we've been hunting in Portland," I pause to take a breath and let it out with a sigh before continuing. "It turns out, they are."

"I still don't understand, what does that have to do with me?"

This is where it gets sticky, because I still haven't decided just how much I can or should tell her. Most people, especially someone as grounded as Lara is going to have a difficult time at best grasping that I can enter a psychotic killer's mind, or worse yet, a psychotic killer can enter mine.

"That's why I'm here, Lara," I hesitantly begin. "I'm not following up leads, because we haven't got any, yet. But this sick bastard that we're chasing has made it personal with me for some reason. He seems to feel that we're connected somehow, and that what he is doing is for both of us."

"He feels connected to you on some level, so you drag me into it! Why would you do that? Why would you be with me when you know this sick person is associating himself with you? For all you know, he could be following us." She stops for a second, her hand suddenly letting mine go and pushing it away. "That's why you were so concerned about the vehicles back there at the staging area! You thought one of them might be your killer."

"Please, Lara, just hear me out."

"I think, I want to go home."

"Lara, you're safe as long as you're with me, that's why I came, to protect you," I blurt.

"Mike, I think I might have feelings for you. I've never felt so comfortable with a man before. You're different, I get that. But I don't mind telling you, I'm scared."

Reaching for her, I take her by the hand, entwining mine in hers, relieved that she doesn't pull away. "Lara, before you even met me, I knew who you were. I don't know if it's even possible, but I fell for you the first time I saw you." I pause, not sure how to proceed, just knowing that I must. "I don't mind telling you, but I fell hard. I couldn't even look at another woman without feeling as though I were cheating on you, and you didn't even know me. Well, somehow, our un-sub learned of these feelings that I have for you, and he has made it his mission to get to you."

"That's flattering and just a bit creepy, almost scary, I don't mind telling you. Some people might even say that borders on stalking. But how do you know that he knows how you feel toward me, I don't understand. Didn't you say that you didn't have any leads?"

"Trust me, Lara, I'm not a stalker. If you want me to leave you, I will, but only after I know you're safe from this guy. It'll probably be the hardest thing I've ever done, but I will, if that's what you want."

"No, Mike, that isn't what I want. That's the furthest thing from what I want. But that still doesn't explain how he knows about me, or how you know he has threatened to do me harm."

"That's where it gets a little more complicated."

Just then, the young waitress arrives with our food. "Will you be sitting on this side, sir?"

"Yes," I reply, feeling Lara squeeze my hand a little tighter.

After placing our plates in front of us and setting condiments in the center of the table, she says, "Your steaks and potatoes will be just a few more minutes. Can I bring you anything else?"

"Two more Bohemians, please," Lara pipes up.

"Right back, enjoy your salads," she says, taking our empty bottles with her.

"I'm not sure I have an appetite anymore," she says, staring at the greens, knowing that I'm waiting to continue until after the waitress has brought out our beers.

"You need to eat."

Just then, the waitress brings our beers. After setting them on fresh coasters, she heads back toward the kitchen, via a quick stop at the other occupied tables.

"What's complicated?" she asks, generously dumping dressing over the greens.

Taking the bottle from her, I do the same before answering. "I know that he has marked you as a future victim, because he told me as much."

She was about to put a small forkful of greens into her mouth, when she almost drops the fork into the salad and gasps, "You spoke with him?"

Shifting uncomfortably in the seat, I hedge for a moment before replying, "Well, not exactly the way you're thinking."

"He just happened to leave you a voice mail stating that he knows you and I are having sex and because of that I have to die! Is that more the way he told you?"

"No, Lara, that's not how it happened."

"Well, tell me, Mike. How did it happen? I mean, since I'm the one that he wants to kill, shouldn't I know?" she gasps, her voice rising, almost on the verge of hysterics.

There was no getting around it any longer. I had to be honest with her and let the chips fall where they may. If she decides that I'm some kind of nut case and wants to run away from me, then I'll just deal with it as best I can.

"I have this unique ability, or maybe it's a curse, to get inside the heads of criminals," I simply state, sitting back to watch her reaction, which is exactly the opposite of what I'm expecting.

Laughing, she sits back in the booth and puts her hands against the edge of the table top to steady herself. "If you don't want to tell me how or when this guy called you, okay, I get it. But please, if you're going to make something up, at least try to make it believable."

When she stops laughing long enough to catch her breath, she looks at me and realizes that I'm not laughing with her, and her smile fades. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Your reaction is the exact reason that I've never told anyone before in my life. But yes, I am deadly serious. Now, are you sure you want to hear anymore?"

At just that moment, the waitress arrives with our steaks. Setting the bloody one in front of Lara and the charred one in front of me, she asks with a smile, "Can I bring you anything else?"

"No, thank you, we're fine," I quickly reply while Lara just stares silently at the table top.

"Then enjoy your meal."

As soon as she's gone, I turn to Lara, the color having drained from her face. "Lara, look at me."

When she continues staring straight ahead, I gently reach out and touch her cheek. She flinches at the touch of my hand and my heart breaks. "Lara, please, it's not what you think."

"What I think?" she cries, her voice breaking. "You couldn't possibly know what I'm thinking. For the first time in my life, I thought I'd met a man that I could trust, that I was even beginning to believe our relationship might turn into something long-term."

"It still can," I plead.

"I don't think so," she angrily states. "I've lost my appetite. Can you let me out?"

"No."

For the first time since telling her of my special ability, she meets my gaze, the green flecks in her deep brown eyes shooting fire. "If you don't let me out, I'm going to scream."

"Lara, please, just listen to me before you do anything rash. You can't deny that we have something special. Are you just going to throw it away without giving me a chance to explain?"

Her body visibly relaxes and she slumps resignedly into the seat. "Okay, start talking, and it better be good or you're going to be finding your own ride back to Duncin."

### Chapter Thirty Two

Though she made the threat of leaving me, I could tell by the tone of her voice that her resolve was weakening even before I began telling my story. "I'm going to start at the beginning, when I first discovered that I had this ability. It's going to take a while so I suggest we eat instead of letting all this good food go to waste."

While we pick at our food, I tell her about the first time I was struck with a vision. I was a senior in high school. There was this one guy, about six-feet tall and two-hundred pounds. He was on the varsity football team, a real crowd pleaser with a dark side. One night when I was coming home from a friend's house, I ran into him on the street. He told me if I wanted to pass, I had to pay a toll, typical bullying mentality. When I told him that I didn't have any money, he threw me up against the brick wall of the local hardware store. I hit my head really hard, was unconscious for at least thirty minutes or more. When I came to, he was gone and my chest and groin were bruised and swollen. Only later did I come to realize that while I lay unconscious on the sidewalk, he kicked the living daylights out of me, a real sick bastard with no pride.

To my surprise, she reaches a hand out and gently lays it over mine, softly saying, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not looking for sympathy, but thank you," I reply, placing my free hand on hers and squeezing it softly. "Anyway, later that night, when I finally got to sleep, I have this vision of him getting beat up with a baseball bat in his own bedroom. It's as if I'm inside the perpetrator's head, looking out through his eyes and feeling what he's feeling. It's all very surreal. But when I get to school in the morning, everyone is talking about the police being at this kid's house because someone broke into his bedroom during the night and beat him into a coma with a baseball bat."

"Wow, that's weird," she remarks, but not sounding anywhere near as freaked out as she was just a few minutes ago. "Did they ever catch the guy that did it to him?"

"I don't think so, but there wasn't any shortage of guys taking credit for it. Turns out, he'd been bullying his classmates and kids in the lower grades for a long time. No one ever said anything because of his connections with the teachers and coaches." I pause to chew on a piece of steak. "You were right."

"How's that?" she asks, a hesitant smile lighting up her face.

"They grill a mean steak here."

"Knew you'd like it. So continue, what happened next?"

It felt good to see her relaxing and starting to eat, giving me hope that she might be more receptive of my ability than I could have hoped for. "Well, at first I thought it was just some kind of coincidence because of the large knot on the back of my head. And you have to remember, I don't know for a fact what actually took place in his bedroom, just that he was hammered into a coma by someone swinging a baseball bat."

"That would be enough to freak me out."

"It did me for a while. But then with the passing of time, I eventually forgot about it until late one night when I was a senior in college. I had this dream of watching again. I woke up in a cold sweat, the bedding had been kicked off and was in a tangled mess on the floor."

"What was it? What did you see?" she asks, genuinely interested.

"I saw a brutal rape take place through the rapist's eyes. But what was worse this time was that I could hear her begging him to stop while his breath echoed hoarsely in my ears, the stench of his breath assailing my nostrils like rotten cabbage and onions. Yet, even worse, I could feel the lust in him, it was almost as if his blood were flowing through me." Setting my fork down, I softly add, "I felt his orgasm as if it were my own."

"What did you do?"

"First thing I did was take a shower. That brought some semblance of reality back. Then I thought long and hard before finally deciding to go down to the campus police and see if anyone had reported anything during the night."

"And I suppose someone had?"

"Yeah, someone stumbled across the body of a young female student lying behind a bush just off the trail that led between her dormitory and the library. It appeared that she'd been attacked on her way back to her dorm after a late evening of studying at the library."

"She was dead?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Then what did you do? Did you go to the police and tell them what you saw?"

"I thought about it, seriously. But I hadn't really seen anything that would help identify the rapist. Remember, all I'd seen was through his eyes. I saw the victim and what he did to her, but I never saw him or even anything that might identify him. So, once again, I kept it to myself. But then three weeks later, I was back inside this guy's head when he attacks another victim. This time, though, I don't run away at the first opportunity. I linger inside his subconscious, waiting and watching until he returns to his own dormitory. Though I don't know who he is or what his name is, I now know where he lives." I pause to take a bite of my now-cold steak. After chewing it for a while, I wash it down with the last dregs of beer in my bottle before continuing. "The next day, I hang around outside this dormitory until it looks like there isn't anyone in the suspects room. Being careful not to be seen, I break in and learn by looking through personal items just who the bastard might be."

"But if you can't prove anything, what good does it do to know who might be responsible?"

"The next time I find myself in the guy's head, I wait only long enough to recognize where on the campus he is, and then I wake up and head there at a dead run. Unfortunately, by the time I get there, he's gone and the girl is unconscious. I call out until someone comes. After telling them to get help, I tell them where I am going and I take off for this guy's place. When I get there, I break down his door and find him in the shower. Without thinking, I pull him out of the shower and start wailing on him. By the time the cops arrive, we're both a bloody mess. I don't mind telling you, he got his share of licks in. And even though I'm in his dorm room illegally, he's hauled off to jail and I'm the hero. When I'm questioned about how I knew who the rapist was, I tell a little white lie. I claimed that I came across them just as he was leaving her and after asking someone to get her help, I followed him back to his place."

"You are a hero," she says, taking a minute to chew on a bite of meat before asking, "What happened to the second victim? Did she regain consciousness and pick the scumbag out of a lineup or something?"

"No. When she regained consciousness, she couldn't remember anything that happened to her that night or who had done it. But even though there wasn't DNA back then, they did get blood types off of his clothes back in his room that matched both of the victims."

"What happened to him?"

"He denied everything, of course, most criminals do. But eventually, he was convicted on both counts of rape and sent up for quite a few years. As far as I know, he's still doing time."

We continue eating in silence for a moment, and then she asks, "Have you been inside this un-sub's head since the beginning?"

"Yes, I have," I solemnly reply.

"I can't even imagine what it must be like," she says softly, her fork pausing above her plate as she looks over at me. "I'm really sorry that I freaked out on you earlier."

"I'm just glad you were able to move past it. Most people wouldn't be able to, you know? And truth be known, I really wasn't looking forward to hitchhiking back to Duncin in the middle of the night." Playfully, she hits me on the shoulder. "Hey."

"Now I know how he communicated with you, but you haven't told me everything yet, have you?"

"No, but unless you want dessert, maybe we should get a move on."

"No dessert for this chick. My ass is fat enough."

"I think your ass is just right, but I might be a little biased in that department," I smile, sliding out of the booth and waiting for her to join me before heading to the cash register.

"I'm going to run to the little girl's room."

"I'll be right here," I tell her, returning my wallet to my pant pocket and thanking the girl behind the till.

As we head out to the truck, I offer to drive. Handing me the keys, she says, "I don't normally let anyone drive my truck, but it has been a long day and I am having a hard time concentrating."

Pulling out onto the road, I turn south. "Where are we going?"

"We're going on a stakeout, police work, do you mind?"

Sliding across the seat and snuggling up against me, I slip my right arm over her shoulder and hold her close. "You really should have a seatbelt on."

To my surprise, she pulls out the center belt and slips it around her waist before snuggling back up to me. "How far are we going?"

"I'm thinking thirty miles, tops."

"Wake me when we get there," she whispers, closing her eyes with her head resting against my chest.

The drive is shorter than I'd anticipated, when I see the half-moon icon on a sign indicating a motel just off the highway. Letting off on the gas, I slowly cruise into the parking lot, knowing there isn't any way that Bobby could possibly recognize the truck. It's a single level building with doors lined up on the parking lot separated by waist height windows, all of which appear to have matching curtains, and they all appear to be pulled closed.

There doesn't appear to be any overflow parking or even access to the rear of the building, since all units face out onto the driveway, making it easy to see if Bobby's unmarked cruiser is in the parking lot or not. But to my dismay, though there are a few dark sedans parked out front of several rooms, I don't see it, which means I'll have to check in at the office and find out if he's even registered.

Reaching the end of the parking lot, I turn around and cruise slowly back toward the entrance and pull up to the end unit that has a neon sign hanging over the window flashing 'OFFICE', and directly below it, 'Vacancy'.

Turning off the engine, Lara slowly raises her head and looks around, asking, "Are we there yet?"

"Yeah, we're here. Sit tight for a minute, I'll be right back," I tell her, debating if I should just get a room and hold vigil for Bobby's return. But I quickly dismiss the idea. Not only will I still need to verify that he's staying here, but just the thought of Lara being so close to the possible killer sends a chill down my spine. If indeed Bobby is the serial murderer that we're all hunting, it would be disastrous if he stumbled on us, either by accident or through my subconscious.

"Please don't leave me."

"I'll lock the doors and be right inside there," I say, indicating the office directly in front of us. Kissing her softly on the top of the head, I add, "I won't be any longer than necessary."

Stepping out of the truck, I click the key fob to set the locks and stroll toward the office door, throwing her an encouraging smile just before entering. At first glance, I don't see anyone on duty. There is however a small silver bell setting on the counter next to a small dish of peppermint candies. The counter is just inside the door, barely leaving enough room for the door to close behind me. Not wanting to be away from Lara any longer than necessary, I give the little silver bell a hard tap, the ding sounding loud in the silence. From somewhere down a poorly lit hall that leads away from the back of the counter with two doors branching off it to either side, a deep male voice calls out, letting me know that they're coming and to be patient.

Within a minute or two that seems much longer, the door on the right suddenly opens and an obese man with scruffy hair and a few day's growth of beard on his face carrying a rolled up magazine steps into the hallway, looking toward the counter and scowling as if I might have interrupted his constitution. Or something else, depending on the magazine.

When he sees my badge and weapon, his demeanor immediately perks up. "What can I do for you, officer?"

"Evening. I was wondering if you could verify a guest for me and what room he might be in."

"You have a warrant?"

"Are you serious?" I growl. "Just put the register up here on the counter and go back to whatever it is you were doing back there."

He looks at me for a minute, silently debating if he wants or needs the aggravation that I might cause, and then reaches down, pulls out the register and flips it open to the night's guests. "This is all of them. I won't be responsible for accuracy."

Glancing down the list, I see Bobby's signature next to room number seven, and push the register back toward him, saying, "Thanks, now that wasn't so hard was it?"

Turning, I head back to the truck to find Lara sitting upright and looking nervous. When she sees me coming, she reaches over and unlocks the door before I can depress the button. "Is he here?"

"He's registered, but his sedan isn't in the parking lot."

"You don't think he's out hunting another victim, do you?"

"I don't know, Lara. I don't want to jump to any conclusions when he might just be out having a beer or something."

"You don't really believe that though, do you?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore, Lara. When I was first assigned this investigation, I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd be suspicious of one of my own task force members, or that it would take us to eastern Oregon where I would be staking him out." After a long moment of silence, I say, "Look, we can sit here all night waiting for him to return, though I don't know what good that will do unless I confront him and he's covered with blood or something equally damning. Or, we can get a room here and hold vigil at the window while we wait for him to return, but that leaves the same synopsis, unless he is covered in blood, etcetera, etcetera. Or, we drive around looking for him, hoping to catch him in the act, which since we don't have a clue as to where to begin looking, is just plain asinine."

"What other options do we have?"

Leaning on the steering wheel, I look over at her with a longing that only she seems to bring out in me, and say, "We could just find us another motel and get a good night's sleep and worry about how to handle this in the morning."

Looking back at me with a lopsided grin, her tongue in the corner of her mouth, she leans forward, kissing me softly on my cheek and says, "Let's go find us a room far far away from this place. Someplace where we don't have to think about this anymore tonight."

When she runs her tongue down the side of my face and suckles on my earlobe, I realize exactly what she does want to do with the night. Turning my face into her, our lips press together, igniting the passion that has been simmering just below the surface since our last release.

Pulling away from her, I start the engine while huskily rasping, "Let's get out of here."

We head out on the highway going north. Within half an hour, we come across a motel that belongs to a chain and I pull in, cruising into the breezeway and stopping just outside the door. "Wait here," I tell her, as she sleepily untangles her arms from around me. "I'll only be a minute."

Walking away from the truck, I click the door lock, glancing back and seeing her face through the windshield, her eyes watching me, softly illuminated from the overhead lighting of the breezeway. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are only half open. I pause in midstride, thinking how she is the most beautiful woman I've ever known, as she absently pushes wild strands of hair out of her eyes. A deep need inside me hungers to hold her in my arms and feel her warmth against my skin, her scent filling my nostrils, and the smooth firmness of her flesh in my hands, the sweet taste of her lips on mine.

After hurrying through registration and receiving a room passkey, I pull the truck around to the parking area in the rear of the building and lead Lara to our room on the second floor. Pushing the door shut behind us, I pull her into my arms and kiss her passionately while slowly maneuvering her toward the large king-size mattress, my hands working with steady determination to unbutton her blouse.

When we reach the bed, she takes my wrists in her hands and stops me, her voice barely more than a whisper, says, "I need a shower, bad."

"Do you want company?" I tease, fondling her exposed nipples between my thumb and index fingers, which elicits a soft moan from deep within her throat.

Pulling away, her hands pushing against me, she huskily replies, "Just give me a minute first."

Without a word, I release her and turn around, dropping down heavily on the bed as she slowly walks toward the bathroom, her blouse hitting the floor first, followed by the kicking off of her jeans and socks, leaving them on the floor where they land. I stare unabashed at her retreating figure, momentarily silhouetted by the bathroom light before she pulls the door shut behind her, the sight of her curvaceous body enough to bring my manhood to life despite overwhelming exhaustion.

With stiff fingers, I remove my weapon and lay it on the nightstand within easy reach. Then, after removing my shirt and kicking my pants off, I lay back on the bed, luxuriating in my good fortune combined with the soft silkiness of the bed spread. Within seconds, I doze off.

"You can't hide from me. I not only know which hotel you're in, I know right down to the room number where you and your fire baby are hiding, doing your despicable acts."

"Leave us alone. Can't you give us this one night of peace? Please, I beg of you."

"Quit your sniffling, dog." The voice pauses as if distracted by something. I take the opportunity to see what he is seeing, but there is only darkness. He came into my mind prepared so that I couldn't see through him. He is hiding something from me.

The touch of her fingers running over my chest brings me out of my slumber. "The bathroom is all yours," she purrs, her wet hair smelling of lavender and soap. When I don't immediately react to her, she senses something is wrong, and pulls back, asking, "What is it? Was he just here?"

I found that a strange way for her to put it, but it made absolute sense. When I was inside his subconscious, he was inside mine, and that meant he was here. "Yeah. I must have dozed off."

Hesitantly, she asks, "Is he doing it, right now, you know, killing someone?"

"No," I reply, seeing her shiver, despite the heat of the day still lingering in the air. "No, no, don't even go there," I sooth, taking her in my arms and pulling her tight against me. Stroking her hair softly, I pull the cover off the bed and wrap it around us. "But there was something different about the contact this time."

"How was it different?" she asks, though I'm not sure she really wants to know the answer.

"It was almost as if he had a blindfold on so that I couldn't see where he was."

"Couldn't he just close his eyes and achieve the same effect?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. If he simply held his eyes shut, I would still get a residual image, what is most recent in his mind. This was like he sat with a blindfold on for a while, clearing his mind before entering mine."

"But how could he know when you would fall asleep and become receptive? Surely, he hasn't been sitting somewhere with a blindfold on just waiting for the opportunity."

"That's a good point, Lara. I don't have a good answer for you. I don't know how he is always there, just waiting for me to doze off. All I know for sure is that he's always there, every time I as much as doze for a minute, he's there, haunting me." Not sure she is grasping the whole picture, I give her a little history. "Remember how I told you about the early times?"

"Yeah."

"It used to be that I could enter into a person's subconscious and they were never aware of my presence. I thought of myself as an interloper, simply able to observe what they were seeing and feeling. But this guy, he sensed me. Not at first, but after a while he was able to feel me hovering in the background. And then, one time when I thought I was almost on to his identity, he tricked me. That's when I realized that he was aware of my presence and it wasn't long after that, he was interloping into my subconscious, taunting me with his kills. It was soon after that he wasn't giving me any peace. He began sharing every kill with me, whether I wanted him to or not."

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, kissing me sympathetically on the cheek.

"No, you don't need to be sorry for me. If anything, your being here gives me strength, makes me even more determined to catch this bastard. I should be thanking you."

"What do we do now?"

"Whatever he's doing tonight, he doesn't want me seeing, and that's disturbing in itself. Knowing him as well as I do, I'm afraid he might be setting up something and he wants it to be a surprise."

"What kind of surprise," she asks, her voice tense.

"I don't know, Lara," I admit, squeezing her tighter against me. It didn't seem like a good idea to tell her that he just told me he knows where we are. "But we need to be prepared for anything."

Leaving her wrapped up in the bedspread, I take the chair sitting in front of a small writing desk and prop it against the door, wedging it securely beneath the knob. "That should keep him out of our room. Or at least make it impossible to enter without alerting us."

"I don't mind telling you," she says, "I'm scared."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lara slides up next to me and throws the bedspread around us, pulling me into her cocoon, her little sanctuary of safety. Her naked flesh is warm and soft against my body, her breasts rubbing sensually against my chest. When I turn my head toward her, her lips press against mine, and we kiss long and tenderly.

Though it pains me to do so, I take her by the shoulders and gently pull away, saying, "You're nice and clean, fresh, smelling of spring flowers and soap while I'm covered in stale sweat and road grime. Give me a minute while I take a quick rinse off." As I rise from the bed, she smiles up at me seductively with anticipation.

"Don't be long."

"I promise, I won't get sidetracked."

### Chapter Thirty Three

Starting the shower hot, I lather myself with generous amounts of soap and shampoo. But then as the warm water rinses off the soapy suds and relaxes my tired body, I turn it to as cold as I can withstand, using the assault on my senses to wake me up. It's going to be a long night and I can't afford to let my guard down.

With a towel wrapped around my lower half, I return to the side of the bed only to find Lara curled up in the bedspread, snoring loudly. Standing over her, watching her sleep and finding it impossible to disturb her, though my body is crying out for her touch, I resist the selfish urge.

Moving quietly about the room, I gather up my clothes and get dressed. Though there is a plush overstuffed chair available, I decide instead to remove the one that I wedged beneath the doorknob earlier and place it so that I am sitting upright in it, my back against the door, facing the bed. There is just enough light emanating from the bathroom to cast a dim shadow over Lara. Feeling like I could really use a shot of bourbon, I hastily push the thought out of my mind. Tonight, I need all my senses on high alert.

Although I don't know for sure if Bobby is connected to the investigation in any way other than as a detective following leads, Janus's suspicions have put me on edge, and I can't discount the fact that for the last two nights, he hasn't been where he's said he was; he's not stayed in the motel rooms where he registered. So where has he gone in the middle of the night and what has he been up to? Murder?

Unable to bring myself to do it, and knowing that I would be showing my hand if I did, I consider having Janus discreetly question him, find out what friends he ran into night before last and let her follow up, see if they will alibi him or not. If they substantiate his alibi, I can rule him out and move on. But if they can't, I need to bring him in for formal questioning before we have any more victims.

The night grows long, creeping into the early morning hours, my eyes heavy with fatigue. In the last week, I've only had one good night's sleep and my body is beginning to protest the abuse.

"I've been waiting for you," he says, hurriedly moving forward through glass doors, the carpet below his feet a short, commercial pile of a dark shade. Ahead of us, where his attention is focused, is a counter, and behind the counter a young woman.

There isn't any point in asking him where we are, because I immediately recognize the lobby of the motel where Lara and I are staying. Earlier, upon our arrival, I checked in with a middle aged man. This woman, dressed in a brown pantsuit, must be the night manager. But why are we here?

As we approach the counter, the woman's eyes grow large with fright, in the un-sub's hands is a nine millimeter automatic handgun, and it's aimed right at her. Drawing closer, I notice for the first time that she is a pretty woman, brunette, hazel eyes, and in her early thirties. The un-sub leaps the counter, landing nimbly on his bare feet next to the woman. He quickly glances around, verifying that she hasn't pushed an alarm button while grabbing her by the back of the neck with his left hand and forcing her to move away from the counter and down a short hallway. The first room they come to is where the employs leave their coats, purses, and other personal items while they're at work.

His voice is hoarse, almost raspy sounding, when he orders her to be quiet and do as he says. He is giving her the impression that he is here to rob the place, though I know this is just a ruse to keep her cooperative until he has her subdued. If she doesn't fight back now, she will never get another chance. But she doesn't know that, and when he throws her violently across the room, she thinks he is going to leave her there while he goes back in search of money and valuables.

Instead of leaving, though, he turns and closes the door, making a show of locking it before pulling a chair over and wedging it beneath the knob. Walking across the room toward her, she opens her mouth to scream and he back hands her, hard, knocking her sideways into the Formica covered counter. Her hands clumsily reach out for support, but she is only semiconscious, struggling to stay on her feet. He walks up behind her and with his left hand, grabs a handful of hair on the back of her head and slams her face-first into the counter top, her nose shattered by the impact sprays blood across the white backsplash tiles.

When she starts to slide down in front of the cabinet unconscious, his hand still gripping a handful of her brown hair, he drags her across the floor toward the table. Setting his weapon on the seat of a chair, he picks her limp body up and lays her spread-eagle across the table.

"Stop. Stop it now! I know who you are and you're not going to get away with this. It's not too late!"

"This is just a sampling of what I plan to do to your woman, your fire baby. You wouldn't listen to me before, but you'll listen to me this time."

"I'm listening to you. Tell me what I didn't hear before."

He rips her blouse open exposing a beige underwire bra. Grabbing it between her breasts, he rips upward, tearing it free and exposing her smallish, yet firm breasts. "Are you liking what you see?" he taunts.

"Please stop. You don't have to do this."

"She may not be all the woman your fire baby is, but we're just getting started, aren't we?"

With an animal-like viciousness, he grabs the waist of her pants and yanks them down, bringing her pantyhose and under panties with them. Pulling them from around her ankles, he drops the undergarments to the floor. With male strength fueled by adrenalin, he takes the pants and rips them up the seam, making two long pieces of fabric.

Naked, her face bloody, he ties each of her wrists with a leg of the pants and then looks over at the cabinets. Dragging her semi-conscious body off the table, a small whimper escaping her lips, he sets her up on the counter and while supporting her upright, ties the opposite ends of the pant legs through the upper cabinet door handles. Pulling them through until her arms are above her head, he ties them off and steps back, surveying his handiwork.

"Please, don't do this," I beg of him, not understanding why I can't wake up and rush downstairs to her rescue.

"I really do wish I didn't have to rush this. But time is short and you didn't leave me with a whole lot of choices."

Walking up to her, he swings his right hand, palm out so he won't bruise his knuckles, catching her on the side of her face. The blow makes a loud slapping sound and she slowly opens her eyes. Unaware of her predicament, she tries to get away from him, her movement causing her to slide off the counter, her feet dangling inches above the linoleum floor. There is a louder popping sound as her shoulders are torn from their sockets by the sheer force of her unsupported weight pulling her down. When her mouth opens to scream from the excruciating pain and fear, he quickly grabs a coffee mug from the rack and brings it down on the top of her head with a viciousness that shatters the porcelain mug.

"Stupid bitch! Now look what you made me do," he angrily shouts out.

"She didn't make you do anything," I cry, sensing that the woman died from the impact shattering her skull.

Still holding a piece of the coffee mug by the handle, he lashes out in anger and frustration, the sharp edged chunk of porcelain slicing raggedly through the soft white flesh of her abdomen, opening up a wound from side to side. An outpouring of viscous liquid followed by her intestines surges forward at the same time her bowels release a flood of waste down her legs, the stench bringing a surge of bile up my throat.

Believing that he is now going to leave her and make his escape, I am stunned when he goes to the counter instead and opens several drawers, shuffling through the contents until he finds what he wants, a serrated edged bread knife.

Using a sawing motion, he carefully removes her breasts, placing them on the table behind him as if working on an art display.

"Please, stop," I beg, my voice sounding strained to my own ears.

"Shut up! I thought you were stronger. You're beginning to disappoint me, you know that?"

"Don't blame me for your shortcomings," asswipe, I growl back.

"Now that sounds more like the detective I know," he calmly remarks as he returns to the same drawer where he previously removed the bread knife from and extracts a short bladed steak knife. When he tests the edge on the side of his thumb, I notice for the first time that he's wearing surgical grade latex gloves. Taking her face in his left hand, he squeezes his thumb and index finger on either side of her cheeks, forcing her mouth open. Reaching in, he extends her tongue, pulling it taut with the same hand. When he attempts to cut it off, he quickly discovers that the steak knife is duller than he first thought. After hacking for almost a full minute, it finally comes free, the cut edge ripped and torn, shreds of flesh and skin dangling from it. With precision, he places it on the table next to the breasts. Her eyes are next, the dull steak knife doing a terrible job of extraction, yet he continues using it, followed by her liver and then the kidneys.

While he works, he constantly looks up at the large clock on the wall, making sure that he doesn't overstay his welcome. When it is almost four AM, he throws the knives he's used into the sink and steps back to admire his handiwork, taking great pleasure in the gory remains of the woman dangling by her arms from the cabinets. I can feel the pride he takes in what he has done while he looks over the table, and yet, I cannot waken from this nightmare!

"I must go now. But I will see you tomorrow."

"What do you mean?" I scream.

He turns and removes the chair from in front of the door and unlocks it. His hands still gloved, he opens the door and steps outside, listening for any sound that might spell trouble. Pulling the door shut behind him, he casually strolls down the hall and around the counter and out the front door.

"What do you mean, I will see you tomorrow?" I call out.

Ignoring me, he walks out through the breezeway, my vision through his eyes fading to black.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean?" I cry into the night.

"Mike, Mike, it's me, Lara," she says, her arms wrapped around my shoulders, her face near mine. "You had a bad dream, baby. It's okay, you're here with me now."

"Oh my God. What time is it?" I ask, barely noticing that she is stark naked and sitting on my lap and that I'm still seated in the hard wooden chair, my back against the door.

She looks around and sees her cellphone where it ended up on the nightstand. Getting off my lap, she trots over to the nightstand and reads the time off, "Four-fifteen. Why, what does it matter what time it is?"

"I dozed, Lara, and he killed again. Only this time, I couldn't get away, I couldn't wake up. I tried, I really did. It's as if he had the power to hold me in his head. I've never felt anything like it before, I was completely helpless, it was bad."

Coming back to me, she stands in her nakedness before me, not sure if she should try comforting me or give me my space. I notice for the first time that I have my weapon, yet I don't remember taking it from the nightstand and putting it back on. Yet, I must have when I got dressed without even realizing that I'd done so. I notice also that my clothes are soaked through from perspiration and my heart is pounding as if I'd just had a strenuous workout.

"Lara, call 911 and get dressed."

Without asking any questions, she presses the buttons and waits. When the operator comes on, she says, "There's been a murder." Looking at me, she asks, "Where?"

"Downstairs, in the lobby, or rather, the staff lounge," I quickly reply. Then, holding my badge so she can see it, I tell her to give them my badge number and to send the troops.

When the operator asks her to remain on the phone, she meekly replies, "Yes, mam," her face an ashen pale, all the color having drained out of it when I told her where the murder took place.

"Here," I say, reaching for the phone and taking it out of her shaking hand. "Get dressed, I'm not leaving you here alone."

Though she moves slower than a zombie, I don't rush her. It will be better if she comes to terms with this at her own speed and be ready for what the rest of the day throws at her than if I rush her through it, not giving her a chance to get her legs under her.

While she dresses, I tell the operator who I am and that I need to hang up to use the phone for other calls. She requests the number and then lets me go after I tell her that I will meet the first responders at the scene.

My first call is to Bobby, hoping to catch him on the road hurrying back to his motel. After looking at the time on the phone screen, I quickly calculate how long it would take him to get back to his motel based on the time it took Lara and me to get here after leaving there. But my hopes of catching him on the road are quickly dashed as I run the numbers in my head and figure out that if he broke the speed limit and was fortunate enough not to run into any cops, he already had enough time to get back to his motel.

On the fourth ring, he answers, his voice sounding half asleep. "Boss, what's up?"

"He struck again," I quickly explain, listening for anything that might give him away.

"Where?"

After giving him the motel name and approximate location, he says he'll get dressed and be right there. My next call is to Janus. "Mike, what's up? Do you know what time it is?"

"Yeah, sorry about that. We just had another murder."

"Where this time?"

"In the lobby of the motel where I'm staying, of all things." I don't mention the fact that Lara's here. It would only complicate things. When Bobby gets here and sees her, he can bring it up in his report.

"Where's Bobby?" she asks, thinking the same thing I am.

"He should be about thirty miles down the road, if he is where he says he is. But I'd checked on him earlier, around ten-thirty or so, and he wasn't there, yet he was checked in."

"Damn," is all she says, followed by silence as the wheels in her head turn.

"I just called him. He's on his way. And Janus, he sounded like I just woke him up."

"Like me?"

"Well, not quite as cranky as you. He's more of a morning person than you, I think," I tease her.

"He also isn't about to spit out a ten pound kid, either. You try sleeping with, well, let's not go there. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm not sure yet. But just be available if I need your help today, okay?"

"You got it, Boss."

"Thanks Janus, sorry I woke you."

"You'll make it up to me, trust me," she laughs before the connection is cutoff.

Lara is standing before me, dressed and with a wet face from having splashed water on it. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

"You stay close to me today. You understand? Bobby is going to be here soon and I don't ever want to have to worry about where you are. If you have to go to the bathroom, you let me know first. Okay?"

"Yeah, I understand already," she says, her voice impatient and on edge.

"You got everything?" I ask, taking a quick look around the room.

"Yeah, I got it all. It wasn't that much."

"Okay, let's go."

### Chapter Thirty Four

As we come down the steps, cops with their lights flashing are swarming into the parking lot from off the highway. Moving into the breezeway with Lara in tow, I flash my badge to the first cars that screech to a stop and tell them where to find the victim. Since they are trampling through the lounge like a herd of elephants, no one giving any thought to evidence contamination, I follow them in, though I have no intentions of going any further. The last thing I want is for Lara to see the disemboweled victim strung up on the cabinets.

The first deputy to charge into the staff lounge comes flying back out within two seconds of entering, his late-night lunch or early morning breakfast spewing all over the floor in the hallway. Watching him, the stench of vomit mixed with death and body waste reaching my nostrils, I quickly decide that I should take Lara outside while we wait for Bobby to arrive. The first responders don't have to know that I've already seen everything there is to see in that room, or that I already have a suspect in mind and he's due to arrive here at any minute. Right now, my main interest is seeing my junior detective.

"Come on, Lara," I say, holding her right arm in my left hand and guiding her back outside into the cooler, fresher night air.

Already, there is a lighter band along the eastern horizon from an encroaching sun. What the cowboys used to refer to as a false dawn; nothing more than sunlight scattered across the sky by space dust. Real dawn is usually within an hour of a false dawn and also the coolest time of the night. Yet, the shivers that I'm feeling through my hold on Lara's arm aren't from the cool night air. When we reach the parking lot, I put an arm around her shoulders and pull her close to me, trying to comfort her.

"As soon as Bobby gets here, we'll bring this thing to a head, and then I'll get you someplace safe."

"Will you stay with me?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"I'll stay with you for as long as it takes to keep you safe," I whisper softly in her ear, holding her close and trying to impart what warmth and security I can to stop her shaking.

"Don't ever leave me."

Though I want nothing more than to tell her that I will never leave her and that she will always be safe with me, I know that I might be telling her a lie, and I can't bring myself to do that, even at the risk of losing her. Instead, I look into her eyes, seeing the fear she is harboring deep within her soul and it tears my heart apart. Speaking calmly, I promise her, "We'll get through this, Lara. Trust me."

Just then, I see an unmarked sedan that must be Bobby's pulling off the highway and heading toward the conglomeration of flashing lights. "Here he comes now, Lara. I need you to be strong, stay alert for anything and remember to use your eyes and trust your intuition. If you see anything that looks out of place or smells hinky, you tell me. And Lara, I won't let anything happen to you."

Her voice barely audible, she says, "I trust you, Mike."

Bobby pulls up next to a sheriff's cruiser and gets out. Seeing us standing under the light cast out from the breezeway, he heads straight toward us. "Mike." Then, after looking a bit confused for just the briefest of moments, he acknowledges Lara. "Mam." Turning back to face me, he says, "I got here as fast as I could. What do we have?"

"You remember Lara, don't you?" I ask, watching his expression closely for any clues that might betray him.

"Sure, you were in the pickup truck in the parking lot at that AM/PM in Duncin," he says, extending his hand.

To my surprise, she takes it and gives it a firm shake, her eyes watching him closely. When he releases her hand, she pulls it back almost as if bitten by a snake.

Still looking at Lara, he asks of both Lara and myself, "How do you happen to be here? This is quite a ways from Duncin."

Not sure if he is referring to Lara's presence or my own, since I was going to Duncin the last he'd heard, I quickly explain, "We met up in Duncin and my jeep broke down. Lara was kind enough to offer me a ride out to the last victim," I hesitate, realizing that I'd misspoken. "Actually, more specifically, the victim before this one. It got late by the time I finished up out there, so I offered to treat her to her favorite restaurant for all the trouble she went through for me today, and that restaurant happens to be here in Redmond." I didn't want him knowing that Lara and I were intimate or that we were in Redmond because we were checking on him, though I strongly suspected he already knew about Lara and me. "By the time we finished eating, it was late, so I put us up for the night."

In an attempt to turn the subject away from Lara and me, I hurriedly continue, not giving him a chance to interrupt or ask the question that I can see is on the tip of his tongue, "But back to the case at hand. The victim was the night manager, a woman in her mid-thirties, brown hair, slender of build, medium height. The un-sub forced her into the staff lounge, stripped her and tied her up with her own clothes before bashing her head in and then cutting her up, literally dissecting her. He left quite a display on the table, but if I were you, I'd wait for the photo evidence, it's not something you really want to see."

"Who's in charge?"

"I'm still waiting to find that out myself. I'm sure someone will be stepping forward momentarily, they always do," I sigh, glancing at Lara to see how she's holding up.

Bobby is about to say something when his cellphone goes off. Turning away from us and taking a few steps, he answers it, holding it close to his ear as if in fear that we might overhear something. After a few seconds, in which the conversation is hushed, he turns to face us and says, "Yes, he's here with me now. Yes, sure, I'll let him know. Alright Captain. Yes, sir. Yes, sir." Flipping the phone shut and returning it to his pocket, he says, "That was the Captain, he wanted me to let you know that the FBI is taking over the investigation and that when we finish up here, we need to get our asses back to Portland."

Just then a large man pulls up in a sheriff's vehicle, right behind him is a state highway patrol sedan. As the sheriff strolls toward us, his breathing labored just from climbing out of his car, I see Trooper Smith get out from behind the wheel of the state car.

"Sheriff," I say, extending my hand. "This is Detective Ames, Lara Offrage, and I'm Detective Hennessy."

"I know who the Hell you are," he huffs, moving past us with great lumbering steps as he continues in the direction of the lobby.

"Hey, Mike," Trooper Smith says, perfunctorily extending his hand.

"Hey Tim. I was really hoping our next meeting wouldn't be under these circumstances," I say, shrugging off the sheriff's territorial address. "Do you know Detective Ames or Lara Offrage?"

They shake hands all around, and then Smith turns to me and asks what we have. Without any adieu, I give him the same rundown that I gave Bobby. Unlike Bobby, however, he needs to see the scene firsthand before the coroner starts moving things around. With his camera in hand, he heads after the sheriff.

"When we finish up here, you can ride back to Duncin with me," Bobby offers, glancing questioningly at Lara.

"Why don't you head on back to Portland, Bobby? I'm going to head out to the Bar K with Lara, I still have some interviews to do."

"Do you really think that's still necessary, Boss?"

"Only if you know something that I don't," I fire back, studying his body language.

He's about to say something when his cellphone goes off. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls it out and flips it open, not bothering to turn away for privacy. He listens for a long moment, then simply says, "Thanks," and flips it shut and returns it to his pocket. "That was Janus."

"Why would she call you and not me?" I ask, suddenly growing suspicious.

"Because I ask her to look into something for me. She just called to let me know what she found," he says, looking from Lara to the lobby, almost as if he is trying to place everyone, something a cop would do if he were to walk into a robbery in progress.

"What is it, Bobby?" I ask, noticing how he's fidgeting from one foot to the other and won't meet my gaze. "What did you ask her to do for you?"

His voice an octave higher than normal, he says, "I ask her to go through your personnel file to confirm your whereabouts during the time that the murders took place."

"Did she also tell you that you're her number one suspect?"

This caused him to flinch. "Why would she think that?"

"Because you mentioned in passing that you ride an ATV, a dual sport to be exact, and that you own a four wheel drive pickup and at one time or another, you've been to most of the places where the bodies are turning up. Plus, you went out the other night with friends and didn't return to your motel room while within driving distance, another body turns up. It was enough that I asked her to dig a little deeper."

"Lots of people own four wheel drive pickups. That doesn't prove anything. In addition, I already gave her the names and numbers of the friends that I ran into so she can check my alibi, though I would hope that I wouldn't need one for my associates. But that does explain why she was searching into records of purchases on police charge cards," he says, his anger turning into an epiphany.

"I hadn't even considered that aspect, but then, Janus is good at her job, she doesn't miss much."

"No, she doesn't. In fact, she discovered that you also have been to a lot of the places where victims were found." He pauses for a moment, and then says, "I never realized that you were into off road riding with that jeep of yours, either, Boss."

"Touché. We'll go over the records together when we get back to Portland. Until then, we don't need to share this with the state or FBI."

"Why, because you have something to hide."

I lunge at him, grabbing the front of his jacket and pushing him up against the side of the sheriff's car. "Don't you ever make an accusation like that again unless you're ready to back it up like a man!" I angrily hiss in his face, the blood pounding in my ears.

"Mike, Mike," Lara cries out, grabbing my arm and pulling me back.

"What the Hell is going on out here?" demands Trooper Smith, stepping up and grabbing my other arm with a firm grip and pulling me away from my junior detective. "Someone want to tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing, Tim. Just a misunderstanding," I reply, staring hard at Bobby as if daring him to contradict me.

"It's bad enough that we have to deal with everything else that's going on, we don't need a brawl between officers of the law, especially now that they've shown up," he says, releasing my arm and nodding toward a news van pulling into the parking lot.

He glances in the direction of Lara as if wondering whether she is the cause of this conflict before saying, "If I can trust you two to remain civil, I'm going to get one of the deputies to keep the media at bay. The last thing we need is pictures of that poor woman plastered all over the six o'clock news." He's about to turn back toward the lobby, when he suddenly stops and says, "Oh, I almost forgot, the FBI should be here in about an hour. They're taking over the case with the governor's blessing." And then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, "You might want to make yourself available to them, since you were the lead on this case originally."

"I'll be here," I solemnly reply. When he's gone back into the lobby, I turn back to Bobby and in a controlled voice, state, "I am still your superior. If I have to order you back to Portland, I will. But I would prefer that you take the initiative on your own and get out of my sight before I do something we both regret."

"I'm going to return to Portland because I have a real desire to see those receipts for myself. But know this, Detective, if the dates on them coincide with the dates and places of our murders, I'll be coming for you."

"That's a two way street, Bobby."

He starts to turn toward his sedan, and then stops and turns to Lara. "Mam, if you'd like, I can give you a ride back to Duncin."

"My truck is here. But for what it's worth, I wouldn't be caught dead alone with you."

"I'm really sorry you feel that way, Mam. Take care of yourself and be careful."

Without another word, he turns, climbs into his sedan and pulls out of the parking lot, turning north toward the highway and accelerating hard.

"Thanks, Lara."

"Do you still believe he might be the killer?"

"Unfortunately, I do now more than ever before."

### Chapter Thirty Five

"Come on, let's go find us a cup of coffee and some breakfast," I say, taking her arm and guiding her toward her truck.

"I thought that state cop Smith wanted you to wait around for the FBI to get here?"

"We'll be back before we're even missed," I tell her, wanting to get some air and just find a place where the smell of death isn't permeating through my being. When we get to her truck, I offer to drive, but she hangs onto her keys and insists on driving.

When she pulls up onto the highway and heads south, toward Bend, I figure she has a specific place in mind. Two miles down the road she takes an exit that leads into an older part of town. Another turn up a side street and then another leading up a dirt alley, completely losing me, she suddenly pulls into a small parking lot at the rear of a single story brick building with peeling yellow paint and complete with dumpster and outside cleaning station.

"What is this place?" I ask, curious as to how she knows her way around the town so well.

"It's been a while since I've been here," she admits, shutting off the truck and pulling my coat off the back of the seat and handing it to me. "Here, put it on. This is one of those places where you don't want to advertise your profession unless you're looking to find a lunger in your omelet," she says with a grin.

It felt good to see that she wasn't letting the events of the last few hours get to her. She was a tough lady, and I couldn't have been prouder of her.

Locking the truck, we head in through the rear door where she runs head on into an old Mexican wearing white pants and a white shirt, over which he has a white apron that doesn't look as if it's been washed in months. There is no mistaking the stains on the front of his pants are from blood, I just hope it isn't human, as I've seen enough of that already today.

When he sees Lara, his eyes light up with recognition and he pulls her into his arms, hugging her tightly. "My dear girl, where have you been all this time?" he asks excitedly. "Mamma will be so happy to see you. Come, come quick," he says, pulling her by the arm through the kitchen and onward through a swinging door that opens onto the back side of a lunch counter.

At the far end of the counter, which has six men in business suits seated at it, is a short fat Mexican woman in her late sixties or early seventies. She is in the process of refilling one of the businessmen's cups with hot coffee when she turns and sees Lara. Topping up the cup, she hurriedly places the pot back on the burner and runs the length of the counter while Lara hurries toward her. When they meet, they hug tightly, and I suspect that I even see a tear run down the old woman's cheek when they finally turn loose of each other. In that manner of not seeing someone that you care about for a long time, they step back from each other while still holding hands and look each other over appraisingly.

"Where have you been for so long? Don't you know that your Mamma misses you?"

"I'm sorry, Mamma, but I've been busy. You know how it is during fire season."

Oh, yes, always my fire baby. That is such hard and dangerous work. I don't know why you do such foolishness when you can come to work for your Papa and me. We will look after you and pay fair wage."

"You know I love what I do, Mamma."

Noticing me for the first time, she looks suspiciously at me, narrowing her eyes before asking, "And who is this man? You no get married and not tell your Mamma?"

"No, no, I no get married, Mamma. This is a friend of mine. I'm helping him with a project he's working on. He's from Portland. And he's buying me breakfast, so don't spare the expense." She turns to me and says, "Mamma won't accept money from me, she treats me like family, so you're buying."

Smiling, I nod in agreement.

With Momma in the lead, her husband following behind, we are taken to a booth in the corner just outside the kitchen. "Sit, sit, I will have Papa whip up a feast."

"No, no, Mamma. Just a couple of nice Spanish omelets, country hash, bacon, toast, and keep the coffee coming," Lara says, throwing me a wink. "Papa's omelets are to die for."

"Oh, you're just saying that," he says over his shoulder as he heads back into the kitchen.

"Mamma, sit and talk to Mike here," Lara says, getting to her feet and heading behind the counter. "I got this covered."

As if she did it all the time, Lara slips on an apron from under the counter and grabs a pot off the burner. After pouring two cups, she delivers them to our table and sets one in front of Mamma and the other in front of me with a smirk on her face. Then she heads off down the counter, chatting up the customers while topping up their mugs and/or getting them pastries or slices of pie. She moves along the counter with an ease and smoothness that tells me she's done this many times before.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted when Mamma says, "You like her. I can see it in the way you look at her. She likes you, too."

"I never heard her tell you that," I state, glancing at Lara and catching her watching me.

"She didn't have to tell me. I just have to see the way she looks at you, and I know my baby is in love." Then, without any preamble, she states more than asks, "You're a cop. What kind of help is my babe giving you? You better not be putting her in any danger."

"Yes, I'm a cop," I flatly state. And then, I determine not to bullshit this woman that only has Lara's best interest in her heart. "I'm here because I was concerned that Lara might be in danger. But since I met her, I have developed feelings for her, and I hope, she feels the same toward me."

"Is she in more or less danger being with you?"

"You cut right to the chase, don't you? To answer your question, I hope my presence means she is in less danger, because I will do whatever it takes to keep her safe. Whatever," I say again for emphasis.

She looks hard into my eyes, clearly assessing me before replying. "I believe you will do whatever it takes, Mr. Cop, I just hope it is enough, for her sake as well as your own."

Just then, Papa comes through the batwing doors with two large plates of food. Lara, seeing him arrive at our table, sets the coffee pot back on a burner and returns to our table, taking the seat that Mama vacates for her. "Oh, it looks just as good as I remember, and smells even better than I remember," she coos.

"Well, I have to get back to work. Come on Papa, let them eat in peace," Mamma says, pulling her husband away.

When they are out of earshot, Lara asks, "Well, what did Mamma have to say?"

"She should work for the police department as an interrogator, because I think she's wasting her talents running this place."

"Wait till you taste the food. You won't want either one of them anywhere else but right here."

Taking a bite of the omelet, I realize immediately that Lara wasn't exaggerating. I've had Spanish omelets before and they've been everything from runny and so hot you couldn't taste the vegetables to dry with no heat. But this one was perfect, all the flavors were identifiable, none overpowering the others. A perfect blend of spices wrapped up in a perfectly cooked egg. It was delicious!

"You never cease to amaze me. What else do you know about this area?" I ask, savoring each morsel of the delicious food in front of me.

"Well, let's see. If you're in the market for camping gear, hunting accessories, or firefighting tools, I can recommend a place just across the highway. Or, wait a minute, if you ever find you need a pair of corks or good hiking boots, I know just the place. The owner is an elderly gentleman that's been cobbling shoes and boots his entire life. He can tweak a pair of boots to fit so perfectly it's like running around barefoot. The man is a literal genius when it comes to footwear." She smiles, enjoying sharing her knowledge of the local with me. It felt good to see her smile after all the death I'd witnessed lately.

We eat the rest of our breakfast in silence, savoring the good food with an occasional stop by our table of either Mamma or Papa. Sitting back and sipping on our coffees, I casually ask Lara if everyone calls them Mamma and Papa, or if it's just certain people that earned the right.

"They're Mamma and Papa to everyone that comes in through those doors and eats their food. They're good people, would do anything for anyone in need. Truth be known, they probably give away more food to the less-fortunate that grace their door than they actually sell to paying customers." She turns solemn for a brief moment, and then her face lights up and she says, "But today, you're paying, so be sure and leave a good tip."

"Since you put it that way," I smile back at her, placing my personal credit card on the table, since I know I'll never be able to justify the tip that I intend on leaving to the bean counters that oversee the bureau's purchase cards.

With the bill paid, I suggest that we head back to the motel, confident that the FBI will be there and probably upset that I'm not. The diversion of seeing her old friends had sparked something in Lara that was good, and her spirits are high as we drive back to the motel.

Pulling into the parking area, we notice immediately that the state's mobile crime lab has arrived along with two more news vans. It was turning into a genuine circus. Unable to get as close as we'd been earlier, we park off to the side in a mix of customer and employ vehicles. Getting out of the pickup, I wonder how long it will be before they locate the victim's vehicle and begin processing it. Though they won't find anything of interest in it, it is all part of the process.

Standing at the rear of the truck and studying all the activity going on in the parking lot, I say to Lara, "If you want, you can wait in the truck while I go answer their questions. I won't be that long."

Her eyes studying me, she asks, "What did Bobby mean when he said they found receipts that place you in most of the areas where the victims were found?"

"They're just doing their jobs, following every rabbit trail, even if it leads down a dead end hole."

"Why are they looking into you, though? I don't understand. I thought it was Detective Ames that was being investigated."

"I asked Detective Janus to look into purchase card receipts. But she's better than that, she took it one step further and looked into our personal finances, too."

"But she called Bobby, not you. Why? You're the detective in charge of the task force, shouldn't you be above suspicion?"

"Your mind has really been churning since this morning."

"I can't help it. And if I'm having these questions, feeling the way I do about you, then those officers that are going to be talking to you are going to have them too, and they're not going to be as easily convinced of your innocence as I am."

"The way you feel about me?"

"I don't sleep with just anyone. If you know anything about me, you must have figured that much out."

"Hell, I just thought you were easy," I tease.

She reacts by hitting me in the arm with her right fist. I grab it and pull her in to me, our lips coming together, I kiss her long and hard. When we pull apart, I tell her that she should be safe in the truck with all the cops and media around.

"No, I'm coming with you." Her tone of voice doesn't leave any room for argument.

"Have it your way. Just stay close to me."

As we're approaching the lobby, Trooper Smith sees us coming and waves for me to come over. He's standing with a man in a dark suit that shouts government agent. "Mike, this is Special Agent in Charge Tom Dole. Tom, this is Lieutenant Detective Mike Hennessy, Portland Police Bureau. He's the man in charge of the special task force assigned to this investigation. Extending my hand, he takes it as if obligated to do so and gives it a limp wag before releasing and crossing his arms in front of his chest. He's of medium height, possibly five-foot nine-inches tall, mid-forties, a full head of dark brown hair and glasses with thick brown metal frames, the lenses not so thick. I suspect he probably doesn't need to wear them, but does so out of habit.

"Nice to meet you," I say, turning toward Lara. "This is Lara Offrage." I offer, though I don't extrapolate on the purpose of her presence and he doesn't ask. Lara doesn't offer her hand nor does he his.

"What can you tell me of significance, Detective?" he asks, clearly feeling disdainful of a lowly city cop's ability to run a case.

"How much time do you have?"

Trooper Smith, sensing the mounting hostility, decides to take his leave before the fireworks really get started. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm going to check on my forensics team."

"Thanks Tim," I state, using his informal name for the Fed's benefit, wanting him to know that I'm a team player if given half a chance.

"Why don't we start with where you were last night," he says, clearly trying to push my buttons.

"I was right up there," I say, pointing toward the room on the second floor where Lara and I spent the night. "Lara here can vouch that I spent the entire night locked in the room with her. I never left once, not even to get ice," I reply, my voice cold, my anger mounting.

"Which room number was that?" he calmly asks, taking notes on a small pad.

"Two-three-six."

"I understand the last time you were in Duncin the victim was abducted from the motel where you and," he pauses while he flips through a few pages of his pad to verify the information before continuing. "Detective Ames, were staying." Looking over his pad at me, he asks, "Don't you find that rather coincidental?" He drags out the word coincidental for effect.

No cop that works investigations believes in coincidence. My voice steady despite the raging anger growing within me, I reply, "That's why I was having Detective Janus look into purchase card receipts. And that's why Miss Offrage is with me. I not only suspected one of my junior detectives, but I had reason to believe that Miss Offrage might be in danger as a potential victim."

"What reason did you have to believe that Miss Offrage might be in danger, Detective?"

Knowing that if I told him the truth, it would only make me appear unstable, I use the oldest ruse in the book. "It was a gut feeling that I got after meeting her at one of the first crime scenes in Duncin. I knew the feds wouldn't provide protection on a lowly city cop's gut feeling, so I took it upon myself to look after her safety."

Even to me, the words sounded weak, borderline psychotic. "Detective Hennessy, I don't have to tell you what that sounds like."

"Look, Special Agent Dole, you and I have been around the block a few times, this isn't our first rodeo. Surely, you've had gut instincts about certain cases. Well, with all the pressure we've been under to solve this one, I wasn't about to ignore my gut. I followed through with my instincts and Lara Offrage is still alive. Whether that's because I followed my gut or not, I don't know. But I'm not about to change course now just because you're here."

"Detective Hennessy, I've been following this case for almost a month now," he states matter-of-factly, and then waits for his words to sink in before continuing. "All your notes and statements have been scoured by the best forensics specialists in the country. Even before your Captain contacted our field office looking for assistance, we were at work on this case. If there's anything pertinent in the reports that your task force has pulled together over the course of this investigation, I know about it, Detective." He pauses, scrutinizing my reaction to this new information before calmly stating, "No, Detective, this is not my first rodeo."

"And what, you were waiting for us to screw up so you could swoop in and save the day?"

"No, more recently, we've been digging through everything your Detective Janus has pulled together, which I might add, is quite a mound of data, even for my boys."

"And you haven't come up with squat regarding me or Detective Ames, or you'd already have one of us in custody, Special Agent."

"We're still poring over the files, Detective, don't jump to any conclusions just yet."

"Nor you, Special Agent in Charge Dole." Turning to Lara, I say, "Come on Lara, let's get out of here. If they have any more questions for me, they have my number."

### Chapter Thirty Six

Out on the highway heading north toward Duncin, a heavy silence settles between us. Instead of being snuggled up against me with my arm draped over her shoulders, she is on the far side of the bench seat, my folded trench coat and overnight bag occupying the space on the seat between us. As we pass the place on the road where my jeep had been sitting, I comment, breaking the silence, "Your friends must have gotten my jeep started. That, or someone stole it."

"They're not my friends," she solemnly replies.

"I really appreciate all you've done for me these last couple of days."

"Don't worry about it."

Pulling into the AM/PM lot, I drive up to the pumps. "I'll fill her up for you."

"Thanks."

Shutting off the engine, I hand her the keys. When she reaches for them, I grab her by the wrist and pull her toward me, our lips coming together. My heart races with the excitement of knowing that she didn't pull away. We kiss long and passionately, our tongues flirting and teasing each other. When she slowly pulls away and settles back on the seat, her eyes looking straight ahead, I say, "I'll take care of the gas. Do you need anything from the store?"

Ignoring my question, she says instead, "I'm sorry, Mike. But for a moment there, when that FBI guy said they were looking into your whereabouts and that they had receipts putting you at several of the crime scenes, I doubted you."

"Are you still doubting me?"

Her answer is slow in coming, but when she does finally reply, I know she's thought her answer through and believes it with all the fiber of her being. "No." Turning to meet my gaze, she slowly continues, "So what happens now?"

"You heard Agent Dole, they suspect me, so I doubt if they'll give you protection. In fact, since they suspect me, they might begin to wonder if you're an accomplice. I wouldn't be surprised if they're looking into your background as we sit here. But whether they're keeping an eye on you because you're a suspect or really do need protection, it doesn't make much difference to me; I'll feel better just knowing they'll have eyes on you. Until then, I'd like to keep you near me."

"I don't need to be babysat."

"I know you're a tough, independent woman, but I'd still feel better keeping you in sight until they catch this sick bastard and put him away."

"They're expecting you back in Portland, and I have a job to get back to. If they call us up while I'm out gallivanting around with you, I'm liable to be fired. And first and foremost, I'm a fire baby, remember? If they let me go this late in the season, I'll never find anything else. Crews are hired way back in January and February."

Exhaling loudly with frustration, I hesitantly reply, "Can we check in at the ranch before we make any rash decisions?"

"Sure. But that will only buy us one more day together at most."

"That's one more than we have right now," I smile at her.

"It looks like your old jeep is waiting for you over there," she says, nodding in the direction of my jeep to where it's parked along the far side of the building.

"I'll go ahead and fill you up and then I'll top mine up too. If you need any groceries, just leave them on the counter and I'll take care of it all at once. It's the least the department can do for you."

"You don't have to do that. I've got my own money," she states, her independent streak showing.

"It's alright, don't worry about it."

While she heads toward the store, I can't help but admire the sway of her hips and the way she fills out a pair of blue jeans from the rear.

"What can I get you?" Ted asks, jerking me back to reality.

"Hey, Ted. Can you fill her up? I'll need the jeep filled too and Lara is gathering some items in the store. I'll go ahead and pay for it all at one time, if that's okay. Also, I wanted to thank you for taking care of getting my jeep and bringing it back here. If I owe you anything else for that, can you add it to the rest of this?"

"Oh, that was no problem. I did take the liberty of filling the jeep up when we got it back here. Didn't think you'd have a problem with that."

"No, no problem at all. Thank you. Key under the seat?"

"Yep, right where we found it." When the pump clicks off, he says, "I'll meet you inside and we can take care of everything at the register."

"Sounds good. Thanks, Ted."

Climbing back into her truck, I fire it up and pull it around and park it on the far side of my jeep. Climbing out, I pull my coat and ditty bag across the seat and open the door to the jeep before throwing them inside. Next, I pull out my cellphone and call the Captain. "Hey Captain."

"Mike, what the Hell is going on over there. I just spent the last hour on the phone between the governor and the mayor, and now some Special Agent in Charge that is taking over our investigation!"

"Dole."

"Excuse me?"

"Special Agent in Charge Dole."

"I don't give a shit about his name, just get your ass back here now."

"I'll be back tomorrow, Captain."

"Did you just hear what I said, Detective?"

"Yes, Captain. I heard you. But I won't be able to make it back until tomorrow."

"Detective, you're no longer on this case. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes, Captain, I do," I reply before flipping the cellphone shut and breaking the connection.

My next call is to Janus. "Hey, Janus, it's me."

"Mike, what the Hell did you just do? We heard the Captain screaming all the way down to the fish bowl."

"Janus, I might be in a bit of a bind."

"That's the understatement of the year." And then, after a long pause followed by a soft exhalation of breath, asks, "What can I do to help, Mike?"

"First off, tell me you don't believe that I could possibly be the un-sub." When I'm met with silence, my heart sinks. "Okay, we know where we stand on that one."

"I'm sorry, Mike, but the evidence isn't looking good. I know it's all circumstantial, but it's still pretty incriminating."

"Okay, Janus, I won't ask you to do anything that might get you into trouble. You're just doing what any good detective would do and that's following the evidence. Can you tell me this, though, has Bobby reported back in yet?"

"Not yet. Last time I spoke with him he was just heading away from Redmond and the last crime scene. That must have been around seven."

"Alright, thanks Janus," I reply, suffering from shock and disappointment by her lack of support.

Leaving the vehicles, I head into the store to pay for everything, wondering if the Captain in his anger at me had time to cut off the department's purchase card. Then I put the thought out of my mind. The Captain isn't one to be petty, and if he was serious about me getting back to Portland today, he wouldn't discount the fact that I might need the card for fuel.

Going in through the glass door, I glance around for Lara, suddenly growing concerned when I don't immediately see her. Then, coming from the rear of the store with a six pack of Bohemian in one hand and a couple bags of chips in the other, I instantly relax, smiling at her.

"I got a few other things on the counter and Teddy said something about filling your jeep when they brought it in."

"You remembered that I liked Bohemian?" I say, eyeing the six pack.

"That isn't all I remember you liking," she says with a grin and a wink.

"Guilty as charged."

After paying all the charges, we thank Ted again and head out to the rigs. "So, how do you want to do this?" she asks, undecided where to put the groceries.

"If you trust riding with me, let's use my jeep and I'll drop you off back here before I return to Portland."

Without further discussion, we put the groceries into the back of the jeep and climb in. "Fasten your seatbelt," I advise, turning the key and listening to the soft purr of the engine.

"Whew, something tells me I'm in for a Hell of a ride," she says as seductively as is possible over the rumble of the engine while giving me a mischievous smile.

Backing out of the site and heading across the parking lot, I smile knowingly at her, anticipating what's yet to come despite the controversy going on at the department. When I hit the highway, I head south toward the Bar K Ranch and Lara's campsite. Since I've never been in a fire camp before, I have no idea what to expect.

Since it's hard to talk over the roar of the powerful V-8 and the hum of the aggressive tires on the asphalt, we ride in silence, throwing the occasional smile at each other. As we pass the Super-8 motel, I glance over at it, absently wondering if the murder caused any decline in business. Unable to see if there are any cars in the rear parking area, I doubt if there would be many at this time of the day anyway. Glancing at the clock in the dash and seeing that it's almost one-thirty in the afternoon already, it dawns on me that this is the golden hour between check-out and check-in, when all the work is done cleaning the bathrooms, changing linens on the beds, and vacuuming the floors. Still lost in thought, I wonder who got the deceased maid's job. Is it someone local, or someone from out of town that's now trying to decide if they want to move into the neighborhood or not.

A few miles farther up the road, I hang a left and follow a narrow country lane toward the ranch, passing the tree where the victim from the motel had been strung up and displayed. We both stare ahead as we pass the site. Then, coming over a slight rise in the road, I see farm buildings, corrals, and what looks like a small tent city off to the right of the main house.

"That's home," she says over the noise.

Pulling over, I shut the engine off and soak up the peace and quiet that immediately closes in over us. "Can you point out which tent is yours from up here?"

Leaning against the dash and staring through the dusty windshield, she finally says, "If you count from the left on the second row in, mine is the third one, I think. They all look alike from up here, don't they?"

"You asking me or telling me?" I chuckle. From my perspective, it was just a tent city of many similar tents.

I'm about to turn the key in the ignition when my cellphone goes off. "Yeah, Hennessy."

"Mike, it's Janus," comes the voice through the speaker. Even distorted by the speaker, I can hear the nervousness in it.

"What do you got, Janus," I ask, glancing over at Lara.

"Two things. Bobby is still over there somewhere. He called and spoke with the Captain earlier," she pauses, but I can tell she has more to say.

"Go on Janus," I encourage, still looking at Lara who is looking back at me with questioning eyes.

"I don't know what he's doing over there, Mike, but whatever it is, it's with the Captain's blessing."

"I can't say that I'm surprised, after the way I left it with the Captain."

"That's not all, Mike."

"What else you got for me?"

"The FBI called the Captain, too. He didn't share this with everyone, but a friend of mine in the Captain's close circle shared it with me." She pauses, and I begin to worry that she's having second thoughts about telling me what it is.

"What is it, Janus. You can trust me, no one will ever know that we spoke if that's the way you want it."

"That's the way this conversation has to be handled, Mike. I can't afford for anyone to know that I slipped you information."

Concerned, angered, and fighting to remain calm, I say, "Go ahead, Janus, what do you have?"

"Did you or did you not tell the first responders that you'd been at the crime scene?"

"I'm not sure, Janus. I would imagine that I told them I'd been at the scene or how else would I have known about the poor woman's murder?"

"That's what I thought. It only made sense that you had entered the crime scene and then returned to your room, because the FBI found your footprints at the crime scene and the victim's blood in your room."

"That's very possible. Her blood was everywhere. I tried not to step in it, but I might have. What does that have to do with anything?"

"The forensics team believes that the perpetrator was barefoot."

"Okay, so he was barefoot? Where are you going with this, Janus?"

"The only tracks at the scene were all made by the same bare feet, yours, Mike."

"That's impossible!"

"Mike, I never should have called. If they ever check phone records, they'll know that I tipped you off. What was I thinking anyway?"

"Janus, don't go jumping to conclusions here. I'm not the perpetrator!"

In the heat of the moment, I had looked away from Lara and now, when I look back at her, I recognize fear in her green-flecked hazel eyes. Like Janus, she is beginning to believe I might be more involved than anyone had ever imagined possible.

"Mike, I think the Captain has asked Bobby to bring you in."

"That's just damned crazy, Janus!"

"I gotta go. Take care, Mike."

The phone went dead in my hand, and I was about to throw it out the window when it went off again. "Yeah," I angrily growl, not even bothering to see if I recognize the number.

"Detective Michael Hennessy?"

"Yeah, who is this?"

"Special Agent in Charge Dole."

"Oh, you. Look, I already heard about the evidence contradicting my statement at the crime scene this morning, Special Agent in Charge. So I think I have a pretty good idea why you're calling."

"Then you must realize that you need to come into our field office and explain your statement."

"Bend?"

"I understand that your Captain has already ordered you back to Portland, so if you're okay with that, we can do this there. I believe you know where our Portland offices are, but if you'd prefer, we can do this at your precinct."

With my heart beating frantically and my breath caught in my throat, I look over at Lara and see a frightened woman on the verge of bolting out the door. Though my phone isn't on speaker, she can hear both sides of the conversation in the silence of the cab. "Let me get back to you on that," I say as calmly as I can, and though I hear him saying something about that not being acceptable, I click the phone shut, breaking the connection.

"What's going on, Mike?" Lara asks, her lower lip trembling slightly. "Do they think you're the sick bastard going around killing these women?"

"Yeah, it would appear that way."

"Mike," she slowly starts, her voice barely more than a whisper with just the slightest quiver. "It's true, isn't it? You're responsible for all of those murders? How did that woman's blood get into our room last night if you've never physically entered the crime scene like you told me?"

"Lara, I don't understand what has drawn me to you, but I've never felt toward a woman the way I feel toward you. When I look at you, I see what could have been and what still can be."

"Oh my God, Mike, why? Why?"

Glancing in the side mirror, I see a dark sedan heading our way and realize that it must be Bobby. He'd probably gone to Duncin and checked in with the sheriff who told him where Lara is staying. Or he stopped by the AM/PM and that dick head Ted told him that I'd just left with Lara for the Bar K. That guy had a problem with me admiring Lara the way I did.

Turning the key in the ignition, I drop the phone between the seats and step on the gas, heading toward the Bar K and the fields and woods beyond where no sedan will be able to keep up with my jeep. "Hold on, Lara," I say out of the side of my mouth.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting the Hell out of here before they pin something on me that I didn't do."

Less than a half-mile down the road I turn into the main gate of the Bar K Ranch and accelerate up the dusty drive. We go past the main house in a cloud of dust, the dash warning lights on the sedan behind us flashing red and blue as it gives pursuit. "I hope you don't mind too much that we don't stop by your tent for tea," I laugh, my own voice sounding strange and a bit maniacal even to me.

"Mike, you're scaring me. Please, stop. You don't have to do this."

Laughing, I yell out to her, "You don't remember the very first time we met, do you? I was just another dude from the city playing with his toys in your precious woods when you went by riding high in the passenger's seat of a big green and white forest service truck. I took one look at you and I knew that I wanted more. There was an abandoned campfire or something up in the woods and you and several of your crew were tending to it by the time I caught up with you and drove by. You looked so hot teaching those young boys how to handle a water hose. Right then and there, I knew we were destined for something more and that someday our paths were going to cross again, but under entirely different circumstances."

With tents flying by, a few of the men that are scurrying about, jumping frantically to get out of our way, recognize Lara in the passenger's seat of the jeep and yell at her, wanting to know what the Hell is going on while still others are yelling at me to stop, but that isn't on my agenda. As we break out of the tent area, I see an open pasture and rolling hills ahead. Farther off in the distance, at least two-miles or more, the terrain changes, climbing in altitude and more densely forested. If I can get across the hills without wrecking in a ravine and make it to the forest, they'll have a hard time finding us, which will buy me some time, and I only need a little more time.

Just a little more time.

### Chapter Thirty Seven

Hitting the open field at a high rate of speed, the uneven ground causing the jeep to bounce erratically and fishtail, I quickly compensate with the steering wheel and reducing speed. At the edge of the pasture, we bust through a wooden rail fence before breaking out onto the open desert, only occasionally pockmarked with sage brush and denser clumps of Manzanita here and there.

Glancing in the side mirror, I am surprised to see Bobby's sedan keeping pace with me, the flashing red and blue lights poking through the cloud of dust that the jeep is kicking up behind us. But then, we haven't hit the rough country yet.

Climbing up the first hill, my rear tires begin to spin in the loose soil, and I quickly lose speed. With barely a noticeable pause on the gas pedal, I drop the transmission into four-wheel drive and stomp back down on it, the powerful V-8 quickly building up speed, leaving the sedan behind. As we crest the top of the hill, I glance over my shoulder and see Bobby standing outside his car over a quarter mile away. Even from this distance, I can see how upset and frustrated he is.

Laughing wildly, I yell at Lara, "They will never catch us!"

Turning forward, I hit the gas again and accelerate down the far side of the hill until I reach the edge of a shallow ravine. Looking first across and then left and right, I opt to go left for a short distance before dropping into it and flying up the other side. Coming out of it at a high rate of speed, the front wheels momentarily leaving the ground, the seat belt jerks against my stomach, stopping me from coming out of the seat.

Looking over at Lara, I see her gripping the chicken bar mounted above the glove box with white knuckles and break out in uncontrolled laughter. My ditty bag and the groceries we'd just purchased are scattered all over the interior of the jeep. In the sunlight coming in through the open side windows, I see the reflection off a highly polished steel blade lying half in and half out of my ditty bag. Lara sees it at almost the same time, and her eyes come up to mine, the fear in them palpable.

When she reaches for her seatbelt, I realize the only way I'm going to keep her in the jeep is by moving too fast for her to jump out. Stepping on the gas, she is thrown back in the seat, her reflexes causing her to grab the steel bar mounted above the glove box. Instinctively, I pick a path through the sage brush and Manzanita bushes, keeping in the general direction of the tree covered hills and away from the Bar K Ranch.

Moving at more than forty-miles-per-hour, I work the steering wheel, frantically dodging rocks and old stumpage, when I suddenly come across an old logging skid road. It's overgrown and long disused, but the saplings that have grown up snap off easily upon impact with the heavy front steel bumper.

Staying to the road, I notice that I'm steadily climbing in elevation, the forest growing denser with each mile I put behind me, when just as suddenly as I'd come across the old road, it ends. Beyond the abrupt end of the road is a steep drop of several hundred feet down into a panoramic valley. Under different circumstances, I would have classified finding a view like this a win. Unfortunately, the moment I skid to a stop, Lara bolts from the jeep, running full out into the woods.

Unsnapping my seatbelt, I jump from the jeep and take off after her, trying to overtake her before I lose sight of her in the dense undergrowth. But before I've even gone a hundred feet, she disappears in the foliage. Stopping, I lean against a large fir tree and hold my breath while I listen for sounds of her. To my surprise, I can hear her struggling just a short distance ahead of me. Despite her experience in the woods, she ran head on into a thicket of brambles, the branches too thick for her to get through.

Moving with determination, I silently come up behind her, watching her struggle against the thorns as they snag her clothes and scratch bloody welts in her exposed arms and face. "You'll never get through there," I casually remark from about fifteen feet behind her.

Like a deer caught in headlights, she freezes, and then, slowly, trying to prolong the inevitable, she turns to face me. Realizing that there is no escape the way she's gone, her shoulders slump in defeat, a small trickle of blood running down from the corner of her mouth where a thorn cut into her lower lip.

Though she appears to be on the verge of crying, she asks, "Why? I thought you cared for me. You even asked me if I believed in love at first sight. What kind of a sick bastard are you?"

"Yeah, well, you know how it is."

"No, I don't know how it is. Why don't you tell me, Mike? Tell me how it is."

"Okay, I get it, you don't want to die yet, I can relate to that. None of the others wanted to die either, but that didn't change anything, they're still dead. And besides, we got time. Even if those idiots find this old logging road, they'll take forever to get up here. So where should I begin, at the beginning, maybe? Would you like that?"

"Yeah," she says meekly, moving her arms to get them free from the thorns while licking gingerly at the blood on her lip.

"So, back to the beginning. I'm assuming what you mean by beginning is the first time I determined you were going to by mine, not the rest of them. Besides, we wouldn't have time to go that far back, because eventually they will get here, no matter how incompetent they are." I pause for a moment, studying the predicament she's gotten herself into in the brambles. "Would you like a hand getting out of there?"

"No, thank you," she says, her voice sounding stronger, more determined.

"Whatever. Anyway, that first day I saw you, I knew there was something different about you. For a woman of your age, you've held together very well. I appreciate that. It's not easy keeping a body in such fine shape at our age. The younger women, well, I just expected them to be in good shape. Really, at their age, they didn't have an excuse to be anything but fine. And then, when you told me you were a fire baby, wow, I knew at that moment you were going to be special."

I pause to study her for a moment, still impressed with the way she fills out her jeans, the light cotton blouse torn open on one side and no evidence of a bra strap visible. It wasn't right. She shouldn't have such an effect on me. Just watching her squirm to get away from the thorns was causing my manhood to swell.

"You know, I never did it with any of the others. They didn't interest me that way. But you, I almost regret that it's come to this so soon. I've never enjoyed a woman's body the way I've enjoyed yours. It's a shame, really."

"You don't have to kill me, you know. We can be together again, like we were before," she says, fighting to keep her voice calm. "We could go someplace where they'd never find us, just you and me. I know you want me."

"Why don't you come out of there and we can talk about it?" I tell her, thinking maybe we could still make love one more time before the beast arrived. Once it got dark, all bets were off.

"So, Detective," she says, taking a different tact and trying to appeal to the law enforcing good guy that she believes is inside me. "When did you figure out that you were hunting yourself, or did you know it before the case was ever assigned to you?" She moves herself deeper into the brambles, almost as if she believes she can still find a way through them and get away from me.

"Stay where you are, Lara," I order her, removing my weapon and holding it out in front of me. "I won't kill you, but I will shoot you to keep you from getting away if I have to. And trust me on this, it will hurt like Hell."

She instantly freezes, dropping her hands to her sides as if in defeat. Yet, she doesn't make a move toward me, nothing to indicate that she is surrendering. But we still have time before the posse is due to arrive, so I decide to humor her and answer her questions. "How do you think I became such a good detective? It was easy. You've probably seen similar events in your line of work. You know, where the firefighter sets fires so he can rush in and be the hero. The only difference is, I started out by planting drugs on scumbags and then busting them. Oh, don't worry, they were dirty to begin with, I just wasn't content to wait until they were carrying their own drugs. You know, speed up the process, so to speak. That was back when I first made detective and worked narcotics.

"But my ultimate goal was homicide, they're the cream of the detective pool. So I started with a young hooker. It just so happened that she was blonde, petite, and had blue eyes. With those attributes, the media went crazy and I figured out right then and there what I needed to do. Yet, no matter how many victims I killed, the Captain always overlooked me, though I tried to break into homicide every chance I got.

"And then that stupid Manny Hernandez, my deceased partner, you remember him? Well, he stumbled onto circumstantial evidence that put me at one of the crime scenes. Since he was working narcotics and liked the connections that he'd cultivated over the years, if you know what I mean, he wasn't ready to rock the boat. The last thing he wanted was to bring attention to himself and possibly his lucrative payoffs, which outing me would have done. Instead, he figured it would be easier to get rid of the cop that put him between a rock and a hard place by setting me up with his lowlife associates. But he was sloppy. Always was on the careless side. But anyway, I digress. I knew he was out to get rid of me before I did something that brought the spotlight around to him. I just didn't know until that night what he'd planned, just that something was coming and I was ready for it. So when he tried to take me out, I simply beat him at his own game."

"No one siphoned the gas from your jeep, did they?" she asked, her voice remarkably calm.

"No, I used it that night to go to the Jefferson riding area. And as you know, there isn't a gas station between there and Duncin. So I improvised and pretended to have been the victim of gas theft."

"Did you really kill all those girls?"

"No, actually I didn't. Some dickhead thought he was going to steal my thunder by copying my style and killed a couple of them before I caught up with him." I pause for moment, noticing that she glanced furtively beyond me. Yet, not hearing anything, I simply assume that she is just nervous and looking for an escape route. I've seen fear in a woman's eyes before, and that's what I take her actions for. "You know, I almost quit at that point. It didn't seem like I was getting any closer to being assigned to homicide and it would have been so easy to let that idiot take the blame for all the murders up to that point. But then, the Captain suddenly took notice of my fine work and kicked me right up to Lieutenant Detective Homicide and put me in charge of the task force to bring the person responsible to justice. Unfortunately, I didn't see that coming and my perfect Patsy was already at the bottom of the Columbia River at that point. The only thing left was to keep creating victims. Which, by the way, wasn't something I really had a hard time with."

"I guess I don't understand why you have to kill me," she says, clearly perplexed. "They've already figured out that you're the un-sub. What is the upside to killing me, where does it get you?" she asks, her voice cracking with emotion.

"You're bleeding. Why don't you come out of there and we'll go back to the jeep and talk about it?" I say, waving the gun for her benefit. "Damn if you ain't one Hell of a hot..."

"Drop the weapon, Boss," comes a shaky voice from somewhere behind me.

"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby," I sigh, turning slowly while trying to place the source of his voice. "You just don't give up, do you?"

"Freeze!" he calls out, realizing my intentions, his voice cracking. "You can come out of there, Miss Offrage. I won't let him hurt you."

"Yeah, come out of there, Miss Offrage, he won't let me hurt you," I mimic, my voice steady.

"Throw down your weapon, Mike. There's nowhere to run and backup is on its way."

"Yeah, probably that Special Agent in Charge Dole from the FBI," I chide. "I'm really concerned now. Just shaking in my boots," I say, slowly turning in the direction of Bobby's voice.

"I'm not going to tell you again, Mike. Drop the weapon, now!"

"You know I can't do that," I calmly reply, suddenly spinning the rest of the way to where I suspect him to be standing, my weapon coming up and my finger squeezing the trigger even before I see him.

The first slug catches me in the broad part of my torso, just above the stomach. The impact staggers me back, but I keep my balance and level my auto in his direction and squeeze the trigger just as his second slug tears into my left shoulder, spinning me to the side. Lifting my weapon, which is quickly growing heavy in my right hand, I squeeze off two more quick rounds in the general direction of where I remember him standing. Even as I feel his third shot catch me below the right knee, taking my leg out from under me, I see a fine spray of bloody mist in the air around his head and I know that I hit him at least once.

With my right leg at an awkward angle beneath me, I sight along the automatic for the kill shot when something hard strikes the back of my head, throwing off my shot. In the matter of seconds that Bobby and I were trading lead, my Fire Baby managed to escape the thorny brambles and pick up a heavy limb, striking me a solid blow to the back to the head.

Still holding my weapon, I twist my body around, blood pumping out in several places with each labored beat of my heart. She is standing behind me, the limb held like a baseball bat over her right shoulder, ready to take another swing. My vision is blurring and I know that I am losing blood at a rapid rate, but I still can't believe how beautiful she looks, standing in front of me with her blouse now shredded from scrambling out of the brambles, exposing a bare breast. And my God, if she don't know how to fill out a pair of jeans. Under different circumstances, I could have made a life with this woman. If only we had met twenty years earlier, before the beast started haunting my dreams.

Seeing her tense up to swing, I softly remark, "Okay, Fire Baby, knock it out of the park."

### Epilogue

It took longer than Bobby thought it would, but eventually backup did arrive. They showed up on ATVs and in helicopters. While they waited, Bobby and Lara hiked back to the jeep and found a first aid kit that Lara used to bandage the flesh wound to his left shoulder. It wasn't serious and passed right through. Lara found Mike's trench coat in the jeep, and though she was initially repulsed at the thought of wearing it, she actually found his scent on it calming, taking her back to how she remembered him before he had his full mental break. That and it covered her where the blouse didn't; she was, after all, a practical woman.

The autopsy on Mike Hennessy showed that he died of a broken neck as the result of blunt force trauma. Yet, the bullet wound to the lower mid-section of his chest would also have proven fatal, the slug having caused tremendous internal damage, it was just taking him time to bleed out internally due to his stubborn nature and desire to live.

Detective Bobby Ames received a medal of commendation for his role in taking down the most notorious serial murderer in Oregon history.

Detective Janus also received a promotion for her role. But more importantly, she had a healthy baby boy, seven pounds six ounces; she did not name him Michael.

And Lara Offrage, aka Fire Baby, met a famous writer that wanted to turn her story into a book. It was love at first sight, and while she spends the summers still working the fire lines, he writes novels. They're living happily on their own horse ranch in eastern Oregon near the small community of Duncin.

### The End

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# More by books by Will Decker

# DRIVEN

# UNREQUITED LOVE

# FIRE BABY

# HYBRID KILLERS

# The Sci-Fi Series 'HEÄLF':

# MORTALITY REVISITED

# CLONE WARS

# DAY OF NIGHT

# REGENERATIONS

# HORSPAW

# The Exciting Adventure Series of Geo. 'Mac' McClain:

# THE WITNESS

# TOXIC RAIN (Orig. title 'SATAN'S RAIN')

# BETRAYAL

# THE RECORD KEEPER

# DEATH IN THE DUNES

# WITSEC FAIL

# SIMPLY PERFECT BINDING 2NDEd.

# A DIY manual for making paperback books from your favorite eBooks and digital files. Everything you need to know from printing to binding with cost saving tips and hints.

#

# PS-If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review.
