 
269

"Hailey's Hog" – Andrew Draper

Hailey's H

og

### A Novel By

# Andrew Draper

© 2009 by Andrew Draper/Lighthouse Communications

All rights reserved.
_Part One –_ So it begins...

Chapter One

The banshee wind screaming a shrill concerto in her ears, Hailey Barrow twisted her right wrist and felt the thrilling pull of gravity in her chest as the speedometer needle quickly raced up the scale.

Diametrically opposed emotions battled for control of her disconcerted mind as she pushed the metallic blue missile forward. The fear stepped up first, struggling to take control. _Oh, My God! I can't believe I did this._

She knew in her mind that she had just violated every moral tenet she believed in with this heinous act. _What the hell am I going to do now?_ How _could I do this?_

The "what ifs" boomed, cannons in her head, as a bolt of hot panic seized her.

The specter of jail loomed ever-larger as she roared down the interstate. Visions of bars grew like a thunderstorm, the lightning striking wherever and whenever it chose. _I've got to get out of here before the cops find me._ _I can't go to jail. I'd rather die!_

Sweating again in the infernal heat, she continued her agitated contemplations as her fears continued to assert themselves. _Mom's going to go apoplectic if she finds out. This will kill her._

She tightened her hold on the handlebars, steadying herself against the increasing wind and heading off the dangerous thoughts before they could take root and crush her in their grip. She briefly thought about her uncle. _What would Greg say if he could see me now? Would he be proud...or disgusted?_

She rolled that daunting question around in her head for a few miles, not liking any of the feelings it dredged up.

This can't be happening! I never wanted this, I just wanted the truth. This whole situation so surreal, how the hell did I get myself into this mess?

The nagging fear remained, her constant and unwanted companion, but this time it was different. This time suffocating dread unwillingly shared space in her divided consciousness with the tiniest flicker of hope.

If I can keep moving, I won't get caught. No one saw me, or him. I just have to be careful...and move fast.

The random thoughts continued pulling at the taut strings of her fragile psyche as she blasted away from the twinkling city light of Tucson into the thick darkness of another sweltering Arizona night.

The 'do-rag' covering her head flapped against her neck, matching the intermittent thump of the long brown braid riding the air current, bouncing along her back in a repeating rhythm.

Looking at her after-market fuel gauge, she noticed the bright orange needle hovering around the "E" mark.

_Shit!_ _I can't believe I forgot to get gas!_ She mentally cuffed herself in the back of the head, cursing her fear-spawned mental oversight. _I've_ got _to get a grip._

Checking her watch repeatedly, Hailey now saw almost ten minutes had ticked off the clock while she fretted, calculating and recalculating the mileage on the trip meter against the bike's range. Just as the reality of the cold equation became undeniable, her eyes landed on a sign as it entered the headlight's sharp beam. _24-hour fuel and food – 5 miles_. She read the words and exhaled in relief. _Thank God,_ she thought as she envisioned the impossible task of pushing the 700-pound motorcycle along the highway.

Again her mind shifted gears. _I don't want to stop, but I really have no choice._ Considering who might be at this type of a store in the dead of night, she prepared herself for anything, needles of anxiety poking at her stomach. _I'll just get in, get the gas and get out._

She veered for the off-ramp and approached the rundown convenience store, the shabby building sitting alone in a dusty, overgrown field along the busy interstate. Coming to a stop next to the long-obsolete gas pump, she reached under the tank, killed the ignition and flipped out the sidestand, leaning the heavy bike over. She hung her goggles on the left mirror and moved toward the light emanating from inside the station.

Sidestepping several large oil stains on the driveway, she threaded between some dead shrubs in a raised median and the wind-blown trash as she crossed the lot. Getting closer to the door, she took in the rotted planks making up the walls and noted they effectively joined the rust painting the tin roof to give the place an eerie, abandoned feel. She felt cold tentacles of anxiety threatening to return as she reached the door. _It's just a store,_ she reminded herself as she gripped the tarnished brass handle. _People buying gas, beer...just a store._ She took a deep breath of the dry air and steeled herself before crossing the threshold.

She immediately felt the eyes land on her as she entered, stepping over the cracked and missing floor tiles into the air conditioning. Internal danger antenna now vibrating incessantly, she continued on, passing a small knot of men surrounding a rack of garish girly magazines standing in the corner beside a dilapidated ice cream freezer.

They halted their animated conversation to stare, watching her as she moved. The soft clunk of her boots echoed off the dingy ceiling, the only sound in the rapidly thickening tension. Her pulse ratcheted up a few notches as she neared the ungainly bunch.

Tall, slender and busty, the attractive twenty year-old shuddered at the undisguised hunger behind the lascivious grins. _Oh, God. Here it comes._ She prepared herself for the inevitable barrage of crude remarks.

The remaining few patrons, curiously peeking from the aisles, appeared to be locals. She saw them wearing the physical marks of their poverty, the dirty clothes, the missing teeth, like a badge of honor.

Feeling her skin begin to crawl under the men's lustful stares, she moved to the drink cooler and stuck her head inside the dirt-obscured glass door, grateful for a physical barrier between her and them. Pausing to enjoy the momentary relief from the blistering heat and unwanted attention, she took a few extra seconds to make her selection.

Reaching toward the top shelf to retrieve a bottled water, her leather vest rode up on her waist, exposing the sleek black automatic holstered at her left hip. She noticed the men, seeing the pistol, quickly resumed ogling the woman in print, her presence suddenly _not_ so enticing after all.

Turning around to again face the store, she cracked the bottle's seal and drank deeply. _I scared them!_ The very idea, foreign as the Yen, fought her mental rejection to settle as truth. Taking a second drink of cool water, she let the realization sink in. She looked at her reflection in the dirty glass of the cooler. _They don't see the terrified me, they see the biker chick, all jeans and leather._

A little shiver of guilty pleasure flashed through her limbs despite the store's stifling heat. The shiver turned into a wave as a feeling of unbridled power surged through her, tingling with both its novelty and its potency.

"You have to pay for that first." The clerk said, breaking the stilted silence.

She focused on the man behind the counter before answering. _I've seen rednecks before, but this guy is almost a stereotype._

Short with a balding head, the man had two missing teeth, his greasy appearance and antagonistic expression left her feeling she needed a bath. She walked to the counter, looking down at him and met his cold stare with a searing gaze of her own.

"I'll take this," she said, placing the water bottle on the counter. "A bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold...and twelve dollars on pump two, please."

"Can I see some I.D.?" he said, his cold eyes burning into hers.

Anxiety biting her skin like ants, she paused. She still had two months to go before she turned 21 and couldn't wait. She reached into her wallet and pulled out her fake ID, handing it to the clerk. _If you act confident, nobody will question you._

He carefully examined the card, turning it to the light. Satisfied, he dropped the laminated card on the counter then hit the keys, making the ancient register clatter to life. "That comes to $32.27," he said, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing her in contempt.

She smirked at the overweight man, her face a study in dignified distaste. _You're not as smart as you think you are._ "I think I can manage that."

She showed her displeasure at his intentional slight, as well as matching his evident hostility, by dropping a pair of twenty-dollar bills on the counter and waiting in the resumed silence for her change. Pulse settling toward normal, she watched in mild disinterest as he put the bottle of Tequila into a brown paper bag. Picking up her purchases, she turned away from the counter and headed toward the door, now in sight at the end of the aisle.

She moved past the magazine rack, chin held high. She coughed and two men still drooling on the two-dimensional women flinched. Relief washed over her as she finally exited the store, the screen door hitting the frame with a loud bang.

Again standing next to the Hog, she silently reveled in the feeling of power she experienced in the store. _That was strange. Cool, but very weird._ She let the unexpected electrical charge bounce around her system unchecked as the antiquated pump loudly clicked off her purchase.

Roaring away from the station, the thin film of sweat she'd gathered while standing at the pumps evaporated off her body almost instantly as the bike pushed her through the desert's super-heated air. Once more a chrome and leather bullet, she leaned into the G-forces and accelerated. The bike shot forward, its 100 horses effortlessly passing 80 mph, chewing up Interstate 10 north of Tucson with the veracious appetite of a rabid Pit Bull.

Heart thudding a fast, steady beat against her ribs, she rolled on through the Sonoran inferno. "God, it's fucking hot," she thought aloud, the words ripped away, scattered behind her by the burning wind. As she opened up the gap, the city lights began to shrink in the rearview mirrors as the urban landscape slowly dissolved, giving way to the unyielding desert's desolate expanse.

Putting her feet up on the chrome-plated highway pegs, Hailey felt the vibrations play over her tight muscles and settled in for the first leg of the four hour trip back to Prescott.

Continuing to punch through heat waves of almost palpable intensity, she again admired the harsh beauty of the desert, a living force that never ceased to amaze her.

I did what I came to do. Now I just have to get back home in one piece.

Her mission to Arizona's _other_ metro had been a success and she internally acknowledged the multi-armed salutes of tall Saguaro cacti, a green blur passing through her headlight beam.

Did they know? Were they giving me the proverbial 'High Five'?

The temperature still hovered at 110 degrees and the wind-driven sand buffeted her face as she blasted down the interstate. Tempestuous emotions still running fluid between levels of her consciousness, she wondered if she was up to the challenge of this deadly game of cat and mouse. _Well, ready or not, there's no going back now._

A spine-tingling rush of adrenaline still cruised through her veins as the bone-rattling roar of the v-twin engine drowned out all her fear, all the nagging self-doubts, all the loneliness...well almost all of it.

Startled by the on-coming cacophony, a coyote broke from the cover of the roadside brush as she approached. She watched the emaciated animal stop briefly in the middle of the road. It fixed its glowing eyes on her, frozen in fear of the ground-pounding menace so rapidly closing the distance. Its startled glance settled on the source of the roar for several seconds before the instinct for self-preservation finally took over.

The scavenger shot under some scrub oak next to the gray metal guardrail. Somehow instinctively knowing it was outclassed, the wary predator cowered, peeking from its lair as she continued to close the gap. The yellow eyes watched the thundering steel demon flash past to disappear in a swirling cloud of dust, smoke and noise.

As the miles rolled beneath her, Hailey's thoughts began to drift, succumbing to the numbing hypnosis of the heat and the highway, Jackson Brown's _"Running on Empty"_ playing in her mind.

She sought to assemble the random yet intertwined pieces of how she came to be there, at that time, in that place...and how she had changed, both inside and out.
Chapter Two

Six months earlier...

The dark walls of the attorney's richly paneled office seemed to close in on her as Hailey sat in a grief-induced fog. Tears wet her face as listened to the lawyer drone on. _Blah, Blah, Blah,_ the endless legalese bounced off her tortured mind like a tennis ball, making no sense to her at all.

She hadn't wanted to attend the reading of her Uncle Greg's will, but her mother insisted and in her distress she just didn't have the emotional fortitude to argue with her. Arguments with her mother never ended well. She had acquiesced to her mother's demand simply to bring an end to her constant nagging.

_You just can't reason with someone who lives in their own private version of reality._ She thought regrettably.

The lawyer's voice receding to a remote din, she squirmed uncomfortably in the expensively upholstered brocade chair as the sudden, embarrassing realization hit her. _Oh, God. I have to pee!_ She was overcome by a rush of emotions as heartache and physical discomfort jockeyed for position in her manic mind. She almost laughed aloud at the total insanity of it all.

The beautiful young woman nervously wrung her hands in her lap and dabbed at her tear-swollen eyes with an intricately embroidered silk hanky, waiting impatiently for the reading to be over. _The funeral was bad enough,_ she thought grimly, _now I have to sit through this._

She had looked into the coffin two days before, feeling her heart shatter like dropped crystal at the sight of her beloved uncle's lifeless countenance. _Why did he keep his cancer a secret for so long? I could have been there for him. I_ should _have been there for him._

Now, as if her staggering burden of guilt and loss wasn't enough, she had to listen to some stranger go on about her uncle's estate. She had never thought about her uncle's wealth while he was alive and any inheritance was a subject she, unlike her mother, cared nothing about.

Struggling ineffectively to come to grips with the ache his absence brought, her painful feelings overflowed her efforts at self-control. She sobbed outright for the first of many times that day. The sadness and injustice of it all griped her heart, squeezing it like a vise.

Staring blankly as the tiny teardrops landed one by one on her black satin stilettos, she was suddenly and violently ripped back into the moment by the lawyer's impatient voice.

"Miss Barrow...Hailey, did you hear me?" he asked in flat, even tones.

Mortified at being caught off-guard, she responded with a mouse-like squeak. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"I said," he cleared his throat for emphasis. "To my niece Hailey; I leave the $250,000 trust account at Wells Fargo Bank. I also leave her my Harley-Davidson motorcycle under the conditions stipulated below."

The lawyer's voice faded out as the blood rushed away from Hailey's brain and the room began to revolve around her in ever-shrinking circles. As the reality of the here and now dissolved, she saw Greg's face, smiling at her from the seat of the antique motorcycle that was his pride and joy. The vision dissolved as an unrelenting sea of black engulfed her like a wet blanket. Eyes rolling up in her head, her last toe-hold on the present snapped. She tipped sideways in her chair, sliding to the floor, unconscious.

Her eyes fluttered open several minutes later and she looked up into the fear-lined face of her mother. "Hailey dear, can you hear me? Are you alright?" With her mother holding her by the arm, she sat up in stunned silence, struggling to stop the incessant spinning of the room.

As the swirling ring of thick fog finally subsided, she began to string together a few coherent thoughts.

Greg's gift of financial independence she could understand. _Makes sense. He was an independent guy. He wanted me to be independent too._ Her thoughts ran forward without restraint or direction. _But, why would he leave me his motorcycle? And what the hell am I supposed to_ do _with it._

Continuing to examine his possible motives for bestowing such an unusual and extravagant gift, she tried unsuccessfully to ignore the irritating racket intruding from the room's periphery. She eventually followed the grating noise to its source. Greg's ex-wife Suzette sat in a chair on the other side of the lawyer's huge oak desk, pointing a perfectly manicured, accusing finger at the attorney. Hailey's stomach lurched at the mere sight of her one-time aunt. _Selfish witch...Vulture!_

"I'll contest the will!' the blond waif hissed as the man sat calmly behind the desk, polishing his glasses with a handkerchief. "I was his wife. His estate should be mine."

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, then picked an imaginary piece of lint from his impeccably tailored charcoal grey suit.

"You do what you feel is right. However, I must remind you, the two of you were divorced...and you were also _specifically_ excluded from the will. I feel _quite_ confident in my ability to defend Miss Barrow's inheritance against _any_ challenge."

The rest of Suzette's tirade didn't penetrate the grief-induced veil choking Hailey's unsettled mind. Looking back toward the source of the now-reduced riot of threats, Hailey saw that Suzette's face was still flushed to a bright pink, although she had finally regained some measure of self-control.

As the reading mercifully ended, Hailey's mind began to clear and she looked at the final attendee. Seated next to her, Hailey's mother Joanne had never been close to her brother-in law. As a consequence, Hailey hadn't seen much of her uncle after her father's death three years earlier, until he showed up on her mother's doorstep last April...when he came home to die.

Returning to the ear-splitting roar of the oven-baked present, Hailey watched the headlights on the highway as she replayed Uncle Greg's last words in her mind. Her heart clutched in sadness at the memory while the asphalt flowed under her bike's chrome-spoke wheels like black water.

She could still smell the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital room as the lights pulsed and the machines beeped. Gray and gaunt, Greg lay in the narrow bed, a ghostly imitation of his former self.

He took her hand. "I know what you're doing. You're hiding. You can't lock yourself away like this. It's not healthy," he'd told her. "You need to live while you're still young... maybe even have an adventure or two. Life really is beautiful."

In her mind's eye she could still see him lean forward to kiss the top of her head. "But trust me when I tell you, life is also short...too short."

A part of the defense mechanism she'd devised since it happened, she sternly chided him for "butting-in" to her private life, carefully placing another stone in the wall of her self-imposed emotional fortress. _Or was it a prison_? The question rattled around in her head for miles.

A warm comfort still spread through her when she relived him taking her face in his once-powerful and always-gentle hands, looking deep into her exquisite green eyes. "What happened to you wasn't your fault," he said. "If you let it change who you are, then they've won. Don't let them win. Promise me."

"I'll try Uncle Greg," she sighed in resignation. "But I'm always so scared. I see them everywhere. I don't think I even _remember_ how to not be afraid anymore."

"It will get better. I swear it will," he said, coughing forcefully as the pain racked his frail, disease-ravaged body.

Those words of comfort were his last. He died later that night at the age of 51.

As she blasted through the desert night, she thought back on his insight with a grim little smile of reluctant agreement.

_Uncle Greg, you were right._ _After the rape I_ was _a different person._

During that very brief, yet stunningly savage, attack the care-free nineteen year-old instantly became the world-weary and fear-ridden adult. She continued her self-recrimination as she blew past Picacho Peak. Ever since that day, she had been terrified of strangers, of being out in public. _Never mind having anything like a normal life!_ She thought.

Reacting to the trauma, her crippling phobias had overwhelmed the fragile woman, causing her to quit school and withdraw from her friends and family. For months she lived paralyzed by never-ending dread, refusing to leave her apartment. She saw monsters of her own creation constantly lurking in the shadows of her psyche and in every corner of the world around her. Her boyfriend David, try as he might, couldn't adapt to the changes in her, dooming the relationship to a quick and very painful death.

_I couldn't even_ force _myself to go to the grocery store. All those people looking at me, they_ must _know what happened. How could I face them...or anyone else?_

She had gone to the support group meetings as her mother demanded, but to no avail. _Talking about it just wasn't getting it done._ The monsters remained; their teeth bigger and sharper than ever. _How twisted is that! How do you live if you're so scared you can't even go outside?_

Continuing her disconcerted thoughts as she rode on through the desert, she shivered despite the incendiary temperature as she recalled how it all came to a head one cold November night. Despondent and alone, she'd sat in her small apartment, watching the snow flakes fall outside her window as the monsters chased her in a torturous game of mental hide and seek.

She bristled in anger at the memory of succumbing to the fear, of being so out of control. She remembered the sheer hopelessness as she slid into the bottomless black hole of wanting to die, rather than having to assemble the courage to go forward and live. Every creak of the floorboards brought another spike of unrelenting terror.

Consciously, she knew there was no one in the small apartment. The security gate and triple-locked doors ensured that, but the monsters chased her just the same, driving her to the hidden places in her mind, each one darker than the one before. In her desperation to escape, to end the living hell, she'd swallowed twenty-seven sleeping pills, downing them with a little left-over whiskey.

In all the self-analysis since then, she never quite figured out why she counted the deadly tablets before taking them. That question remained unanswered to this day.

Her mother found her a few hours later, her unconscious body sagging like a broken doll as she lay crumpled on the living room floor.

She woke up in the hospital two days later, I.V. tubes in her arms, mother by her side and the gnawing of the monsters not even slightly diminished. The physical damage healed quickly, unlike the scars permanently etched on her terrified mind. The hospital staff referred her to a therapist specially trained to counsel rape victims. The attempts at counseling failed miserably.

Riding forward into the dark night, she again admitted that the failure was entirely her fault. She just couldn't bring herself to describe for a room full of strangers what it felt like to be at the mercy of those four vicious, perverted men.

She recalled that first session. Surrounded by a ring of strange faces, she had broken into tears before running from the room, vowing never to return. Her mother's arguments to get her to reconsider made sense, but she just couldn't open herself to that kind of emotional scrutiny.

That was when Uncle Greg came for his first visit in two years. _That therapist didn't know shit!_ She thought as she continued north, back toward Prescott...and home. _Greg was in the first Gulf War. He'd seen death. He understood that fear and trauma_ changed _a person._

As his condition deteriorated, she sat by his bed. Through the long nights, he became her solitary confidant, gently encouraging her to open up and reveal what happened to her. After days of crying jags she finally broke her silence, replaying for her uncle every despicable detail of the unspeakable violation those twisted young men perpetrated on her innocent mind and body.

He was the only one she could talk to about how the attack had changed _her_ , not only defiling her physically, but destroying her sense of security and stripping away her confidence as a woman.

Late one night she sat at his bedside, while the two talked about anything but the rapidly approaching end of his valiant battle. She had carried most of the inconsequential dialog while he dozed on and off. During one waking, lucid period he spoke quietly, stunning her with a single perception so incredibly insightful and sensitive it shook her to the core. That one observation had changed her life.

She again heard his weakening voice in her mind as she rode on through the blistering hot night. _Rape isn't about sex, it's about power._ _Don't give them any more power. They've taken enough from you._

While the voice had been reduced to desperate gasps, she again felt the controlled strength of the words as he lay dying. _If you're going to heal, then you need to take your life back. Face your fear and kick it in the balls._

And take it back she had...with Greg's help. The final note he left with the bike had created another cascade of tears as she read it for the first time, sitting in the lawyer's office wading through a never-ending mountain of legal papers.

Hailey,

You feel like you have no power or control over your life since you were attacked. You must relearn how to live without letting your fears overwhelm you. Your life depends on it.

This motorcycle is virtually a living thing. It demands respect, devotion in its care and requires that you control its power to ride it safely. Master this machine and the rest will follow in time...I promise.

Love,

Uncle Greg

That first encounter with the "Hog" was permanently burned into her brain. She remembered meeting the lawyer's assistant at the garage attached to her uncle's apartment complex. After getting the required signature, he dropped the keys into her hand and turned, quickly leaving in disinterest. Unlocking the door to the small garage and flipping on the light, Hailey got her first look at part two of her inheritance.

The pristine 1959 Harley-Davidson Panhead rested on its sidestand. The midnight blue paint glittered in the dim light emanating from a bare fluorescent bulb flickering above. She stepped into the cramped space, awestruck by the unadulterated mechanical beauty before her. Although she'd seen the bike before, she felt a little intimidated as the glass orb of its headlight seemed to focus on her, tracking her approach through the dark room, sizing her up with a single, critical eye.

The antique machine was a masterpiece of restoration, her uncle hand-fitting every nut and bolt himself. The abundant chrome reflected the anemic light, leaving small constellations of stars dotting the dingy walls of the storage room.

Like a child seeing that new bicycle on Christmas morning, she swung a well-sculpted leg over the tooled leather seat and tried to lift the bike off the stand. Grunting with the effort, she finally brought it upright, finding the center balance.

_I'll never be able to ride this thing, its_ way _too big. What was Greg thinking?_

She suddenly realized she had been unconsciously considering keeping the bike. That though was in direct contradiction to her conversations with her mother, who repeatedly ordered her to "Sell that _thing_ immediately. You can use that money for something _worthwhile_."

Joanne's cruelly rendered words flashed across her tired mind as the desert rolled by in the dark. _That was Greg's life, his friends._ _Haven't you been through enough without associating with that criminal element?_

Wind whipping past her face as she rode through the night, she pushed her mother's forceful rebuke from her mind and returned to the moment.

The curiosity finally just too much to bear, she had fumbled for the keys _. I just want to hear it run once. Then I'll decide what to do with it._

After spending several seconds locating the ignition switch, she placed the key in and turned the power on, the array of instrument lights now a multi-colored glow.

She touched the starter button and the iron beast backfired like a Howitzer, the unintended explosion echoing off the walls. She flinched in a sizzling jolt of hot adrenaline. _Whoa...Okay, that was loud!_

Steeling herself against another inadvertent detonation, she touched the button a second time and was rewarded with the loud, guttural growl of the engine coming to life. Ears ringing in the enclosed room, she blipped the throttle twice, settling the idle, feeling the vibrations climbing her body. _Oh my God! This is freaking amazing!_ She freely admitted, energy now surging through every nerve.

A week of lessons coupled with two thousand miles in the saddle and she could now handle the formidable bike as an extension of her senses. She had never imagined that a simple machine from a by-gone era could so radically transform her at the center of her being. _Greg was right. This_ is _the coolest thing ever!_

She now understood why he'd spent three years and who-knows-how many thousands of dollars restoring the Hog to its current museum-quality condition.

Sailing forward into the darkness, she considered the new changes in herself. She now freely acknowledged that she became someone else when she was riding. On the Hog, the bookish and confidence-challenged wallflower, complete with all her fears and insecurities, disappeared. In the saddle she morphed into Hailey the biker, a leather-clad force of nature people noticed and feared. Her black boots and matching studded vest had become her suit of armor against the cruelty of the outside world. The leather gave her a pillar on which to build her confidence.

Ignoring the heat, she smiled at the sudden feeling of elation threatening to overwhelm her as she continued rolling into the night. For long minutes she listened to the engine's harsh bark and considered what she had done, arriving at the only conclusion her battered senses wouldn't reject out of hand. _Bastard got what he deserved!_
Chapter Three

She'd found him on the internet of all places, after a T.V. news story revealed he played baseball at the University of Arizona. She recalled the moment in grizzly clarity as the desert flashed by.

It was early morning on a typical Saturday and Hailey gently padded across her living room floor after getting a cup of coffee. She had stood immobilized in mid-step at the sight of Jason Grady's face suddenly appearing in razor-sharp resolution on the screen. Her blood turned to ice in her veins as his voice floated across the room, uttering senseless commentary on the game he'd just won. She didn't immediately recognize the face, but she would _never_ forget that voice. Frozen in shock, she listened to him speak, the sound harsh and acerbic. It joined her pulse now slamming in her ears.

Her fragile emotions imploded as she recalled every detail of his part in that senseless theft of her humanity. He had clamped his hand over her mouth as he fell on top of her. She recalled his weight pressing down on her from above, cutting off her breathing and trapping the scream before it could escape from her throat.

The internal movie, every horrifying frame, unwound as she stood there staring at the T.V. screen. The terrifying images broke her tenuous control to flow unchecked. The coffee cup, momentarily forgotten, slipped from her hand to shatter on the floor in an explosion of porcelain and hot liquid. Circuits in her brain popping like firecrackers, the mountainous wave of dread pressed in on her body, crushing her beneath its weight. She remembered racing back to the kitchen and throwing up in the sink.

She had briefly considered telling the police, or her mother, but instead spent days digesting her feelings in solitude, steeling herself before summoning enough courage just to visit the team's website.

She quickly matched up the grotesque image forever burned in her mind with the picture on the roster, finally giving the monster a name. She trembled as the reality of the discovery pierced her awareness. Staring at the screen, she heard Greg's voice again, telling her to reclaim her life. _Greg was right. I have to do this. No one can do it for me._ Scrambling over the walls of her steadfast denial, a shocking realization dawned in a dark epiphany; _Oh, God. I_ have _to face him...I_ need _to face him._

The weight of the truth buckled her inner senses, the burden of Atlas now resting on her slim shoulders _._

She had planned the trip for days, trying to summon the nerve to actually make the drive. Her mind had no room for second-guessing, now filled with the kind of insidious dread that if left unvanquished, would surely grow as a precursor to madness.

The grandstands were nearly empty when she arrived, only a few die-hard fans at the practice session. Getting her first look at her quarry, her initial reaction came as a disturbing surprise as he strode to the pitcher's mound. Standing there, basking in the adoration of the small crowd, she observed him with an unexpected sense of detachment. _He looks like a normal guy, not like he could do..._ _No one would think he's a..._ she balked at even summoning the word _...rapist._

She observed the faces of the spectators as they watched him. Throwing the ball with increasing speed, he smiled at his fans as the bright sun painted him in gold, a young god among lesser mortals. Hiding in the crowd, she waited for him to finish his workout, grappling with the conflicting feelings brought on by witnessing the hero worship.

Mingling among the twenty or so people waiting at the gate, she saw Grady emerge from the locker room, walking toward the parking lot. She watched in a macabre fascination as he moved through his adoring public with the ease of a Hollywood movie star, signing autographs and posing for cell phone pictures with children and adults alike.

Her pulse climbing to a high-pitched whine in her ears, she stood among the crowd as he passed by, looking right through her. He headed toward an older model white Jeep CJ, the convertible top off in the summer swelter.

_He's here, I'm here_. Frightened almost to immobility, her breath caught in her throat. _Now what? How do I approach him?_

Looking at the clusters of people milling about, she decided that in this instance discretion would definitely be the better part of valor. _I have to get away from all these people. I want to do this alone, just him and me._

Putting the bike in gear, she followed the jeep from a distance, not wanting the Hog's distinctive voice to alert him to her presence, or attract overt attention from passers-by. _Let's see where he goes._

The sun now well below the western horizon, the relentless heat still drifted up from the asphalt as she tailed him south down National Champions Drive to Sixth Street. She pushed the bike into the left turn where he did, taking Sixth Street east to Campbell. Jagged ripples of fear still danced over her mind as the two moved through congested streets, now swollen with the last remnants of rush-hour traffic combined with revelers heading out for a Friday night on the town. The heavy traffic became her friend as she mimicked his movements, gliding along Campbell and leaving the U of A campus. The daunting task of dodging the cars and staying out of his line of sight tested her riding skill as the hunter and the hunted ebbed and flowed from light to light, her steel horse one more part of a moving herd of men and machines.

She turned east onto Broadway, beginning to think about what she would say when he was standing right in front of her. _I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees me._ Several scenarios, possibilities for either victory or disaster, ran through her head in quick succession. _I hope he's scared to death...like I've been all this time._ The thought of confronting him made her skin crawl, but she knew if she ever wanted to live, really live, again, she had to face the monsters and de-claw them once and for all.

The motion of a car, parallel parked along the boulevard, suddenly ripped her attention from her target. She read the two-foot high letters adorning the side with trepidation as she passed by. A bright blue script stood out on the sedan's gleaming white skin _Tucson Police Department_. The cruiser pulled out to join the traffic directly behind her. _Oh, God. No!_ The squad car's sudden appearance in her rearview mirror, complete with red and blue lights on the roof, sent another burning splash of adrenaline into her overtaxed system. _Not now!_

She quickly stole a glace at the large speedometer set in the middle of the Hog's gas tank. _37 in a 35, not really speeding. Maybe he'll just go by me._ Half a block ahead, the red light at Swan Road forced her to stop, the long arm of the law now only a few feet away. _Why can't you get a call or something!_

She got a quick look at the officer driving as they waited for the light to turn green. _Go away!_ She willed the officer to ignore her presence. Signal going from red to green, the traffic surged forward, allowing her to slowly open the distance as they moved up the block. Seeing the cruiser turn off and head down a side street, it took several seconds before she grasped the idea that she really had nothing to fear from the police. Now making a right on to East Golf Links Road, she continued getting closer to her nemesis.

Distracting her from the gnawing phobia of being followed, she noticed the intermittent red flash of Grady's right blinker suddenly telegraphing his intention to leave the slow-moving, motorized throng. She closed the gap, watching him turn into an upholstered cesspool euphemistically referred to as a "Gentleman's club", on the edge of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. She stole a last glimpse as he pulled the Jeep into an empty space and parked, almost completely obscured by the deepening darkness.

Silencing the low growl coming from the Vance and Hines pipes, she cut the engine and lights, coasting around the corner of the building into the back lot. Finding an empty space, she silently rolled to a stop, effectively hiding herself and the Hog in the shadows between a mammoth SUV and a fading, dented pickup truck.

Now on foot, she moved quickly, darting from car to car, crossing the parking lot to melt into the shadows beneath the club's tall billboard. Taking refuge behind a reeking dumpster, she watched him, heart racing, from her makeshift lair among the mountain of trash and empty cardboard boxes.

Her quarry sat still for several seconds before turning to quickly look over his shoulder, scanning the lot, ostensibly for any intrusion on his solitude. _Why doesn't he get out already?_

Apparently satisfied he was alone, he pulled a small white pipe and cigarette lighter from his shirt pocket. Putting the pipe to his mouth, the dancing flame of the lighter outlined his chiseled face in contrasting patches of light and darkness.

He exhaled and a small cloud of blue smoke drifted away from his lips, glowing as it passed through the sharp, yellow beams of a streetlight a few yards away.

Still watching from the darkness, Hailey's nose caught the sweet scent of marijuana as it drifted across the lot from the jeep's open cockpit. _I get it. Gotta cop a buzz before you go to see the boobs bounce. Pig!_

The sweat dripped down her forehead as she contemplated her next move. Now, with the moment almost at hand, she leaned back against the side of the building, the rough stucco wall digging into the soft flesh of her uncovered shoulders. She watched him smoke in silence for several minutes wrestling with her own anxiety-fueled indecision. _Maybe I should just get the hell out of here...before he sees me._ Her pulse thumped in her ears, a marching band stomping through the field of her erratic emotions. _I could go to jail for just_ being _here._

Her palms grew damp with sweat, equal parts desert heat and rampant fear, the tension prickling at her consciousness in the overheated air.

Maybe mother was right, maybe I should just forget what happened and get on with my life. But how can I, knowing those men are out there, knowing what they did to me.

Struggling to get a grip on her swelling apprehension, she forced her heartbeat to settle and willed her breathing to return to normal...as normal as it could be.

_No. No more hiding. I want the truth. I_ need _to hear him say it._

In her concealment she reassured herself of his mortality. _He's just a man,_ nothing _special about him_.

She repeated it over and over in her mind as a toxic cocktail of surging adrenaline and piercing dread still pumped through her veins.

He looked around one last time, confirming he remained unobserved, and exited the vehicle. She heard the electronic 'chirp' of the jeep's alarm engage as he turned, making his way toward the club's entrance. She watched him move through the lot, passing between the cars and getting closer to her hiding place. She placed a hand across her lips, silencing her sharp intake of breath lest she give herself away with the small sound.

As he approached, she thought that he was taller than he appeared on the pitchers mound, the distance playing tricks on her perceptions. Striding forward with power, his nonchalant demeanor belied an ease and confidence that comes with a life of high position.

She moved to the edge of the wall hiding the dumpster, close enough to smell the clean, spicy sent of his cologne, mixed with the smoky tang of burnt pot clinging to his clothes.

Her target hadn't even seen her approach, his mind no doubt entirely preoccupied with the night of debauchery ahead. Stepping silently from the shadows, she jammed the barrel of the Beretta 9 mm against his back. He froze in his tracks, muscles locked with fear-induced tension. He slowly turned his head, then his body around, the moves exaggerated in their slowness and benevolence. His eyes locked on the black menace in her hand, his face turning a pasty shade of white.

The two stared at each other for several seconds before either spoke. Her hands trembled, the barrel quivering.

"Easy with the piece, lady." He said, voice unsteady. He slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his billfold, holding it between them. "Just take the wallet and go."

The intimation startled the young woman holding the gun, sending up a hot flare of infuriation. She gripped the pistol tighter. _Idiot! He thinks I'm here to rob him._

"You moron," she groaned, "I don't want your wallet." Summoning a veneer of artificial calm she didn't really feel, she pointed down the alley with the menacing black weapon. "Down there. We're going to talk."

Pushing the barrel forcefully into his kidney, they silently walked into the dark recess. Moving deeper into the murk, they passed the rear door of the club. Standing open, its escaping light cast eerie shadows on the dirty pavement ahead.

The overwhelming, musky smell of "Generic Stripper No. 5" hung thick and stagnant in the air. She wrinkled her nose as over-used perfume formed a toxic cloud, surrounding them in the half-light of the alley.

The cheesy music boomed from the open door and echoed off the dirty stucco walls. The undulating bass rhythm masked their voices to all but each other.

"This is good enough," she said, stopping near a wooden gate closing off the end of the passage to the busy street beyond.

Her nerves crackled with negative energy, her heart threatening to leap from her chest as she faced her fears in the flesh. She stared at the man before her, the bad illumination twisting his features into a grotesque mask fashioned from the very fabric of her nightmares. She locked eyes with her captive for several seconds before she could bring herself to utter a sound.

"You don't remember me, do you?" she said, the venom dripping in her voice.

He stood in silence, eyes flitting between the pistol and the woman wielding it. The glow of the streetlight reflected off the film of moisture now forming on his wide brow.

"I didn't imagine you would." Getting no sense of understanding from the man on the other end of the gun, she continued. "We met last year... Fourth of July... ring any bells?"

She took in the uncomprehending look on Grady's face, continuing in the calm typically preceding a storm. "I, on the other hand, will _never_ be able to forget you," she said. "Or that you and your friends _raped_ me."

She watched his face change as recognition set in, then disappeared behind a mask of hastily constructed subterfuge. "I don't know who you are or what you're talking about."

Anger seared her nerves. His denial a spear, its poisoned tip bit deeply into her already-wounded dignity.

"Liar!" her words came as a strangled scream. "How could you do that to me, you sick bastard!"

"Calm down and listen. I didn't rape you. You're mistaken," he said, pointing a finger in her direction. "You better get the hell out of here before I call the police."

"Call them! You'll be the one going to jail."

His voice raised in frustration. "I'm telling you, I didn't attack you!"

"I know you were there. I remember every disgusting thing you...and the others... did to me."

"You need help lady. You're crazy!"

"Just admit what you did, that's all I want. You owe me that much, you son of a bitch!"

"I'm not going to admit to something I had nothing do to with."

She unintentionally posted into a classic firing position, knees bent, feet set at shoulder width. "Tell the truth," she pointed the pistol at his face, "Or die."

He remained silent for long, interminable seconds.

"Okay, okay," he croaked, holding up his hands in surrender. "I remember. I was there."

She stood in silence, pistol still trained on his forehead.

"I'm sorry." he said, his eyes refusing to meet hers.

Fighting a flash flood of noxious emotion, she blistered with white-hot anger. "You're sorry?"

She watched as he visibly flinched at her condemnation. "It was a mistake. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was wasted. We were all wasted."

The blood roared in her ears, drowning out any peep of reason...or conscience.

"You were wasted!" she seethed. "Is that supposed to be some kind of an excuse?" She steadied her trembling hands. "I should fucking kill you right now."

"Please, don't do this," he pleaded. "I'm begging you, don't hurt me!"

She basked for a second in the stark terror plainly etched on his features. _Take charge!_ She reminded herself. _This is what you came for!_

Suddenly feeling her fear diminish by degrees, she conjured a malicious grin, baring her even white teeth.

"You're not so tough with someone who can fight back, are you?" she said, lowering the pistol to his chest. "How's it feel?"

Her forcefully rendered words came in a staccato burst, the voice now clear and strong.

"Tell me who the others were...I want names...Now!"

"I don't know who they were." He cowered, flinching as she moved closer, now pointing the gun at his genitals.

"Tell me their names before I blow your balls off."

She reveled in the feeling of power now surging through her.

"I only remember one. A guy from Phoenix, he said his name was Stone, Jake Stone."

"Who were the others?" she barked, disgust bursting from every syllable.

"I'm telling you the truth. I don't remember their names."

Hatred and rage radiated from her in concentrated waves. "I don't believe you."

"I only met them that day...on the run," he said, trying to mask the terror in his voice, and on his face. "They were TOA's"

"What's that mean?"

"Triumph Owners of Arizona."

She cocked the automatic's hammer.

"Oh, God! Please, no!" he cringed, hands outstretched in supplication.

She watched in mild amusement as a wet stain appeared at the crotch of his jeans and spread down his left leg. She listened in undisguised revulsion as he whined, begging for his life.

"If its money you want I can get it. My folks are loaded."

A blood red veil of fury began to cloud her vision, building from the edges as it moved toward the center.

"First you rape me, and now you want to pay me off like I'm some kind of whore!" she yelled. "I don't want your money!"

"I swear, I didn't mean to hurt you! We just got a little carried away!"

"Is that all you have to say?" she said, her body stiff, her voice cold and demanding. "How do you justify what you did to me?"

"We just wanted to have a little fun," he told the pistol-wielding woman before him. "We thought that's what you wanted too!"

"You thought I _wanted_ to be raped?" Her blind rage, long simmering and submerged, now burst to the surface, an ICMB of searing fury pushing her voice higher. "I can't _believe_ I was so afraid of you. You're nothing but a sniveling coward!"

The young man, arrogance and adrenaline suddenly prevailing over common sense, pointed a long finger toward the woman. "You were the one wearing the sexy clothes and flirting with everyone," he said. "You and your friends were asking for it."

"You fucking pig." She murmured, eyes blazing.

She felt the pistol jump in her hand, the alley ringing with the automatic's thundering blast. Startled by the noise, she didn't register the light reflecting off the shell as it bounced away into the darkness.

The slug pierced Grady's left lung like tinfoil before shredding his heart and exploding out his back.

Face frozen in shock and disbelief, he convulsed slightly. His eyes met hers for a split-second in an incredulous gaze as he crumbled to the ground. Jason Grady, college student, rapist, was dead before he hit the pavement.

The final beat of his ruptured heart only served to pump his blood into an expanding pool on the filthy street.

Her entire body trembling in rage, she took the card from her vest pocket and dropped it on his back.
Chapter Four

The memory vanished like wind-driven smoke while the Hog roared in her ears as she continued north. She rolled up the miles to pass Casa Grande, then Chandler, quickly separating herself both physically and emotionally from the horrific scene in the alley. Her stomach knotted with tension as the reality of what happened in that dark, garbage-ridden passage began to register on her overloaded senses. The random, disconcerting thoughts flitted across her consciousness, fighting for control of her raging emotions. _I killed a man...but he deserved it...but I shot him, he's dead...but he raped me!_

Her mind see-sawed back and forth between her ingrained Christian values and her sense of long sought-after justice as she guided the Hog on its course back home.

Clenching her teeth, she pushed the unwelcome memories from her mind. _Too far to go...can't get distracted now._

Approaching the steadily thickening traffic of north Phoenix, she veered onto the shoulder as a speeding taxi cut her off. Bouncing over the debris on the shoulder, she fought for control, the massive machine bucking under her like a wild stallion as she dodged the cast-off rubber tires and chunks of broken plastic. Heart skipping like a jackhammer, she leaned away from the concrete J-wall as it flashed past her elbow, knowing that even the slightest contact would almost certainly bring her trip to an instant, bloody end.

A little freaked out by the close call, she ignored the shrill blast of the driver's horn as she jumped across two lanes to pull off the interstate at Dunlap Avenue.

Coming to the end of the off-ramp, she saw a convenience store, the modern, brightly lit station a sharp contrast to her previous stop outside Tucson.

After polishing off a bottle of water in a half-hearted attempt to ward off dehydration and settle her screaming nerves, she filled the gas tank, mounted up and headed north back up the highway, now less then two hours from home.

Vision locked on the narrow beam of her headlight, she passed the sign for Sunset Point, idly wondering if the rest area would _ever_ reopen, as her body began to complain, racked with pain from her tense, aching muscles.

Turn signal pulsing yellow in the darkness, she finally veered off I-17 for State Route 69. Only a few miles from home, she patted the automatic holstered high on her left hip and silently gloated in victory. _I'm_ not _sorry._ _It wasn't what I wanted, but I'll take it._

In her mind's eye she could still see the blood pooling around Grady's inert form, the Queen of Spades looking up in silent sanction.
_Part Two -_ The morning after...

Chapter Five

After two hours of dreamless sleep, John Smith awoke to the sound of his telephone's shrill squawk. Smith had been working a dope ring, the leader avoiding arrest by using rented rooms to distribute his illicit wares. His mood a black hole, he rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for the phone. _Fourteen hours staking out flea-bag motels and we got nothing._

He put the phone to his ear, shaking the cobwebs from his head.

"Hello,"

"Smith?"

"Yeah,"

"Jackson here. We've got a dead body in the alley behind a strip club over off Golf Links Rd. Looks like a homicide.

"Shit! Okay, call the CSRT guys."

The Crime Scene Response Team was the specialized unit designated to handle processing evidence at major crime scenes, such as homicides. Smith knew that they would need at least a couple of hours to process the scene before he could even cross the tape.

"Will do." Jackson said.

"Thanks. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he dragged himself through the shower and jumped in his car. The seasoned veteran scrubbed one hand over his tired face as he drove. _I have to have some coffee._

Smith, a tall lean man, his presence commanding in tan slacks, western shirt and cowboy boots, stood in line. Still bristling in frustration over the stake out, he listened to the patrons ahead enunciate their complicated drink orders for the counter girl. _It's just friggin coffee! How about some coffee-flavored coffee? You candy-ass!_

He considered the menu, more an issue of _how much_ to order, versus _what_ to order. He stepped up to the counter and the pretty teen-aged girl behind it smiled.

"What can I get for you?"

"I'll have a large coffee. Not a latte, not a mocha frappa-whatever the hell they are, just a regular coffee...Please."

Eyes wide, the shocked girl pulled a cup from the stack next to the register. "One large brewed coffee. Yes, sir."

Machine next to him emitting a sound akin to a steam whistle, she made his drink and turned back to him, hesitantly handing the cup over the counter. "Here you are sir."

"Sorry, long night." He apologized, giving her a sheepish look. "Thank you."

Eying the pastry case next to the register, she went for the add-on sale.

"How about a dough..." she stopped in mid-word seeing the gold shield and the gun hanging from his belt. "Umm...anything else?"

"No. Thanks."

"Comes to two-fifty." she punched the register keys.

He gave her a five.

"Thank you," she said. "Please come again."

She handed him his change and he dropped the two singles into a jar marked _'Tips'_.

"I promise not to be an ass next time."

She smiled. "Have a nice day."

He walked toward the door, still chastising himself for his unnecessary rudeness.

Back in his car, he dodged the heavy mid-day traffic, taking Campbell Road south to the edge of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Arriving at the address dispatch gave him; he knew something was wrong before he ever got out of the car.

He drew a tense breath as he saw the reporters lining the road between the parking spaces and the yellow tape at the far end of the lot. Smith eyed the journalists with suspicion. _That's a lot of media attention for an alley shooting._ He thought, moving closer to the undulating mob. _This can't be good._

He elbowed his way through a raucous herd of T.V. and newspaper crews, _e H_ pushing the microphones out of his face as he fielded a barrage of questions, constantly repeating "no comment". Removing a weather-beaten tan Stetson from his head, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a plain white handkerchief, replaced the hat and moved toward the hubbub of activity on the other side of the boiling mass of reporters.

Flashes bounced off his eyes, popping in quick succession as a dozen photographers from local and national print publications strained at the police barrier. Grumbling as they snapped what images they could get, several complained about their intentionally obscured, photographically useless staging area. Smith ignored their pleas as he passed by.

Folding his 6-foot, 3-inch frame under the thin strip of bright yellow tape, he approached the uniformed officer guarding the perimeter at the end of the alley. He eyed the baby-faced rookie and pointed to the badge clipped to his belt. "Detective John Smith, and before you ask, yes, it's my real name." he said, taking the crime scene logbook and signing his name in the appropriate place.

Looking around, Smith found the alley behind _Johnny B's Cabaret_ much like he expected. Dirt-encrusted stucco walls lined the one-hundred and fifty yards of trash-filled space. Bright colors splashed the walls along its length, the graffiti blaring a message of hatred in graphic images and profane words. The rank odor of rotting garbage suddenly assaulted his nostrils, causing his already sour stomach to rise to his throat. _Dumpsters at 110 degrees, nothing smells quite like it._

Noticing the activity deeper in the cramped confines, he spotted the rest of the Crime Scene Response Team among the abandoned tires and piles of refuse congesting the alley's far end. He worked his way toward them, stepping over the trash. Moving forward to dodge the final obstacle, he circled the burned-out hulk of an ancient sedan, its rusting carcass picked clean long ago.

He stood beside the Crime Scene Investigations unit officer. "What do we have?" he asked the shorter, balding man who was already sweating in the early afternoon heat.

"A real 'Charlie-Foxtrot', John." The evidence expert answered, citing the standard military acronym for things that couldn't possibly get any more screwed up. "The deceased is Jason Grady, son of Senator Dennis Grady."

"No shit?" Smith asked.

"No shit. The Senator has been notified."

"Just perfect!" Smith opined with a half-hearted smile, unwrapping a piece of chewing gum and sliding it into his mouth. "I picked a hell of a week to quit smoking."

Stifling a chuckle, the sergeant started to run down the list of relevant information.

Smith interrupted. "Who discovered the body?"

"One of the bar-backs found Grady near the dumpsters about 10:15 this morning."

Smith walked with the other officer further into the blighted alley. Passing the rear door of the club, the pair approached the screen wall hiding the dumpsters. Stepping beyond the end of the wall, Smith saw the outlined corpse laying face down, another misshapen lump among the refuse. _Who did this to you...and why?_ He wondered.

Smith paused for a minute, examining the scene and fixing it in his memory. Taking a quick look around, the detective noted the narrow area was also dotted with discarded furniture and other junk that probably had nothing to do with his case. _Damn! A high-profile victim in a contaminated scene. Nice way to start the day._

He saw the ground around the body was covered with a black skin of rancid slime, still glistening in the bright sunlight. _Spillage from the dumpster? Maybe._ He saw a technician taking a sample and bagging it. He stuck his head over the rim, looking inside the malodorous steel box, getting a quick glance before his nose could stand no more. It was empty.

"Any witnesses?" he asked.

"None so far, but we're still canvassing the area."

"Good. Let me know if anything turns up."

Upon a first, cursory inspection of the deceased, Smith discovered he didn't need to be a doctor to know the cause of death. The ragged hole in the victim's left shoulder blade and a black pool of congealed blood under the body told the 18-year Tucson Police Department veteran how this particular victim met his end.

The older officer held up two small plastic evidence bags, one containing a shell casing, the other held a blood-soaked playing card.

"I found the shell casing next to the body, and we're digging a slug out of the gate over there," he said, pointing to the far end of the street. "And this playing card was lying on his back."

He handed both bags to the detective. "The Queen of Spades. It mean anything to you?"

"Not yet," Smith replied. "This all you found?"

"That's it," the officer confirmed. "Rest of the scene is full of what looks like unrelated trash, but we're photographing and bagging it anyway, just in case."

"That ought to make the lab guys happy," he said, sarcasm evident in this voice. "Also, I noticed that dumpster looks like it was just emptied. Call the company and find out where the load went."

"I'm on it."

Ignoring the assistant taking photos of the scene, Smith turned toward a fourth man, his back bent, carefully examining the body.

"Talk to me Doc, what do you have?" he asked the Medical Examiner.

An indifferent grunt came from the man kneeling beside Grady's corpse. Dr. William "Will" Jaco took a deep breath. Rubber gloves stretched over his thin fingers, the dark-haired, forty-ish man looked up just long enough to acknowledge Smith.

"Well, cause of death, in case you didn't guess, appears to be a single gunshot wound to the chest," he said. "Liver temp puts time of death between 8 p.m. and midnight last night. I can't get closer on the time because of the heat."

"Anything else?" Smith asked.

"Not until I get him back to the lab," Jaco said. "I'll call you as soon as I have anything."

"Thanks," Smith acknowledged, moving away, leaving the doctor to this grisly task.

Smith returned his gaze to the body as he spoke to the CSU officer. "Do we have anything that would indicate a motive? What about his wallet, watch, that stuff?"

The officer consulted a clipboard in his hand before answering. "The victim's watch and wallet, complete with credit cards and about $200 in cash, were on the body. We bagged it all for the lab guys."

They heard a clattering of metal and the conversing pair stepped aside as the Paramedics brought in a gurney, waiting patiently for the doctor to finish.

"One more thing," the CSU said, again consulting his notes. "We found a small amount of Marijuana and some paraphernalia in his jeep. You know; a pipe, pack of rolling papers, that stuff. Nothing major, but I thought you should know.

"Doc?" Smith said, turning back to the Medical Examiner, now carefully placing plastic bags over the victim's hands and feet, preserving any trace evidence. "You get that?"

"I'll run a standard toxicology and a drug panel." Jaco said as he now lifted Grady's corpse into a body bag.

"Thank you." Smith said.

A few minutes later Jaco gave the paramedics a wave of his hand "He's all yours boys. Let's get him back to the lab."

They snapped into action, lifting Grady onto the stretcher with military precision, they zipped the body bag closed and rolled the corpse to the waiting ambulance.
Chapter Six

Hailey rolled her eyes as the reality show's insipid dialog softly emanated from the television across the room.

Deciding that these new programs demeaned the intelligence of the average two-year old, she sipped her coffee and continued to channel surf as the early morning sun drifted in through the open windows. She settled on the state's headline news channel.

What is this crap, 190 channels and nothing on... nothing worth watching anyway.

She sat back on the sofa, momentarily ignoring the set while trying to quiet the pounding in her head. She yawned and stretched, curling her legs up underneath her in a useless attempt to relieve her aching muscles. She realized her body still hadn't recovered from the events in Tucson and the long ride home.

Standing with a small groan of pain, she slowly moved to the kitchen for a refill, the television's constant din in the background of her disconnected thoughts. Suddenly the voice of the bleach-blond anchorwoman penetrated her alcohol-induced brain cloud.

"A story out of Tucson up next. Police officials are now saying that last night's shooting death of U.S. Senator Dennis Grady's son is being investigated as a homicide."

She wheeled around to face the set, nearly dropping the coffee pot in the sink as the anchor continued.

"For those of you just joining us, a source close to the investigation said Jason Grady, 23, was walking into a South Tucson night club at about 9:30 last night when he was gunned down. Police wouldn't speculate on a motive for the shooting. Grady, the starting pitcher for the U of A Wildcats, led them to a division title in 2007 and a national championship in 2008."

She stared frozen as the talking head continued. "At this hour, police are still at the scene. Stay tuned throughout the day as our team coverage of this senseless tragedy continues."

Staring at the set with unflinching focus, her blood suddenly went cold in her veins. _"The shell. Shit! I left the dammed shell in the alley_

She suddenly had a vision of the police cars surrounding her apartment, sirens wailing. She could almost hear the pounding on the door. She could already feel the cold steel of the handcuffs as the unyielding, faceless officers bound her wrists. The thought of jail terrified the young woman.

I didn't go there to kill him. I just wanted him to tell the truth, just admit what he did to me. But, no jury is ever going to believe that. Hell, I wouldn't believe it...and I was there.

Once again, her mind raced forward, the domino effect saturating her thinking with dozens of scenarios, all bad.

In her fear-fogged brain she created the stuffy confines of the courtroom. She saw herself standing at the defendant's table, faceless lawyer at her side, while the judge pronounced sentence. She could hear his voice, she saw the gavel fall as he dealt a death-blow to her freedom...to her life.

She shook her head, forcing the visions to stop. She stalked around her apartment, willing the emotions running through her head to go away...to no avail.

Being a fan of T.V. crime shows, she berated herself for forgetting something as elementary as a spent shell. She knew the casing would be the cornerstone of physical evidence in any police investigation.

Her fears returned, telling her she had thrown away what was left of her damaged life by this brutal crime.

How could I have done something so stupid? I have to get rid of the gun.

Thinking a hot shower might help calm her jangled nerves, she made her way to the bathroom. Head still throbbing, she noticed last night's bottle of Jose Cuervo now lying empty under the coffee table. She picked it up, taking in the colorful label before dropping it in the trash. _Tequila really_ is _evil._

Stepping under the flowing water, she mulled over what Grady said to her in those last, terrible moments in the dingy alley.

_Why would he think I'd_ want _to have sex with four complete strangers?_ She turned the question over in head, examining it from all angles. _Did I do something to make them think I_ wanted _to be brutalized that way? Was all this somehow my fault?_ _I guess it could be._ Her stomach knotted in rebellion, the idea resisting her attempts at instant analysis. _But I don't see how._ The notion plagued her while she drove to her class, parking in the lot at Yavapai Community College.

Her English Lit. Professor paced in front of his students, droning on in a review of Friday's boring lecture on Renaissance-era poetry.

Having to take summer classes at all irked the young woman to no end. After carrying a 3.85 grade-point average for the past four semesters, she dropped out before classes even really started last fall.

I just couldn't sit in class like nothing happened. Everyone was staring, like they knew I'd been raped...judging me...or worse, pitying me.

When the teacher's back was turned, a handsome young man sitting ahead one seat and one row to the left passed her a flyer. She read the colorful advertisement announcing her favorite local band, " _Double Trouble"_ , was playing at one of the Whiskey Row bars on Saturday night. _Maybe I'll go, if I feel up to it._

Hailey, the student, had a test the following Monday and would stay home and study, but Hailey, the biker, would not miss that show. She had, subconsciously, already made the decision.

Monday through Friday, Hailey, the student, hid behind her books, throwing herself into her classes to the exclusion of all else. Her classmates still thought she was just a simple, painfully shy college co-ed, but that version of Hailey was becoming more and more a well-perpetrated fraud. They didn't know the new Hailey, her alter ego emerging as soon as she donned leather and denim.

Hailey, the biker, spent her week-ends riding the roads of Yavapai County like a female version of John Wayne. With the iron horse thundering between her legs, the new Hailey was empowered, confident and strong. Everything the old Hailey was not.

Now safely back at her apartment, she tapped away at the computer's keyboard. The information Grady provided had proved helpful, and her being computer savvy made finding the T.O.A.'s website a three-minute project. Clicking on the bookmark, she stared for long seconds at the homepage. Smack in the middle of the usual pop-ups and blinking emoticons, she saw another of the monsters looking back at her from the screen. The photo accompanying the full page article showed a young man, his short beard groomed to a point, sitting on his 66' Bonneville chopper. Astride his lap sat the standard-issue silicone blond, her assets prominently displayed in a thong bikini, her hair in complicated swirls.

Hailey read the announcement for a charity fun run as it flashed across the screen in a scrolling banner. _Bingo, that's where he'll be._

Chapter Seven

Smith sat at his desk, thoughts twisting in frustration, computer keys clicking away as he hammered out the preliminary report on the Grady homicide.

Nothing makes sense. No defensive wounds, no apparent robbery. Why is this guy dead? Who did he piss off enough to kill him?

Nicotine cravings surging through him, he popped a fresh piece of gum into his mouth, the third of the morning. Fighting the urge to go outside for a smoke, he chewed quickly and waited for some kind of calming effect to manifest itself. It never did. _This is not working. I need a cigarette!_

Smith's desk phone chirped, electronic signal breaking his concentration.

_Now what?_ He reached for the receiver.

"John, its Dan."

He grimaced in recognition of Police Chief Dan Matarski's bass voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, Chief?"

"I'll get right to the point. This Grady case, it's special. I know you're used to me giving you a lot of leeway to work your cases, doing things your own way, but the Grady case is different. You need to be very careful on this one."

He baited the Chief. "Why should this one be any different than any other homicide case?"

"I don't think I need to remind you of what happened on your last homicide case, do I?"

Smith bristled in irritation, knowing the Chief was right. He'd screwed up on his last case, failing to anticipate the killer's moves, and took a bullet for his trouble.

The Chief ignored his question. "Is the preliminary report finished? I want to see it ASAP." he said.

"Don't you trust me?"

"Don't be a smart-ass, you know dammed well this is different. This case needs to be handled just right. I shouldn't have to explain that to you. This case is drawing attention from the highest levels."

"Just because it involves Senator Grady's son?"

"Dammed straight. We have to be careful about the perception we project."

"Perception? That's politics. I deal in reality. A man is dead, that's as real as it gets in my world." Smith said in annoyance.

"In my world, politics _makes_ perception and _perception_ is reality."

"If you say so, Chief."

"I want that report on my desk today, got it?"

"Got it."

"Good. I look forward to reading it."

The line went dead, dial tone droning in Smith's ear.

"Looking forward to reading it," he imitated the Chief in irritation, his tinny voice floating across the empty room.

He replaced the phone back in its cradle. _Bite me!_

Smith scratched the scar on his chest; the healed wound's itch a permanent reminder of his job's intolerance of even the smallest lapse in judgment.

He mentally raked himself over the coals, hating the fact that Matarski was right. _I did screw up. I never should have gone into that warehouse without back-up. My own arrogance almost got me killed...and it cost me my wife._

His thoughts drifted back to that night three months ago and he still cringed at the near-fatal blunder.

The dark building stood, silent and formidable in the afternoon sun as Smith approached. Getting a tip from a reliable snitch, he had wanted to move before his suspect got nervous and disappeared to Mexico or melted into the Phoenix underground. _The guy killed two people during a drug deal,_ he remembered. _I had to stop him._ A week of searching led him to the warehouse...and disaster.

Smith recalled moving in on the faded steel front door and discovering it was unlocked. _That should have been my first clue that something was wrong._

Weapon drawn, he'd searched the artificial maze of pallets and between neat rows of boxes reaching up sixteen feet.

It never occurred to him his snitch had sold him out...until the bullet ripped through his back. He'd played dead, lying on the dirty floor in an expanding pool of his own blood, unmoving as the would-be killer stepped from his hiding place to finish the job. Smith rolled and fired, hitting his mark, taking one life to save another.

Cassie told him that night in the hospital she couldn't take any more. She'd said the long nights alone and the fear of the telephone ringing in the middle of the night had become too much for her to bear. When he was released a few days later, she asked him to move out of the home they'd shared for six years. _How could I have been so stupid!_ He shook his head in self-aversion.

Pushing the useless self-flogging from his mind, he went back to the case at hand.

Once again looking back at the evidence list, he struggled to make some sense of the facts, trying in vain to line them up, to get them to point to a suspect.

One; you have a man shot in an alley behind a strip club. No witnesses.

Two; no known motive... so far.

Three; nothing in victim's background that would suggest any suspects.

He chafed at having to wait for the crime lab to process the items collected at the scene. _It just takes so freaking long sometimes._

Smith knew that, realistically, he was very lucky to belong to a department that had its own crime lab. Very few departments could afford a full-scale forensics lab and had to rely on the over-worked labs at the Department of Public Safety to process all the forensic evidence, including fingerprints and DNA. So, like it or not, he would have to wait for the test results. In the meantime, he worked on mapping out Grady's movements in those hours before his death.

He already knew that Grady had spent that last day at home, alone, before going to a voluntary baseball practice session at Kindall Field. He had talked to Grady's coach, the series of one word answers he received from the short, sedentary man turning up nothing new, only fed his sense of mounting aggravation as he reviewed his notes.

Q. Was there anyone you know of that would want to hurt Jason?

A. No.

Q. Did he receive any threats, have any arguments with teammates?

A. No.

Q. Did he have any problems with the fans, anyone upset with him in any way?

A. No.

Q. Was anyone stalking him? Sometimes that happens with athletes.

A. No.

_Thanks for all your help._ Smith thought. He sat in his office, bristling with an annoying sense of inaction, even though he could do little else before getting the autopsy and forensic results. _I can't just sit here and do nothing._
Chapter Eight

With no documentation requirements on sales of guns between private parties, Arizona remains a free-market Mecca for drug dealers and other criminals prevented from legally obtaining a firearm. The "no questions asked" policy of private sellers feeds an insatiable market and the gun shows and swap meets do a booming business in second-hand firearms of all types. It was for that precise reason Hailey now stood in a dirt lot enduring the searing heat.

She watched in detached interest and mild anger as the Spanish flowed between two men separated by a long black table a few feet away. She took in the younger man's garish tattoos and abundance of gold jewelry as he pointed out several large handguns. The seller removed them from the case, smiling in greedy glee and arranging them in a neat row for closer inspection.

Not knowing a word of the language didn't stop her from understanding what was taking place. _Gang-banger arming up his posse. Nice._

Stopping his selections at five, the man reached for an over-sized leather wallet chained to his baggy pants and started counting off one hundred-dollar bills.

_Nobody carries that much cash,_ she thought as he passed two thousand dollars. _Dope business must be good._ She grimly opined. _That's about the only business growing these days._

The heat was beginning to take a toll on her as she shopped. _What the hell am I looking at? I don't know anything about guns._ Moving between the tables, Hailey searched for just the right one, waiting on something akin to divine inspiration to guide her hand. On her second walk-through, a polished revolver caught her eye, gleaming in the bright sunlight.

"You looking for a revolver or an automatic?" The voice came from the man sitting behind the table, his enormous bulk wedged into a plastic lawn chair.

"Revolver," she said, mindful that they didn't eject shells to be found by police. "For protection."

Balding, fat and well over sixty, the redneck spit a mouthful of tobacco juice on the ground as he gave her the once-over. Ignoring the vulgar display, she took in the patched and fading jeans and the avalanche of beer-belly falling over his belt. _Uggh. Gross._

The man answered her unasked question. "That one's only four-hundred," he said. "It's a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum, it's worth more like five-fifty." He stood, prying his butt out of the chair and removing the weapon from the padded case. He flipped the cylinder open and passed it over the table, handle first. "Check it out." he said.

She hefted the pistol, and noted the two-inch "snub nose" barrel. She snapped the cylinder shut and checked the balance, assessing the feel of the thing in her hand.

"That's a lot of gun for a lady," he said, looking her up and down, another vile stream of tobacco juice hitting the ground. "Sure you don't want something lighter?"

Taking her non-answer as a call to action, he pulled a hammerless S&W .38 Special from the case and laid it down on the padded table top. "This one's three seventy-five."

She looked at the blue finish on the .38, then compared the feel to the larger weapon.

"Which one has more power?" she asked.

"The .357, by far," he said, pointing to the shiny revolver gleaming in the sun. "That's a small cannon."

She replaced the blue pistol on the table and reclaimed the larger, heavier weapon.

"I'll give you three-twenty-five, and you throw in a box of bullets." She said.

"I shouldn't let it go so cheap, but it's late and I'm about to close for the week, so...Okay, three twenty-five." he said, reaching into a dusty crate beneath the table for a small carton of ammunition. Digging in her purse, she brought out her wallet and handed over the required bills.

_I can't believe it's that easy,_ she thought as she moved away from the table with the lethal purchase now tucked safely out of sight. _No I.D., no registration papers...nothing._ She thought grimly. _Gotta love Arizona, it's still very much 'The Old West'._ She sighed, moving across the parking lot toward her car...and some relief from the staggering heat.

Finally back in the air-conditioned comfort of her car, she thought about her recent purchase, now locked in the glove box. _That was too easy._ Arriving at her apartment, she went inside knowing she had another job to do today...one that couldn't wait.

She took the automatic from her drawer and wiped the weapon carefully to remove any fingerprints she may have left behind. That done, she carefully wrapped the pistol in an old rag before hiding it in a gym bag.

She drove in quiet contemplation north on SR 89 toward Watson Lake.

_I took a man's life. Even if he was a pig, how do I justify that?_ The question nagged at her for long minutes as she passed the massive off-white boulders and palatial homes of many styles that made up the area known as Granite Dells.

She turned off the highway and parked her car. Walking down the rough trail to the lake's edge, she stood on the floating pier. The question still plagued her as she looked out over the water and thought about what she had done to Grady. _I didn't mean to kill him, even though the son of a bitch had it coming! I just wanted him to admit what he did. I_ needed _him to admit that he_ raped _me that night._

She shuddered in the hot sun as the memories of the attack came flooding back, consuming her in an unbidden tidal wave of recollected terror.

She remembered being a little tipsy, _okay, plastered._ last Fourth of July, her heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk as she made her way home from the bar. She berated herself, not for the first time, for her petulant, childish attitude that night. _Why didn't I go with the girls? Why did I leave alone?_

Her skin crawled anew as she relived the feel of rough hands pawing at her before they dragged her into the darkness of the dirty alley. Her stomach clenched nervously as she again saw the distorted faces of her attackers, the drunken grins twisted with lust. She swallowed the bile rising from her stomach as she remembered the feeling of the cold steel blade against her throat, its stinging bite buried in the blinding fear of the moment. For a fleeting instant, she was back in that alley, lying on the filthy ground, frozen in terror. She could still hear the ripping of her dress before they tore her panties off.

Even now, standing on the gently swaying dock with the sunshine warming her, she could smell the alcohol and sweat on the men as they lay on top of her, one by one, over and over. She shook her head, trying to make the horrible visions stop. She drew the automatic from the bag, the gun now feeling many times its true weight.

Consciously, she knew she was lucky to survive the attack, still the tears began to roll down her cheeks as she thought about what that horrible night had cost her.

_David won't even speak to me, not that I really blame him. I tried to tell him that I was_ different _now. Just because I didn't_ want _to be afraid, didn't mean that I_ wasn't _afraid. I can't control the fear. He never understood that._

She remembered him telling her she needed a shrink. She had the image of his handsome face, the anger and hurt evident as she ended their relationship, forever burned into her memory. _I still miss him. It wasn't his fault, he just didn't get it._

Pushing those painful thoughts aside, she considered the other people in her life affected by the assault's aftermath.

_Mother thinks I should move back home so she can_ keep an eye _on me._ Her grim thoughts moved faster and faster, despite her best efforts to control them.

_My friends, the ones I_ could _tell, don't even know how to act when I'm around. They're deathly afraid of saying the wrong thing. I'm not_ that _fragile...am I?_

The tears began to leak from her eyes, finally overflowing to spill down her cheeks.

_I've been so afraid for so long. Why can't I just move on?_ That question joined the others, circling her mind in random orbit as she stood there trembling in the sun.

Drying her eyes on her sleeve, she cocked back her arm and threw the pistol as hard as she could. She watched as it arched through the air and splashed in the dark water, sinking out of sight. _Good riddance Grady. I hope you're burning in Hell!_

She drove back home, flashes of anger now replacing the gnawing despair as Granite Dells again passed by the window. She looked for a scapegoat _. If the police had done their jobs_ then _none of this would be happening now._ She bristled with the overwhelming sense of outrage flowing through her. _Why didn't they arrest these men? Why did I have to wait a year for justice, and_ then _have to go get it myself? I told them everything I remembered about that night, why didn't they find them?_ She railed. _They owed me that much!_

She fought back an unexpected and peculiar sense of grief as she considered the emotional damage she'd suffered since that night.

_Oh, my God! The_ time _I've lost._ _How many nights did I sit home, scared and alone, knowing those four were still out there...somewhere. I gave up my life because of those bastards!_

She began to sink into a deep well of self-pity before finally finding the kernel of truth buried beneath the despair.

_Uncle Greg, you were right. I can't let blind fear rule my life. Not anymore!_ She took a deep breath, fighting back the mounting tears. _No more hiding. From now on, I go where I want, when I want._

Arriving back home, she tried to forget about the events of the morning. She attempted to eat some leftover Chinese food she found in the fridge, but after a few bites she couldn't force herself to finish it. Her stomach knotted in consternation, she walked to the kitchen and threw the cardboard take-out carton into the trash can.

Needing a distraction from her dark thoughts, she decided to kill some time detailing the Hog. She dragged out the hose and bucket, carefully washing the motorcycle and buffing it dry. She looked at her reflection in the mirror-finish of the gas tank. Again the image of Grady's falling body intruded on her thoughts. She shook her head to clear it and moved on to polishing the never-ending chrome on the gleaming machine. Rubbing furiously, she removed any dirt or water spots as she forcibly relegated the encounter with Grady to the far corner of her tumultuous mind.

Now that the Hog was immaculate, it was time for some procrastinated maintenance. Using the manual to learn how to change the oil proved a journey into yet another new world for the pretty co-ed. She had never worked on a motorcycle engine before and had little experience repairing her own car. One hand on the garage door, she hesitated before her uncle's words, so eloquently written in his last letter, flashed in her head. _You said I needed to learn how to do this._ _I trust you Uncle Greg._

Opening the garage, she unlocked the third part of Greg's bequest, a three-tier rolling tool chest. _I'm not stupid. I should be able to figure this out._ She looked at the tool box, then back at the Hog. _How hard can it be...right?_

She pulled open one of the shallow drawers, the tray sliding silently on well-oiled ball bearings. Looking inside, she took in the rows of wrenches and screwdrivers lying inside the bright red box, neat and polished. The little mechanical soldiers lay in ready formation. Their very order seemed to taunt her. She sighed _. At least they're not metric._

As she carefully went through the routine of drain...fill...check for leaks...she could feel her uncle's presence, the warm touch a soothing balm in the back of her consciousness. She became choked up with emotion as she realized how many times he must have performed the very same tasks she was now doing.

An hour, and a few choice words, later she wore a skinned knuckle and small spots of grease on her worn jeans, each mark a new merit badge for a job well done. _That wasn't so bad,_ she observed. Carefully wiping the oil from her delicate hands, she replaced the tools in their spaces.

After referring to the manual a second time, changing the spark plugs posed no real challenge, going off without a hitch. Confidence now bolstered, she listened to the Hog's engine rumbling contentedly. _Mission accomplished._

She looked at the Hog again and noticed it almost seemed bigger, like it was proud of its appearance, the paint and chrome shining in the sun.

She thought about how many hours of work her uncle must have put into this beloved machine, and vowed complete fidelity to the complicated maintenance schedule he left for her.

While she was mostly an indoor girl, she had to admit getting a little dirty and performing the tasks in such a precisely ordered fashion turned out to be almost therapeutic. Turning the wrenches changed the focus of her troubled mind, steering her thoughts away from the events of the weekend.

She looked at the gleaming machine and her mother's harshly rendered order returned "You sell that bike immediately," her mother had demanded. "You can use the money for something worthwhile." _Isn't my sanity worthwhile?_

She inwardly cringed, acknowledging her six-month lie of omission, then justified her silence. _Mother would have a stroke if she knew I kept the bike. I'll tell her...eventually...when_ I _think the time is right._

Engine rumbling with controlled power; she pulled away from the curb for a test-ride, a feeling of calm spreading over her. _Motorcycle maintenance really_ can _be Zen. Who knew?_ In a flash of insight, she suddenly had the answer to her rhetorical question. _Greg knew...and he wanted me to know too._

She drove east on Gurley Street and watched the traffic as she worked her way toward the town square. She found an open parking space and backed the Hog in, shutting down the engine.

She just wanted to relax and settle her emotions before the run later that day. The scenic park area around Whiskey Row and Courthouse Square provided an ideal setting to unwind.

Feeling the warm summer breeze flow over her, she sat on the wrought-iron bench in front of the Café St. Michael in her oil-stained clothes, sipping a coke as she watched the tourists stroll leisurely down the sidewalk.

Parked just a few feet away, the Hog sat like an obedient guard dog, shining in the mid-afternoon sun. She watched the small knot of people, the third in the past five or ten minutes, stop to admire the machine. They looked at her and she felt that familiar feeling of anxiety descend. Eyes flitting from machine to rider, the tourists finally moved on. _This thing sure gets the looks,_ she thought with no small amount of pride.

Emotionally cordoned off in her misguided attempt at self-preservation, it never occurred to Hailey that she was the one, even in her grubby jeans and ponytail, getting the looks, both fearful _and_ admiring.
Chapter Nine

Dan Matarski sat bolt upright in his chair, holding the telephone, knuckles turning white with tension.

"Find out what happened," Dennis Grady's sandpaper voice rasped in his ear. "Do it quick and keep it quiet! I don't want to see this all over the six o'clock news."

Always one to take credit for a subordinate's sweat and success, Matarski spoke quickly, placating the angry senator with a tidal wave of meaningless platitudes.

"I've got my best man on it. Smith's a bit of a renegade, but I'll make sure he gets the job done."

"Is he _really_ any good?" the Senator's voice dripped with arrogance. "I want a man who knows how to handle these situations properly. I want the best."

Matarski thought about his recent bout with Smith. He despised the man, but had to admit to his extraordinary talent. _He's got the deductive instincts of Sherlock Holmes and the nose of a bloodhound._

"He fancies himself a bit of a cowboy, an old-west style lawman if you will. You know; the gun and the hat, the badge and all. Politically incorrect as hell, but highly effective."

"Can he be discreet? I don't want to give my political opponents any ammo in an election year." The Senator's manner left no room for misunderstanding as to his meaning.

"He'll do as he's told, by God," Matarski said. "Or I'll have his nuts in a jar." He strategically paused, letting the threat linger

"I also don't think I need to remind you of the necessity of keeping certain 'sensitive' information out of the press," Grady said, the firm tone a clear warning. "I know my son was no saint. I don't want his 'youthful indiscretions' to reflect negatively on this office. Is that clear?"

_Or yourself,_ Matarski thought, but didn't dare vocalize his insight to the powerful, angry man sitting in his plush office two and a half thousand miles away.

"Is there something specific I should be looking for?" While both devious and undeniably Machiavellian, Matarski certainly knew a senator with a secret represented a valuable commodity, a bit of leverage he couldn't afford overlook or fail to exploit. He threw out the hook, dangling the bait and waiting for the Senator to bite.

"If I knew what I was looking for, it would be easier for me to keep a lid on those kinds of things. Err...I could be more _selective_ in what information went where...and what information went _no_ -where."

For several seconds, a thick silence hung on the line and Matarski feared he'd misread the Senator.

"I don't think I like where this conversation is going," the Senator snorted. "It's starting to sound like blackmail to me."

Heartbeat jumping to high speed, Matarski grasped for the right words to sooth the career politician's ruffled feathers and warranted suspicions.

"Oh, no. Senator, I think you misunderstand me," Matarski said, voice sickly sweet with artificial sincerity, the manufactured niceties all sugar and subordination. "I was just offering to help you maintain a greater degree of _control_ over the situation. I can be your eyes and ears here, while you remain in Washington."

"Control eh? Well, that's different," Grady said, clearing his throat loudly. "But I would be very disappointed if I found out you _misunderstood_ me."

Matarski breathed a sigh of relief. "Of course, Senator." The Chief understood alright. He correctly assumed that the Senator didn't want a scandal.

"You report your findings directly to me. Is that clear?" the Senator continued. "I don't want any surprises."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, my wife's in the hospital. The doctor said she had a stress-related collapse."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, sir. Please give her my best."

"Thank you," he continued. "She loved our son unconditionally. I don't want her to hear...or read...anything that might upset her." The Senator went on, his voice now forced, the tones of resignation beginning to creep in. "I'm a little more realistic. I know Jason was involved in things his mother knew nothing about...things that would shatter her. I know there were women...drinking...drugs. He's gone now and no one's going to take away her illusion of who Jason was. It's all she has left."

"Yes, sir. I'll keep a tight lid on this," the Chief said. "Anything I come across that's...shall we say...unflattering, I'll notify you immediately."

"Very good. You can be sure I know how to treat a _loyal_ 'associate'...one who follows instructions." The Senator said.

"I understand completely. We will bring this investigation to a _satisfactory_ conclusion."

"Glad to hear it. You know I chair the Senate Select Committee on Crime Prevention. You handle this right and I think you can count on making the _very_ short list for the vacant Special Assistant's post. I think you'll fit right in here in Washington."

"Yes, sir...Thank you sir," he said. "And again, I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

"Just protect what I have left."

"Will do sir. Anything else?"

"No. Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir."

_Click_ , the receiver went dead in the Chief's boney hand. He breathed an audible sigh of relief. _Smith better not fuck this up...or he's finished._
Chapter Ten

The small restaurant was packed, the people sitting on benches in the entryway chatted animatedly, waiting for the hostess to call their names. Stone checked his watch impatiently. His contact was now twenty minutes late.

He hadn't wanted to drive this far out in the first place, but also had to admit the small café in the town of New River was the perfect place to complete their transaction. New River was a nice quiet town about half an hour north of Phoenix, a rough diamond amidst the desert's incendiary desolation.

From behind the kitchen door the raucous sound of clattering dishes drifted back to the dining room.

The servers fluttered back and forth like birds, moving from table to table, each one filled to capacity. They carried huge round trays full of steaming plates, the giant disks balanced precariously on their small shoulders.

The smoky aroma of bacon, still lingering in the air from the breakfast rush hours before, now combined with the tangy smell of fried chicken and charbroiled beef to create a pleasant aroma of fresh cooking.

As the waitress approached his table, Jake Stone's vision lingered on her full breasts, demurely concealed beneath her uniform.

She placed his plate before him. "Here you go sir, the double cheeseburger and fries. Can I get you anything else?"

He never bothered to move his eyes up to her face. "No. This is good."

He watched the young woman, a teenager really, the pendulum swing of her buttocks holding his attention as she moved down the aisle to the next table. His face split into a lascivious grin. _Nice ass._

A lanky young man, his greasy hair barely trapped under a dirty baseball cap, slid into the booth across from Stone.

"You got it?" the new arrival asked.

"Shhh...It's in the truck." Stone replied, reassuring the skittish man.

The man moved to rise. "Let's go."

Stone put out his arm, grabbing the other man by the wrist.

"Hey, chill out. I just got my food."

"So?"

Stone threw him an angry glare before answering. "So, you're the one who's a half-hour late. Now you can wait for me."

Running a dirty hand over his scraggly beard, he expelled a disgruntled sigh and plopped back into his seat. "Fine."

Reaching for a red bottle at the end of the table, Stone dumped some ketchup on his plate. "Get something if you don't want to just sit there." he said, voice clearly underlying his total disinterest.

"Yeah, why not," the man said, looking at his watch. "It's about beer-thirty anyway."

Stone signaled the waitress, Angie, according to her name tag. She set the plate in her hand down for the customer and returned to the Stone's booth.

"Something to drink for you sir?" she asked the newcomer with a wary smile, taking out her order pad.

"I'll have whatever's on draft." he said.

"I'll bring it right over." She said, disappearing toward the chrome and glass bar located in the far corner of the busy place.

Watching her walk away, 'Beer Guy' leaned over toward Stone, speaking in hushed tones. "This stuff better be good, I drove from Camp Verde to get it."

Stone answered the challenge between bites of his burger. "It is. That's why you come to me, ain't it? Have I ever let you down?"

Beer Guy took a second to digest Stone's observation before continuing. "For what it cost, it better be _dammed_ good."

Stone paused a moment to swallow and then responded. "I told you on the phone, its killer shit."

"Sweet," the other man said. "I can't wait to try it."

"You're going to be so stoned; you won't be able to grab your ass with both hands."

The waitress returned several minutes later with the mug of beer in one hand and a pitcher of iced tea in the other.

"More tea?" she asked Stone.

"Yeah," he again neglected to look at the woman speaking to him, latching his eyes to her chest.

She reached over his arm to refill his glass, leaning forward against the edge of the table.

Hand coming up, Stone ran his fingertips along her bare calf, startling the young girl. She flinched nervously at the unexpected touch, knocking the glass over and unleashing a wave of amber liquid and ice cubes in Stone's direction.

Stone jumped up as the expanding lake of tea found the table's edge and sloshed into his lap.

"You stupid bitch!" he yelled, "Watch what you're doing!"

"I'm sorry sir," Angie said, embarrassment flushing her face to a bright pink. "I'll clean it right up...and get you another plate."

"Don't bother!" Stone barked in angry reply, brushing the cold liquid off his clothes onto the floor.

Several diners turned to see the source of the commotion, questioning looks on their faces.

"Jake, be cool!" Beer Guy said. "It's no big deal."

"She didn't spill all over _you!_ " Stone replied, his vicious, belligerent look causing the man to shrink back into his seat.

Stone then turned his attention back to the frightened girl, causing Angie to freeze in place. "It's food service, not rocket science," he bellowed. "You carry the plates to the table, you put 'em down, you refill the drinks. How hard is that?"

The people at the other tables were now listening intently, eyes wide in disbelief as he continued to berate the frightened, visibly trembling girl. Angie again apologized, causing the other diners to shake their heads, murmuring to each other in incredulity, disgusted at the man's treatment of the young woman.

The manager, between visits with the other customers, heard the commotion and headed toward the table as Stone slid out of the booth getting uncomfortably close to his waitress. Stepping between the two men and his employee, the manager spoke, body tight in apprehension, words coming in clipped sentences. "Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"You're kidding, right?" Stone replied, the quiet voice belying a poorly concealed, animal hostility.

Although clearly terrified, the manager stood his ground, meeting Stone's fiery gaze with a bogus one of his own manufacture. "You've offended my customers and harassed my employee. I won't allow it to continue." He said, as the beads of sweat appeared on his bald pate.

Balking at the manager's bravado, Stone stood to his full height, now looking down on the older man. "And if I don't?"

"I've already called the police," the petrified man's voice wavered. "You have about three minutes before they get here."

Stone lunged at the manger, stopping short and making the wiry, scarecrow of a man flinch in fear. Laughter breaking from his lips, he took a step towards the door. Stone turned back to the waitress, now standing among the other diners with tears in her eyes. "Same time tomorrow?"

Face turning white, she visibly cringed at the mere suggestion.

Beer Guy followed Stone out the door, withering under the stares of the intensely disapproving crowd. "Umm...sorry."

The restaurant echoed with applause as the door banged closed behind the retreating pair.

The two made their way to a behemoth of a pickup truck, the steel monster taking up two spaces along the parking lot's edge.

Beer Guy climbed up into the passenger side of the massive vehicle and pulled the door shut.

Stone climbed in, sat behind the wheel and reached under the seat, bringing up a small gray back pack. "Down to business."

"About time." Beer Guy commented under his breath.

Stone unzipped the pack and removed two items from inside. One was a large brick of high grade marijuana, the illicit substance tightly wrapped in clear plastic. The other was a much smaller bag containing several large joints he'd rolled earlier in the day.

He also removed his knife from his jacket. Stone liked the feeling of power he got from carrying the long stiletto and making sure everyone knew he wasn't afraid to use it. He snapped out the blade and slit the smaller bag open. Tucking the knife back in his jacket, Stone handed Beer Guy one of the joints. "Here, try this."

Beer Guy pulled a lighter from his pocket and within seconds the smoke rose in thick ropes, curling up to the roof of the truck before drifting out the open rear window.

"You get this from that same guy as before?" he asked Stone.

An edgy silence suddenly permeated the smoke-filled air.

"Oh, I get it. You're not going to tell me. That's cool I guess."

Confident that Beer Guy, or anyone else for that matter, would undercut him if they could, Stone kept his supplier's name a secret, one he guarded with deadly force. "You can't tell the cops what you don't know." Stone reminded the other man.

"I wouldn't tell the cops shit anyway."

Stone put the small bag back in the canvas pack and zipped it closed. "Dammed right, you won't tell," his voice turned menacing. "You know what would happen if you did."

"Yeah man, you don't have to tell me twice."

Stone took the neatly wrapped brick and set it on the console between them.

"You like it?" he asked, already confident of the answer.

"Yeah, I'm getting buzzed already."

"Good. I told you it was killer shit."

Beer Guy hit him with a high-five. "You scored again."

"Here's the deal, just like I said on the phone, its fifteen-hundred a pound...if you take all five."

"I got two already sold. So yeah, I want all five."

"Where's the cash?" Stone said.

"Don't worry, it's here," Beer Guy passed the joint back to Stone. "I'll be right back." He jumped down from the truck and moved to the hedge guarding the lot. He reached under some brush and came up with a dented Thermos, the camouflage paint faded and dirty.

He made his way back to where Stone was waiting and climbed back up into the truck, sitting beside him.

He opened the jug and removed a plastic bag from inside. He handed it to stone. "Seventy-five hundred. You can count it if you want."

Stone shot him a look that could kill. "I don't think you would rip me off. You're smarter than that."

"So we're done here." Beer Guy asked, picking up the bag of pot, waiting for Stone's permission to leave.

"See you next time. Enjoy."

He jumped down, working his way out of the lot and to the alley beyond. Moving swiftly, yet inconspicuously, he disappeared from sight.

Stone watched him retreat, started the truck and moved the giant beast carefully out of the lot and down the access road toward the highway interchange. _I'm going to have to find out who his customers are, absorb them into my network, whether he likes it or not._
Chapter Eleven

Feeling mentally refreshed after the short ride, Hailey began to get changed. Pulling on her jeans and vest she felt her confidence solidify, bringing the biker to life one layer at a time.

Her nerves jangled at the thought of seeing Jake Stone again. The possibility of another violent encounter made her pulse spike, causing her hands to tremble almost imperceptibly. She applied her make-up, while several scenarios ran through her mind.

Would he be different than Grady, or would he be the same? Would he be sorry for what he did...or would he fight? Would he even show up?

She briefly thought about what she would do if he didn't show.

It doesn't really matter if it doesn't happen tonight. Eventually I have to find him...and face him.

Her cell phone began to vibrate, dancing around on the bathroom vanity. She looked at the number and groaned. _Mom. What do you want now?_

She flipped open the handset and braced herself for another foray into the strange and challenging world of Joanne Barrow.

"Hi, Mother."

"Hello, darling."

"What's going on?"

"The bank screwed up my account again," Joanne Barrow said, her voice an angry condemnation. "They say I'm overdrawn. That's just _not_ possible."

Hailey steeled herself for another round of the same old argument with her mother. As a signer on the account, Hailey grimaced, envisioning the call she would have to make to the bank to clean up her mother's finances... _again._

"Mother, you have to cut back on your expenses," Hailey gently admonished. "You can't keep spending like you did when Daddy was alive."

"I'm just a little short this month, that's all. Can't you help me? Just until the bank fixes its mistake?" she said. "You have all that money sitting there doing nothing."

"Mother, I've told you before that's a trust account. I can't just write you a check," she said. "I get what amounts to an 'allowance' from that account and I need that money to pay my _own_ bills."

"You could move back in here," the elder Barrow piped up hopefully. "I've got this big house and you wouldn't have to waste your money on that small apartment."

"Mother, don't start," Hailey warned. "We've already gone through this. I'm not moving back home."

The young woman could already feel the claustrophobic pull of the apron strings as they wrapped themselves around her neck, threatening to choke the life out of her.

Undaunted by the refusal, her mother continued. "I worry about you living in town. You should be here with me, where I know you're safe. You would have plenty of privacy, and you wouldn't be alone."

Hailey blanched at the mere thought of moving back home. She loved her mother, but knew moving back in was a disaster in the making. _I'd rather set my hair on fire!_ She thought, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"We could split the expenses if that makes you feel better," Joanne said.

_There it is._ She winced at her mother's ill-conceived attempt at manipulating her into returning home.

"Mother, I love you, but I'm only going to say this once more. Uncle Greg left _me_ that money so I could go to school," she said. "I'm not going to juggle school _and_ work anymore. With the classes I missed last semester, I can't. I quit my job because I knew I couldn't handle it."

She paused to breathe, listening her mother's stilted silence on the other end of the line.

"Besides, Daddy's investments should be enough to support you," she said. "What are you doing with your money?"

Hailey knew the answer to her rhetorical question, yet waited for the barrage of excuses with a warped expectancy she didn't really understand, a morbid curiosity she couldn't really fathom.

"You know I refinanced the house last year," her mother huffed, peevishly. "Those crooks gave me that adjustable rate loan thingy and it keeps going up. My payments have doubled in the last few months. Now they said I can't get out of it."

Hailey grimaced inwardly. _Of course it's someone else's fault. It's always someone else's fault! Are you_ ever _going to take responsibility for what you do? Oh, wait; I forgot who I was talking to._

She took a deep breath, trying to control her flaring anger before answering.

"I told you not to do it. There was nothing wrong with the Honda," she said. "You didn't listen to me. You _had_ to have the new Cadillac."

She could almost feel her mother digging in her heels.

"At my age, I deserve a nice car," her mother said defensively. "Besides, I _need_ it for my business, image you know. The Accord had almost one-hundred thousand miles on it."

A novice real estate agent since her husband's death, Joanne had fallen on the same hard times as many Americans and most realtors. Her sales were in the crapper and her daughter knew it.

"The Accord seems to be working just fine for me," Hailey snipped. "You didn't _need_ to spend _fifty thousand_ on a new car."

Completely ignoring her daughter's admonishment, Joanne continued. "All I need is a few hundred to get by until my next closing," the older woman said nonchalantly. "I'll pay you back then."

Infuriated by her mother's attitude, she compared her own financial responsibility against her mother's uncontrolled spending and again the anger burned within her.

"A few hundred!" Hailey fumed. "I just gave you _five_ hundred two weeks ago! I can't afford to give you any more right now. I just don't have it."

Her mother's financial habits boggled her mind. Irritation buzzing in her ears, Hailey thought of her mother's new BlackBerry and several other frivolous purchases. Continuing in an uncharacteristically sharp tone, she chastised the older woman.

"You have to learn to live within your means Mother," she said. "That means not over-spending and then relying on me to give you money every time you need it."

She heard herself and thought in irritation, _Who's the parent here?_

"Hailey, please, I have to have some cash for expenses. I don't want to lose this contract coming up."

"What expenses?"

"Oh, you know, advertising, the Real Estate Association membership is due, stuff like that."

"Oh, you mean the cost of doing business," Hailey said sharply. "Isn't that what your commissions are for?"

She paused to take a breath and rein in her increasing annoyance. "Mother, Daddy took care of you financially before he died," she said. "You have to realize that there are limits to your income. It's time for you to grow up and start taking responsibility for yourself. Daddy's not here to do it any more."

"All you do is criticize!" Joanne wailed. "Just like your father!"

The stinging rebuke hit her like a ball-peen hammer. Hailey remembered well the way her father would criticize her mother, pointing out her many, although mostly minor, faults. His words, while intended to be constructive, could be harsh, almost caustic at times. As "Daddy's Little Princess", Hailey never had to bear the brunt of his anger...or his censure.

She felt the first cracks appear in her resolve not to bail her mother out _again_. She mentally calculated the obscene interest rate she would pay on the credit card advance her mother was rapidly guilt-tripping her into taking.

Her mother continued on her self-pitying epic. "You're gone. He's gone. What else do I have?" her mother said in exaggerated resignation. "My work is the only thing I have left. What am I going to do?"

Her emotions did harried summersaults between anger at her mother's obvious manipulations and guilt over adding to Joanne's sense of abandonment. _Who's the adult here?_ She asked herself, already knowing the sad truth.

Hailey felt her resolve cave in like an abandoned mine. "Don't panic. _Of course_ I'll help you. I'll be by tomorrow and bring you some cash to get you through. I'll figure out something," she continued firmly, "But this is the _last_ time."

"Of course it is. I promise," Joanne said, her morose demeanor gone, mood doing a complete one-eighty.

Knowing her mother was lying, Hailey snapped the phone shut, feeling the seeds of a migraine quickly germinating behind her eyes.

Trying to shake off the aftereffects of the conversation, she pulled on her boots. Then it was time to go. She fired up the Hog and pulled away from her apartment as her elderly neighbor, hands covering her ears, frowned disagreeably from her front porch.

Once again "in the wind", she felt the power flowing from the Hog into her body in electric waves, recharging her emotional batteries like that famous pink rabbit in the T.V. commercials.

Taking SR 69 east to Prescott Valley, she threaded her way in and out of the heavy traffic, ever-vigilant of the photo-radar cameras and live police guarding the highway. She watched the scenery go by in a blur, making good time covering the 40 miles to the interstate as her mood began to gradually improve.

The asphalt ribbon unwound before her as she stared into a nuclear-powered sunset poised inches above the horizon. The soft white clouds drifted across a cobalt blue sky, their edges now painted in shades of mauve and gold. As the miles rolled up on the odometer, the intensely glowing red ball finally dipped into the desert's desiccated wasteland. She marveled at the sublime beauty of the subtle, fleeting event.

Reaching Interstate 17, she steered the Hog into the crowded Chevron station, stopping in the quickly fading daylight. She looked at the throng of people milling around as she topped off the gas tank and nursed a bottle of water from her saddle bags, knowing the run would soon come right by. After waiting only a few minutes, the bikes began to roll noisily past the rest stop in intermittent pairs and the occasional triad, telling her the bulk of the participants were fast approaching.

Ditching the empty bottle in the trash can, she mounted up, steeling herself for the possible meeting that lay ahead. She pulled into the increasing traffic with a twist of the wrist and a flick of the shifter, crossing the busy lanes and making her way to the interstate.

With a wave of acknowledgement from the rider in her mirror, she blended in with the surging pack as it passed Cordes Junction. Squeezing in to the middle of the one-hundred or so bikes rolling down the sizzling stretch of blacktop, her expectation mounted as she considered her enemy and prepared to face him.

Perspiration evaporating off her body in the early evening heat, she powered her way along the route, leaning in and out around the mountain curves. She followed the distant, unseen leader, holding her place with a concerted effort as the tight formation took advantage of the highway's steep down-grade.

Feeling the drawing stares coming from within the other four-wheeled vehicles on the road, she contemplated what they saw. For a mile or two she pondered which version of herself she wanted to be today and decided on the self-assured, fearless woman who rode the roaring iron horse between her legs.

A small boy waved to her as she pulled up next to his parent's minivan, their eyes meeting as he looked out the window from his car seat.

She smiled inwardly, then gave him a quick grin, passing them with a sharp bark from the Hog's chrome exhaust pipes.

As the group approached their destination, her thoughts ran to what would happen when she arrived. Her heart hiccupped at the thought of actually seeing him in the flesh, an icy fear making her shiver, despite the triple-digit temperature.
Chapter Twelve

Axel Rackley slid back the gate leading to the shop and unlocked the door.

He grimaced and smoothed his mustache as his head throbbed in pain, his hang-over overshadowing the amount of work he had to do in the next five days. He looked around the dark space and turned on the overhead lights, seeing several projects that required his immediate attention. _I have to weld up the frame on that KTM dirt bike and finish those four custom swing-arm orders. And, I still have to get ready for the run on the fourth._ He scrubbed his face in his hands. _I better quit stalling and get some of this shit done._

He flipped the big gray helmet down over his face and the welder sparked to life in his hand. He worked uninterrupted for the next two hours, until the phone rang. He put the smoking piece of steel aside and answered it.

"Yeah, I still have that black Sportster you were looking at," he said. "Do you want it or not?"

The line buzzed in his ears for several seconds before the man answered. "I want it, but I think you're asking a lot for it, considering what it's going to cost to get it back on the road," the caller said. "I'll give you three-thousand in cash for it, as is."

Rackley rolled his eyes in disgust. _They always want something for nothing._ "Sorry. I could part it out for more than that," Rackley said. "All it needs is the forks replaced and a few small parts. Total repairs are less than a grand. I'll knock off a _few_ bucks, but I'm not giving it away."

"Let me think about it," the man on the line said. "I still think five grand is too much."

"It might be a '98, but it's got less than ten-thousand miles on it. It can be repaired pretty easy. The guy's wife just doesn't want him riding anymore," Rackley said. "Somebody's going to get a hell of a deal. If you don't want it, I'll find someone who does."

"I'll call you back."

"Alright, you have until the end of the day. I'll hold it for that long, but that's it."

He snapped the phone shut and again the sparks flew from the welder. He knitted his brow in diligent concentration before finally finding that zone where he could almost see the bead before the blue and white arc melted it in into existence. He worked non-stop for the next several hours, pulling the order tickets off the wall and attaching them to the finished products one after the other.

Checking his watch, he noted it was now after five o'clock. He closed and locked up the shop, then mounted his bike for the ride to Prescott.

The trip from Chino Valley went by in an uneventful blur, and he suddenly found himself turning south on Miller Valley road. He throttled up the big-bore English engine and rolled toward the gym located on the next block. He parked the bike in the lot across the street and chained it to the base of a streetlight before going inside.

Twenty minutes into his workout, the shop was forgotten as sweat flew off his forehead while he circled his sparring partner. He threw a potent kick to the man's mid-section, hearing the breath explode from his lungs when his foot landed on target. He bounced on the balls of his feet, the heavy rubber of the practice mats cushioning his steps as he again moved toward his adversary.

He felt a palpable thrill surge through him as he bobbed and dodged the other man's blows, reveling in his chosen calling of mixed martial arts competition. He loved the raw, animal power of two men meeting in the cage to battle it out, unfettered by the rules of "polite" society. He basked in the unconcealed odium as the two gladiators faced each other in the exalted confines of the ring's steel mesh.

Seeing an opening in his opponent's defenses, Rackley's left foot snapped out in an elephant kick followed by a barrage of round-house punches in close combination. The devastating blows stunned the larger man.

The bell sounded, ending the session and he watched the ring assistants help the other man lift himself off the mat, blood flowing freely from a broken nose.

He showered and returned home, seeing his girlfriend Jill sitting in a folding chair on his porch. Her face told him she was pissed at him...again. Parking the bike, he searched his memory for anything he'd done that would account for her obvious anger.

"You're late," the blond waif said. Looking at her watch, she frowned. "We were supposed to meet Jack and Amy at the bar an hour ago. Where have you been?"

"I was working at the shop and then I went to the gym." He told her the truth, but left out the part where he forgot about their date.

"You could have called," she said. "I'm not feeling a lot of respect here."

He didn't respond to her indictment.

"You know what, I'm going home. I'm sick of you blowing me off," she said, rising from the chair. "Going to check out this band was _your_ idea in the first place. The least you could've done was show up on time...or call me to let me know what's going on. I deserve better than this."

"I don't have to answer to you," he shouted at her retreating back. "We're not married or anything."

She shook her head as she opened the car door. "Thank God!" she swore under her breath. "Asshole!"

"'Bitch!" he shouted after her. "I don't take shit from any woman!"

He didn't hear any reply as she got in and drove away. He watched the taillights disappear down the street. _Good riddance!_

He got back on the bike and left his house, entering the club a few minutes later, he scanned the crowd for his friends. Not seeing them, he sat down at the bar and ordered a beer. He slowly drank the beer and listened to the music, wondering where his friends might be now.

He motioned the bartender for another refill and sat back on his barstool, the wood groaning in defiance.

Feeling nature call, he worked his way back through the crowd, following a lighted sign directing him toward the restrooms in the far back corner of the establishment.

A man came out the door, staggering back toward the dance floor, a half-full cocktail glass tipping to and fro in his unsteady hand. Rackley moved out of his crooked path, but the drunken man swerved at the last second and collided with him, whiskey and cola now running down Axel's shirt. Feeling his anger burst anew, he yelled at the inebriated slob. "Watch were you're going, asshole!"

The man's unfocused eyes sought his. "Fuck off, dickhead!"

The loaded man never saw the closed fist until it impacted on his chest, blowing the air out of his lungs with an audible _whoosh!_ The intoxicated man folded like a paper bag, crumpling on the floor with a cry of pain.

Seeing the man go down, two large bouncers moved from their positions by the rear exit toward Rackley and he did a "strategic withdrawal" back toward the entrance. He cleared the doors just as one of the angry men reached for him and he twisted his way free, running down the street toward his bike, parked half a block away. He looked behind him repeatedly as he moved through the quiet, dark streets, glad to see that no one was giving chase.

Engine roaring in his ears, he took Road 3 North, turning right onto Highway 89 headed for Paulden. He leaned into the corner, the footpeg throwing off a shower of bright sparks as it scraped along the new pavement.

He turned onto Big Chino road. Finding the street in the darkness, he arrived at Jill's place. He killed the engine and hid in the shadows of a tree behind the house. Approaching the back door, he stared in the dirty window and this rage exploded as he watched her fall into an embrace with an unknown man. _I knew the slut was cheating on me. Fuck her, I'm gone!_

Blood boiling, he turned away from the drama playing itself out in the semi-darkness beyond the glass.

He kicked the engine to life and roared away from the scene unfolding in the living room behind him. _I don't need her. I can get a woman anytime I want._

Chapter Thirteen

The half mile-long parade of chrome-plated thunder moved slowly along the off-ramp for Black Canyon City, the riders rolling side by side down the access road in a growing cloud of dust.

Amidst the moving mass of steel, Hailey saw the narrow street fill with residents watching in either fascination or concern as the deafening procession crawled past.

The roar of exhaust pipes multiplied exponentially with each passing machine, shaking the ground like monsoon thunder. The group slowly worked its way through town and out the other side, seeking the last stop on the "poker run".

As the herd of motorcycles approached, the town of Rock Springs sat baking in the summer heat, a postage-stamp along the interstate. Having only one redeeming quality, the hamlet was typically overlooked by all but the most savvy of regional travelers.

She joined the other machines parking in front of a popular hamburger joint. Exhaust rumbling, she blipped the throttle as she backed into an empty space along the sidewalk and killed the engine. Except for the short break at the Chevron station, she had been riding for more than an hour. She stood, twisting her body back and forth, stretching the kinks out of a few still-sore muscles.

Walking down the double rows of parked bikes, Hailey admired the iron. Mixed in with the plethora of Harley-Davidsons were bikes from a dozen countries. She spotted a pair of Ducati Monsters, an unidentifiable trike sporting an enormous V-8 engine and a gleaming Suzuki Hayabusa, the dealer plate still attached. The vast array of mechanical marvels even included a vintage Royal Enfield decked out in full WWII military trim.

There seemed to be an example of just about every two-wheeled vehicle constructed in the last century. Some of the older ones she recognized, but the newer ones looked more like something from a sci-fi movie than a motorcycle dealership. In her mind's eye she easily imagined the chrome-plated marvels circling in the air before landing in perfect formation to join the rest of their earth-bound brethren.

Among the bikes Hailey noticed an assortment of people laughing and talking as they slowly moved toward the bar.

She considered the social microcosm before her. She looked in fascination at dozens of men and women from all walks of life and economic circumstances now gathered together, their differences shelved for the purpose of enjoying motorcycling and raising some money for a worthy cause.

Continuing down the line, she passed the stretched forks of sleek choppers before coming to a squadron of crotch rockets gleaming insect-like in the growing darkness. Continuing toward the bar, she now followed the revelers beyond the dozens of chrome-encrusted cruisers from around the world. About half way through the mass of mirror-finished steel and rubber, one particular machine grabbed her attention. She moved toward it, stooping for a closer look at the olive-drab sidecar rig that appeared to be an original WWII survivor. _Very cool!_ She thought, noticing that the sidecar sported a mocked-up machine gun on what appeared to be the original mount.

Following the rowdy crowd, she headed toward the muted sound of music coming from the Rock Springs Cantina. Hailey pushed open the saloon's traditional swinging doors and stepped into the smoke-filled interior. The skull-crushing sound of the four-piece rock band immediately assaulted her senses. Gyrating on stage, the lead guitarist belted out harsh vocals while abusing a Fender Stratocaster with reckless abandon. She felt the floor vibrate beneath her boots as the bass boomed, the invisible waves of the guitars pounding her chest.

A working class establishment, the Rock Springs Cantina featured the sawdust-covered floor and red felt pool tables favored by the blue-collar locals. Looking around, Hailey noticed the sparse decor sported a rough-hewn finish, giving the place a rustic, western undertone.

She bellied-up to the crowded bar, ordered a non-alcoholic drink and waited. Sipping in silence, she eyed the other women in the lounge. _The skank squad is out in force tonight!_

She shook her head in disappointment with her gender mates. Too little clothing and far too much makeup marked those "competing" for the attention of tattooed men either drinking at the bar or unabashedly ogling the scantily-clad females from tables ringing the room.

A young woman suddenly appeared at her side, squeezed closer by the growing throng. The thin, attractive brunette yelled to overcome the noise exploding from the Marshall stacks hanging from the flat black ceiling above the dance floor. "Anyone sitting here?' she pointed at the vacant stool to Hailey's right.

Hailey motioned with a hand. "Take it."

The other woman turned around and sat, leaning back against the bar.

"I'm Julie," the stranger said, extending a bottle-tipping salute. "You part of the run?"

"Hey. I'm Tina," Hailey said, returning the courtesy, yet concealing her true identity. "I joined in Flagstaff. What a blast!" The lie crossed her lips much more easily than she would have ever believed.

The pair surveyed the scene of weakly-controlled chaos in the noisy bar.

"Skanks!" Julie said, with the finger-down-the throat pantomime. "Gag!"

Hailey laughed at the impertinence, catching the other woman's gaze playing across the vulgar women ceaselessly working the boisterous crowd.

Most of the biker women were poured into the standard Levi's and some sort of tee shirt or halter, the skin on display just meeting the confines of the obscenity laws. _Never mind the laws of good taste._ Hailey thought.

She noticed that the locals, however, were not to be outdone in the Darwinian mating dance taking place on the sawdust-strewn floor before her. The fake blonds with the fake boobs buzzed around the men like hungry bees, their hormones running roughshod over both decorum and common sense. She couldn't believe the number of women about to bust out of their blouses.

From her perch on the stool, she silently chastised the party-goers. _Just because you're single, desperate...and have huge boobs... is no reason to dress like a two-dollar hooker._

Everywhere she looked lacey bras peeked out from indecently low-cut blouses, straining in a nearly futile effort to hold back the soft flesh imprisoned within. _And then they wonder why the drunks hit on them._ She observed in disappointment as a huge bearded man slid a beefy hand the length of a tipsy redhead's stocking-encased thigh, coming to rest on her heart-shaped buttocks. From the bar, Hailey scowled unsympathetically as his repugnantly forward gesture earned him nothing more than a playful slap on the wrist along with an alcohol-soaked giggle from his intended target. _My God girl! Have some respect for yourself._

She looked down at her own considerably more demure attire of new black jeans, a _normal_ tee shirt, vest and boots, mentally comparing it with the walking lingerie ads strutting around the male party-goers in a rapidly-escalating game of touchy-feely.

"They better stay away from my Bear!" Julie said, her voice cutting the din. "Or they got an ass-whipping on the way."

Hailey smiled at the sudden flare of overt distrust and feminine wrath. She watched Julie drink her beer and survey the rowdy crowd in the bar. _This is one tough broad._

She silently wished she had that kind of innate confidence.

She wore her own vest unbuttoned, a concession to the rising heat in the club. The draped leather partially concealed the 36-d's beneath. _I only want_ one _person to notice me._ The very thought of him actually being there made her nerves tingle as the fear of discovery surged through her body. She worried that her changed appearance might not be enough to hide in plain sight. She fervently hoped her long hair, replacing the shoulder-length cut she sported for so many years, would throw the quarry off the scent. Contacts instead of glasses, biker clothes, and just enough makeup to blend in with the other women, all were new weapons in her battle for anonymity amongst the surging crowd of increasingly intoxicated revelers.

_If he recognizes me, I'm dead._ The realization had new tentacles of icy fear wrestling for a grip on her vibrating senses. The thought that he might actually kill her this time crossed her mind, but instead of the expected tsunami of unreasoning panic, the danger only added fuel to the fire burning like magnesium deep in her soul.

She sat in her own dark corner of the booze-fueled melee and sipped the pseudo-cocktail, bating the trap with the projected appearance of a slightly tipsy, wanna-be biker chick.

Just when she thought he might not show, the noisy crowd momentarily parted and there he stood with a pool cue in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. The sight of him caused her heart to skip several beats before instantly vaulting to breakneck speed, pounding against her ribs.

"Oh, there's Bear now," Julie said, sliding from the stool. "About dammed time."

Hailey's blood turned to quicksilver at the admission of the woman now standing next to her. She turned, eyes wide in disbelief, afraid to utter a word. She sat frozen for several seconds, terrified of what she might let escape from her tightly controlled memory. _You couldn't mean him...could you?_

Giving a little wave toward a bearded mountain of leather and denim exiting the men's room, the other woman took her leave. "See you later!"

Pulling in some needed air in strangled gasp, Hailey suddenly felt very foolish. _I've got to get a grip!_ She repeated several times in reassurance.

Trying to calm her jangling nerves, she resumed watching her target drink and shoot pool. _Let him come to you._ She reminded herself, pulse surging with the alternating spikes of adrenaline-fired bravado and gripping dread.

While the party raged on, Hailey watched him strike out with two different women and turn away a particularly large, _extra_ -skanky blond. _Shit! What if he hooks up with someone else?_

The thought still ping-ponged through her head, but she needn't have worried. It took only a few more minutes before he slowly worked his way to the bar, pulling up a stool next to hers.

"Buy you a drink?" he said, slurring his words a bit and expelling a cloud of stale tobacco and alcohol fumes in her direction. She checked her watch, feigning indecision. _10:45. Now or never._

Gathering what little nerve she possessed, she turned to face him and noticed the glazed eyes were faintly unfocused. "Sure, why not?"

He put his lit cigarette between his lips and extended his hand toward her. "I'm Jake."

Confident now in her anonymity and wanting to appear equally inebriated, she nodded and shifted unsteadily on her stool. She mimicked the skanks, conjuring a boozy giggle as she appeared to slip off her perch. "Oops!"

"I'm Tina." She replied, giving him a little handshake before holding up her glass for the bartender to refill. "Jack and Coke, please."

"Band's great!" he said, leaning close to her ear. His proximity sent shivers of disgust racing up and down her spine as he openly eyed her chest.

"A little loud, though" she responded, steeling herself to his closer presence. "My brain is melting."

"You want to get out of here?" he asked hopefully.

"What do you have in mind?" she faked a hiccup and gave him a questioning gaze.

"Why don't we go for a little party of our own?"

"I don't know about that," she said, smiling conspiratorially. "I just met you."

"Nothing big, just a drink under the stars," he said. "There is a nice park we can walk to."

"Well...," she paused, appearing to consider his suggestion. "Okay."

They snaked though the crowd, making their way toward the door. "I need to use the restroom first," she said. "Don't go away."

She stepped inside the closet-sized space and snapped the lever, locking the door. She retrieved the revolver, hidden in her calf-high boot since she got to the club, and tucked it behind her back in the waistband of her jeans, the polished steel cold against her skin.

She faced the mirror, willing the woman staring back at her to control her raging state of mind, to get a grip on her swelling apprehension.

"He's just a man. You can do this," she reassured the reflection peering at her from the cracked and dingy glass. "The only power he has is what you give him."

Once outside, the pair walked in silence down the row of bikes as the music faded into the distance.

"So," he said, breaking the quiet. "What do you ride?"

"Oh, my Sporty's down on the other end," she said, cocking a thumb, pointing over her shoulder.

"Cool, I dig chicks that ride their own bikes."

"And you?"

"I have a few different bikes, but I rode my 66' Triumph today."

"Cool." She opined.

"Yeah, it's fun. I like it."

Moving with no particular hurry, they crossed the few blocks to the narrow dirt road leading up to their destination.

Leaving the darkness of the unlit parking lot behind them, they passed a couple headed the other way. Continuing on, the pair passed through the walking gate into the now-deserted park. They turned up the trail, the crunch of gravel under two pairs of boots sounding abnormally loud in the stillness of the night.

"Drink?" He offered, pulling a bottle from his back pocket.

She accepted the flask from his huge hands, taking a dainty sip.

"Wow, that's quite the belt you took. You might just be too much woman for me," he said laughing, voice laced with flippant sarcasm.

She returned the bottle. _This is it!_ She steeled herself for the act to follow.

"You're not afraid of lil' old me, are you?" she purred lasciviously, feeling his gaze lock on her ass as she moved down the trail just out of his reach.

"Should I be?" he laughed again, staggered a few steps toward her and took a pull from the bottle in his hand.

"No. After all," she teased, continuing in a cheesy little-girl voice, "You're a _big strong_ biker, and I'm just a girl."

He chuckled at the voice then stepped closer, reaching out to catch her wrist. The sudden contact sent flashes of loathing ricocheting through every fiber of her being.

He pulled her closer, crushing her to his chest, the predatory smile on his face fueling her growing alarm.

"Easy," she cautioned playfully, maintaining the facade while raw revulsion sent her stomach into anxious flips. "I don't like to play quite that rough."

"Then maybe you picked the wrong playmate." he grinned, tightening his grip on her wrist.

The dread ballooned in her mind, battling for release.

"Let me go!" her voice constricted, a stark terror trying to take control. She willed her vaulting emotions to settle.

"We both know you don't mean that." he said, the evil grin on his face chilling her to the core.

"Easy..." Her frightened words were lost as he mashed his lips to hers. She twisted in his grip, fighting to get her arm free. "Not so fast..." She writhed in his grasp, trying to escape, but his strength proved insurmountable.

He mashed his lips to hers a second time while the other hand reached between their bodies to squeeze her left breast with utter disregard for her comfort. In a flash of mounting panic she bit his lip, the metallic taste of blood foul in her mouth.

"You Bitch!" he bellowed in pain.

She felt his hand release her wrist, then dart out to connect with the side of her head in a thundering, open-handed slap. Her head snapped back, stars exploding across her vision. She staggered backward from the force of the blow. Tripping over a small boulder on the edge of the trail, she landed on the rocks, pain shooting along her spine before exploding in her shoulder.

He slowly stepped toward her, his face now stretched into a mask of malicious, uncontrolled fury.

"I'll show you _my_ idea of playing rough!" he snarled, dabbing at his bleeding lip as he closed the distance between them.

Head still spinning, she almost missed the quiet _click_ of the switchblade springing open in his hand, ten inches of steel gleaming in the moonlight.

Her eyes widened in horror as her brain instantly registered the memory of that cold blade in vivid detail.

_Not this time!_ She reached under her vest and the nickel-plated revolver came into view. The pistol jumped in her hand, the shot sounding like a cannon in her ears.

The shot smashed into Stone, shattering his right knee cap before blasting its way out, tearing muscle and tendon as it went.

He howled like the wounded animal he was, falling to the ground in a twisted heap. Rolling over on his back, he held his ruined leg while he screamed, his face now warped in agony.

"You shot me!" he roared, as the red stain ran down his now-useless leg. "You whore!"

He tried to staunch the flow of blood from the wound, but couldn't. Still reeling from the slap, Hailey scrambled back to her feet, eyes never leaving his.

"You really don't remember me do you?" she hissed, gun quivering in her hands.

"No!" he said, blood pouring from between his fingers. "I've never seen you before, you crazy bitch!"

"You raped me," she spat in disgust.

"You're nuts!" he said. "I never raped anybody!"

"You dragged me into an alley and held that knife on me while everyone got a turn," she said. "You said if I resisted, you'd cut my throat."

She lifted her chin, revealing a thin white scar. "This look familiar?" A little over two inches long, the scar's even stitch marks glowed in the Moonlight, an ugly blemish on her slender, otherwise-perfect neck.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he said between clenched teeth, still rocking back and forth on the ground in anguish.

"You terrorized me...you sadistic bastard!" she sputtered in rage. "You ruined my life!"

"You're insane!" he hissed in pain.

Her searing anger continued to fuel her rapid-fire thoughts. _He did this to you, make him own it. Don't let him lie his way out._ She could already see the red haze beginning to bleed in from the edges of her vision. Adrenaline cruised through her blood vessels without restraint. She pushed forward, heedless of the consequences.

"Admit what you did to me!" she said, voice now trembling. "And...and...I want the names of the others."

"I didn't rape you, you fucking psycho!"

"Just say it!" she raged, her face now cherry red with fury, heartbeat hammering in her ears, "Be a man _for once_!"

"Fuck off!" he grimaced, the pain from his wound again wracking his body.

"Tell the truth," she ordered as she cocked the hammer back. "Or I swear to God, I'll kill you right now!"

He tensed in a momentary twinge of fear. "You want the truth?" he screeched, "I _do_ remember you now. You _and_ your prick-teasing friends! You..."

The last rational connection between her finger and her brain snapped like a matchstick. Red veil now blinding her completely, she involuntarily squeezed the trigger. Piercing the red bubble, the second blast shook the night, its concussive echoes bouncing off the jagged rocks, racing into the distance.

She watched in a spilt-second of morbid fascination as a small crater erupted on Stone's forehead while the back of his skull disintegrated in a crimson shower of blood and bone. The explosion of gray matter made the insult the last thing to come out of his mouth. His now-lifeless body fell back like a sack of grain, the shattered skull striking the ground with a wet slap.

Trance snapped, she watched in abject horror as red gore ran in rivulets down the boulders behind Stone's corpse. Her tortured stomach, finally reaching its limit, mutinied at the gruesome sight. She fell to her knees and vomited. The harsh contractions shook her body, the cast-out whiskey mixing with the pool of blood in the dirt.

Still reeling in shock and pain, she finally pulled herself up and took several deep breaths to steady her shattered nerves. Reaching an uncontrollably trembling hand into her vest pocket, she removed the Queen of Clubs and dropped it on the dead man's chest.

Composing herself at last, she turned away from the horrific scene. She continued to breathe deeply and began an unsteady walk back down the trail. She mechanically put one foot in front of the other, her brain completely off-line, shut down by the emotional overload.

In the distance she heard a coyote, the mournful howl rolling down the canyon before disappearing in the pervasive stillness of the night. The very loneliness of the sound permeated her bones, chilling her in spite of the oppressive heat.
Chapter Fourteen

Smith stared at the clock sitting on his desk, noting his frustration at the case caused the hands to appear as if they had ground to a halt. He reached for a previously forgotten cup of coffee and raised it to his lips, finding it now cold and bitter. _Yecch._ He set it back down and pushed it out of his way.

A student, good grades, popular, star athlete. What gets a guy like this killed? There's obviously something here that I'm not seeing.

He briefly considered the scenarios where Grady may have walked into that alley his own.

He did have that pot on him, maybe he went to score some more.

The thought rattled around in Smith's head as he poured over notes on the abbreviated phone conversation with Senator Grady.

"My son's an adult, Detective Smith," Grady had informed him. "He has...had... his life in Tucson and his mother and I have ours here in Washington." **  
**Smith got a sense that a significant emotional distance existed between the two men as he replayed the conversation in his mind.

"I haven't talked to him in a week, but he may have spoken to his mother. I'll ask her and get back to you."

After the lecture he got from the Chief, Smith didn't really hold out much hope for that conversation.

Frustration pestering him like swarming gnats, he went through the phone logs on Grady's cell for the second time, noting that all of the numbers could be accounted for between school and sports. He threw the list back on the desk in annoyance.

Several hours went by as he read and re-read the reports and evidence lists. Finally, Smith sat back in his chair and scrubbed his face in his hands, contemplating the case file spread out on his desk. The pictures and reports seemed to swim before his weary eyes, mocking him. _Nothing fits, nothing leads anywhere. I_ need _a break._

He could feel the white concrete walls closing in, the useless frustration eating away at him as he reviewed the evidence report for the umpteenth time. He ticked off the clues they did have on the mental list that kept repeating in his head.

One steel nine millimeter casing, cheap Russian brand, commonly available, no prints.

Slug from alley fence, also nine millimeter, smashed, unmatchable.

No security tapes.

Jeep in the lot.

Small amount of marijuana on his person, pipe for same.

He reviewed the coroner's report...again, the words offering no more inspiration than they did two hours ago.

Trace found no hair or fibers on the body.

No robbery, no defensive wounds, nothing to point in any direction. Nothing to indicate any kind of motive.

He also knew several bags of evidence were sitting at the lab, still untouched. He didn't hold out much hope that any real help lay inside.

Somebody just walked up to him in the parking lot, pulled him into the alley at gunpoint, shot him and left. Why?

He struggled with the mental shell game that would lead to a motive. He had immediately ruled robbery out, with Grady's wallet recovered intact.

What would cause someone to put a bullet in this man? He didn't have any enemies that I can find.

He stared at the playing card in its transparent bag,

One print, no matches...also no help.

Turning the plastic bag containing the small piece of laminated paper over in his hand, the Queen's face remained unchanged. Her expression taunting, she seemed to laugh at him, refusing to relinquish her secrets.

Irritation, compounded by frustration, finally turned to inaction. He sat back, briefly stared at the picture of his "soon to be ex" wife Cassie and their young son and sighed. He picked up the frame, the small image now feeling heavy in his hand.

Pushing his chair away from his desk, he slumped, shoulders sagging in fatigue. _God, I miss Matthew...I miss you both._

He contemplated the beautiful woman looking back from the photograph. He knew, deep inside, that he'd failed her. When their son died, he'd shut himself off from her, from everything but his work. When she needed him, he wasn't there, physically or emotionally, to support her through her grief.

He still cringed at the memory of that radio call. He was on a case, as usual, when the dispatcher's voice alerted him to the accident. The woman on the other side of the radio could barely get the words out.

" _John, Cassie was involved in a 963 (emergency service-speak for a fatality) on Speedway at Alvernon. You need to get there right away."_

He had arrived at the scene minutes later, only to find his wife's Toyota shattered, the broken pieces spread across the intersection.

Cassie had suffered a broken arm and a mild concussion, but Matthew was gone, his tiny, five year-old body broken by the drunken driver's callous indifference.

Devastated beyond rational thought, his own sense of loss and guilt had overwhelmed him. He was so consumed by his own dark feelings that he had nothing left to give the one person who needed him most. _I'm so sorry, Cassie._

He loved his wife deeply, but that didn't seem to matter to her anymore. She had filed for divorce several weeks ago. The papers now sat ignored in the center drawer of his desk.

In the corner of his eye he spied a blur of motion in the squad room, snapping him out of his reverie. The large form captured his attention as it solidified into Chief Dan Matarski's bulbous shape. He sighed as he saw Matarski, complete with coffee and doughnut in hand, heading right for him. _Shit!_

Matarski stopped in the doorway. Standing right at six feet tall, he filled the frame.

"What's the status on the Grady case?" he asked, sipping the steaming coffee from a ceramic mug.

Smith constructed his response carefully, not wanting to start off the day by getting his ass chewed...again. He opted for omission as a minor diversion to buy some time.

"Well Chief, I'm working on several leads. I'll have an update for you by tomorrow."

Smith steeled himself for the inevitable backlash, and wasn't disappointed as the older man's voice bounced off the ceiling while his face reddened, taking on the appearance of an over-ripe tomato.

"Not good enough! You know that Grady's father is _Senator_ Grady," he spoke matter-of-factly, moving to pace the room in front of Smith's desk. "I also got a call from the Mayor this morning, telling me _his Honor_ isn't very happy that we don't have a suspect yet, and the press is crawling up my ass with a magnifying glass. I need to tell them something _today_."

Smith winced, this was the part of his job he hated the most, the politics. The very idea of it grated on his senses and came up raw in his throat. _Police work is supposed to be about public service and protection, not politics._

"Sorry, Chief. I'll get you something as soon as I can."

Matarski paused for several seconds, appearing to consider Smith's response. "Well...Um...good then," he said. "Make sure I have it on my desk before the council meeting at three. Also, no one talks to the media. No exceptions. Got it?"

"Yes, I got it."

"Good." Spinning on his heel, Matarski strode resolutely out the door. Smith's gaze bored into his superior's retreating back. _Asshole!_

The phone rang, snapping his concentration. He lifted it to his ear, hearing the hollow tones of a cell phone call.

"Yes, this is Detective John Smith," he said into the receiver.

"Yes, I put out that request." He paused to again listen to the voice on the other end.

"You do? I'll be there as soon as I can."

He quickly scribbled the address on a notepad as the voice went on. He placed the handset back in the cradle, rubbing his eyes in fatigue. "Be careful what you wish for," he said to the otherwise-empty office, remembering his latest plea for a lead. "You may get it."

Rising from his chair, he reached in his desk drawer and withdrew his sidearm. Dropping the clip into his hand, he checked the load out of habit before sliding it into the holster on his hip. Grabbing the Stetson from a nearby chair, he donned the hat and pulled the door closed behind him.

Passing Phoenix, Smith pointed his department-issue Crown Victoria north on Interstate 17, listening as the air conditioning wheezed in a pitched battle against the staggering heat.

Located near Black Canyon City, High Desert Park sits on 90 acres of parched scrub brush and cactus. The desolate area rests both geographically and aesthetically between the urban sprawl of Phoenix and the quiet, pastoral solitude of Flagstaff.

He drove up the steep driveway and turned left into the main parking area.

The grounds primarily consist of a few man-made walking paths meandering between the various flora and fauna of the harsh landscape native to central and southern Arizona. Just about the only indigenous inhabitants there are the rattlesnakes, scorpions and the occasional tarantula. Everything that lives there either bites, stings or is covered in thorns. Smith mentally cataloged it as the textbook definition of 'hostile environment' police manuals talk about.

Tires crunching in the gravel, he took in the utter desolation of the terrain, making his way past the marked cars to the edge of the crime scene tape.

_No one should die here._ He thought, leaving the relative comfort of his air-conditioned ride and stepping out into the triple-digit heat of another brilliant summer day.

Flashing his badge, he approached the officer guarding the perimeter.

"John Smith, Tucson Police. I'm looking for Deputy Mendoza."

The officer pointed to a white Chevy SUV a few yards to Smith's left, its police markings vibrant in the afternoon sun. He saw a large Hispanic man in uniform leaning on the hood of the SUV.

"You Smith?" the man asked as he walked forward, closing the distance.

"John Smith, Tucson Police. You Mendoza?"

The man held out his hand. "Hector Mendoza, Yavapai County Sheriff's Office, nice to meet you."

Smith shook his fellow officer's hand with a firm grip. "What have you got?"

"Homicide victim. Driver's license says he's Jake Stone, 26, from Phoenix."

"Why call me?"

"You put out the wire asking about playing cards you found at one of your scenes, right?"

"I did."

He gave Smith an evidence bag.

"Recognize it?" Mendoza asked. "We found this on the victim's body."

Smith turned over the bag and the Queen of Clubs stared back at him from inside, her gaily colored robes smeared with dried blood.

Smith pulled a copy of the card from the Grady case file and checked the pattern on the front. _They seem to be a match._

"Christ!" he said, his face suddenly sagging.

"What?"

"I've been a cop almost 19 years. I'd hoped to retire without ever seeing one of these." He said, handing the evidence bag back to the other officer.

"One of what?" Mendoza asked, re-examining the card for something he might have missed.

"A serial killer."

"Holy Mother of God," Mendoza whispered, then shook his head in reluctant acceptance. "Is he yours or mine?"

"I don't know for sure, but I think he's mine," Smith said. "I checked the database before I came and there aren't any other open cases in Arizona that fit the profile."

"Until now." Mendoza said with a sigh.

"Until now," Smith conceded. "Cause of death?"

"Looks like two slugs, one in the knee and one in the forehead."

"Shell casings?"

"We didn't find any,"

"Body dump?" Smith asked.

"I don't think so. The amount of blood indicates that he was shot here."

Smith nodded in understanding, already beginning to sweat, moisture congealing on his forehead and dampening his shirt.

"We also have two sets of footprints and there was a half-empty flask on the body, had traces of lipstick on it," Mendoza said. "Looks like he picked up a woman at the bar and brought her here."

"So, he came up here to get lucky and ended up getting dead," Smith said. "Random shooting maybe, wrong place, wrong time?"

"That's what I thought," Mendoza said. "Until I saw the card."

"Any leads?"

"We'll run everything for prints and DNA, see if we get a hit. But that takes time."

"And for now?" Smith asked.

"Uniforms found his motorcycle back at the Rock Springs Cantina. The bartender is waiting for us."

"How do you want to handle it?" Smith said.

"Well," Mendoza started, "Usually we would work these cases separately, but those playing cards tell me they're related. Don't you think so?

"I do."

"Good. I'm glad we agree."

"Now, how about your Sheriff, he wouldn't be opposed to a little 'information sharing', would he?"

Mendoza smiled a sly little grin. "It's always easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission."

Now it was Smith's turn to smile. "Let's go talk to the bartender."

Leaving the dusty confines of the sun-drenched park in Smith's car, the two detectives drove back to the bar. They rode in the heat, air conditioning working overtime.

Mendoza broke the silence. "We get these up here from time to time."

"Get what?"

"Bodies. This corridor along I-17 has been a dumping ground for stiffs for decades. Every time the drug wars in Phoenix heat up, we start finding them."

Smith turned to look at Mendoza, questioning in his expression.

"But this doesn't fit the profile of drug-related violence," Mendoza continued. "The vic didn't have any previous arrests for dealing or ties to known dealers or gangs."

"My guy didn't have any thing like that either, but I did find a small amount of marijuana on his body." Smith said.

"Okay. So, it doesn't seem likely but we can't overlook it either," Mendoza went on. "Most of the crime in this county is either directly or indirectly tied to the drug trade. In the absence of other evidence, I tend to look there first. It seems to be a considerable time saver."

They arrived at the cafe, entering the darkness from the incandescent sunlight outside. The two detectives made their way toward the bar on the far side of the room. The rock music played from the speakers, quietly filling the dimly lit establishment with the sounds of guitars and drums. Mendoza approached the bartender and identified Smith and himself.

"Did you see this guy in here last night?" he asked, holding out his cell phone, a picture of Stone on the screen, his face pasty in death. The bartender, his balding head slick with sweat, stopped polishing the glass in his hand long enough to get a brief look at the small image.

"He drove that motorcycle outside." Mendoza added.

"Yeah, he was here," the man said, shrugging his shoulders. "There was a big run yesterday. A lot of bikers stopped in here. He drank and shot pool, same as everybody else."

"Did you see if he was with a woman?" Smith asked in cautious tones. "Maybe left with her."

"We had a shit-load of people in here last night. I can't keep track of them all," he said. "Only reason I remember him is because of the Triumph patch on his vest. Usually it's all Harley stuff."

"Can you tell us about what time he left?" Mendoza said.

"Not really. Sorry."

"I suppose a surveillance tape is too much to ask for." Mendoza continued, the offhand remark garnering a derisive look from the man behind the bar.

"You're kidding, right?" the bartender said mockingly, picking up another glass. "The only security around here is me... and the Glock under the counter."

Mendoza hurled a curse in Spanish, a language in which Smith was fluent.

"You can say that again." Smith replied, sighing.

After questioning the waitress and the cook, Smith and Mendoza were no further along than before.

Mendoza cursed again. "This woman's a dammed ghost," he opined. "Nobody saw her, nobody remembers her."

Smith nodded in agreement. "A ghost...with 50 cards left in the deck."

_Part Three_ ...The noose tightens

Chapter Fifteen

Looking over her shoulder as she ran, her heart pounded in mounting terror as the glowing eyes emerged from the blue-black darkness. The giant red beast trailed her through the desert, throwing back its huge horned head and bellowing a deafening roar of rage and impatience.

Crashing through the underbrush, her legs burned with exertion as she fled into the night, fueled by a blinding terror searing her every nerve ending. Branches slapped at her face and arms, cutting her skin like a thousand shards of glass as the fear drove her forward toward a clearing in the brush.

The army of tall green trolls stood in precise formation, guarding the trail, their raised arms blocking the way to safety. Reaching for her, their spines stretched to jagged blades as she approached. Mind aflame with panic, she screamed as they lunged, capturing her as she dodged and parried, trying to run the lethal gauntlet.

Twisting and contorting in an ill-fated escape attempt, the pain exploded in her helpless limbs as the needles found their targets, holding her fast. She stared frozen in horror as several tines wiggled fiendishly, digging deeper into her soft flesh before striking bone. Losing feeling in her legs, she sagged, now supported only by the dozens of foot-long thorns piercing her body. Overriding the pain, hot panic flooded her mind as the beast approached. Renewing her struggle to get free, she heard the sharp, metallic clicking of its claws, the fetid stench of its crab-like body burning her nostrils.

Her scream shattered the silence, splitting the air and bouncing off the walls of her bedroom.

Hailey's eyes fluttered open and the bed continued to spin. Heart racing, she took several deep breaths. _Phew, what a nightmare!_

The thunder throbbing at her temples matched the sharp stabbing pains radiating from her hip, the biting trail winding past her shoulder to her head.

She stole a glance at the clock on the nightstand. _Four o'clock...in the afternoon?_ _Holy Shit!_

She rolled onto her back, the action causing her stomach to clench, telegraphing it's displeasure to her brain with startling clarity. She swallowed dryly, her mouth still clogged with the unpleasant grit left behind by one too many cocktails.

_Note to self; stay_ away _from hard liquor. Beer only, from now on._

Gingerly climbing out of bed, she began to strip off last night's clothes, the rank odor of stale tobacco assaulting her senses.

She padded to the shower and stepped inside, her tortured muscles absorbing the water's soothing heat.

Washing off the stink of the bar, she thought about the events of the previous night as the soap bubbles ran in rivulets down her face before trailing the length of her body. She absent-mindedly watched them swirl around her feet before they disappeared down the drain. She stood under the spray and let the heat and steam soak in, working their magic.

The ride home from Black Canyon City began drifting back in random, disconnected fragments. She remembered it was after two a.m. when she entered her apartment, dehydrated from the ride and suffering from physical injury and mental exhaustion.

" _I can't believe I drove_ that far _after drinking that much!_ She chastised herself. _I'm lucky I didn't kill myself...or someone else._

As the clouds of steam circled her head, she began to slowly piece together the events following the encounter with Stone at the park. She recalled making her way back down the trail to the cafe, stunned and disoriented. As the shower flowed, the scene at the bar replayed in her mind, returning in full color. She remembered going into the ladies room to clean herself up, shock and pain making the trek nearly insurmountable. Once behind the locked door, she looked in the mirror and saw the already-darkening bruise on her cheek. She washed the dirt off her face and brushed her clothes clean, now ready to face the world outside.

She moved through the bar in silence, tremors of fright still skittering across her body. She took a small table on the outdoor patio, away from prying eyes, and ordered a drink to settle her frazzled nerves. She accepted the glass with unsteady hands and moved it to her mouth, the whiskey stinging her tongue before burning a trail to her stomach. As she felt the alcohol spread out into her bloodstream, she hoped it would both deaden the pain in her body and quiet her tortured mind. Downing the drink, she ordered another from the passing waitress, desperately trying to drive the revolting images of the battle from her memory.

"You okay?" The waitress had asked as she wrote the order on a napkin.

"I'm fine," Hailey answered. "Had a fight with my boyfriend, that's all."

The waitress threw her a disbelieving look before going back to the bar to fill her order. The rest of the evening blurred into a chemical-induced haze as the additional cocktails took affect.

Coming back to the present, she turned off the shower tap, the comforting flow having now gone cold. Exiting the steamy chamber, she toweled off her curvy body before starting on her waist-length hair. The throbbing in her head had spread to her entire body, the incendiary pain a combination of the fight with Stone and the midnight ride back up the mountain. She gasped in incredulity, examining the dark purple bruise on her cheek in the steam-fogged mirror. _Bastard!_

Trying to cover the damage to her cheek with an extra application of concealer and make-up, she looked in the obscured glass and berated herself for losing control with Stone. She wanted to get the other names, but her blind rage stepped in and slammed that door with an astonishing strength that surprised even her.

_To call me a...that awful name...after he_ raped _me! The son of a bitch deserved what he got._

She suppressed a transient gag reflex as the picture of Stone's disintegrating head flashed before her eyes. She swallowed firmly, pushing her rebellious stomach back where it belonged.

For an instant a moral debate flared within her, fleeting yet commanding attention. Of course she believed killing was wrong, but she also could never forget how those four disgusting perverts forced themselves on her in that alley. _What I did wasn't murder, it was justice!_

While tentatively confident in her righteous crusade, she also wondered, however momentarily, if she wasn't trying to justify yet another senseless act of violence, even if it was one she herself perpetrated. _Am I really any better than them?_ Another brick silently clicked into place in her emotional wall as she pushed the unwelcome notion aside. _Even if I didn't...if I hadn't...If I hadn't_ shot _him, nothing could_ ever _make up for what they did to me._

She searched herself and suddenly realized she felt no real remorse for what she had done. _They started this, I'm just ending it. An eye for an eye, isn't that the old adage?_ That introspective revelation of her darker side scared her almost as much as the monsters themselves. She scrubbed her face in her hands, the monumental hangover still tormenting her. Another thought suddenly entered her disconcerted mind, pushing its way in with strength and determination. _What would Greg think?_ His face floating in front of her mental vision, she wanted so much to ask him if she was doing the right thing by confronting these dangerous, evil men.

Take back your life, he'd said. Well, I hope I didn't just throw it way completely.

The ring tone of her cell phone suddenly blared to life, interrupting her troubled musings.

She looked at the display and noticed the name on the caller I.D. belonged to her friend.

"Hey Jenna, What's up?" she said, still groggy, the words clipped with pain.

"Mandy and I thought we'd get you out of the house for the night. Interested?"

"Not really. I'm not feeling too well." She said.

"Is this the _'I've got cramps'_ kind of not feeling too well or the _'I just don't want to go out'_ kind?" Her friend asked.

Hailey didn't respond.

Hailey's best friends, Jenna Monroe and Mandy Jansen were as different from her as they could be.

Amanda "Mandy" Jansen had been Hailey's friend since moving next door when they were six and seven years old respectively. They even shared the same teacher in the second grade. Mandy, a lithe brunette, was a classic 'Plain Jane' girl, while very cute, she was not prone to extremes of dress or behavior.

Mandy was one of the few people Hailey told about the attack. She did her best to understand, but lacked any kind of frame of reference for Hailey's continuing emotional distress.

Jenna, on the other hand, was 5-feet, 11-inches of blond-haired, blue-eyed "girl power". With her looks and personality she was a force-5 tornado of energy and sex appeal. A party girl since the age of fifteen, Jenna turned twenty-one two months ago and could now legally drink. She enjoyed exercising that privilege at every opportunity. The stunning young woman reveled in the attention her center-fold looks drew from men everywhere she went. Jenna believed that every woman craved the same constant male attention she did.

_She doesn't get it._ Hailey thought _. I don't_ want _to be the center of attention._ Hailey also knew Jenn's promiscuity and artificial confidence were merely overcompensation for her absentee father's blatant disinterest in her life.

"It's been a hundred years since we went out," Jenna said. "We're not taking no for an answer. You won't become a nun on my watch."

"Thanks a lot."

Jenna still didn't consciously understand the attack's affect on Hailey. The outwardly confident Jenna couldn't believe Hailey would rather stay away from strangers, especially young men, as she insisted.

"Come on, we'll have some fun. You do remember fun don't you?"

"Bite me!"

"Don't be mean!"

"I'm not being mean. I'm just not really up for one of your bar-hopping excursions tonight, that's all," Hailey replied. "They always end up the same; you get a zillion guys and I end up sitting alone at the table watching them feel you up on the dance floor. No, thanks. Besides, I don't want to get carded. It's embarrassing."

"I know the bouncer at the _The_ _Rat's Nest_ , he can get you in," she said. "They're having the hot rod show today. Should be plenty of prime beef walking around."

She franticly searched her troubled mind for a way to dissuade her friend from insisting on a night out she didn't want. _Can't she understand? I don't want to go back there._

"I don't have anything to wear," she said, the excuse sounding lame the instant it passed her lips.

Undaunted, Jenna pressed on. "We'll bring everything. You need a makeover anyway," Jenna insisted. "It's time you stopped dressing like some dowdy school teacher."

"There's nothing wrong with the way I dress," Hailey replied defensively. "I think my clothes suit my style."

"Yes. The style that says 'I still want to be single when I'm fifty'," she said. "We're coming. Someone's got to save you from becoming a fashion train wreck."

"Love you too!" Hailey launched back.

"We'll be there in a few minutes. Bye!"

She snapped her phone shut.

Going to the kitchen, she chugged a bottle of water, hoping for some relief from the self-induced damage of her recent alcohol abuse. The thought of going out clubbing still struck a terrible cord in her mind. She burned with the memory of the time she went clubbing and it had all gone so horribly wrong, changing her life forever. _How could they have left me at the bar? They're supposed to be my friends._ She thought, her momentary anger dispelled by the reality she reluctantly accepted. _How could I have been so stupid as to leave without a ride?_

She was just about to call and cancel when there was a knock at the door. She opened it and Jenna burst through in a whirlwind of excited chatter and expensive perfume, Mandy close behind. The jubilant pair didn't even stop in the front room, but moved directly to Hailey's bedroom.

"I brought you a dress for tonight. You'll look awesome in this," Jenna said, pulling a red silk dress from a garment bag she hung on the bedroom door. "Go put it on."

HH ipHailey In the bathroom, Hailey stepped into the dress and slid her arms through the spaghetti straps. The backless number tightly hugged her body, the delicate fabric clinging to her curves like fresh paint. She gasped at her reflection in the full-length mirror fastened to the back of the door. _Oh, my God!_ She did a double take. _This dress makes me look like I'm naked._

"Come on guys," she walked to the other room, hands trying to pull the hem down in a vain attempt to cover her upper thighs. "I can't wear this."

Failing to cover more of her legs, she noted the plunging neckline ended squarely between her full breasts. "I look like a porn star. I'm taking it off."

"Don't you dare! You look beautiful." Jenna said pulling open a drawer and rummaging through Hailey's dresser, locating a pair of black stockings, the tops trimmed in a wide band of red lace.

"I'm all boobs in this dress. I don't want to spend the night with people talking to my chest." She adjusted her breasts inside the dress in a vain attempt to minimize the cleavage.

"I'd like to have half of what you have upstairs." Mandy said from her spot sitting on Hailey's bed, idly twisting her hair around her finger.

"Are you talking about my brains or my boobs?"

"Both." She said, causing laughter to burst from all three women.

Hailey watched herself revolve in the mirror on the bedroom door. "You really think this looks alright?" she smoothed the front of the dress down and turned back to her friends. "Not too slutty?"

Mandy met her friend's eyes, blue orbs reflected in the glass. "Are you kidding? I'd kill to look as good as you."

Jenna gave Hailey an appraising look from head to toe. "Just the right amount of slutty, I'd say," Jenna commented in mock seriousness. "Provocative, yet pornographic."

Hailey looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Thanks...I think."

This time they all laughed.

Jenna went to the garment bag and removed a pair of matching open-toed shoes with four-inch heels, dropping them on the floor before Hailey. "Really, you look great. You'll have them drooling in the aisles."

"Just what I need, aisle drool." She smirked.

"Come on! Don't be such an old lady," Mandy said, "It will be fun. Besides, you really do look fantastic."

"If you think it really looks okay...alright I'll go," she said, still tugging at the hem of the dress. She continued, eyeing Jenna dubiously. "But we stay together, no random hook-ups, okay?"

Both women nodded in understanding.

"I'll drive." Jenna said.

"Remember, we all leave together, no excuses." Hailey repeated.

Her friends nodded again in agreement. "We promise."

Spirits lifting, Hailey followed Jenna and Mandy as the three made their way to Jenna's car and shot out of the parking lot, the sleek convertible's bass speakers thumping in concussive waves of noise pollution.
Chapter Sixteen

Smith and Mendoza parked their respective vehicles in the reserved lot behind the old sheriff's center on Gurley Street, the sweltering heat of Black Canyon City now replaced by the brisk winds of Prescott's Bradshaw Mountains.

After the fruitless conversations with the staff at the café, Mendoza now suffered the same frustration with the new case that plagued Smith from the beginning.

"You want to get some dinner?" Smith said. "I don't know about you, but I can not live by doughnuts alone."

"I could eat," Mendoza said, a smile crossing his features. "You ever been to Prescott before?"

"Never."

"Then I've got a treat for you," he said. "Let's hit the Gurley St. Grill. It's one of the best places in town."

"Sounds cool to me. Let's do it." Smith said.

Walking down the street in the gathering breeze, the pair headed west on Gurley, crossing Montezuma. Moving further down the block, they came to the small restaurant, knots of customers occupying benches on both sides of the entrance.

"Hang on a second. I'll put us on the wait list." Mendoza said, then disappeared inside the restaurant.

Smith looked around, eyes settling on the looming edifice of the Yavapai County Courthouse across the street. The gray granite structure was a classic work of government architecture, all columns and steps. Smith also noticed the large clock nestled under the roof eaves. The building warmly reminded him of that famous movie with the eccentric inventor and the time-traveling DeLorean. Unconsciously checking his watch against the time displayed on the face, he waited and watched as the air was suddenly alive with the peal of bells, the strong tones announcing the seven o'clock hour.

He scanned up and down the street, noting the restored buildings and small shops dotting the thoroughfare, while Mendoza sat on the bench to the right of the eatery's door.

A few minutes went by before the host, dapper in his western attire, called them to their table.

"That was fast." Smith said.

Mendoza gave him a little crooked smile. "It pays to be in good with the management."

Mendoza led the way inside and motioned to the busy waitress. A few moments later, the woman appeared at their table, took their order and retreated.

The two sat in silence for several minutes before Mendoza spoke. "I was thinking about the footprints at the scene and they _are_ consistent with a woman," Mendoza said. "They're long, but didn't have much depth. That says tall woman or very slight man. So I think we are looking for a woman, just like you said."

"I think the two men are connected through this woman," Smith said. "Even though it isn't immediately clear, they must have some common link to her."

"I don't know how they are connected either, but you're right. They must be."

"Okay. So, we're looking for a tall woman, who knows how to use a gun..."

The waitress returned with their plates, setting them down then moving to circle the tables, staying on the periphery.

Mendoza jumped in, hitch-hiking on Smith's train of thought.

"She blended in with the bikers, maybe she was one of them," he said. "Or played the part to get close to Stone."

"Okay. So, if that's true, then that means Stone wasn't chosen at random," Smith surmised. "The playing cards pretty much prove that anyway."

"Agreed," Mendoza said. "She, assuming our killer is a she, must have known him before the night of the murder."

"Same goes for Grady." Smith answered from across the table.

"This is the part I don't get," Mendoza said, putting a thin slice of steak in his mouth. "Why would our killer pick these two?"

"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" Smith said, taking a large bite of his grilled chicken sandwich. "We better find the right answer...and soon."

The two continued eating and several minutes, and a few beers, later the waitress hurried past and Mendoza made eye contact, bringing her to his side. "Check please."

She handed him a slip of paper.

He turned back to Smith, "I'm beat, and I have some paperwork to finish before I go home. I'll see you in the morning?"

"Okay," he said. "Thanks for dinner, and all your help."

"No problem. I want to take another crack at running down Stone's movements the day before his death," Mendoza said. "Then I have to go to Cottonwood to testify in a case."

"Let's meet for breakfast before you leave."

"Okay."

The two parted company on the sidewalk and Mendoza strode off. Smith ignored the bright lights and the sounds of the people as he made his way back up the small hill to his hotel.

Restored to its original western feel, the Hotel St. Michael and attached café serve as a hub of downtown activity on weekends. Inside the lobby, the heavy woods and dark colors reminded Smith of his favorite western movies, the simple furnishings classic, yet appealing.

Moving upstairs to his room, he shut the door behind him and fell onto the king-sized bed. He stared at the ceiling for several moments, eyes closed, resting and trying to still his tired mind. He drew a long breath, exhaled and opened his eyes, taking in the room's antique atmosphere. He noted the quilt on the bed had the feel and heft of another era. His cell's ring tone broke the silence of the room. He flipped open the device and placed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"John, it's me."

He immediately recognized his wife's soft voice on the other end of the line. He still couldn't think of her as 'the ex'.

'Cassie, hi. What's going on?"

"Hi. I'll get right to the point. I haven't got the divorce papers back from you yet. I need them."

"It's not a good time to talk about this right now. I'm up in Prescott working."

"What are you doing there?

"I'm on a case, a homicide."

"Oh, my God." She gasped.

"You probably saw it on the news. Somebody shot Senator Grady's son, the baseball star, in an alley out by the Air Force base."

"How awful. His poor mother must be inconsolable."

"Yes. It's very sad," he continued. "Anyway, as you can imagine, the Chief made this a high priority, very high priority. I'll get the papers to you later."

"You're always on a high priority case," she said, her voice laced with irritation. "I've been waiting for three weeks."

"I'm sorry. You know how these things go."

"But the papers are ready, right?"

Silence.

"See John, this is what I mean. This is what I've been talking about. You always put work ahead of me. When do _I_ get to be a priority?" she paused, her loud sigh audible over the airwaves. "Did you even _sign_ the papers yet?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I wanted to talk to you first."

"Oh, God. Aren't we past that stage by now? There's really nothing more to say."

"I hope that's not true."

"I want to know when you're going to sign the papers." She said, her voice steadfast and determined.

"I told you, I have to read them through first and then we'll talk."

"What's there to talk about? Just sign the papers."

"When I get a minute, I'll look them over." Irritation began to seep into his tone.

"You already know what's there. I can't be married to a man who doesn't love me," she said. "Your job means more to you than our marriage."

"That's not true," he said. "I'm a police officer. That entails a lot of long hours."

"And, I know about your girlfriend." she said, the pain in her voice quite evident.

_Oh, Hell. Not this again._ She had accused him of infidelity years before, also erroneously.

"Cassie, there _is_ no girlfriend. I've told you that a dozen times."

"I don't believe you," she said. "You don't want me anymore, so there must be someone else. Even when you're here, it's like you're not here. Your mind is somewhere else. That can only mean one thing."

"That's not true. I've never cheated on you and I don't want anybody else."

She paused, seeming to consider what he said. "Please, let's not drag this out any more. I need those papers."

"If you _insist_ on going forward with this I'll take care of it when I get back."

"You should have taken care of it before you left, weeks ago as a matter of fact," she said. "I need to give those papers to my lawyer."

"I had other things on my plate," he said. "Can't we talk about this later?"

"Oh, now, all of a sudden, you want to talk. What about the counseling you agreed to? You missed four appointments!" Now the irritation broke out in her voice as well.

"You know that was work," he defended himself, the attempt sounding weak, even to him. "I'm sorry."

The delaying tactic was playing itself out. He knew he would have to sign eventually. However, he still held out a small hope, miniscule really, that he might be able to convince her to reconsider. The couple had problems, sure, but he felt that they could be overcome if they both worked at it. He still felt the nagging pangs of guilt over missing the appointments with the marriage counselor. _I think she still loves me, deep down, but she's lost faith in me... in us...and that's my fault._

"Please, let's give it one more chance. I promise, no more missed meetings. You'll come first."

Silence on the line.

"Cassie?"

"John, as much as I love you, you'll never change. You're obsessed with your work. You're goal-oriented and single-minded," she said, the irritation in her voice now gone, replaced with melancholy. "That's what makes you a great detective. They're just not qualities for a good husband."

"Can't we try again?" he said, trying to infuse his words with some hope. "I promise this time it will be different...I'll be different."

"Please John, just sign the papers," she said. "It's time to end this...before we really hurt each other."

He could feel that small glimmer of optimism dim with her words. The tone of her voice resigned, it rang with a painful finality.

"Okay. You're right. I'll sign the papers as soon as I get back home," he said, voice flat in defeat. "I'll get them to you next week."

"No more delays?" she asked.

"No more delays."

"Thank you. I'll see you when you get back."

Holding the dead phone in his hand, he again tried to mentally concoct a convincing argument to save his marriage. He struggled to come up with anything, no matter how farfetched, that would get Cassie to postpone the divorce. Running out of viable options, he scrubbed his face in his hands and heaved a long, heavy sigh, the sting of his wife's rejection adding insult to injury.

"I need a drink." His dark admission echoed across the empty room. Lucky for him, he remembered his hotel anchored an entire street of bars and clubs. _How convenient._ He propped his Stetson back on his head and started toward the door.

Whiskey Row, just as the name implied, comprised a string of small bars and nightclubs along Prescott's historic downtown district. Established in the late 1860's, Whiskey Row's original bars and brothels catered to the ranchers, miners and residents carving out a living in the post-Civil War Bradshaw Mountains. A page right out of Old West folklore, gunfights broke out in the street and some bullet holes still exist in the ceiling of one popular restaurant.

Many of the original buildings on the west side of the street burned in 1900 and the legend goes that several intoxicated cowboys picked up the forty-foot long bar in the Palace Saloon and carried it across the street to safety, then served drinks while the fire raged. The historic rescue mission was re-enacted on the 100th anniversary of the event, to the enjoyment of hundreds of spectators watching from the steps of the Yavapai County Courthouse.

With its colorful history of good-natured debauchery, "The Row", as it is often called, is now an entertainment, shopping and curiosity destination for locals and tourists alike.

Once outside, Smith marveled at the size of the Friday night crowds. Each club seemed to be overflowing, the happy revelers pouring out onto the sidewalk in small groups. He felt their exuberant energy as he approached. Not exactly in the mood for a party, he continued down the street, looking for a decent place to blow off some steam and misplace his problems for awhile.

He stopped, wondering which way to go, which one of the many beckoning taverns he should patronize. _What difference does it really make, a beer's a beer._ He decided if he had to be miserable, he didn't want to be miserable...and have to listen to crappy music at the same time. He passed a few places by before finding what he was looking for. The hard rock blasted out into the street as he pulled open the door. Few people knew it, but John Smith, despite his weathered cowboy appearance, was a classic rock man at heart.

He went inside and found a seat at the bar, the band on stage captivating the audience in an outstanding version of the iconic _Who_ tune, " _Behind Blue Eyes_ ". The arch of speakers surrounding the musicians shook the glassware on the tables.

"What'll it be?" the pretty bartender asked, her voice barely cutting the din as she mixed a cocktail he didn't immediately recognize.

_Screw the beer. I don't feel like wasting time._ "I'll have a rum and Coke."

She nodded and turned a rocks glass over on the bar, filling it to the rim and placing it on a napkin in front of him. "That's four-fifty."

He handed her a twenty.

She headed toward the other end of the bar, the green concoction she previously created now in hand.

He swallowed half his drink in one smooth pull, mood still dark and brooding, his conversation with Cassie still burning a hole in his emotions. _I guess it's really over._

He killed the rest of the drink and signaled the bartender for another, which she quickly poured and set before him.

The band cut into another song, but Smith was lost in thought. He knew his wife was right. It was his fault their marriage fell apart. _What does she want me to do, quit the force? What the hell would I do if I'm not a cop?_ He considered different scenarios for several minutes as the alcohol began to have the desired effect. _I can't sit around all day in an empty apartment. I suppose I could get my P.I. license._ Smith dismissed the idea, knowing that trailing errant spouses and snapping pictures of them in the act of infidelity is the bread and butter of a private investigator's work. _I don't want to peek in peoples' windows for a living._

Yelling over the blare of the band belting out _Van Halen_ 's _"Running with the Devil"_ , he flagged down the bartender again. "A shot of Capitan Morgan's please!"

The spiced rum burned all the way down his throat, landing with a bang to his head. He pushed Cassie from his mind, only to find the empty space filled with a replay of his argument with the Chief. Smith ordered another shot, now really beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. _I can't believe Matarski wants me to tip-toe around the Grady case. You'd think the Senator would want me to find out who killed his son. What is he hiding?_ Thoughts now becoming too jumbled and aggravating to endure, he ordered another shot. _Fuck, maybe I_ should _quit. It would probably be a relief._

He downed the liquid, feeding the fire in his stomach, and gave up thinking for the night, just trying to enjoy the drinks and the music.
Chapter Seventeen

The stereo's blast echoing as they drove, Jenna and company turned off Gurley Street on to Granite. Parking in the new four-story garage, the three girls traversed the alley behind the Hotel St. Michael with clicking heels, making their way around the front to Whiskey Row. Jenna jabbed Hailey in the ribs. "Look at him," she nodded her head toward a tall, muscular man walking from the opposite direction. "He's really cute, for an older man."

Hailey watched his lean, fit body as he moved closer on the crowded sidewalk. Moving her gaze to his face, she took in the rugged features, offset by the tan Stetson sitting atop his head at a jaunty angle. "He _is_ cute," she said, then completed the thought in silence. _Older or not._

The three approached the door of the bar and Jenna held up her arm, blocking the other two.

"I'll go tell Don we're here," she said. "He said he'll get you guys in." She disappeared between the rough sawn café doors into the noise and smoke beyond.

_The Rat's Nest_ , as the name implied was small and dark. Unlike the name implied, it was also clean and classy. Noted for its live music, the bar catered to the college set.

Jenna ushered the other two through a side entrance and down a narrow hall, the stacks of liquor bottles creating a cardboard maze. She handed her friends each a bright orange wrist band. "Here, put this on. It's a VIP band. With this, you won't get carded."

Hailey wound the strap over her right arm and fastened it.

"We can also meet the band if we want." Jenna said, face flushed with excitement.

Lights and sound assaulted Hailey's ears as she stepped from the back room into the main hall of the club, the buzz of voices just audible above the music.

Looking into the lounge, she noticed the stage occupied what appeared to be an old orchestra pit, now converted to a cozy area surrounded by bistro tables. The revelers sat watching, listening and drinking, their smiles evident.

A lone young woman, perched atop a bar stool on stage, picked out original tunes on an electric guitar. The smooth tones of the bouncy composition both cheered and energized the three newcomers.

Making their way through the crowded dance floor, Hailey lurched slightly forward as someone bumped into her from behind. "Excuse me," she said, a bit testily.

She turned her head, meeting the biggest pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She expanded her gaze to take in the young man's face, his strong features sending out a loud ping of interest to her hormonal radar. Momentarily struck silent, she just stood still looking at the living Adonis.

"Sorry," he said, moving back to a respectable distance in the swaying throng. "It's kinda tight in here."

He smiled at her and moved on, disappearing into the crowd and noise. Hailey watched him retreat for several seconds before elbowing her way forward to catch up with her friends.

On the far side of the pit, she saw Jenna and Mandy taking seats at a high-boy bistro table. Hailey took her place between them. They watched the people and enjoyed the music, taking in the ambiance, soaking up the abundant energy of dozens of young people out for a night on the town.

After a few minutes, a young woman approached, an empty drink tray hanging at her side. Hailey noted her tattoos and the piercing in her nose did little to mask her beauty.

"Hi everybody. I'm Trish and I'll be taking care of you tonight. What will it be?"

The jovial greeting put the three at ease, setting the tone for an evening of fun, Hailey hoped.

"Apple Martinis all around, please." Jenna said, pulling some bills from the front pocket of her jeans. She turned to Hailey. "This round's on me."

"Sweet!" Mandy bubbled. "Thanks."

They sat and enjoyed their drinks, noticing a three-piece band now replaced the lone performer. The trio swayed to the music, now changed to a contemporary hard rock beat, the steady thump of bass rocking their glasses.

"So, is this place cool, or what?" Jenna asked Hailey, rhetorically. "I told you you'd have fun."

"I give, you were right, I'm having fun." She cocked her head toward Jenna. "Satisfied?"

"Yes. Thank you very much." Jenna quipped, the approval evident in her playfully gloating tone.

Two more heavy metal songs had gone by when Jenna gently nudged her in the ribs.

"That guy at the bar is checking you out," she said softly, leaning on Hailey's shoulder to be heard over the music.

"Which one?" Hailey asked, eyes tracking in the direction Jenna was nodding.

"The cute one, at the bar."

"They're all cute," Mandy chimed in. "You'd have to be more specific."

"Second from the left," Jenna said. "Blond hair, wearing khakis and a white shirt."

Hailey peeked over the rim of her martini glass for an instant. She felt a pulse of recognition, seeing the man who so recently bumped her then politely apologized.

He made eye contact with Hailey. A zing of pleasure raced through her. She quickly fought it down.

For reasons she couldn't quite understand, she kept looking back toward the bar. Not staring, just glancing at the man. Several times she felt his eyes meet hers, losing herself in memory of the blue ocean of his gaze. She held the contact for a spilt-second before looking away.

"Oh, Shit!" she gasped, hiding her eyes behind the glass once again. "Here he comes."

"Just be yourself." Jenna said.

"That didn't work so well with David."

"David was an immature jack-ass," Jenna commented sharply. "He was never good enough for you."

Mandy leaned closer to Hailey's ear. "I know you're gun-shy. Believe me, I get that," she continued, looking into Hailey's eyes. "But you also have to start living again. It's been almost a year."

The three surreptitiously watched his movements as he conferred with two men also leaning at the bar and all three men began to work their way toward them.

Jenna covertly threw Mandy a directed nod, signaling that she should move to leave an empty seat next to Hailey.

Hailey listened as Jenna and Mandy divided up the two additional men among themselves.

On pins and needles, Hailey waited, eyes never leaving the three men as they crossed the dance floor and made their way through the swaying, raucous crowd.

Her heart raced as the handsome blond man stood before her once again. "Hello, ladies. I'm Brian," he motioned to his friends. "This is Chris and this is Brad," he continued on. "May we buy you a round?"

Ever the social butterfly, Jenna piped up, "Sure. Grab a chair."

Brad and Chris dragged chairs from the adjoining tables and sat, while Brian moved toward the only original chair left. Hailey's breath caught in her throat as she realized that Mandy had moved, leaving the only unoccupied chair at the table directly next to hers. Her heart beat faster as Brian sat down, now only inches away.

Jenna took over the conversation, holding out her hand to Brian. "I'm Jenna, this is Hailey and Mandy."

Working on her second drink, Hailey participated in the light conversation, made a little more difficult by the music's volume. Chatting back and forth, the six soaked up the atmosphere and let the rock music abuse their ears.

Brian turned to Hailey, a hopeful smile on his face. "Would you like to dance?"

He reached over and placed his hand on hers, sending a small quiver of unexpected pleasure through her body. The feeling was short-lived as the icicle-like tendrils of fear the monsters bred returned to torment her. She grimaced as the apprehension crushed any hope the transient tingle brought.

Her palm growing clammy against his warm skin, she moved her hand from under his and placed it in her lap.

Mandy caught a quick glimpse of the defensive gesture and gently nudged Hailey's arm, the message clear. _It's okay to have fun. I won't leave you alone. You're safe._

"Let's _all_ go dance!" Jenna said, standing and downing the last of her drink. She led the pack toward the wildly gyrating crowd trashing around on the polished wood in front of the stage, her new playmate in tow.

Hailey tried to control the spikes of adrenaline as they all stepped onto the dance floor, Brian again reaching for her hand. He guided her through a series of complicated spin moves before the up-tempo rock number ended, followed by a leisurely, slow-moving ballad.

She stepped into his arms, the motion tentative. The pair began gently swaying together to the unhurried beat of the song. As the music surrounded them, he took his hand from her hip, sliding it around her waist and drawing her closer. She felt the alarm bells begin ringing in her mind. The motion was innocent enough, but still she inwardly flinched at the new sensation of his relocated touch.

She felt her body go stiff in his arms, all sense of pleasure gone, the flash and flush of that first contact vanishing like a puff of smoke.

He felt it too. He looked into her eyes, noting her conflicted, deer-in-the-headlights expression. "Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry. I can't do this, I have to go." she said, quickly separating from him.

She saw his face change, now a canvas of surprise and confusion.

"Do what?" he said. "I just wanted to dance. That's all."

A wave of building panic spreading across her feminine features, her growing discomfort was now evident to both Brian and her friends.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he said, holding up his hands in surrender and attempting to use humor to defuse the situation. "I'm really harmless. I promise."

Her face blushed to a bright crimson. "It's not you...really...its okay. I...I...I just have to be at work early," she said, stammering through the lie. "Thanks for the drink."

"I thought you quit your job?" Jenna said, leaving the arms of her new friend and moving back to stand next to Hailey.

"No," Hailey continued, now forced to use one lie to cover the other. "I just thought about it."

She turned toward her friends, pleading look now hidden from Brian.

"Come on guys. Please, let's just go," her expression now turning to one of growing apprehension. "We agreed to leave together."

Jenna frowned disagreeably. "Okay, okay, whatever!"

The three friends left the dance floor, and the men, walking quickly to the exit.

Once outside, they walked in stilted silence down the alley toward the garage.

"What the hell was that all about?" Jenna asked, sharp voice echoing off the concrete walls of the garage.

"I'm sorry. I just had to get out of there."

"But you said you were having fun, what happened?"

"I don't know, I just felt...trapped."

"Trapped by that cute guy?" Jenna observed. "We should all be trapped in the arms of a hunk like that."

Hailey sulked as Jenna drove back to her place, the silence in the car suffocating.

"I'm sorry I ruined you guys' night," she said. "I just couldn't breathe."

"I'm really worried about you, girl," Jenna said. "All he did was put his arms around you and you freaked."

"You just don't understand," she said, voice taking on a defeated timbre. "I don't expect you to."

Pulling into the parking lot at Hailey's apartment, Jenna shut off the car.

"Are you okay? You want us to come up?" Jenna asked in concern.

"No. I'll be alright."

"Let's just call it a night," Mandy said, turning to Jenna. "I'll walk Hailey up. Be right back."

Crossing the lot, the pair now reached the stairs. Hailey stopped. Tears welling up in her eyes, she turned to Mandy.

"I really am sorry. I just can't help it. I wanted to dance with him, I really did, but when he held me...I...I," she stammered. "Jenn must think I'm deranged."

Mandy reached out, putting her hand on Hailey's shoulder. "I know we let you down the night you were raped. I never should have let you leave. I'll _never_ forgive myself for letting Jenn talk me into going off with her that night. I'm _so_ sorry."

"I know you didn't mean for me to get hurt," Hailey said. "I just couldn't handle being in his arms. I thought I could, but I wasn't ready. Jenn must think I'm such a loser."

"She just doesn't get it. I'll talk to her." Mandy said.

She hugged her friend. "I'm so glad you understand."

Mandy smiled at her. "Call me in the morning?"

Hailey nodded. "I will."

She watched Mandy get in the car and the two girls drive away. She turned back and stalked up the stairs, emotional tail between her legs. Unlocking the door to her apartment, she cursed herself for her own lack of spine.

_A cute guy puts his arms around you to dance and you come unglued! Could you_ be _any more pathetic?_

She opened the door _. Oh, who cares anyway!_ She triple locked the door behind her, furious with herself for once again letting her fears overwhelm her.

Loath to admit it, even to herself, she did care. She cared very much. She stomped across the apartment, opening the bedroom door with a bang, the sharp sound echoing off the walls.

She watched her reflection in the mirror and cursed the woman looking back at her.

_What was I thinking, wearing this!_ She scolded with unwarranted zeal. _Of course he hit on me! I look like a French whore._

She pulled at the straps on the dress. Stepping out of it, she balled up the delicate creation and threw it, watching as it sailed across the room to land crumpled in the corner.

I should have known better than to let Jenn talk me into going out tonight.

She rummaged through her dresser and pulled out a worn and baggy nightshirt, tugging it over her head.

Standing before the bathroom sink brushing her teeth, she glared at her reflection, running through the encounter with Brian and what she could have done differently. She chastised the woman looking back at her again. _I'm such a loser!_

Now completely dejected, she threw herself into bed, the tears flowing freely down her cheeks to wet her pillow. She wanted so much to be "normal". She knew _some_ guys were nice and she desperately wanted to be able to enjoy a man's company. She thought, _without being scared shitless!_

Sitting up, she wiped the tears from her eyes. She briefly remembered the tingle in her body when Brian first touched her hand, when he first held her close. _Before I lost my freakin' mind!_

She berated herself again for being such a coward. _Why can't I just move on, like mother said?_

She could hear her mother's words ringing in her ears. _You have to try to forget about what happened and get on with your life. No good can come from dwelling on this._

Nerves still screaming at her, she stalked to the kitchen for some water, jamming the glass against the fridge dispenser with unnecessary force. Sitting down on the couch, she sipped the drink and thought in silence. She considered what "Hailey the Biker" would have done in that situation.

_She wouldn't have been so afraid._ She thought. _She would have danced with him, maybe even kissed him._ _She wouldn't have been too scared to enjoy herself._

She wanted to control her fear, but couldn't. She looked inside herself and knew that the biker Hailey wasn't afraid of anything. She desperately wanted to be able to summon that courage any time, not just when she was riding.

No bike, no boots...and no confidence...just great.
Chapter Eighteen

Shattering the room's silence, Smith's phone rang, the noise penetrating the fog in his brain. He jerked from his deep sleep, ears filled with the concussions of last night's alcohol binge.

Pulling himself out of bed, he answered the call. Sitting in a leather-covered period armchair under the room's only window, Smith brought the Chief up to speed, the antique phone heavy in his hand.

Fighting a monumental hangover, he spoke as the pounding in his head continued to torture him. _Serves me right._ He grimaced.

"We're digging into Stone's background now." he said.

"What do you have linking Grady to Stone?" Matarski asked.

"Not much really, other than the playing cards. I'm waiting for the ballistics report on the casing we found at the Grady scene. YCSO pulled two sets of prints from a whiskey flask found at the park. One set belongs to Stone, the other is still unidentified. It's just a couple of smudges. I don't know if we'll be able to get anything from it. I'm also waiting on a DNA profile from some lipstick found on the flask."

"Any other connections?" Matarski asked

"None so far. The victims don't travel in the same circles, but we are still looking for commonalities," he said. "My gut tells me this is the work of one woman with a serious axe to grind. She's leaving the cards as a signature. There must be something in the background of both men that connects them to this mystery woman, and it can't be good."

"I don't think these cases are linked. The victims don't seem like they would know each other. They live hundreds of miles apart and they travel in different social circles. Grady's an upstanding college athlete and you said this other man's is just a punk."

"They don't have many indicators. That's true." Smith admitted.

"Can you trace the cards?"

"We ran it through the database and they are a common brand, available in any corner drug store," Smith said. "No help there."

"So, basically, all you really have is your gut feeling and a couple of playing cards that could have come from anywhere," Matarski questioned harshly. "I can't tell Senator Grady that his son was associating with known criminals, not to mention telling the press that we have a serial killer in our city, based on your gut. They would crucify me."

Smith's pulse jumped a notch, causing the vein in his forehead to pulse in frustration. _You ignorant ass!_ He thought caustically. _There's a serial killer out there and you're more worried about how you look in the press._

He pulled tight on the reigns of his frustration, barely keeping his temper under control.

"I know these cases are related Chief, we just don't have _irrefutable_ proof yet, but too many things point that way."

Matarski cleared his throat loudly. "Make a solid connection between the two cases, or leave Stone to the Yavapai County Sheriff," he said. "I want you back here today."

"That's not enough time. Come on, Chief. I know there's something more going on here, something we're missing."

"It's all the time you have."

"Chief, give me 48 hours. It's Saturday, just give me the weekend, please. If I can't build a solid connection, I'm back in the office by Monday morning."

"No whining?" the Chief asked.

"No whining." Smith reassured his boss. He silently hoped he would be able to make good on his promise.

"Okay, you have 48 hours. Not a minute more."

"Thank you." He said.

"Just remember, if you do find _anything_ , you inform me immediately. I'll decide what's relevant and what's not."

Smith fought the urge to rail at his boss as his stomach knotted painfully, trying to expel the acid his drinking left behind

"Smith, did you hear me?"

"Understood, Chief." Forcing the grossly subservient response past his lips almost choked him.

"Good. See you on Monday."

_Click!_ The phone went dead in his hand.

Stepping into a superheated shower, he went back over his conversation with Cassie...and his losing battle of ethics with the Chief, in his mind, again feeling the flare of pain and outrage attached to each.

Sitting in a hotel room in a strange town, Smith could feel his career slipping away, ground to dust under the wheels of Matarski's relentless ambition and criminal stupidity. _Nineteen years...and this is how it ends._

He briefly reconsidered the options for a life after police work. He dressed and shelved the thought that kept nagging him like an old woman. _Why am I still doing this? Why am I letting Matarski run over me like this?_ He couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer. _Maybe it's time to retire...when this case is closed. That's it! Just tell Matarski to fuck off. Then maybe I can put my personal life back together...or at least try._
Chapter Nineteen

As she made her way to the coffee house, Hailey replayed the disaster of last night in her head as the Hog roared in her ears.

_I can't believe I freaked out like that. To jump up and run out, that was just pathetic._ Positive she had alienated her best friends...and embarrassed herself, she decided she needed to get out of the house and get some air.

_I'm sure Jenn and Mandy are pissed at me, and_ _that Brian guy, he must think I'm_ completely _insane_.

She decided to call her friends later and apologize profusely, throwing herself on their mercy. _It would serve me right if they never spoke to me again._

She rolled into the parking lot and saw a small group of bikes lined up in front of the building, sun glinting off the chrome. Hailey took in the riders, decked out in full club leathers, complete with patches and glittering regalia, they stood next to their machines sipping their drinks and talking. Parking at the end of the row, she overheard their spirited conversation as she walked, their voices carried on the warm breeze. She abandoned her own thoughts to innocently listen while she removed her glasses and gloves, stowing them in the pockets of her vest.

"I know he had the ass-whipping coming," the first guy said, shaking his head. "But now he gets off scot-free and Billy's looking at assault charges."

"It sucks Doug," the second man said turning to the first, his long, bushy beard swinging back and forth. "The cops should have done something sooner. That goat-roper was talking trash long before Billy popped him."

"As if the _cops_ were going to do anything," the third man commented, nodding a massive, shaved head, the voice harsh and judgmental. "We're bikers, they weren't about to help one of us."

"Come on now guys, don't fall back on that ' _the police hate us'_ bull. Billy screwed up," the one they called Doug said. "A biker walks into a cowboy bar flying colors, what did he _think_ was going to happen?"

His comment garnered murmurs of dissent from the other two.

"Yes, I know it sucks, but Billy shouldn't have been there in the first place, and if he was going to go into a cowboy bar, he _might_ have been a little less conspicuous."

"Since when do we hide who we are?" The bearded guy said. "I'm not hiding my club patch because some wanna-be cowboy can't hold his liquor." He folded his arms across a massive barrel chest in defiance.

"Of all the bars on Whiskey Row, why did Billy have to go into _Mr. Nasty's_?" Doug said. "He could have gotten a beer someplace else and eliminated the hassle."

The three men halted their conversation, pausing to watch Hailey coming toward them, their silence a momentary acknowledgment of her approach. She felt a small twinge of discomfort as they gave her the head-to-toe once-over.

Doug looked past her, his eyes coming to rest on the Hog. "That's a beautiful machine you've got there." He said, as the other two quickly nodded in agreement.

She smiled, enjoying the compliment and glad for the deflection of attention from herself. "Thanks. My uncle actually restored it himself."

"Nice job." The man with the ZZ Top beard said.

"Hey, let's ask her," the bald man nodded in Hailey's direction as she got closer. "Excuse me, but could you answer a question for us?"

Hailey stopped, unsure how to proceed. "Um...I guess so, sure."

"As a biker, would you hide your colors, just because someone tells you to?" he asked. "Or do you stand up for yourself?"

Doug interrupted. "Our friend was harassed for wearing his club patch in this bar on Whiskey Row last night," he explained. "A patron didn't like the patch showing and started a fight."

"Really? Where was this?"

"It was at _Mr. Nasty's Saloon_."

"I was there last night, next door, at _The Rat's Nest_ ," she said. "There were a lot of bikers in there, but I didn't see anything like that. Everybody was being cool."

"It happened right before closing, some drunk cowboy took offense to my friend's colors, started a fight in the bar."

"Really," she said eyes wide in disbelief.

"Yeah, the cops had to break it up. My buddy got hauled in for assault."

"Well, that's not good." She said.

"By the way, I'm Doug...and you are?"

"Hailey," she extended a hand and he took it, giving a firm handshake. "So, this guy tells your buddy to take off the jacket and your friend lays him out, right? That seems like a bit of an over-reaction."

ZZ piped up. "But, this cowboy just kept pushing Billy."

"Well, the guy _did_ deserve it, but now Billy's screwed," Doug said. "He should've told the guy to go pound sand. He didn't have to mop up the bar with him."

He noticed the look on her face change to one of skepticism

"Yeah, it may not be a biker-like thing to say, but I don't believe in getting all worked up about stuff like that," he smiled. "I guess I'm not your average biker."

_That's for sure. You're way cuter_. She suddenly flushed at the unspoken words. _Oh, shit! Did I say that out loud?_

She quickly recovered. "But how do you stop people from giving you crap all the time unless you do something about it?" she questioned.

"I didn't say do nothing. It's okay to protect yourself," he said. "But if somebody screws with you, you have to know when to let it go. Pick your battles, I say."

She thought that one over for several seconds, and the correlation to her own life was not lost on her.

"There is a price to pay," he said. "You have to decide when getting pissed off, or getting revenge, costs more than its worth. Believe me, I know."

"Really, how so?" She detected a story behind the statement.

"Well, let's just say that for a long time, if somebody screwed with me, I landed on them with both feet. I did a lot of stupid stuff I'm not proud of and got into a _lot_ of unnecessary trouble," he said. "I finally realized that I'd become someone I didn't like very much."

"What did you do?" she asked. "How did you stop?"

"That's a long story," he said, smiling. "For another time, maybe?"

She smiled a wary grin. "Maybe."

She found herself very comfortable in the presence of the three men, the admission jolting her system. _Why am I not afraid of these guys?_ She was taken aback by her non-reaction to the presence of these large men most people would instinctively fear. She could feel the question bounce around in her head as she stood there. _For some reason, these men don't scare me. How bizarre._

Reaching in his jacket, Doug pulled out a wrinkled flyer, handing it to her. "We're heading over to _Petey's Place_ tonight for bike night," Doug said. "Good food and dollar drafts. You should come by and check it out."

"Maybe I'll do that." she said, refolding the piece of paper and putting it in her back pocket.

"See you later." he waved and turned to leave.

"Wait!" she called, the trepidation clear in her voice.

He turned back, catching her eye.

"Good food, huh?" she asked.

"Nothing fancy, but the pastrami rocks," he said. "You come and I'll buy. How's that for a deal?"

"Are you hitting on me?" she said, voice a little anxious.

"No," he said, his tone firm. "But if I did, would that really be so terrible?" The mischievous glint in his eyes reassuring her.

His warm demeanor comforting, she managed a small smile. Recalling her failure last night, she searched herself, finding a tiny shred of confidence. _When in doubt, go with humor._ "I'll let you know _after_ I taste the pastrami."

An amiable smile appeared across his face. "Fair enough. Hope you can make it."

She let him open the door for her as his two buddies started up their bikes.

Called by his friends, Doug walked back to the bikes while he donned his black clamshell helmet. Watching him throw his leg over the saddle of a classic Electra-Glide, she felt that tingle in her limbs again.

_He's hot!_ She observed as he fired up his bike, the bright red machine coming to life with a predatory growl.

She turned back to the counter as the three bikes rolled down the lot into the street beyond.
Chapter Twenty

The noise of the Café St. Michael faded into the background as Smith and Mendoza slid into the booth and looked for the waitress.

"I'm taking some heat about this Stone case," Mendoza said. "The Sheriff's concerned about even a _hint_ of a serial killer loose in his county."

"Same here. We're both getting pressure from above to solve these cases," Smith said. "I, for one, don't much care for being told how to do my job."

Mendoza nodded in agreement, then heaved a heavy sigh. "Politics: the bane of effective law enforcement."

Pulling out his notebook, Smith began to think aloud. "Grady was clean, nothing more than a few traffic tickets," he said. "What do you have on Stone?"

Mendoza pulled out a similar notebook and flipped a few pages before speaking. "Stone had previous arrests for simple possession, drunk and disorderly, the usual. He had arrests, but no felony convictions. The latest one, December of 07', was for assault with a deadly weapon. He smashed a beer mug in some guy's face at a bar. His public defender got the guy to drop the assault charge, pled it down to disturbing the peace."

"What did he do for a living?" Smith asked as the waitress approached. They tabled the discussion until she took the orders and retreated toward the kitchen.

"Says here he was a diesel mechanic for a waste disposal company," Mendoza said, a pitiless smirk on his face. "So I guess somebody took out the trash."

Smith groaned at the bad joke. "Very funny. Grady was a student, rich, privileged, Stone was pretty much a garden-variety dirtbag, then we have this mystery woman," Smith opined. "I don't see them having tea together."

"I can't see how they're connected to this mystery woman, as you called her, either," Mendoza groused. "But they must be, somehow. We just have to figure out how."

"Well, I can tell you this; Stone obviously knew his attacker prior to the night of the murder. A slug in the knee is pretty personal," Smith said. "I think she may have a bone to pick with Stone in particular. An old girlfriend maybe?"

Mendoza flipped a few more pages in the notebook. "I talked to his neighbors. They weren't very forthcoming, but after some 'gentle persuasion' they told me no women were regulars that they knew of," he said. "Doesn't mean he didn't have some skank in the wings somewhere."

"Grady had some dope on him, maybe there's a connection to this mystery woman through the drugs." Smith said.

"Well, we did find some pot and a couple of handguns in Stone's place, but the quantity was too small to indicate dealing. Besides, your guy lived almost four hours away. Not exactly a convenient setup for dope shopping."

"Somehow these two men knew the same woman," he said.

Mendoza added, "And pissed her off in a big way."

The food arrived, Mendoza diving in.

"So, what's next?" Smith asked between bites.

"I have to be in court Monday and Tuesday." Mendoza said. "So, you'll be on your own for the two days."

"We should have some forensic results in pretty soon," Smith said. "I'll keep following up with the lab and see if I can't find out something about this mystery woman. I'll let you know if I get anything."

"Another thing," Mendoza interjected. "What's with the playing cards? I thought that stuff only happened in the movies."

"Normally, I'd say you're right. This is the first time I've ever seen anything like it," Smith said. "There are some really twisted people out there."

"I guess," Mendoza agreed. "I read somewhere that the experts are saying the instance of female serial killers is on the rise. These murders are increasing in both number and violence. The women come from all walks of life and all kinds of circumstances. There's no rhyme or reason to it."

"I think this one has a reason. A very _specific_ reason," Smith said. "We just have to figure out what it is."

"Well, people usually commit murder for a very small number of reasons," Mendoza said. "Most often it involves money...but, sex can also be a pretty strong motivation to kill, or they kill to cover-up another crime. It's almost always one of those three, money, sex or cover-up."

"And, at this point, we don't know which it is," Smith said. "And we need to know...now."

"It's so frustrating!" Mendoza thumped his fist lightly on the table. "Nothing leads _anywhere_."

Smith threw him a sideways smile. "Welcome to my world."

Getting his emotions back under control, Mendoza continued. "I'd have to say this is unquestionably one of the weirder cases I've worked on."

Smith smiled again. "Oh, speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask, how long have you been a cop?"

"Going on twelve years, and you?"

"Almost nineteen," he said. "And I must admit, especially with this one, I still get surprised some times."

"I don't know about you," Mendoza said, heaving a sigh of exasperation. "But I could live without this kind of surprise."

Smith paused and sipped his coffee, the steaming brew heating a path all the way down to his stomach.

"I hear you." He turned back to his plate. "So, got any brilliant ideas?"

"I have one, but you might not like it, more accurately, your Chief might not like it."

Smith figured he knew where Mendoza was leading, as he had already considered it himself. "At this point, I'm already so far out on a limb it doesn't really matter. Let me hear it."

Mendoza sipped his coffee and cleared his throat before speaking. "It's time to lean on the Senator and find out what his son was _really_ into," he said. "That's where the answers are. I can feel it in my bones."

"I thought so too," Smith said. "I'll call Grady and see what I can find out."

"I don't envy you that conversation. Your Chief is going to go nuts," Mendoza said. "Let me know how it goes. I'll talk to you later."

Smith went back up to his hotel room and placed a call to Grady's office in Tucson.

After wading through several layers of the Senator's privacy protection, Smith finally reached his Chief of Staff and was told to stay by the phone as the Senator would call him back within the hour. Smith gave the man his cell number.

Sitting in the room, Smith began to formulate a list of questions for Grady. After about two hours, he was stalking around his hotel room checking his watch. The pacing was doing him no good, so he put his hat on and went downstairs to the café at street level.

He had just sat down when his phone rang, the voice belonging to the great man himself. "Detective Smith, this is Senator Dennis Grady. How may I help you?"

"I just have a few questions for you sir," Smith cleared his throat nervously, knowing that Matarski was going to flip out when he heard about this invasion of the Senator's serenity. "It's about your son and his connection to a man named Jake Stone."

"I've never heard of Jake Stone. Who is he?"

"He was a small-time criminal from Phoenix," he said. "We believe your son's death and this man Stone's death are connected."

"And what would my son have to do with someone like Stone?"

"That's what we are trying to find out," Smith paused, collecting his thoughts. "And if we knew what their relationship was, it might lead us to a suspect."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know if I can be of any help. I've never heard of Mr. Stone before."

"We believe the same person, most likely a woman, killed your son and also killed this Jake Stone." Smith said.

"What makes you think that?"

"Several things, but I can't go into all the details at this point." he said.

"Do you know if Jason had a girlfriend?" Smith asked.

"Jason was popular with the ladies, he liked to circulate. He didn't want to get tied down," the Senator replied. "He didn't have serious relationships with women. So, no, he didn't have a steady girlfriend."

"We are trying to figure out how both your son and this Stone knew this unidentified woman."

"As I said before, Jason has...had...his own life," he said. "His mother and I really don't know who his friends are."

"What did he do with his free time," Smith asked. "Did he travel around northern Arizona that you know of?"

"Not by himself. He went wherever the team went, of course," Grady said. "Outside of that, I don't think he traveled at all. At least he never mentioned it."

"Is there someone who could tell me more about who Jason's friends were?"

Grady grunted in annoyance. "You might ask his coaches, or his professors."

"Senator Grady, I apologize for being blunt during this difficult time, but did you know your son was using drugs?"

"That's outrageous!" the Senator yelled. "My son was a star athlete! Where did you hear such a thing?"

"I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but he had some marijuana in his possession when he died." Smith said.

"I don't believe it." Grady harrumphed dismissively.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I saw it myself."

"Assuming that's true...and I'm not saying it is, what does that have to do with his death?"

"It could possibly be a motive for someone to kill him, if he owed them money for drugs, or if he was involved in a drug deal gone bad. We are looking at all possible scenarios."

"I'm sorry detective, but I don't think I can help you. This conversation is over."

Smith listened to the silence as he realized that Grady had hung up on him.

Chapter Twenty-one

Afternoon breeze blowing warm and dry in her face, Hailey rode north on Williamson Valley Road toward her mother's house, dreading the argument she knew would ensue upon her arrival. Tension grating at her, she felt her stomach tighten to a hard knot as she got closer and closer.

Rounding a gentle bend in the road, she turned into the driveway and saw the stucco home of her childhood, her father's favorite chair now noticeably absent from the front porch. _I could use your help here, Daddy._

She parked the Hog in the shade of a massive oak tree growing along the driveway and opened the front door, knocking as she entered.

"Mom!" she called out. "I'm here!"

Her mother's voice floated across the living room. "I'm in the kitchen, dear. Be right there."

She moved into the living room and braced herself for "Hurricane Joanne".

The guilt of her lie, even a lie by omission, had plagued her for months. She had told her mother nothing of her plans to keep the Hog, and now she needed to come clean. She didn't need the stress of keeping the lie. After talking with the bank manager earlier in the day, Hailey knew the time had come to stand up to her mother, once and for all. She also knew her mother wouldn't take the news well. She inwardly grimaced. _This is going to get ugly in a hurry._

"Hello dear." Joanne said as she stepped through the archway to Hailey's left, drying her hands with a small towel.

Gaze settling on her daughter, she got her first look at Hailey's clothes, the jeans and vest causing her face to pinch in irritation. "What's that you're wearing?"

"My vest and boots..." she hesitated briefly. "For riding. That's what I wanted to talk to you about..."

Color draining from her cheeks, her mother moved to the front window, pulling the shade aside and looking out to find the Hog sitting in the driveway. "Oh, no! You don't mean you're riding that motorcycle!"

Joanne turned to face her errant daughter, body stiff in annoyance. "I told you to sell that thing a long time ago," the older woman chided, folding her arms across her chest and tapping a sandal-covered foot in annoyance. "Why didn't you do it?"

"Because I didn't want to," Hailey answered, her tone matter of fact. "Uncle Greg left _me_ the bike and _I_ decided to keep it."

"I warned you about that. I don't want you in that lifestyle. Those people are outlaws...criminals, most of them."

"Uncle Greg wasn't a criminal."

"Well...maybe not, but the rest of them are," she said. "I don't want you riding that thing, and that's final."

"Well, I'm sorry Mother, but it's not your decision. It's my bike and I'm keeping it."

"Absolutely not! I won't allow it," Joanne barked, face flushing pink in irritation. "It's too dangerous, just the traffic alone...you could get hurt."

Now it was Hailey's turn to fold her arms across her chest, the gesture one of steadfast defiance.

"I'm sorry Mother. I'm an adult and I made a decision," she went on. "Greg wanted me to have the Harley and I'm going to honor his wish."

"Yes...well, Greg didn't always exercise good judgment. He didn't know what's best for you. I do."

"He knew enough. He knew how to help me when I needed it," she said quietly. "When no one else could."

"I know you bonded with him, but still," she said. "He wasn't the knight in shining armor you think."

"Don't push me Mother," Hailey warned. "I more than bonded with him, he saved my life. He convinced me to live."

She remembered the nights she'd sat by his bedside, pouring out her deepest fears while the IV's poured into his arms. "You can't understand what we went through when he was dying. You weren't there."

Ignoring her daughter's volatile tone, Joanne returned to her browbeating.

"Hailey Marie Barrow!" Her mother's impatient voice echoed off the room's vaulted ceiling. "You listen to me. I insist that you come to your senses and get rid of that dangerous machine."

"No."

"Your uncle may not have cared about his _own_ skin, but I care about yours."

"I know you care about me, but I'm still keeping the bike," she said, a static charge of power and self-reliance moving through her. "I like riding it. It gives me a sense of peace, freedom."

"Freedom? Look at what it's already done. You're dressed like a reject from the state prison," she said. "Next thing you'll be hanging out in bars, drinking, smoking...and doing who-knows-what else."

"Mother!" Hailey blanched at the thinly disguised innuendo. "How could you even say that!"

The older woman continued, undaunted. "You don't belong with that riff-raff, that biker-gang crowd. Those were your uncle's friends," Joanne continued, voice now harsh and judgmental. "Those people care about nothing but themselves."

"What do you know about it?" she asked. "What can you possibly know about being free? You've had someone taking care of you your whole life, making all the decisions for you...and cleaning up your messes. First it was Grandpa, then Daddy...now me."

"So! This is Greg's idea of a last wish, turning you against me!" Joanne's eyes blazed. "I would have expected as much from him. That coward!"

"Don't you dare say anything bad about Uncle Greg!" Hailey cautioned, her voice underlined with smoldering fire. "He was the kindest, most giving man I ever knew...along with Daddy, of course."

"You don't _know_ everything little missy. Your uncle wasn't exactly selfless. Did you _know_ that your uncle threw away a promising career at your father's firm?" Joanne said in a flaunting, superior tone. "He had a fling with one of his co-workers...a _married_ co-worker. He had the morals of an alley cat."

"Yes, Mother. He told me all about it," Hailey said. "That woman was already separated from her husband before they ever met. They would have gotten married...if she hadn't died in the car accident. He left the firm because he couldn't look at her empty office every day. He loved her."

"Your uncle was selfish and irresponsible, not the ideal role model," Joanne paused. "After all, he left a quarter of a million dollars to a 20 year-old, a child really, instead of leaving it to someone older, someone better suited to handle that kind of responsibility."

"Someone like you?"

"Yes." The quiet admission was drastically out of place in the growing heat of the argument.

"So, this is about the money!" Hailey shouted, face turning pink with renewed fury. "How could you be so shallow!" Temper finally reaching the breaking point, Hailey glared at her mother. "That's it! I won't listen to any more," she drew a deep breath, fighting to control her outrage at her mother's words. "You never did like Uncle Greg, even when I was a child."

"With good reason. He was wild and didn't think things like social conformity and stability were important."

Her cheeks burned in rage. She turned and stormed toward the door, her boots amplifying her angry footsteps. "I said what I came to say. I tried to be reasonable, now I'm leaving."

Halfway across the room, she stopped, looking over her shoulder. A sudden feeling of icy calm washed over her as she remembered why she originally came to see her mother in the first place.

"Oh, by the way, I went to the bank," she said, walking back, again face to face with her mother. She reached into her back pocket and withdrew a small, white envelope, the bank's blue logo visible on the front. She held it out to the other woman. "I want to be very clear. The only reason I'm giving you this is because I already promised. Don't _ever_ ask me for money again," she said, her voice now calm and collected. "From now on, you take care of yourself. Good-bye, Mother."

She left her mother standing in the living room, mouth agape, and envelope in her hand. The closing door echoed loudly in the cavernous house.

The young woman felt both the thrill of liberation and a twinge of guilt at her rebellion as she rode south, back to Prescott. Still stinging at her mother's harsh condemnation of her uncle, she accelerated into the pavement's tight curves. Thrilling at the mounting velocity, she ignored the speedometer's passive warning as the trees flew by in a green and gray blur. She never saw the patrol car parked behind the bushes, not until the lights appeared in her mirrors and the siren blared for attention. _Shit!_

Rounding a turn, she pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder. Shutting off the engine, she dismounted as the officer approached, pulling her wallet from her pocket.

"Can I see your driver's license, registration and proof of insurance, please." he said, the baritone voice firm and official.
Chapter Twenty-Two

Sitting in a chair outside the Café St. Michael, John Smith sipped an iced tea and scanned the front page of the local newspaper while he waited for the lab results. He marveled at the difference in the news of a city publication compared to the more personal stories included in the community newspaper he held in his hands.

These people actually care about their neighbor's lives. I wish we had more of that in the city.

The electronic voice of his phone's ring tone blared from his shirt pocket. He grimaced as he checked the caller I.D. screen. He pulled the phone out, listening intently.

"Smith here,"

"John, its Dan."

"Yes, Chief?" Smith really didn't want to talk to Matarski at all, knowing what was coming.

"I just got a very disturbing call from Senator Grady. He said you accused his son of, how did he put it, 'unsavory activities', now tell me, exactly what the hell did you say to him?"

"I asked him a few pointed questions about his son's habits and if there were any possible links between his son and this Stone character."

"Well he's pretty pissed off and wanted, no demanded, your head on a platter! I told you to be careful with this case!"

Smith rolled his eyes at the constant badgering, tired of trying to do his job with the Chief and the Senator blocking his every move.

"Look, Chief, this kid was into something that got him killed. It involved this unidentified woman...and Stone fits in somewhere, I'm sure. You add it all up and you get multiple murders."

Matarski didn't skip a beat. "Have you found any proof yet?"

"Well, no. But I'm sure..." Matarski cut him off in mid-sentence. "Look, I gave you the weekend to wrap this case up, not to go harassing Senator Grady in his grief..."

It was Smith's turn to interrupt. "Since when is asking a few questions harassment?"

"When it involves a United States Senator, that's when."

"Are you telling me to stop pursuing this lead?"

Matarski growled in his ear. "I'm telling you I gave you two days to close this case, not to go looking for dirt on Grady's son."

"And I'm telling you I can't do one without the other...besides, what is the Senator trying to hide?"

"I've heard enough. You get back here now."

Smith's pulse shot up, anger burning brighter. "You said I had two days!"

"Not anymore," Matarski said. "You abused my good nature long enough."

"Why are you tying my hands?"

"I said that's enough!" Matarski barked, his tone thick with warning "You call me at home before eight o'clock tonight telling me you're back in town...Or you can turn in your shield."

The phone went silent in his hand as the Chief hung up.

Slamming his phone shut, Smith gulped the rest of his drink, trying to get his volcanic rage under control.

The tone of his cell sounded for the second time that morning and he almost didn't answer it, ears still burning with anger. He took several deep breaths to calm his spiking pulse and flipped the phone open.

"Smith here."

"John, its Will Jaco returning your call. I have some interesting results on your homicide, or should I say _homicides_."

Still reticent to speak more than a few words for fear of what he would say, Smith resorted to an almost monosyllabic speech. "Shoot."

"You're not going to like it, but I think I just made your case, part of it anyway." he said.

"Lay it on me," he said, expelling his breath in calming stages. "I could use some good news."

"For starters, the COD was just like we thought, single gunshot wound to the chest, and he did have a small amount of marijuana in his system. But, that's not the interesting part."

"Really?" Smith said, attention now peaked.

"We ran Grady's DNA through CODIS and it came back with multiple matches. Two from sexual assaults here in Tucson and one from a sexual assault case in Prescott last year,"

"Prescott, really?" Smith interrupted the doctor. "Tell me about that one."

"The victim was a 19 year-old college student named Hailey Barrow. Her attackers banged her up pretty good and cut her throat, but she survived."

"What about Stone? Did the Sheriff's Office send the samples from the scene in Black Canyon City?"

"YCSO sent us the samples. The lipstick on the flask was too degraded to get a match, but there is a match between Stone and the rape kit in the Barrow case."

"I _knew_ these cases were related." Smith said, thinking of his conversation with Matarski and feeling a short-lived moment of righteous vindication. _That asshole Grady knew his son was involved...and said nothing!_ His analytical mind moved forward to the next step, lining up evidence like tin soldiers. _Or, he didn't know, but_ suspected _his son was into something illegal, otherwise he and his lap dog wouldn't be covering for him._

The irony was not lost on the livid detective. _Jesus, he's withholding information in his own son's homicide. How do you, as a parent, do that. Wouldn't you want to know the truth?_

"Well, we thought they both knew the same woman." Smith said, curtailing his caustic thoughts.

"Now we know how." The doctor added.

"So, Stone and Grady sexually assaulted this Barrow girl...together?"

"It looks that way." The doctor agreed.

"It looks like motive." Smith said.

"A pretty powerful one," the doctor said. "I'm sending you the report."

"Great work Will. Thanks."

"I'm not finished yet. There were four contributors to the sample in that girl's rape kit," he sighed, the mournful sound audible to Smith half way across the state. "That poor thing, what she must have gone through."

"So, there are two more perpetrators still out there...two more potential targets."

"I said you weren't going to like it," the doctor repeated.

"You have a gift for understatement."

Smith knew the clock was ticking on this case. He could only avoid Matarski's wrath for so long. _Fuck him! I need to find this woman before she finds the rest of these guys._ The next thought going through Smiths head scraped a raw nerve he didn't even know he had. _What if I didn't catch her? What if I didn't even try?_ _She's only getting what she_ believes _is justice._ He clenched his teeth as Matarski's face again appeared before his vision. _Something in short supply lately._
Chapter Twenty-Three

Trying to talk her way out of the speeding ticket had taken nearly half an hour, the officer scolding yet polite.

"That's a beautiful machine," he'd said, returning her license along with an expensive citation. "I'd hate to see it wrapped around a tree."

Still smoldering with anger at her mother, Hailey made a left onto Iron Springs road. The traffic didn't seem to be moving, the delay compounding her boiling frustration. Regurgitating the argument in her mind multiple times, she waited for the signal to change. A few yards away, she saw the sandwich-board sign sitting next to the road. _Petey's Place – Bike Night Tonight!_ Following the sign's bold arrow, she noticed the large crowd of motorcycles, the riders moving between them.

Rumbling to a stop, she lined up with the fifty or so bikes in the rope-enclosed area of the parking lot, then made her way toward the people sitting at crowded tables out front.

Standing in the swiftly waning sun, the boisterous gathering laughed, talked, ate and drank as the local radio station pumped out the classic rock in the usual live broadcast.

She scanned the crowd filled with bikers of all shapes and sizes for Doug's tall form, hoping he hadn't left already. Her pulse spiked as he caught her eye and motioned her over to his table.

He was sitting with four friends, chatting, their gestures bold and animated. _Talking about bikes...or girls. Go figure._

"Hey, I was hoping you'd come," he said as she moved to his side. "Welcome to bike night." He introduced her to his friends and the five made small talk.

Continuing to watch the others mill around talking, she noticed that every few minutes different people would break away from the tables to make a tour of the parked bikes. Walking slowly among the machines, the spectators stopped to look at them with an admiration bordering on reverence and chat with the owners.

Hailey and Doug joined them, slowly walking the line. Turning to look at his handsome face, she allowed the small tendril of pleasure at his presence to grow...very slowly. Realizing she was now in front of her own bike, she noticed several people were suddenly standing around her and it, commenting to each other about accessories it might have or need. She balked at the sudden attention.

"What a sweet ride!" A voice called from a few yards further down the row, snapping her concentration. "What year is it?"

"It's a 59'." She answered, taking in the man as he continued to eye the bike before her.

The thin figure, wearing the standard black leather vest and standing all of five feet tall, leaned against a bright yellow Honda cruiser and grinned. "I love the old school stuff." he said. "What they might lack in technology they make up for in character."

Taking a camera from his saddle bag, he continued. "Can I get a shot of it? I write for a local bike magazine and it would look great on the cover."

She thought about it for a second, "Sure."

"Stock frame?" he asked, moving closer to the machine. "Most of the one's I've seen are raked."

"I think so," she said shrugging her petite shoulders. "But I don't know all that much about it yet. I just got it a little while ago."

She watched him circle the bike several times, obviously in his own zone, camera shutter clicking as he moved.

"What a beautiful bike." he said to no one in particular, capturing the bike from several different angles.

"Thanks, my uncle gave it to me." She said.

Standing next to her, Doug's eyes opened wide in surprise. "Really? You said he built it. I thought you bought it from him."

The photographer stopped in mid-focus, turned to her and smiled, "That's some gift."

Doug immediately responded to the change in her expression. Despite her diligent efforts, she was well aware he could now see the sadness clearly etched in her face.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I say he gave it to me. I inherited it from him," she whispered quietly. "He died a few months ago...Cancer.

"I'm so sorry." He said.

"I'm okay. I just really miss him, that's all." she said.

"Tell me about him."

"He was such a character. I remember, when I was 12, he was teaching me how ride a dirt bike, very much against my overbearing mother's wishes. Well, of course I dumped it and tore up my knee. He carried me in the house and patched me up. My mother nearly had a melt-down," she continued, eyes dilating as she went back in time to the moment. "So my Uncle Greg tells her to relax and loosen the apron strings a little before she chokes me to death. He tells her to let me grow up. My mother was speechless for the first time in her entire life. Nobody except my father had _ever_ stood up to her."

"He sounds like a really cool guy."

"He was, very cool."

Dinner was everything Doug said it was and more, the spicy food hitting the spot, the beer cold and plentiful.

Eventually, the evening wore on and the DJ packed up his equipment, the crowd dwindling. Hailey didn't want the evening to end, the little slice of happiness so greatly coveted. They walked back to the spot were Hailey's bike rested and stopped.

"Can I call you?" he asked. "I'd really like to see you again."

She hesitated, not really knowing why, the reason unimportant in the fluster of the moment. "I just met you."

"I don't believe in wasting time. If you don't want to go out with me, it's totally cool, just say so."

"No, that's not it at all." _I can't believe I said that._ She thought. "I just don't really date that much. I'm really busy taking classes this summer." _But, I think I really do want to see you again._ She wondered if she should...could...let him into her life, if she dared to take the risk of letting him into her heart. _Do I have the right to drag_ anybody _into that mess?_

His voice snapped her back to the present. "Are you busy on Saturdays? I have Saturdays off."

"Well... no. I don't have classes on Saturday."

"How about coming with me on the next bike run?" he said. "We'll just go for a ride, no pressure. It'll be fun."

She gave him a small, coy smile. "I'll think about it."

"Cool. I hope you decide to come. I think you'll have a good time. I know the rest of the guys in the club would love to see your bike. Plus, it's for a good cause."

She considered and reconsidered his offer as she made her way back to her apartment, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time in many months.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The medical examiner's report gave Smith that something he'd been lacking all this time, something concrete to link both cases. He'd suspected all along that the two murders were connected and now he knew how. After falling off the radar for a full day, he still hadn't returned any of Matarski's calls...and didn't plan to. The truth finally beginning to come into focus, Smith burned in renewed anger at both Matarski and the Senator. _Those punks raped that girl, and now she's hunting them down one by one._ While he couldn't condone her actions, he certainly understood her rage at the men who had brutalized her. _I don't even know how I'd react if somebody hurt Cassie like that._ Deep down, he did know. He knew _exactly_ how he'd react, and that scared the hell out of him. _I can understand what she did, but she has to be stopped._

Smith tried to call Mendoza, but couldn't reach him. He left a message on his voice mail.

I'll have to wait to get any kind of warrant until he gets out of court. But that doesn't mean I have to do nothing.

A quick call to DMV and he had a street address for Hailey Barrow, age 20, college student. Smith parked his car across the street from Hailey's apartment and moved toward the door. He looked in the windows, and seeing nothing, decided not to tip his hand by knocking.

Moving back down the steps, he checked the plates on a 2002 Toyota Camry parked in the lot, confirming the vehicle belonged to his quarry. _Her car's in the lot, but she's not here. She can't be far away if she's on foot._

Smith saw an elderly woman wearing a pink housecoat, the threadbare material far too small for her substantial frame, gingerly making her way down from the apartment across the breezeway. The portly woman, he figured her to be at least seventy years old, slowly worked her way from the bottom of the stairs to join the detective now standing by the curb. Smith noticed she held an obese calico cat in her arms, the furry beast purring loudly.

"If you're looking for Hailey, she took off on that damnable motorcycle of hers." The woman said in a grating New York twang.

"Miss Barrow has a motorcycle?" Smith asked.

"Annoying as hell too! Pardon my French," she said as she scratched the cat soothingly behind the ears. "Rattles the windows every time she comes or goes."

"Do you know where she went?"

"No. We're not that close." she said in obvious disdain.

He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a business card, placing it in the neighbor's hand. "If she comes back, please give me a call."

"I will. I'm happy to help the police. And you should confiscate that infernal machine," The wrinkled lady complained, pointing a bony finger at his chest. "She scared Mr. Whiskers half out of his wits."

She turned her back on him, then waddled back in the direction from which she came. Smith shook his head in mild amusement.

Back at his car, Smith thought about where Hailey might have gone. "Well, she's not here," Smith said aloud. "Where could she be?"

He spent the better portion of the day camped outside the girl's apartment waiting for her to return. Having too much time on his hands, he began to kick the events of the last two days around in his head.

He thought about what Jaco said, the cold hard facts of the CODIS report couldn't mask the reality of the human tragedy behind them. He felt the bile rise in his throat. _My God,_ he swallowed several times, forcing his stomach to obey his mental commands. _What that poor girl must have gone through!_ He clenched his fists in anger at what he instinctively knew those men had done to her.

Smith's brain shifted gears, moving to the progress of the case, or lack of it. That train of thought derailed at Matarski and Grady. _Either they knew, or they suspected...either way they're covering it up...and it has to stop._
Chapter Twenty-Five

Sitting in one of the cubicles at the college library, Hailey's fingers flew across the computer keys, calling up the website for the Triumph Owners of Arizona. The browser settled on the page in seconds.

She nearly choked on her quick intake of breath, the ad burning her eyes. The monster sat in plain sight, smiling from the back of a vintage bike. She scanned the copy for a second time, shuddering in disgust.

Axel's custom cycles of Chino Valley.

We build and sell all types of custom motorcycles, specializing in English brands.

Axel Rackley, owner.

_Click, Click_ , and she had the address and directions to the shop.

The Hog growled in her ears as the trip to Chino Valley went by in an instant, compared to the long and arduous trek to Tucson. She drove SR 89 north, the giant boulders of Granite Dells giving way to the empty sections of dry grassland surrounding the municipal airport.

_I have to finish this._ She thought as she put Prescott behind her. _They have to be stopped before they ruin someone_ else's _life._

She pictured the remaining two monsters striking again. The manufactured images rolled across the canvass of her troubled mind. She could almost see them ambush some other young woman in some dark, isolated place and drag her off. She instinctively knew they'd force this other unsuspecting innocent to do the same disgusting things they'd made her do. She shivered at the heinous memory, her senses balking at the idea of another young woman suffering as she had. _I can't let that happen. If nothing else, it has to end with me._

Stopping at several traffic lights, she finally made her way through the congested corridor of Chino Valley proper, out to Road Five North.

Tires crunching on the loose gravel, she parked the Hog down a side street, hiding it behind some unkempt bushes along the edge of the road. She stood sweating in the early afternoon heat waiting for a chance to cross the street unobserved, it finally came. Rounding the rusting stretch of chain-link fence that separated _Rackley's Custom Cycles_ from its neighbor, she used the cover of several partially disassembled automobiles to get closer to the door. She moved with the stealth of a cat, careful footsteps leaving no sound as she approached the utilitarian steel building, its paint sun-faded and peeling. The caustic smell of burned steel permeated the air, stinging her nose. Pulse hammering in her ears, she quietly slipped through the door into his world.

She stepped into the dark confines of the shop, her eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change in lighting. As the interior came into focus, she noticed that everywhere she looked a motorcycle, or parts of one, littered the floor, several even hung suspended by heavy chains from the building's rafters. An orange glow, bright and flickering, danced along the walls, filling the shop with wildly pulsating light. She moved toward the source of that light.

She saw him standing in the middle of an incandescent fountain of bright sparks, the welder in his hand spitting red and yellow slag in all directions.

She silently threaded her way across the floor, dodging piles of jagged metal that created a crooked path between her and her nemesis. She steeled herself as she closed the distance. _All right, you son of a bitch, time to pay for what you did to me._

Her foot catching on a large chunk of plate steel, she kicked it to the side, the movement creating an explosive racket in the otherwise silent shop. She froze in place, petrified of making another sound. He wheeled around, flipping his gray helmet up to see her silhouetted by the shafts of sunlight streaming through the open roll-up door.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

His hair was shorter than she remembered his mustache longer, but there was no doubt that monster number three now stood before her, a six-foot tall bundle of blind aggression and imminent danger. She steeled herself, forcing her knotted emotions under control.

"You're Axel Rackley."

"Yes. Who's asking?"

"You don't remember me do you?"

"No. I don't think we've met."

"We have, last summer."

"I think I'd remember meeting you." He said, a small smile splitting his face as his eyes traveled up and down her body.

"You didn't _meet_ me, you _raped_ me." She spat.

He stood straighter, jaw dropping in disbelief.

"That's a lie!" his sharp response echoed off the shop's walls.

"You know it's true. You...and three others...terrorized me."

He dismissed her with a wave of his gloved hand. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She looked at him, green eyes blazing in hatred. "Just admit it. You and three others pulled me into an alley and raped me."

"I'm not admitting shit!" He put the torch down, taking a step toward her.

In a flash of bright silver, the revolver came into view. "Stay back!" The pistol shook in her hands, barrel circling menacingly. "The other two at least admitted to what they did...finally. Be a man and own up to it!"

"Easy now..." he said, staring at the weapon's dark maw. "All right, I admit we had sex with you in that alley. I don't know what you're so bent about. You acted like you wanted it. We thought you wanted to party."

She froze in momentary confusion. _That's what Stone said, that I acted like I wanted it! Did I somehow give them that idea?_ The notion staggered the pistol-wielding woman, distracting her for a fleeting instant...an instant too long.

When she first approached, she hadn't noticed the three-foot section of tubing lying across the bench at Rackley's left. Now at gun-point, he snatched it up, stepped to his right and lashed out, a howl of rage escaping his lips.

A searing pain bloomed in her left hand as the makeshift weapon found its target, shooting a fire trail the length of her arm. She felt, rather than heard, a faint 'pop' in her wrist as the pistol shot out of her grip to skid across the floor.

Moving with an astonishing speed for a man so large, he twisted his body to the left then swung again, the pipe landing with a horrific impact. Her breath exploded from her lungs with a loud "whoosh" as the heavy tube smashed into her side. The inertia of the blow carried her backward, slamming her into a rolling tool box with bone-jarring force. Dazed by the impact, she landed face-down with an audible thud, the stars dancing before her eyes. Blinking franticly to clear her vision, she crawled toward the gun, now lying just out of reach.

His face painted in an evil smile, Rackley took aim at her head. Spinning the pipe in a high arc like a Samurai sword, he raised the weapon for the kill.

Stretching every sinew to the limit, she finally wrapped her fingers around the pistol's handle. She rolled to the right as the pipe careened off the floor in a shower of concrete chips, missing her skull by a hair's breadth.

In an overwhelming surge of hot adrenaline, she raised the weapon, the thundering blast amplified by the smooth steel walls of the shop. With no time to aim, the bullet missed Rackley's body but found his left forearm, a ragged hole appearing in the belly of the naked woman tattooed there. He screamed in pain, using his undamaged arm to raise the pipe again. She knew with a terrible certainty there was no chance he would miss a second time.

She pulled the trigger and the pistol again belched fire and lead at her attacker. The second bullet found Rackley's chest, tearing through his heart and lung in a single, deadly pass. His blazing eyes expanded to black pools, the sudden shock painting his face an ashen grey. He coughed once, foamy blood running from his mouth as he stood frozen in disbelief. The pipe slowly slipped from his grip, landing on the floor with a loud clang.

She trembled in pain and terror as he stood above her, his dazed expression now melted to a vacant stare as the life drained from his body. She emitted a strangled gasp of relief as he crumpled to the ground.

Her chest ablaze with excruciating pain as she tried to pull in even a partial breath, she slowly picked herself up, holding her throbbing wrist close to her side. She gingerly touched the other hand to her aching midsection. _Oh, my God!_ Her mind flashed in horror as a scorching agony raced across her chest _, I think my ribs are broken!_

She took a last, fleeting look at Rackley, now lying unmoving among the scrap and refuse of the shop floor. _Somebody had to hear that._ _I've got to get the hell out of here!_

She dropped the card on Rackley's cooling corpse, the sudden motion of her arm causing another incendiary flash of pain. _Burn in hell you bastard._ She bolted for the door, moving as fast as her rubbery legs could carry her.

Every bump a jolt of agony, she clung to the handle bars as she struggled against the swirling blackness to stay upright in the saddle. She pointed the Hog back toward Prescott, the wind disturbance kicking up a thick cloud of dust. _Only one more left. Then it's over._
Chapter Twenty-Six

Smith finally reached Mendoza, getting the call back when the deputy was on a break from the trial.

"Smith, Mendoza here. I saw that you called."

"I did. I got the lab results back. We ran Grady's DNA through CODIS and it showed up in one of your cases from last year, a sexual assault in Prescott."

"Really? Holy Shit!"

"Really. The victim's name is Hailey Barrow. Stone's DNA is in the same sample too. We have our link."

"I'll call records and get you access to the file," he said. "I have to get back inside, but I want to hear all about it. I'll call you as soon as I'm free."

_That will make finding her easier._ Smith thanked Mendoza for his help.

I know she's not at home. So, let's try her mother's house.

With Mendoza cutting the red tape, in less than an hour he'd checked the file and found the address. As he made the short drive to Joanne Barrow's residence, Smith considered all he had learned about his quarry in the last few hours.

_She's armed and dangerous, rides a motorcycle and was sexually assaulted by four men, two of which are now dead._ He drove up the tree-lined driveway to the house. _She's_ not _going to stop on her own. I have to find her and stop her...before she strikes again._

He parked his car and stood in front of the entry. He pushed the button next to the wrought iron security door, hearing the bell ringing inside. After a minute, a tall, thin woman opened the inner door, swinging it back out of the way. She stuck her head out of the doorway.

"Joanne Barrow?" he asked.

"Yes."

He flashed his badge. "I'm Detective John Smith, Tucson Police. May I come in?

She stepped out to the porch. "We can talk out here. What can I do for you?"

"You have a daughter named Hailey?"

"Yes, Hailey's my daughter," her face instantly went pale, "Is something wrong? Please tell me she's alright!"

"As far as I know she is fine. Do you know where she is right now?"

"No. I assume she's at her apartment. What's this about? Is she in some kind of trouble?"

"When was the last time you spoke to her?"

"Yesterday." The voice was tentative, wary.

"Does she have a cell phone?"

"Yes, she does."

"Would you try calling her please?" Smith asked, remaining stoic.

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"I'm investigating a crime in Tucson and your daughter might have information that can be of use."

"Somehow I doubt that. I don't think my daughter's ever been to Tucson."

"Just the same, would you please call her and ask her to come here as soon as possible. It's very important."

"Why should I?"

He pushed forward, continuing his questions in spite of Joanne's resistance.

"Do you know where she was last Saturday, June twentieth?"

"You'll have to ask her."

"Could she have been in Tucson?"

"She didn't mention any trip to Tucson."

"You're sure?"

"What would she be doing there?" she asked, her maternal instincts heating up.

"We believe she was involved in a shooting."

"What! A shooting!" she waved a hand in disbelief. "That's preposterous!"

"I just need to ask her a few questions. That's all."

"And what _evidence_ do you have to support this ridiculous accusation?"

"Your daughter was raped last year, correct?"

"Yes, four perverts attacked her," she raised an eyebrow in disdain. "We're _still_ waiting for an arrest."

"One of the men who attacked her was found dead last Sunday...in Tucson."

"So how does that involve my daughter?"

"Another one was found this past Wednesday in Black Canyon City, also shot to death."

"I'm having trouble mustering any tears, detective."

Silence.

The light of understanding shown in her eyes, and Smith saw the unconscious tightening of her face.

"You think my daughter killed these men?"

"The evidence is pointing that way."

"When my daughter was _raped_ the police didn't seem to care too much about what happened, why the sudden interest now?"

Smith ignored the malicious comment, continuing with his questions. "What about her friends? Could she be with them?"

"Excuse me?"

"If I could have their names, I'll find her and clear this matter up."

"Look here Detective Smith, my late husband was an attorney and I know my rights," she said, stepping back toward the door. "This conversation is over."

"If your husband was an attorney, then you must know I'll find Hailey. You should also already know it will be a lot better for her if she comes in and talks to me voluntarily." He handed her a business card.

"If I hear from her I'll pass that message along. In the meantime, do I need to contact _my_ attorney?"

"That's up to you. However, I can't over-emphasize the seriousness of this matter. I need to find her immediately."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'."

Silence.

"Good day, Detective."

He watched her go back inside the house, shutting the security gate behind her. He knew she would burn the floor running to the phone to call her daughter. Smith bristled in frustration. He finally knew who his suspect was, yet couldn't seem to locate her. He was beginning to feel a little outnumbered on this case. _I'm trying to stop a killer, but I've got a boss and a senator who are fucking up my investigation. Maybe I should just do what they want and let it drop._

The thought of walking away from the whole thing was gaining a certain appeal for the weary man. He admitted he had a deep-seeded need to fulfill his duty, but he also began to acknowledge some random feelings of understanding for the young woman who he was so intent on finding.
Chapter Twenty-Seven

The crowd was now standing-room only, the motorcycle dealership alive and buzzing with cordial activity. Hailey walked through the door and joined the raucous group.

A little more than a full day had gone by since her encounter with Rackley and she could still feel every excruciating second of the fight in the assortment of aches and pains it left behind. Fortunately, the physical marks of the altercation were hidden beneath her clothes.

Ignoring the lingering pain, she made her way cautiously through the show room. She walked toward a sign at the parts counter indicating this was where she paid her fee for the joining the event. Chatting and signing up for the run, she saw a multitude of riders circulating among the rows of factory-fresh bikes shining under the artificial lights.

Hailey looked around her and was struck by the odd reality that she felt totally at home with these people. Gone was the nagging sensation of emotional vulnerability that she normally had in crowds. _They don't see a victim. They see me as just another biker, one of them._ She momentarily reveled in that feeling of freedom, one unlike any she'd ever known. _These people accept me at face value...no judgments...and no pity._

She liked the feeling of power she had when she was in biker-chick mode. She could forget all about what happened to her. She didn't _have_ to be afraid of every little bump in the night or sideways glance.

Her heart skipped a beat as she watched Doug come through the door, driving all the negative thoughts from her mind in a clean sweep. He spotted her, his face lighting up, and made a bee-line in her direction.

He smiled and called out to several people as he moved through the crowd before finally joining her at the parts counter. "I was hoping you'd come." His easy smile sent a pleasant, tingle up her spine.

"It sounded like fun," she said. "I've only tried to ride with this many people once before."

"It's pretty easy. Just pay attention to the spacing between you and the guy in front of you."

She paused for several seconds, trying to think of something witty to say, and not being inspired, threw out an innocuous question. "How many bikes do you think we have today?"

"I don't know for sure," he said, quickly scanning the room. "But at least seventy-five."

They went outside and surveyed the jovial scene, the lines of people and machines gathering, waiting for the run to begin.

"Wow. That's a lot of bikes," she said, eyes wide. "I hope I can handle it."

"You'll do fine," his bright smile eased her mind. "Ready?"

"Let's go," she continued, nervously making conversation. "So, what's the route for the ride?"

"It starts here at Whiskey Row Cycles and goes out Highway 89 to Ashfork. Then we take I-40 to Williams, Flagstaff and back down I-17 to SR 69, back to Prescott Valley and back to Whiskey Row. It ends at _Bad Boys Saloon_ for beers and poker. Last year we raised almost $10,000 for the local non-profits."

"That's amazing," she said. "You must be proud to be a part of it."

"Yeah, It's pretty cool," he said. "People still have that 1950's image of bikers. You know; the roving criminal that wants to drink beer and steal their teenage daughter's virtue. We want to change that." He paused for a few seconds to collect his thoughts. "With so many professionals riding now, it's different from forty years ago, even ten years ago. You still have outlaws, but not nearly as many. Most bikers are totally law-abiding regardless of how much leather they wear or how long their hair is. They ride because they enjoy the camaraderie of riding and the freedom of the road."

She smiled in understanding and he continued. "It's like the cowboys of the old west. The freedom of the open range...nobody telling you what to do...that kind of thing."

She flashed back to her recent fight with her mother...and that same misguided notion of what it means to be a biker.

The two continued talking until one of the ride organizers climbed onto the tailgate of a parked pickup truck and shouted for attention from the boisterous bunch.

"Everybody listen up!" he said using his hands as a makeshift megaphone. "We are going to get started pretty soon and there are a few things I want to tell you..."

The rider gave a safety briefing on the do's and don'ts of the trip, traffic control and police escorts topping the list.

Mounting up, she touched the starter button and the Hog roared to life between her legs, her entire body now pulsing with the power flowing from the machine to its rider.

Rolling slowly forward, she joined the dozens of bikes pairing up in the center of the parking lot. The line stretching and bending like a snake, it continued to grow as the participants moved up to take their places, the roar of engines now becoming deafening.

Looking to the left, she took in Doug's handsome face as he brought his fire engine red Electra-Glide away from the curb and assumed his slot next to hers in the gathering of machines and their riders.

The leader ahead gave a wave of his arm and pulled forward, signaling the official start of the event. When her turn came, she let go of the clutch as the wind blew back her ponytail in an undulating cape behind her. She grinned like a fool at a pair of wide-eyed young boys waving from the sidewalk. Faces split in huge grins, the boys held their hands over their ears as the roaring motorcycles cruised slowly up the block, turning left and disappearing down the road.

The pavement passed under her wheels and she basked in the feeling of being in motion. She ignored the intermittent shooting pains springing from her battered ribs, instead concentrating on the thrill of the ride and the man gliding along next to her. She watched Doug handle the big Electra-Glide with the finesse of a bullfighter. _He really is a gorgeous man._

She felt an unfamiliar calm, coupled with a sense of cautious delight, as she suddenly realized she wasn't afraid. She thought about Doug and realized although she didn't know him very well yet, she _wanted_ to get to know him. She had to admit, in spite of his imposing size, Doug made her pulse spike every time he came close. Just the slightest touch of his hand and her body reacted outside of her conscious control, bubbling with pleasurable tingles. The notion struck her as odd, considering her panicked reaction to dancing at the bar only a few nights before. It still took a few seconds of determined effort to relax when Doug stood close, but there was just something about him that left her feeling comfortable, yet excited at the same time...and she wanted to feel that way again.

She pushed the expected apprehension she always felt in a man's presence out of her mind. Instead she decided she would enjoy the ride...and the man who accompanied her.

Several hours later, the procession rounded the last curve back into Prescott and moved down Gurley Street toward Courthouse Square. Dusty and tired, the group began to break up, finding parking spaces where they could. She followed Doug west to Cortez Street, made a right turn and located a single empty space in front of an antique store, backing in among the multitude of vehicles resting along the curb. He removed his helmet and waited for her to shut down her bike and dismount.

"Want to get a beer?" he suggested. "A little something to cut the dust."

"Sure, sounds good." She pulled her gloves off and tucked them in her back pocket, following him toward the collection of bars at the end of the street.

Entering the crowed bar, the pair found a table in the corner. He pulled out her chair for her, then pulled his closer, sitting only a few inches away.

A waitress came by and he ordered for both of them, something she normally didn't approve of, but this time she welcomed the proprietary initiative. _He wants to do things for me, how sweet._

She noticed she again felt no fear, no nervousness. The notion of sitting in a bar with a man and actually enjoying herself was something she never thought she'd experience again. She smiled at him and he returned the gesture with a grin.

"I hope you had fun today, I know I did."

"I did. The ride was a blast."

"I enjoyed the company," he said, taking her hand in his. "I'm glad you decided to come with me."

"I'm glad too."

He leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, the gentle touch surprising her and sending a wave of excitement cruising through her body.

She pulled slightly away, face still flushed in surprise.

"I hope that was okay," his eyes searched hers. "I just couldn't wait any more."

"It was more than okay." She said, leaning forward and claiming a second kiss of her own.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Smith was again waiting outside Hailey's apartment when he heard the quiet chirp of his cell phone.

"Hello?"

"John, its Cassie."

"Hi. How are you?"

After their last conversation, he didn't want to upset her and certainly didn't want to rehash the same old arguments again.

"I'm okay, I guess."

He noticed her voice was strained, lacking the firmness of yesterday.

"What's wrong?

"I just called to apologize."

His mind skipped a gear, her admission a shock.

He gave a tentative reply. "For what, you don't owe me any apologies."

"I just want to say I'm sorry for the things I said before, about you having an affair. After we talked, I stayed up most of the night thinking about what you said and I realized how wrong I was about that," she paused and he could hear her tense breathing. "I started thinking about all the times you were working late, and I guess...I guess I needed to blame somebody for my being alone and unhappy."

"I really was telling you the truth. I never cheated on you. Not even once."

"I know that now. I'm sorry. I just...I just feel like I've been competing against a mistress...a mistress called your job," she said. "I can't compete with the job. Competing against another woman would almost be easier to take."

"I can't tell you how sorry I am for not being there when you needed me. My job was _never_ more important to me than you," he said, meaning every word. "You're the reason I could go out and face those streets every day, because I had you to come home to."

Her response was drowned out by a loud beep in his ear. The tone told Smith he had another call coming in. He looked on the display and saw Mendoza's number.

"Shit," he said. _Not now!_

"What was that?" Cassie's voice returned.

"I have another call coming in," he said dreading her reaction.

"You want to take it?" she asked, her tone suddenly considerably more reserved, her voice laced with resignation.

For several seconds Smith battled with what to do. He could feel Cassie's mood had changed from the previous conversation and he didn't want to ruin it by putting her on hold. _You promised to put her first, time to put your money where your mouth is._

"I'll get it later."

"Are you sure? It could be important." Her voice betrayed her feelings of impending disappointment.

"You're important. Whatever it is can wait."

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with my husband?" she said, a hint of laughter now evident.

Her term of endearment struck him head-on. She hadn't referred to him as "husband" for several months and hearing it sent a small ripple of hope through him.

"You know nothing is more important to me than you," he said. "I swear."

For several seconds silence filled the line, then she spoke, the voice small and fragile. "I've just felt so alone for so long, being here all by myself since the accident...since Matthew..."

_She's reaching out._ His mind registered in surprise. _Reassure her now!_

"You're not alone," he said, groping for the right words to express what he was feeling. "I understand. I...I miss him too. I miss you both." His heart thudded in his chest as he waited for her response.

"I've wanted to hear that for so long," she said, sighing loudly. "You don't know how long I waited for you to say that."

"I'm sorry. I should have been telling you all along." He choked up at the long overdue admission.

"It's okay." Her voice was now softer, and he correctly interpreted the change for what it was, as her way of broadcasting her need for his emotional comfort and support. He'd missed that signal before. He determined this time he would give her what she needed.

"No, it's not. You deserved better." His phone beeped again. _Go away!_ He thought, instinctively sensing he stood at one of those pivotal moments that can make or break a relationship...their relationship.

"Is that the other call again?" she asked.

"Yes. It can still wait."

"It's okay. Go ahead and take it," she took a deep breath before continuing. "If you still want to, we can talk some more when you get home."

His pulse did a nervous little spike _. Don't push._ "You sure? I want that very much, but you seemed pretty firm."

"Yes. We can talk. After thinking about it all night, I want to, but I make no promises."

"Understood. _I promise_ you won't regret it."

"I'll see you later."

"I love you." he said, meaning every word with his whole heart.

"I know you do. We'll talk more later."

Smith let Cassie's last four last few words wash over him, a splash of cool water to a thirsty man.

"I'll call you as soon as I get home." He said.

"Okay, Bye."

"Bye."

He silently vowed that as soon as this case closed, he would turn in his retirement paperwork. _This job has cost too much and changed too much._

The annoying beep sounded for the third time, breaking into his sanguine thoughts. He clicked the connection and Mendoza's voice filled his ears.

"Smith? Mendoza here. I just got a call. They found the Queen of Diamonds."

"Son of a bitch...Where?"

"In Chino Valley. Out past Road Five-North."

"On my way." Smith said, snapping the phone shut. _Damn, we're too late!_

Thirty minutes later, Smith pulled up at the address Mendoza gave him. A strip of yellow tape stretched between the gate posts, blocking entrance to the property. He looked across the parking lot and spied Mendoza's SUV. A uniformed officer lifted the thin vinyl barrier to allow Smith to pass under. He exited his car into the stiffening afternoon breeze and made his way to the door, seeing Mendoza standing near-by.

"You see that?" Mendoza asked, pointing to the gleaming chopper parked next to the shop's side entrance. "It's another Triumph, isn't it?"

Smith took in the wildly extended front end and twin exhaust pipes protruding below the foot pegs.

"It is."

Smith pulled his cell and called the DMV, checking for any additional vehicles registered to Grady. He found there was one, of the two-wheeled variety.

"Grady also has a Triumph registered in his name," Smith said. "That's three for three."

"Shit! I can't believe I missed this," Mendoza spit. "All of our victims have the same brand of motorcycle."

Smith turned, cocking a thumb back over his shoulder.

"Who's in the back of your truck?" Smith asked.

"Rackley's roommate. He discovered the body when he came to pick him up," Mendoza said. "He told me Rackley wasn't even supposed to be here. They were supposed to be going to Prescott to get some stuff for the run on Saturday."

"What run?" Smith asked.

"Rackley was going on the _Whiskey Row Fun Run_ on the fourth," Mendoza said. "Told me his club goes every year."

"He belongs to a club?" Smith asked.

"Triumph Owners of Arizona, small club out of Prescott. Sound familiar?"

"Triumph Owners of Arizona, wasn't that the tag Stone was wearing?" Smith asked. "The one the bartender mentioned."

"And everybody says the heat in Tucson rots your brain." Mendoza said with a little chuckle.

"Read me the summary on the Barrow case again, please." Smith asked.

Mendoza read from the file. "According to the report, she was walking north on Montezuma just before midnight when four men, one armed with a knife, grabbed her and forced her into a secluded alleyway. These four proceeded to take turns sexually assaulting her for over an hour, before they got spooked and ran away."

Smith's sharp intake of breath cut the air. "Jesus Christ, that poor girl's lucky to be alive."

"Did the detective on the original case get sketches of Barrow's assailants?" he asked.

Mendoza ran an index finger down the report. "Victim couldn't do a sketch. She said the alley was pitch black... and she was very intoxicated. Her blood alcohol level was something like .165, for someone her weight, that's pretty wrecked."

Mendoza continued. "She may have been too drunk to make a positive I.D., but it's definitely not a stretch to think that all four men came from the same club. Finally, some things are starting to add up."

Smith scratched his chin. "They raped her and now she's picking them off one by one," Smith said. "According to the CODIS report, she's still got one more assailant left to track down."

Mendoza continued reading aloud. "She said in her statement that these bastards kept taunting her, calling her 'Queeney' while they worked her over," he lifted his eyes from the report. "With that knife at her throat, she was too scared to even scream. The fact that she didn't resist is probably what saved her life."

Smith sighed in acknowledgment. "Well, that explains the playing cards. That seals it. It has to be this Barrow woman," he shook his head in disbelief. "How can you do that to another person?"

The two stood in silence for several seconds, each digesting their own thoughts on the raw, animal brutality they now knew these men had visited on an innocent girl in some dark and filthy alley.

"She's _going_ to track this fourth guy down," Smith said, breaking the silence. "She found the others, she'll find this one."

"And we have to find her first." Mendoza completed Smith's thought.

"Assuming she hasn't found him already," Smith opined. "Maybe we can collar this asshole before she puts a bullet in him."

Mendoza gave Smith a sideways look. "I know we have to protect this guy from her," he said, disgust evident in his words. "But just once, I'd like to see the punishment fit the crime." He made a sniping, scissors motion with his fingers.

"You know that's not our job," Smith said. "That's a job for a judge and jury."

"I know, but it's fun to think about sometimes." Mendoza grinned. Smith joined him. "Agreed."

"Well, the BOLO is out," Smith said, referring to the standard _"Be On the Look Out for"_ notice sent out to patrol officers on the streets. "And you have a unit watching her apartment."

"We can't wait for her to come to us," Mendoza said. "We have to get ahead of her."

"We need to know where and when that club meets next," Smith said. "That's where she'll be."

Five minutes on the internet and the two officers had the address for the T.O.A.

"James Kingston, Club President. He lives right here in Prescott," Mendoza said. "But we have to be careful. He could be our fourth player."

The two took Smith's car up Copper Basin road almost to the end. Surrounded by the lush expanse of the Prescott National Forest, the heavily wooded area embodied a nature lovers dream. Smith enjoyed the contrast of the tall pines passing by his window compared to the arid desert beauty surrounding his Tucson home.

Stopping before a large log cabin, the two men got out and made their way between the tall trees toward the front door. Smith rang the bell several times with no response. The pair were about to leave when the sound of an engine starting echoed in the forest silence.

Following the sound, they walked toward the rear of the property, stopping at the large detached garage set in the back corner. Smith noted the building's facade featured a pair of double doors, one rolled half way up. He looked inside, seeing a man leaning over a motorcycle strapped to a raised platform several feet off the ground. Checking the rest of the garage, Smith took in the décor of the well-equipped shop. The walls were covered with the expected assortment of motorcycle photos and spare parts as well as a prominently displayed calendar of big-breasted, bikini-clad woman he noticed tacked to the wall.

The man working on the bike appeared to be in his fifties, his graying hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. A series of colorful tattoos adorned every inch of his shirtless upper body. The gothic mural of skulls and chains draped across his back, running from his shoulders down his wiry arms to end at his wrists.

The bike's engine roared with gusto as he snapped the throttle again and again, the mechanical din approaching an ear-shattering volume.

"Hello!" Smith shouted loudly during a lull in the noise. Looking back over his shoulder, the man acknowledged them with a nod of his head. He shut off the engine, the racket disappearing immediately. "Can I help you?" The bearded man answered.

"James Kingston, President of the Triumph Owners of Arizona?" Mendoza asked.

"Yes, that's me."

Smith and Mendoza introduced themselves and Kingston invited them into his office, snatching up his tee shirt from a work bench as they passed. Stepping through a doorway in the dividing wall, they entered a small room, the upscale furniture rustic with a heavy western overtone.

"Please have a seat." He said, indicating a pair of chairs before a small desk made from massive, natural tree branches. Kingston pulled the shirt over his head, sitting in the leather chair behind the desk. "What can I do for you?

"I'll get right to the point," Smith said. "We need to get a look at your membership list and any photos of your members."

"I'd be happy to give you my membership list," Kingston said, stoic expression unchanging. "Just as soon as you show me a warrant."

"We don't have time for this," Mendoza groused. "We believe four members of your club raped a girl last Fourth of July and we need to find out who it was."

"I don't know anything about any rape," the man behind the desk interjected. "This is a club dedicated to enjoying the unique character of vintage English motorcycles. That's all. We're not outlaws."

"Well, some of your members don't live by your high moral standard," Smith said, getting a bit testy. "As a result, three of them are dead."

The color left Kingston's face, turning him a pasty white. "Oh, my God! Who...how?"

"We can't release the names. However, we do need your help to locate a fourth man in connection with this case, for his own safety."

"I don't know how much help I can be," he said. "I can't allow you access to club records without a warrant or some kind of court order. Our members are kinda particular about their privacy."

"You have another event scheduled for the Fourth of July, right?" Smith asked. "That's two days away."

"Yes. We have our annual Tri-City area fun run."

"So all your members will be in one place at one time?"

"Well, yes. That's entirely possible," Kingston replied. "It's our biggest event of the year. Pretty much everyone shows up for it."

"Do you have a list of participants from last year?" Mendoza asked.

Silence.

"Do you know who's planning on coming this year?"

"If I did, I couldn't give it to you, not without a court order. I'm sorry, but that's club policy," Kingston repeated. "We have doctors, lawyers and other professionals in this club. If I gave you unauthorized access to the records, they'd sue the crap out of me."

"Listen Mr. Kingston," Smith said. "We have two days to find this girl...before she finds the fourth guy and..."

His face drawn tight in frustration, Mendoza interrupted Smith, pointing an accusing finger at Kingston. "And makes you an accessory to murder!"

Smith knew an accessory charge would never stick, but he figured it might throw the fear of God into the man so he let it ride.

Mendoza moved closer to the man and leaned forward to meet his eyes. "Sir, I'm going to ask one more time, then I'm going to arrest you for obstruction and three counts of accessory to murder after the fact."

The color drained from the man's thin face. Obviously shaken, Kingston seemed to consider the two officers for several long seconds before answering.

"I _might_ be able to give you a _group_ photo from after the run last year," he said. "That was already posted on the website."

"Thank you for your cooperation." Smith said, breathing a small sigh of relief.

"It'll take me a few minutes to find it, but I can print one for you," he said. "Oh, and come to think of it, you're welcome to look through all the shots _I_ took of the run. In those pictures everyone's out in public. So, no privacy issues."

Both detectives stood. "Thank you. That would be very helpful." Mendoza said.

Kingston put a CD-ROM disk into a laptop computer sitting on the desk. "Everything I have is on there."

About ten minutes and fifty frames into the search, Smith did a double take at one of the photos. "Hector, take a look at this." he said.

Mendoza glanced over Smith's shoulder, peering at the image on the screen. The photo showed a scene inside a bar, the tables full. At one of the tables, four men sat, beer bottles strewn about them.

"That's Stone on the left and Rackley in the middle, I don't know the other two," Mendoza said.

"I can help there. Grady is the one looking out to the right side of the picture," he said, then pointed at the screen. "That should make this last guy bachelor number four."

Smith turned the laptop back toward Kingston. "What can you tell me about this man?"

_Part IV_ ...Lead poisoning

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jesus Hoya rolled his chair away from the computer desk, leaning back and stretching his boney arms over his head. Sitting among the cannibalized carcasses of countless motorcycles and mountains of parts in his rented garage, he smiled in greedy satisfaction. The thin, wiry man smirked because he knew the deal he'd just put together would net him almost half a year's wages. He smoothed his black goatee to a fine point under his chin, his dark Hispanic eyes sparkling at the thought of making so much money, so easily.

_Carlos swipes five bikes. We take'em apart, box'em up and ship'em to the coast_. _I get five grand each. Piece of cake,_ he openly gloated. _Those rich Californians will buy anything._

Hoya knew the recent resurgence of all things vintage, from cars to clothes, particularly English items, was now especially trendy in La-La Land. When it came to west coast Anglophiles, the growing movement represented a hill of gold just waiting to be mined. Hoya had no trouble grabbing a shovel and getting his share...or more.

Opening the door with a loud bang, Carlos entered the garage, dropping a large cardboard box on the workbench. Hoya looked at his teen-aged "employee". "What's in the box?" Hoya asked, his attention already back on the screen.

"I scored some parts for a 69' Bonnie. A set of cases and a frame, with a clean Arizona title." The young man said, turning his baseball cap around backwards, coming to look over Hoya's shoulder.

"How much did this cost me?" Hoya inquired, sarcastically.

"Found them at a swap meet. Got 'em for practically nothing; like two-hundred for all three pieces."

"What do they look like?"

"They're perfect. The frame just needs paint, no rust or repair welds."

"Get at it," he said "We can use them for the west coast deal."

He slid back behind the desk and began tapping the keys. "I want that frame finished by lunch."

The two worked in silence for several long minutes before Hoya spoke. "After you get that done, start loading all the spare parts boxes into the truck," he said. "With all the Britt bikes at the run this weekend, we should be able to unload some of this junk and bank some extra coin."

_Who knew there was so much money in old parts?_ He thought, _shit, we used to throw that stuff away 'cause it took up too much room._

"And don't forget about our deal." He said.

The boy responded immediately. "Chill, I remember. I take the lift-gate truck and bring back five bikes," the underling paused for a second, then continued. "And then we're even. Right?"

Hoya looked at the covered form of a motorcycle in the corner. Though hidden from sight, he knew a gleaming machine rested underneath, leaning against the wall. _He did a good job...I should keep it for myself. No, it's not what I want anyway."_

"Yeah, you're paid in full. The bike is all yours," he said reluctantly. "Good job."

He called back over his shoulder. "How's it feel to own your first set of wheels?"

The seventeen year-old answered from across the room. "It feels pretty damned sweet! I've wanted one since I was ten," he said, bursting with excitement, thinking of the 1975 Sportster under the cover. "Thanks for letting me work it off."

A small hissing sound carried on the air as the boy waved the spray can back and forth, the black paint landing on the frame's metal tubes with precision.

"You earned it," Hoya said. "You're the one who built it. I just rounded up the parts."

He sniffed as the odor of fresh paint began to fill the area. _Good, he's painting that frame already._

Feeling good about closing the west coast deal, he decided to throw the kid a bone. "Get all that other shit done and you can cut out early and go for a ride," he continued, strong voice a warning. "Just don't be late tomorrow night."

"I won't." the boy reassured him.

He felt no remorse about using Carlos to commit the blatant thefts he had planned. _I gave him a huge break when I hired him._ He conjectured. _Who else would hire an illegal, a minor, and pay him ten dollars an hour for grunt work?_

Hoya himself graduated from shoplifting to stealing cars by the age of twelve and nobody had given _him_ a break. He remembered well the 'fence' were he sold the hot autos. The grossly obese black man squeezed every cent he could out of each deal, giving Hoya a tiny fraction of what the cars were really worth, then disowning him completely when Hoya got arrested.

That corrupting experience set the tone for the rest of his life, galvanizing his resentment at the world of the "haves", while he belonged to the world of the "have not's".

He took the hard, sometimes violent, lessons learned during his two years in jail and became a "young entrepreneur" of sorts. His cunning and skill reminiscent of Dickens' Artful Dodger, he made his knowledge of machines pay off in spades. Now, at age twenty-five, he controlled two businesses, one legitimate, the other illegal and deeply hidden behind a mask of artificial propriety.

He looked around at the mounds of parts in his warehouse and thought of the two other storage units he rented, also full of bikes and parts.

While "chop-shops" are typically associated with four-wheeled vehicles, the ever-industrious Jesus Hoya had realized a niche market existed in supplying low cost, no questions asked parts for specialized bikes. His network of underage thieves provided the stock and the internet provided the advertising, making Hoya very good money for very little real effort. He finished posting the pictures of three _legitimate_ motorcycles for sale online and shut off the computer.

Now that Carlos was gone for the day, he took a small bag of white powder and poured some on the glass desktop. He rolled up a ten-dollar bill and sniffed the white crystals up his nose, the drug entering his body with an expected burn. He smiled at the thought of all the money he was going to make the next day, meeting all those people at the fun run. _And relieving some of them of their wheels._
Chapter Thirty

The Friday night traffic on Gurley St. crawled slowly forward, the flow of cars now thick and steady. The sidewalks were filled with people strolling up and back as resident and tourist alike enjoyed the dusk of a perfect summer day now slipping into evening.

Hailey slowly drove past the bikes parked along the curb, the Hog calling to its mechanical brethren in a distinct, rumbling voice. She made her way back toward her apartment, a feeling of contentment rolling through her in small, gentle waves as she moved from light to light. The afternoon had been great, the ride fun and exciting, and she admitted the thrill of Doug's company only made it better. She thought of his confidence in her and again saw his ready smile. Riding east, the lithe brunette could still feel the delicious tingles of pleasure his frequent glances sent dancing through her limbs as they rode. She still reveled in the taste of his kiss. When it came time to bring the event to an end, she found she hadn't wanted to say good-bye, although the exertion had taken a heavy toll on her already battle-fatigued body.

She shook her wrist, arm throbbing in pain. _God, it still hurts like hell._ She felt her abused ribs still burning, the nagging ache reminding her of the ominous clouds hanging over her head. The sting of her injuries brought the reality of her situation slithering back, intruding on her pleasant memories of the day. _At some point the cops will find me. I know they'll never stop looking._

Passing Granite Street and the Sharlot Hall Museum, Hailey grimly recalled her mother's cautionary counsel to accept what happened and move on with her life.

Maybe Mother was right. If I'd left it alone, I wouldn't be in this mess.

Her acidic reflections moved forward with alacrity, barreling ahead without any conscious attempt at restraint.

_But would I really be any better off?_ The notion plagued her as she piloted the Hog further away from the square. _I was pretty much a prisoner anyway. I was too scared to live...and too scared to die._

She looked back at her life over the past year and cringed. _Failing school, losing David, being trapped in my apartment...I might as well have been dead._

She thought about her uncle's heroic courage in the face of his impending death. _He really was a cowboy at heart. He lived just like his favorite actor... John Wayne._

She thought briefly of John Wayne, considering both the man and the legend. _He was_ all about _courage and class, just like Greg._ She also remembered hearing her uncle talk about Wayne's heroic battles with lung and stomach cancer, defeating the disease once before finally succumbing in 1979.

_At least this way I can say I didn't give up._ She again thought about that horrifying night she tried to take her own life. _And I_ won't _give in._

She considered her opposing feelings for several seconds while navigating along Summit Street, heading north. _If I'd done what Mother said, I might not be in_ this _kind of trouble,_ she admitted. _But I'd be hiding in my closet for the rest of my life... different jailer... same bars._

Her turbulent mind turned to the impending anniversary of the attack, leaving her emotions torn between a stark vulnerability at being swept up in recent events and an intoxicating sensation of power at being the catalyst.

_They raped me...and almost killed me._ She gritted her teeth as her wrist flashed a signal of pain at all the driving she'd done. _If I'm a monster,_ she thought in resignation _then_ they _made me that way._

The internal debate continued as she ping-ponged between hope for the future and the specters of the past. She wanted so much to unburden herself of the toxic memories, to cleanse her mind of everything from her rape to the revenge she took on the horrible men who committed it. She desperately wanted to tell _someone_ about what was happening inside her. She was growing, changing and she wanted to share, for the first time, what she was thinking...and feeling.

Again Doug's face appeared. She considered her feelings about this handsome new man who brought such an unexpected spark to her withering life. _How do I deal with him?_

_Tell him the truth._ Her reasoning side silently cried.

I can't tell him. Oh, God no. He'd flip out. But I can't keep lying either, not to him...and not to myself.

The fear of disappointment reared its ugly head, clogging her thinking with unwanted melancholy. _Why did I have to find him now? Why couldn't it have been months ago._

The answer materialized among her chaotic thoughts, but not in the typical explosion or epiphany. The new reality quietly washed over her in a calm arrival of subtle, cohesive understanding. _I'm different now._

The truth solidified her murky feelings. _Months ago, I would have peed my pants if he so much as looked at me._ She thought, the truth bringing a grim wave of self-disappointment. _Hell, I was afraid of my own shadow, never mind someone like him. Not any more, I won't hide...I won't be afraid_ any _more._

Rounding the last curve before reaching her street, she thought about what to do next. _I have to see this through. One way or another, it has to end._

She knew the T.A.O.'s would be participating in the run the following night, and the inescapable truth fell on her like a lead weight. _I've got to take the fourth one down._

Pulse spiking, she envisioned a life behind bars. The never-ending drudgery, the total loss of one's most basic freedoms, all these demons and more flew into her mind as biting trepidation returned to grate on her last nerve. _My life is really over, isn't it? What am I going to do?_ _Oh, Uncle Greg, I wish you were here._

She looked in her mind's eye and saw Greg's face appear _._ She heard his words again. _Sometimes the only way out is forward, even if it_ is _through a shit storm._ She took some small degree of comfort in his dour revelation.

Coming down the last block before her building, she noticed something out of place, the routine approach not quite feeling right. _I've driven this road hundreds of times, what's different this time?_

While she couldn't immediately put her finger on it, the reality came quickly enough. Hailey's heart skipped a beat as she scanned the road ahead. _What is that?_ She wondered, seeing the multi-colored dome peeking out above the dense, green foliage. She slowed and took a second look, the image coalescing, firing off a loud warning shot, a harbinger of imminent danger.

Sitting behind some unkempt bushes, the looming white specter of a Yavapai County Sheriff's SUV sat, silently waiting for its prey. _Oh, my God! They found me!_ Her heart leapt to breakneck speed, hammering against her chest in panic.

She swerved dangerously before breaking to a quick stop and hiding behind a parked car. Engine still throbbing, her frightened mind raced ahead. _Run! Get the hell out of here, before he sees you!_ Praying for some kind of miracle as her terror mounted, she turned the heavy machine around, accelerating away from the unsuspecting deputy behind the wheel in a cloud of dust.

Retracing her trip, she sped back to Courthouse Square, constantly checking the mirrors for any sign of a pursuing deputy. Noting she was not being followed, she turned right onto Granite Street, then made a quick left into the concrete and steel edifice of the parking garage half way down the block. Fright pushing her forward, she wound her way upward. She found a sliver of a space on the third floor and left the Hog, engine ticking as it sat cooling in the darkness.

She dashed across the street to the lights of the coffee house, a bevy of chatting customers walking out the door as she approached. Sitting at a bistro table outside, she noticed the patio area was empty. She was alone, the rest of the meticulously manicured courtyard vacant. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed with an uncontrollably trembling hand. She held the instrument to her ear and silently prayed that he would answer.

Doug's voice filled the airwaves on the second ring. "Hi, I was just thinking about you," he said, pausing momentarily. "But I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. What's up?"

His question sent another spike of fear ricocheting through her body. "I can't tell you over the phone. Can you meet me?" she asked, her voice fearful and forced.

"Sure. Where and when?"

"As soon as possible. I'm at the _Wild Iris_ coffee house."

"I know where that place is. I'll see you in a few minutes."

"Thank you. And, please don't tell anyone where you're going," she said. "I'd like to keep this between us."

"Whatever you say. I'll be right there." She hung up and her breathing began to return to normal.

Adrenaline still burning in her blood, she stepped inside the shop and ordered a frozen drink. Sitting at a table across from the counter, she contemplated what she would say when Doug arrived and the tears welled up in her eyes with the knowledge that the budding relationship was probably now over. She decided to wait outside and trudged toward the door, her head low, her spirits crushed.

She watched him approach, the customary bounce in his step evident as he came through the gate into the courtyard a few minutes later. Helmet tucked under his arm, he sat down, dropping into the chair across from her.

"Hey," he said, blue eyes shining. "What's with all the cloak and dagger stuff?"

She leaned forward, closing the gap between them. "I need your help."

His response came instantaneously, voice holding no reservations what so ever. "Sure. What is it?"

She steeled herself, the heavy sigh carrying across the table. "When you hear, you may not be so anxious to get involved."

He leaned back in the chair, his manner all confidence and strength. "I'm a big boy. I think I can take it."

She too leaned back, crossing one jean-encased leg over the other. "I don't even know where to start." She took a small sip of her drink.

"Start from the beginning." He said, his gaze settling on her face, clear lines of worry etched there.

"There are things about me you don't know," she said, the uneven timbre of her voice belying an inner turmoil. "Terrible things."

He took her hand and threw an easy, sideways grin. "Come on, how terrible can it be?"

"Pretty bad," she said, shaking her head in self-pity. "Enough to change your mind about me."

"I doubt that," he replied firmly. "I think you underestimate yourself, and I consider myself a pretty good judge of character."

She hesitated, held captive by a growing dread of his reaction to her planned revelations.

"You don't owe me any explanations," he said calmly. "But if you _want_ to tell me what's going on, I'll try to help."

"I'm sorry. I know I called you...but," she said, her entire body visibly stiffening. "Oh, my God. This is _so_ hard."

He noticed the quiver in her voice. "It's okay. You can tell me."

"I can't believe I'm about to dump this on you," she said, her face fraught with tension. "Only a few people even know about it."

"Just start from the beginning, nice and easy," he leaned forward getting as close as the table would allow. "It's just you and me here."

"Okay, here goes," she said, taking a deep breath, the fear evident as she spoke. "I was out dancing with my friends and we got a little drunk...okay, a lot drunk...and they left me at a bar downtown." She paused in trepidation. "You're _sure_ you want to here this? It's not too late to change your mind."

"Only if you _want_ to tell me...and it sounds like you do."

She continued. "My friends wanted to go and party with these guys we met and I wanted to go home. Well, we got into a huge fight. So, I told them I was going to walk home and they let me leave the bar...alone."

He frowned deeply, considering the implications of a young woman alone on the street, no matter how safe the neighborhood.

She continued, the overlapping thoughts now released in a staccato burst. "So, I'm walking down the street, on my way home, and...well, I know I shouldn't have been there...I feel so stupid... but..." she paused again.

"It's okay, I'm not judging you," he said, waiting for her to gather her courage. "Just tell me what happened next."

The words began to flow again, the crumbling dam liberating a river of pent-up emotion. "There were these men, on the street...by this alley, and I tried to get by... and...and one had a knife...and...he grabbed me..." the tears began to form, rimming her eyes.

"It's okay," he said. "You can tell me." His hands turned white as he gripped the chair in anger, intuiting where her recollections were leading. Afraid the wrong word would kill any courage she'd mustered, he fell silent and again took her hands in his. He could see her face relax, the touch obviously welcome.

The long-held tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. "I was...," she pushed on, her face stretched tight in a mask of anguish and remembered terror. "They...they...raped me."

Blinking the tears from her eyes, she searched his face for some kind of reaction to her gut-wrenching admission.

His face softened before her eyes, the frown now a gentle curve. Taking a deep breath, he held it for a second, then exhaled slowly. He willed the intense fury suddenly pounding within him back under his control. He couldn't let his incendiary anger at these horrible men add to her misery.

"Oh, my God! I'm so sorry," he softly said, holding her hands more firmly in reassurance. "I can't even imagine how hard it must have been for you to say that."

She expelled a tight breath, the tension still evident. "I wanted to tell you before, but I couldn't, not so soon," she said, forcing a thin smile. "It's not exactly something you tell a guy on a first date."

"I understand," he said. "I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me now."

"There's more," she said, taking her hand from his and wiping the wetness from her cheeks. "Last chance to run."

"I'm not going anywhere," he sat up a little taller, giving her a thin smile. "What's that old saying; in for a penny, in for a pound?"

She felt a little stronger now, his gentle manner and tender, undemanding touch bolstering her fragile courage.

"The bastards got away with it," she sniffed. "And it was my fault."

"Hold on right there. It wasn't your fault. I don't care how drunk you were. There's no excuse for what they did to you," he took a shallow breath before continuing, "How the hell did they manage to get away with it? Didn't the police go after them?"

"Combine all the booze with the dark alley and I really couldn't give the cops a very good description of the men. So, they didn't really put a lot of effort into finding them."

He nodded in grim understanding. "I'm so sorry."

"Sometimes I feel like it was _all_ my fault. I was drinking too much and not paying attention to my own safety," she shook her head in self-recrimination. "I really _do_ know better."

She continued, another loud sniff breaking the quiet. "For a while, I blamed my friends. After all, they let me leave alone and went off hooking up with some guys. But, after I thought about it, I realized it wasn't their fault."

"No, it was the fault of the men who did it," he said. "No one else's."

"I prayed for someone to come...someone to help me." The tears resumed their course down her face.

"No one came to help you?" He asked, his face filled with deep sympathy.

"Someone came, but they didn't help," she said, her eyes glazed in recollection. "I might have been drunk, but I _know_ a man stopped and looked into that alley. He saw what was happening and did _nothing_. He just turned his back and left me there."

Doug's face was now pale and drawn tight, his eyes expanding in concern. "I'm so sorry. I really don't know what to say."

"When they were...when they were...done...they were going to kill me," she continued, visibly shivering. "If a dog hadn't started barking and scared them off, I'd be dead." Her eyes met his. "I can still feel the knife cutting my throat." she tilted her chin up, showing him the scar.

He stifled a small horrific gasp. "I'm glad you confided in me. But, why are you telling me this now?" he asked, "What changed from an hour ago?"

"This is so hard," she said, wiping the new tears from her eyes. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest?"

"I think you want to tell me," he said, eyes beseeching her to continue. "You don't have to be afraid."

She held his gaze for several interminable seconds. "It's a long story, but I found out who they were..."

"So, you found out who they were, then what?"

His continued comfort enabled her to muster a small trace of mettle, and it entered her tone. "I went after the bastards one by one...and I caught them."

"And then?" he prodded, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"I confronted them," she said. "And ended up shooting three of them."

"Holy shit!" he said, his face now losing all color. "Does anybody know yet?"

"The cops are looking for me," she said. "I just saw them at my place. _That's_ why I called."

"Damn!" he said. "You have to turn yourself in."

"That isn't going to happen," she said. "I'm sorry, but I just can't do that."

"They're gonna find you eventually. You know that, right?" he said, the concern for her evident. "It will be a lot worse when they do."

"I know," she said. "I don't expect you to understand."

"Oh, believe me, I do understand. You wanted justice, so you made it for yourself. I'm just so sorry you had to go through that," he turned to her, face hopeful. "Is there any way you can call it self-defense?"

"I don't see how," she said dejectedly. "The cops will say I just hunted them down and killed them."

"That true?" he asked, then shook his head. "I can't see you doing that."

"For the most part it's true," she said. "I did track them down, but I didn't want to hurt anybody. I just wanted them to admit what they did to me. That's all."

"Did they?"

"Yes. To a man, they said I _wanted_ it," she spat in unconcealed disgust. "Can you believe that?"

"Worthless pricks!" he hissed in stark revulsion. "No wonder you shot them."

"It gets worse." The matter of fact statement came out cold and forbidding, sending a chill down her spine.

"Worse than that?" he quickly considered the possibilities then gasped aloud in horror, face again ashen. "Oh, God, tell me you're not...sick. They didn't give you something, you know, an STD, did they?"

"No, nothing like that," she volunteered quickly. "I was so freaked out I got tested like three different times to be sure."

Knowing she'd dodged a lethal bullet, he visibly relaxed, a miniscule splash of color returning to his cheeks. "Thank God."

She scanned the courtyard again making sure the tables remained empty so her confessions would fall on his ears alone. "One came after me with a pipe," she lifted her arm and raised her shirt, exposing the softball-sized welt on her chest, now an ugly black and blue. "Son of a bitch broke two of my ribs."

"Holy shit!" he said, wincing at the sight of the wound.

She lowered her shirt. " _That's_ when I shot him."

"That's hard core, but it could still be considered self-defense," he said, scrubbing his face in his hands. "What a fucking mess!"

He gave her a sideways glance. "You also realize that you just made me an accessory."

"I'm sorry. I'll leave," she stood, taking a step toward the gate. "No one will ever know I told you."

Rounding the table, he quickly intercepted her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. "I didn't say I wanted you to leave," he said, guiding her back into her seat. "Just let me think for a minute."

"I'm sorry I got you involved, really I am. I saw the cops and I panicked. I didn't know what else to do," she began to sob, soft convulsions shaking her body. "Those bastards raped me, and now I'm the one going to jail. Where's the fucking justice in that?"

He gently took her trembling body in his arms. "You're sure you don't want to go to the cops and try to sort this out."

"I'm sure. They'd never believe me."

"How about getting a lawyer? Let him handle it."

"No. That won't work either," she said, defeat crawling into her strained voice. She backed out of his embrace, her eyes meeting his. "They'd just throw me to the cops."

"If they catch you, they'll lock you up and throw away the key," he said. "You gotta get out of Dodge."

"It's way too late for that. No matter what I do, I'm totally fucked," she said, sobs still wracking her feminine frame. "Besides, where would I go?"

"Maybe we can get you to Mexico," he said. "Once you're across the border, the cops can't touch you."

She sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes again. "Mexico? I can't go to Mexico!"

"One thing at a time. First thing we have to do is figure out some place for you to stay tonight. We can deal with the rest later. Do you have any place you can go where the cops won't find you?"

"No."

"Well, you can't go back to your apartment...and a Prescott cop lives right next door to me, so you can't stay at my place," he said. "We have to assume your picture is being passed around by now."

He scratched his chin in contemplation. "I have a friend who _might_ be able to help."

He looked up at the stars dotting the night sky, rolling his eyes. "I can't believe this is happening!" He locked his gaze with hers. "I finally find the perfect girl...and she tells me she shot someone."

Her eyes expanded in surprise at the remark, growing to the size of dinner plates. "You think I'm perfect?"

He smiled. "Of course you're perfect," he gently reached out to brush the tip of her nose. "Don't you know that?"

Through the tears, she gave a small smile. "Yeah, I'm a real prize, alright."

He stood, taking her hand in his. He led her away from the table toward the courtyard gate. "Let's get you off the street, before somebody gets nosey." They walked out the gate and she saw Doug's bike parked along the curb. "We'll come back for your bike later." He said.

She shook her head. "I can't leave it."

"Okay. Where is it?"

"It's in the garage, third floor."

"You go get it. I'll wait here."

Minutes later she pulled up behind Doug's rumbling Electra-Glide as they moved away from the _Wild Iris_. Apprehension running away with her mind, she moved in close as she pushed the bike down the crowded streets. She tightened her grip on the bars as her panic grew at the thought of fleeing to Mexico. She looked across and drew strength from Doug's presence, watching him handle his huge bike with the dexterity of a surgeon.

Her eyes flitted like a humming bird between the cars around her, looking for what she didn't know, wondering if they held police coming to arrest her. Heart hammering in her ears, she tried to control her trembling hands as the pair turned right, leaving Courthouse Square unmolested and driving east, toward the edge of town.

Arriving at their destination a few minutes later, they parked the bikes and she stood with her hand again in his, stiff with angst, as the carved wood door swung open.

She sucked in a quick gasp of breath as she saw Julie looking back at her. Hailey instantly recognized the other woman as the one who sat next to her at the bar in Rock Springs. She held her breath as the other woman gave no outward sign she knew who Hailey was.

"What's up Doug?" the woman said. "And who's your friend?"

Hailey's pulse raced in fear that Julie might connect the dots. _I hope I look different enough, maybe she won't remember me._

"Julie, this is Hailey. She needs a place to stay for tonight," Doug said. "Her place isn't...safe. Can she crash here?"

Julie paused in thought for several seconds before she stepped aside, allowing the pair to enter.

She turned to Hailey, face unreadable. "Is he likely to come here?" she asked.

"Is who likely to come here?" Hailey repeated.

"Whoever you're running from."

"I don't think so," she said. "But I think he's watching my apartment."

Julie hesitated for a second. "Well, I better get the Bear out of hibernation," she said as she motioned them to sit down. "Just in case he shows up."

Leaving her guests to their muted conversation, Julie walked down the hall and slipped into one of the rooms at the far end, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Hailey took in her surroundings while she waited for her hostess to return. The home was small, but comfortable. The furnishings an eclectic mix of styles from modern to colonial and Harley-Davidson memorabilia decorated the walls.

She sat on the overstuffed leather couch and waited while Doug nervously paced the floor in front of her.

A few minutes later the Bear came trudging down the hall, stretching his long, thick arms and scrubbing the sleep from his face with his enormous, powerful hands.

"Hey Doug," he said, stifling a yawn. "Julie tells me your lady friend here has a problem."

"Yep. A big one."

Bear shot Doug an irritated look. "Let's grab a beer and go out back," he said, nodding his huge head toward the door. "You and I need to talk."

"Right behind you." Doug said, following the other man. Stopping to raid the refrigerator, the two took their drinks and made their way to a sliding glass door in the kitchen, stepping out onto the back porch.

As the men left the room, Hailey felt Julie's eyes fall hard upon her. She noticed the other woman's wary manner and again the possibility of discovery blazed a scorching path through her body.

Julie tipped her beer back and drained the last of it. She stood up and walked to the fridge. "Want a beer?"

"Sure, thanks."

Returning to the room, she handed the bottle to Hailey. "Now that the guys are gone, I need you to answer a question for me."

"Shoot."

"Why'd you tell me your name was Tina?"

She locked her eyes on the other woman's, beer bottle half way to her mouth. Hailey froze in alarm, afraid to answer, ashamed of the lie.

Julie continued, gaze boring into Hailey's. "I remember you. I saw you on the poker run to Rock Springs."

"Yes," she replied, her soft voice strained. "You did."

Julie sat on the arm of the couch. "Why lie to me? I'm a complete stranger."

Screwing up some courage, she spoke. "I was meeting someone that night," she paused to collect her thoughts. "I needed to be anonymous."

"He married? Is that why you lied?"

"No. It's nothing like that," she said, taking another swallow of her beer. "I wish it were that simple."

Julie seemed to consider Hailey's non-answer for a minute before the light of understanding came on in her head and immediately showed on her face. The disclosure spurred her to action.

"I read the news," Julie said, digging around in a pile of newspapers next to the sofa and handing Hailey a copy of the local rag. "I know what happened that night. Was that you?"

Hailey hesitated, nerves still stinging with apprehension.

Julie's face took on a strong, determined set. "You tell me the truth right now or you're out of here," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "No bullshit."

Hailey pulled on the tiny thread of bravery she'd spun, hoping it didn't unravel. "Yes. It was me."

"Why?" Julie asked, resuming her seat.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to put the words together. "About a year ago, he raped me," she said. "Him and three other men."

The blood drained from Julie's face at the blunt admission. She looked at Hailey for several long seconds before popping the cap off her beer and taking a drink. "Shooting was too good," she hissed, "I'd have castrated the son of a bitch."

While the ladies talked in the living room, the two men did the same thing out back, the light escaping from the windows casting them in eerie shadows as they sipped their beers in the moonlight. Bear's angry growl echoed off the block fence, carrying across the yard as Doug explained the situation.

"I haven't had so much as a speeding ticket in ten years and you mix me up in a shooting," Bear said. "Thanks a lot, asshole!"

Doug's sheepish look did nothing to ease the other man's anger. "Look, man, I know this is messed up, but she doesn't have anywhere else to go."

The giant man's resentment flared as he scratched his hairy, tattooed chest. "So, you decided to make it my problem!"

"She shot a guy for _raping_ her," he waited for a second to let the huge man absorb the truth. "Come on! You know you'd kill anybody who even _looked_ at Julie cross-eyed, never mind sexually assaulting her."

Bear raised his tree-trunk arms in resignation, biceps bulging. "Damned straight, I would!"

"Well, all right then," he pointed at Hailey, now sitting in a chair, her face framed in an open window. "Look at her. Do you _really_ think she can handle this on her own?"

Bear stared at Hailey for a moment, thinking about what Doug said. "Point taken," he turned back to Doug. "She really shot the rat-bastard?"

"Yup, and tomorrow she goes to Mexico."

"Righteous. Okay, she can stay...but you're going to owe me _big_ for this."

The two men stepped toward each other, shaking hands.

"Cool. Thanks," Doug said. "I promise I'll get square with you...whatever it takes."

"You better," Bear said, a huge smile crossing his face. "And it better be good."

Doug and Bear made another pit stop at the fridge, getting a refill before joining the ladies in the living room.

"Everything okay in here?" Bear asked.

"Fine," Julie said. "Everything cool out there?"

Bear looked at his wife, then at his guests. "Yeah, we're cool."

Doug turned to Hailey. "We're going to go get some supplies," Doug said. "We won't be gone long."

Bear and Doug stepped out the door and Hailey saw the headlights pass by the window as they drove away.

Hailey turned back to see Julie staring at her. "I need to say something." Julie began.

"Yes?" Hailey said.

Julie took another sip of her beer. "I love Doug like a brother and I know him. He's a kind and decent man," she sat back on the couch and pulled her feet underneath her. "He's going to want to go with you."

"Oh, no he isn't!" Hailey said firmly. "I can't let him do that. It's way too dangerous."

"In a weird way, I'm glad to hear you say that," Julie responded. "Then you know you have to leave...now, before he gets back," she paused to let the words sink in. "It's the only way he'll stay behind. The only way he'll be safe."

"You're right," Hailey reluctantly agreed. "I have to do this for him."

"He really cares about you," she said. "It's different from other girls he's dated."

"Thanks," She said. "I really care about him too."

"I noticed he seemed happier lately. I wondered what was different this time. Now I know," Julie said. "You know you have to let him go. Right?"

"I know," a grim smile crossed her face. "I can't let him throw his life in the crapper to run off to Mexico with me. I couldn't do that to him."

Julie stood, walking to the kitchen and dropping the empty bottle in the trash. "I'll take you to the border, but then it's up to you. I'll grab a few things for you and then let's get out of here. You want to get across before the sun comes up."

She left Hailey on the couch, heading back down the hall again.

Thirty minutes later, they were passing the old Young's Farm site on their way to the interstate. The idea of a life full of insecurity and permanent anxiety inundated Hailey's mind as the two drove on, the uncomfortable silence broken only by the whine of the tires on the road.

_Good-bye Doug._ The tears again ran down her face, the pain settling in her heart. _You deserve better than me. I hope you find it._

Julie finally spoke, as the headlights passed on the highway. "The thing with getting into Mexico is getting past the border guards. Fortunately, they are less interested in who you are, and more interested in what you bring with you. Can you reach the bag on the back seat?"

Hailey leaned over the seat and pulled a duffel bag up, laying it between them. "Alright, here's some cash, clothes and some other stuff you might need," Julie told her. "Let the guards find a hundred bucks or so and take it. Let them think they cleaned you out. That should get you past them."

Another minute of quiet passed unchallenged before she continued. "We'll ditch the gun somewhere on the U.S. side. Don't even _try_ to take it into Mexico. If they catch you with a gun, you'll wind up spending the rest of your life 'working off your fines' in some Mexican cop's private whorehouse."

"Lovely." Hailey said, her beautiful face taut, creased with worry.

Running south toward the border, the fugitive and her escort made it almost all the way to Sunset Point before Hailey spoke again, breaching the now-intolerable silence. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I have to go back."

"You go back, they put you in jail _forever,_ " Julie said, a clear warning in her tone. "Think about what this will do to Doug."

"I can't run anymore. I have to finish this," she paused, breathing deeply. "For my own sanity."

"That's your call," Julie said. "I ain't your mama."

"If I go back, Doug can't know. I've already put him at risk," Hailey said. "I have to do this alone."

"You really do care about him, don't you? I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"Let's go back," she said, a small tendril of relief spreading within her, now that she had made the decision. "I'm sorry to do this to you."

"I'm cool. Just don't let Doug get himself in trouble he can't get out of."

Julie turned the car around and the pair headed back up Interstate 17 in resumed silence.

Hailey took a deep breath, looking for that calm inner voice she knew she could rely on. _What would Greg tell me to do?_

She contemplated her late uncle and the answer quickly became two-fold. _Greg wouldn't condone what I did...and he would have never let me get into so much trouble,_ she suddenly felt a flash of grim familial pride. _But he_ would _have done it himself, if he'd been here. He would have killed those bastards without hesitation. He would have sacrificed his own future to protect me._

Sitting in the dark car, her throat choked tight with the sharp emotional slash of his absence. _But Greg's dead, and I'm going to jail,_ she wallowed in resignation and dread. _For the rest of my life._

Her brain sizzled with spikes of terror at the prospect of spending the rest of her life in a prison cell, abandoned by her friends, forgotten by her family. She thought again of Doug, and her heart thudded in sharp ache. She wanted him, wanted that feeling of calm security and warm affection she felt when he was with her. She knew it was now a pipe dream she would never have. _I can't let him get anywhere near me. I_ won't _let him pay the price for what I did...and what I'm about to do._

The disturbing thoughts rattled around in her head for miles while she struggled to force them into some kind of inescapable mental box and lock them away. She leaned back against the car door, trying to rest and settle her turbulent mind.

Early the next morning, she quietly tip-toed out of Bear and Julie's house, not wanting to wake either of them. She'd left a note on the kitchen counter thanking them, the bottom unsigned, confident they'd intuit the author's identity.

_I owe them._ She thought as she coasted the Hog quietly down the driveway with the engine off, afraid the exhaust might rouse them from their slumber. _I owe them for giving me a chance to figure this out on my own._

Pushing with her legs, the bike quickly found the driveway's down-slope and gained speed. She rolled silently forward out into the street before dropping the clutch and firing up the engine.

_I really am on my own now._ She shifted gears and shot down the avenue as the truth dawned with a frightening clarity. _I have no one._

After enduring a lifetime of her mother's incessant hovering, she silently wished she could be with her at this moment. The thought of being alone was completely foreign to her and her mother's attentions, while sometimes annoying, provided a source of security in their consistency. Driving through town, she knew very well she couldn't contact her mother now. _Cops will be watching her house too. I have to find someplace safe, someplace with a computer, so I can make this nightmare end._ In a flash of recollection, she conjured up the image of the one place in town that would fit the bill.

It had taken only minutes to make the drive to Prescott Valley and the internet café there. A bare setting of stark white walls enclosing office-like cubicles, the low-budget establishment turned out to be just perfect for Hailey's purposes. Here among the public-access terminals she could be anonymous...and invisible.

A thick silence permeated the public computer area, a sharp contrast to the jovial conversations taking place at the coffee-laden bistro tables on the other side of the large room.

Hiding in a back corner of the sparsely populated cube farm, Hailey noticed she was surrounded by some pretty strange characters. On her left, an enormous woman sat, her bulbous face pink with exertion, pecking at the keyboard with the index finger of each hand.

Looking behind her, she felt a small twinge of revulsion as she realized the man in the cube was logged onto a pornographic website. The headset covering his ears, he sat hunched over the keyboard, eyes locked on the screen. Her attention froze for the briefest second without conscious control, fixating on moving screen images raw enough to make her blush. Shuddering, she instinctively knew she didn't need a headset to discern the soundtrack. _Pervert!_ She shook her head to clear the obscene pictures from her mind. Reasserting her attention to the task at hand, the keys clicked under her steady fingers. Sitting in the claustrophobic white box, she reread the message she sent the night before.

I'm interested in the Triumph you advertised.

Will pay the $5,500, but it must have a clean title, and can you deliver it to Prescott?

Her brain still buzzed with alarm, the adrenaline surging in her veins as she recalled the Sheriff's car outside her apartment. _You can't have me,_ _not yet._ _I just need a little more time. I'll find this last one, then I don't care what happens to me._

Her computer sounded a small 'ding' signifying the arrival of an answer to her latest message. She read the new note, heart rate climbing, the words burning her eyes.

I can meet you tonight. I'm already coming to Prescott today on other business.

Delivery is another hundred. Cash or cashier's check only.

Heart hammering in her chest, she typed a quick answer to his counter-offer.

Done. I'm coming from Yarnell, will meet you at The Bird Cage Saloon on Courthouse Square at eight o'clock.

She read the quickly received acknowledgement with an unanticipated sense of composure. She realized she was _almost_ looking forward to the showdown. _At least this nightmare will_ finally _be over. She shook her head as she thought back to the beginning and where all that fear and pent-up anger had led._

Looking at her reflection in the now-dark computer screen, she saw a different Hailey peering back. Gone was the mask of blinding terror adorning the girl who was raped, her terrified face now replaced by a woman reconciled to her fate. _Whatever that may be._

She took stock of her present feelings, now so radically different from that petrified girl tracking Grady through the streets of Tucson. The nagging fear that previously ruled her life was now replaced by a feeling of impending closure. That knowledge brought a certain symmetry to the increasingly ominous thoughts coursing through her troubled mind.
Chapter Thirty-One

The day rapidly coming to an end was picture perfect, the gentle puffs of breeze and intermittent cloud cover keeping the bright sun from becoming unbearable.

Smith sat in his car, sipping an overpriced iced coffee from a world-famous chain and waiting for the members of the Triumph Owners of Arizona to arrive at Courthouse Square.

Smith watched the glowing orange ball disappear behind the buildings along Whiskey Row and checked the faces walking down the street, looking for only two in the crowd of hundreds, maybe thousands.

The detective thought about the case as he waited, considering the woman he tracked and digested his feelings about the hunt.

_They put her through hell._ He thought, grimly imagining the attack, stomach clenching at the vision _. I'm not surprised she went berserk._

He saw the faces of her victims in his mind, the three men cold in death, and winced. He'd settled the question of her actions long ago, deciding she must be stopped, but at the same time he also raged at what those four men had done to her. _It's time to get this woman off the street...and bring this last man to justice...before anybody_ else _gets hurt._

He'd hedged his bets by placing a watch on her apartment, as well as personally staking out the fun run event.

Smith cursed himself for not being able to find the young woman already, ruefully acknowledging she had exhibited an uncommon skill in eluding him. Confident in his own training and experience, he decided she wouldn't have been able to do it on her own. _She must have had help._

He also freely admitted he'd had some assistance as well. Getting the information from Kingston had been only a minor struggle. The President of the club had been steadfast in protecting the privacy of the members, but had no interest in going to jail to do it. Smith emitted a small chuckle as he remembered the look on Kingston's face when Mendoza threatened to arrest the club president and part-time real estate agent as an accessory to murder.

As a law-enforcement professional, Smith abhorred using any man, even a suspected rapist, to bait the dangerous woman from cover, but he also planned to arrest Hoya, as well as protecting him from his would-be killer.

_Hoya should show. He better show._ Smith silently thanked Kingston for calling a group meeting after the run ended. _At least they should all be coming in at the same time._

Tired of sitting, the perturbed detective left his car parked in the space along Cortez Street and moved toward the crowds milling about on the Square.

Tension pushing his blood faster in his veins, Smith continued to scan the crowd as he moved up the block, hoping he would find her before she saw him...or Hoya.

Unable to get any sleep last night, he'd reviewed the file on her case carefully. _Those bastards dragged her in to that alley over there._ He thought, finding the spot where the report indicated the attack took place. From a distance, in the waning daylight, it didn't look all that dangerous or frightening. He felt the bile rise to the top of his throat when he envisioned what transpired there exactly one year ago. He flinched as a loud crash suddenly sounded from the street behind him. He turned toward the source and noticed a pick-up truck, its tailgate down, parked across the street.

Bright green, the truck sported ghost flames and an assortment of gaudy aftermarket chrome accessories. A young, thin Hispanic man busily unloaded boxes from the bed onto a handcart. He scanned the truck's cab, his pulse jumping when he found his second quarry in the driver's seat, talking on a cell phone. _Damn, there he is!_

Smith flattened himself against the wall, hiding in the doorway of a vintage clothing store. He watched the man in the cab with a macabre interest, wondering how this animal could put a woman through the terrible things she had graphically described in the report.

Hesitant to move, lest he spook his suspect, he waited and watched, confident that the right moment to approach would present itself. Several agonizing minutes passed while Hoya gabbed into the handheld device as Smith's heart continued to pound in trepidation. Just when his ability to resist was withering, Smith saw the door open to the curb and Hoya got out. Yelling some instructions in Spanish to the younger man, he lit a cigarette and turned left, walking up the street.

Smith followed the man, dodging behind a tree, then a car, trying to avoid detection by either his target or the man unloading the truck. He darted between the slow moving traffic along Montezuma St., struggling to keep Hoya in sight as he moved between pedestrians, making his way across the square.

The loud honk of the car's horn broke Smith's concentration. He ignored the irate driver's middle finger salute as he tried to regain sight of Hoya, the slippery man having disappeared down a side alley behind the hotel on the corner. _Shit, I can't lose him!_
Chapter Thirty-Two

The bikes clogged the parking spaces along Montezuma St. as the riders milled about in the square. Hailey moved easily among them, scanning for any sign of her prey. _He's got to be here...somewhere._ Her watch told her it was approaching eight o'clock, almost time.

She saw a truck turn the corner, working its way up the street, the bike in the back looking oddly familiar. She watched it pass and recognized it from the ad, knowing it heralded the hated man's arrival.

She watched him get out and move toward the allotted rendezvous point on the other side of the square. Her boots pounding a staccato rhythm on the concrete, she picked up her pace, muttering a hasty "excuse me," as she pushed her way past an elderly couple and up the sidewalk, gaining on her quarry.

_This is it. I gotta get the jump on this guy._ Blood running hot, she hoped she could get close enough before he saw her.

She concealed herself between the streetlights and ducked behind sandwich board signs as she closed the gap.

No! I won't let you get away. I'm done being afraid. You're going down tonight...one way or another.

She continued tracking the man through the fast moving crowd milling about the Square. He approached _The Birdcage Saloon_ and she moved up behind him.

She called out. "Excuse me, could you help me please."

He stopped, surprised at the summons. He fixed his eyes on the young woman and pulled his lips back in an ill-concealed leer. "Of course, what do you need?"

"My car got a flat. Can you help me change it? It's down the street. I'll pay you twenty bucks."

He ran his eyes over her body and responded in unexpected fashion. "You don't have to pay me. Just show me where it is."

Her heart almost climbed out of her chest as the two rounded the corner, arriving at the alley's mouth.

She kept a few steps ahead, telling him the car was just a little further...then a little further, until they reached the far end of the alley. She was nearly overcome with de'ja'vu, the scene so reminiscent of the ill-fated confrontation with Grady in that Tucson alley.

She stopped, wheeling on him, the sudden move startling them both. She faced her nemesis, her eyes blazing in hatred. "You're the last one," she said. "Now I can stop being afraid."

"The last what?" he asked, his face blank, the total lack of understanding abundantly clear.

"The last rapist," she hissed at the man. "The last of the _fucking pigs_ who raped me."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He said, the coolly-rendered response devoid of any real emotion.

She continued, the next words falling out in a cold, clinical disclosure. "I found the others, you're the last one."

"You're nuts, lady," he said, his voice climbing. "Get the hell away from me!"

"Not until you admit what you did to me," her voice climbed up, filled with a conspicuous loathing. "I want to hear it from you."

"Blow, before I call the cops."

The total lack of fear in his demeanor disturbed her, weakening her already fragile grip on her emotions. "No you won't," she said. "I don't think you have the _balls_ to call the cops."

"Okay, then I'm leaving," he started to walk away, moving slowly down the sidewalk. "I don't have to listen to your shit."

She stepped in front of him and in a flash of chrome the pistol now pointed at his chin. "I don't think so," she set her lips in a grim frown. "You raped me and now you're going to pay."

"What makes you think I raped you?" he said, his tone remaining calm and confident despite the silver revolver's menacing presence. She did notice, however, that beads of sweat now adorned his forehead.

She ignored his question, the words lost in the loud thumping of her pulse in her ears. "Now you pay for what you did to me. Now you go to jail."

"I didn't rape you, now back off," he yelled, a blast of impatience. "You've got the wrong man."

"Tell the truth, that's all I want! Just tell the truth!" Her voice climbing as the red veil began to descend.

"Alright, you want the truth, I do remember," his face split into a grin of unfathomable evil. "So what? You were drunk, you wanted to get laid, and we partied."

The cruelly-rendered words overloaded her brain in a burning synaptic electrical storm, the shock of his obscenity nearly paralyzing her completely. "You son of a..."

"Police! Drop the gun...now!" Smith ordered.

The sudden appearance of the cop startled Hailey and she flinched, taking her attention from her captive for a second too long.

Neither she nor Smith saw the small automatic appear until it was too late. Taking advantage of the distraction, Hoya pointed the gun at her and fired. Hailey's body twisted as the small piece of lead struck her like a sledgehammer. The searing pain exploded in her right shoulder, a burning river flowing down her arm to her hand.

In the split-second it took to blink, Hoya trained his weapon on the remaining threat and fired again. The shot missed Smith's head by less than an inch before careening off a fence post behind him in a shower of wood splinters. Smith fired his weapon and found his mark, the deadly projectile smashing into Hoya's chest, sending him staggering backward before he fell to the ground in a crumpled, bloody heap.

Her injured arm hanging by her side, Hailey looked at Hoya's blood drenched body, feeling her stomach clench in hatred and disgust. Dispatching Grady left her feeling high as a kite, but now that it was over, all she felt was hollow. Her hands trembling fiercely, she diligently fought the overpowering urge to vomit right then and there.

"Put down the weapon," Smith bellowed the order. "Get on the ground, now!"

Tears running down her face, her heart hammered in her ears as she turned the gun on herself, the barrel cold against her left temple.

"Don't do it Hailey," he said, his voice firm, the tone reassuring. "We can work this out."

"I won't go to jail!" she said, keeping the pistol pointed at her own head. "You don't know what they did to me!"

She stood stone-still, the only movement her fiercely trembling hands. Not knowing what to do next, a look of puzzlement came over her face as she turned to the detective.

"And how do you know my name?" she brushed a tear from her cheek.

"I'm Detective Smith of the Tucson Police Department," he said. "I've wanted to talk to you for a while now."

She contemplated his words, the gun barrel still digging uncomfortably into her head. "You're from Tucson...I get it now. I saw the news. I know that Grady was the son of a senator. That's the only reason you're here. That's the only reason you give a shit," she railed. "Isn't it!"

"That's not true," he said. "Put down the gun and we can talk about it. You don't have to do this."

She railed at the policeman, all her anger boiling to the surface, her voice a shrill screech.

"You just want to make his powerful daddy happy!" she condemned. "You don't care about me...about what they did to me!"

Smith knew he needed time to talk her down, time to think. "Why don't you tell me," he said. "Help me understand."

She met his eyes, her gaze burning into his. "Why do you care?"

"Trust me, I care." He said, meaning every word.

"Fine, you want to know, I'll tell you. A year ago I was out with my friends and we got a little drunk. I was walking home alone when this piece of shit and three of his friends dragged me into an alley and raped me."

"Is that why you killed the others?" Smith asked. "Stone in Black Canyon City and Rackley in Chino Valley."

Her face went white in surprise at Smith's question. "I never meant to hurt _anyone_. That bastard Stone came at me with a knife...and Rackley tried to bash my head in with a pipe," She pulled her shirt up far enough to expose her bruised ribcage. "He missed...and broke my ribs instead."

"Why don't you put the weapon down and tell me exactly what happened." Smith implored, carrying the calm tone in the hopes she wouldn't pull the trigger.

"Someone had to do something," she said. Her mouth took on a grim, determined set. "I just wanted them to admit what they did. I _wanted_ justice." Her blazing eyes filled with condemnation as they met his. "I sure as hell wasn't going to get it from the courts!"

He looked deep into the frightened woman's eyes and was overwhelmed by the sad realization that she was probably right. _Some days I really hate this job._

In his mind he saw her trial, and his testimony putting her away for decades. He knew if he arrested her, she would slowly wither and die in a cell, prison sucking the life out of her. A tiny thought sped through his head as he stared down the barrel of his automatic at the abused woman holding the gun. _I wish I could let her go. But I can't._ "It doesn't give you the right to take matters into your own hands." he said, the moral indignation lacking the power of full conviction.

She drew back in shock at his words, face changing into a mask of poorly controlled fury. "Take matters in my own hands, are you fucking kidding me? You make it sound like I had a choice!" she shrieked in frank outrage. "They held me down while they all took _turns_! They actually said I _asked_ for it!" she continued, the pain evident as the tears again began to fall. "Can you believe that? The bastards actually believed I _wanted_ them to do that to me."

Smith remained outwardly stoic, though his inner man heard her words and flamed in hatred, sharing her outrage at the atrocity she'd endured. Standing before him now was the reason he became a cop all those years ago, he'd wanted to help and protect people like her. In his naiveté, battered as it was by years on the streets, he still believed in that ideal. _The law has to be the same for everybody. Like it or not, that's the only way it works. Or, at least that's way it's supposed to work._

"When you found out who they were, you should have called the police."

"How can you possibly understand? You're not a woman," she said. "You can't know what it means to be at the mercy of men, no _...monsters_ , like that." She sniffed loudly and continued. "I was nothing but a piece of meat to them...and when they were done, they were going to _butcher_ me."

He felt his gut clench at the visual image the declaration brought forth, and he raged at the men whose brutality turned this young woman into a killer, now standing in the alley holding a pistol.

"You should have left it to the police," he admonished. "It's our job to find guys like this...and see they get punished."

"I went to the cops!" she said, spitting in anger. "They couldn't find their ass with a roadmap." She paused, gathering her thoughts amidst the waves of rage rolling over her. "Besides, you know what happens to rape victims at trials. _I_ become the criminal," she said. "No fucking way! I'd rather die."

"I know the police didn't help you then, but I'm here to help you now."

"Why should I believe you?" she sighed heavily.

"Because I'm telling you the truth."

He looked around and his pulse spiked with hot adrenaline, seeing about twenty faces now lining the alley's entrance.

"Please move back! This is a police matter." He directed, the voice a product of years of training

"We heard it all," one said, resting his hand near the pistol holstered at his denim-covered hip. "Scumbag had it coming."

Smith surveyed the group of hard-core bikers, all leather and chains, counting only three that weren't armed in some way. He suddenly felt _very_ outnumbered. He knew he had to maintain control of the situation or it would end fast and tragic. "I'm taking this woman into custody," he said. "Do not interfere."

"She shoot this guy?" he asked, friends nodding in agreement with his question.

"No." Smith replied, tension growing as the seconds ticked off.

"Then what's the problem?" the biker asked, his hulking physical presence an unspoken threat.

Smith again asserted himself, hoping the other man would respond and obey. "She's a suspect in other crimes," he said. "Now, please turn around and move back!"

"Is what she said true?" the man, all shaved head and muscles, continued. "Did those guys rape her?"

Smith tried to see the eyes behind the dark glasses, looking for some way to dissuade the man, the group, from pursuing this dangerous path.

"That's for the courts to decide," he said. "My job is to bring her in to see that she answers the charges. I'm not a judge."

"You are at the moment," the biker said. He pointed to the frightened woman. "Right here, right now, it's up to you to decide if she gets raped... _again_."

The leader of the bikers turned to Hailey. "You can go with the cop, or you can come with us. Your choice."

Smith glared back at the man. "I don't think so," he said, voice ringing with finality. "She goes with me. Do not interfere...or you'll be arrested." His gun swept back and forth, covering both the woman before him and the bikers surrounding her. Gripping his weapon more firmly, Smith alternated between sighting on Hailey and holding it down, but rotating it toward the bikers.

"I'll say this one more time, back off. This is a police matter."

"Stop!" Hailey shouted. "I just want it to _end_ , that's all. I don't even _care_ how anymore." She cocked the pistol, barrel still pressed against her temple. "I'm so tired of being afraid." The admission came between soft sobs.

"Hailey, please don't do this," Smith beseeched. "It doesn't have to end this way."

The bikers moved closer to Hailey, surrounding her in an intimidating semi-circle of leather and steel.

"Look detective, you can end this situation right here or you can let it escalate," the biker leader moved his hand over his weapon. "I think it's time to put some _justice_ back in the justice system. Don't you?"

Smith spent several seconds considering his options. Holding the woman in his sights, he spoke to her. "You have to come with me," he said. "If you leave now, you won't get very far before we find you again...and it will be that much worse when we do."

He could see her considering his words, the pistol's barrel drooping lower. "They're gone now, all four of them. It can end here," he spoke softly, as if she were a frightened deer. "No one else has to get hurt."

Hailey answered as the tears ran down her cheeks again, her voice just above a whisper. "I just don't want to be afraid anymore."

"Come with me now. You'll get a fair trial." Smith said.

"I can't go to jail. I'd rather die." She turned to move closer to the assemblage at the far end of the alley.

Smith considered his position. He was surrounded by armed men and only feet away from a street full of innocent by-standers. _I can't fire. That biker son of a bitch knows it too!_

"So be it," he said. "You can put the gun down. I won't hurt you."

Each warily mimicked the other in lowering their respective weapons. "But I _will_ come after you and I _will_ find you again."

Smith circled warily around the young woman, opening a path to the end of the alley, his weapon pointed at her retreating form.

She took a tentative step. "The gun stays here," he said. "That's _not_ negotiable."

She placed the pistol on the pavement and turned her back on the officer. She moved away from Smith, joining the gang of bikers on the sidewalk. They closed quickly, engulfing her in a human force field as Smith watched, unable to do anything more than smolder in anger.

He holstered his gun and turned back to pick up the discarded revolver, seeing it had already disappeared. _Damn, there goes my evidence. Oh, well. I have what I need anyway._

An hour later, the paramedics loaded Hoya's body onto a stretcher and hauled him off to the morgue. Smith finally gave in to his cravings and lit up a cigarette as he waited for them to finish. He left the alley and walked down Whiskey Row, jostled by the Saturday night revelers. He moved back toward his car, wondering if he had done the right thing. _Fuck! So my career's over, it was over anyway._

The leader of the bikers suddenly appeared in his path. The denim covered man stood next to the noisy bar's entrance, leaning against the wall of the building.

"I should arrest you right now for obstruction." Smith growled, his resentment at the man's interference throwing fuel on a fury already red hot.

"If you have to," the leaning man said. "But I don't think you'll have any witnesses willing to testify."

Smith continued to seethe, keeping his silence for fear of what he might say...or do.

The other man spoke first. "Look, Detective, you know as well as I do that's as much justice as she's ever going to get, right? Courts and trials can't erase her memory. She'll have to relive that rape every day for the rest of her life. Isn't that punishment enough?"

"Maybe so. But I still have four dead bodies to answer for." Smith said with a sigh.

"Here, this might help." The biker snapped out his left hand, a small object sailing through the air. A wary Smith reached out and caught it in his right.

"What's this?" Smith turned the cell phone over in his hand.

"Call it a little street theater," he said, walking on past Smith "And you never saw me." He took a few steps down the side walk before crossing the street and disappearing into the raucous crowd.

Smith touched a button on the phone and the screen went dark for several seconds before lighting up with a long video shot of dozens of bikes parked along the street in front of a bar, the sidewalk crowded with partiers. The time stamp in the lower right corner showed the current date, the video just over an hour old.

At the sound of yelling and commotion, the camera tracked the source, moving to the mouth of the alley and catching Hailey from behind as Hoya faced her, each held in bold relief.

The volume was low, but the muted words unmistakable as Hailey prodded the truth from Hoya's own lips. There was a flurry of movement before shots rang out and Hoya fell.

The video closed with Hailey putting the pistol on the ground and stepping back, out of camera range.

Smith considered the replay of the encounter. _Maybe it wasn't legal,_ he thought with a grim, reluctant acceptance. _But it_ was _justice._

He stopped at the entrance to one of the many lively watering holes for a well-deserved belt.

"Detective Smith," the small, feminine voice came from behind, giving him a little start. He turned to see Hailey staring back at him. "You were right. It has to end here...now." He noticed the young woman was still trembling uncontrollably.

She put out her hands, blood from the wound in her shoulder running down her damaged arm, hitting the street in intermittent drops. "I wasn't going to run," she said, the voice calm and restrained. "But they might really have shot you...or you might've had to shoot one of them. I couldn't let anyone else get hurt because of me."

He saw the crimson stain on her vest and the blood landing at her feet. "We have to get you to a hospital."

Turning her to face the wall of the building, he patted her down, her humiliation now complete.

"You know I have to do this." He pulled his handcuffs from his pocket and locked them to her wrists, hearing her wince with pain as he tightened them down.

"I know." She said through clenched teeth.

He drew a deep breath. The effort was half air intake and the other half a sigh of resignation. He turned her to face him. "Hailey Barrow, you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."
Chapter Thirty-Three

Dan Matarski looked around Senator Grady's Tucson office. The lavishly decorated room sported dozens of pictures of the man surrounded by famous celebrities, politicos and athletes. He felt like a student summoned to the principal's office.

The two men sat in posh leather armchairs watching a computer, their faces bathed in the eerie green light emanating from the screen. Grainy and dark, the video showed Grady's son staring down the barrel of a gun.

"We found this on a camera in the alley behind _Johnny B's_ ," Matarski said. "I immediately took it into evidence. Fortunately, that's the only copy."

The Senator grimaced as the gunpoint confession continued. "I knew it would come to this one day," he said, shaking his head as the video continued to run. "Fool boy had no sense of boundaries. Especially when it came to women."

The video ended with a muffled gun shot.

"Where is this girl now?" the elder Grady asked.

"The Yavapai County Jail."

Grady stood before his desk, pacing back and forth. He ran a hand through his graying hair. "I don't want his mother to see this... ever," Grady said, indicating the screen. "Do you understand?"

"Understood," Matarski said. "What do you want me to do about the press?"

Removing his glasses, Grady pinched the bridge of his nose in tension and thought for several seconds before replacing the spectacles. "This is an election year. I can't have her, or her bleeding heart lawyer, talking to the press. Am I being clear?"

"Perfectly."

"I have to go to a memorial service the university is holding for my son, then I'll talk to the Attorney General, she owes me a favor."

"I'll speak to my detective."

"Do you anticipate any problem?" Grady said, again coming back behind the desk and lifting a cigar out of a humidor sitting on the far end.

Matarski said nothing, confident he could handle Smith.

"Good. Then I'll consider the matter closed." He said, the blue smoke circling his head before floating away in small clouds.
Chapter Thirty-Four

The next morning Hailey woke up in jail, sitting in a holding cell for the first time in her life. After spending a night sharing the small tank with a delightful assortment of the area's more noxious female criminals, all she could think about was a hot shower... _maybe a tetanus shot_. She wrinkled her nose at the odor surrounding her, the holding cell smelling of cigarette smoke, urine and sweat.

She couldn't wait for the arraignment, the uncertainty of her shattered future torturing her more than the fear of incarceration itself.

A few minutes later, the guard appeared at the door. "Barrow!" the stocky, fireplug of a woman bellowed. "Get on your feet, your lawyer's here to see you."

_Lawyer? I don't have a lawyer._ A split second later the guard yelled again in irritation. "Let's go! I haven't got all day!"

The burly woman grabbed her by the bicep in the classic control hold, escorting her through the series of secure doors and gates between the holding area and the processing stations. Pushing her along, the guard swiped a key card through an electronic lock on the wall and opened the door, nodding her head that Hailey should go in.

When she arrived at the conference room, Joanne Barrow was already there, waiting. Hailey noted the perfectly painted face, now pale and stretched tight in concern, sported wrinkles that weren't there before. Her mother jumped as she entered the room and threw her arms around her daughter.

"Oh, Hailey! Thank God. Are you alright?"

She saw a tear begin a slow trek down her mother's face. "I was so worried, after that horrible fight I started."

Her mother's admission of wrongdoing sideswiped her like a bus. She scrubbed her face in her hands. "Mother, it's alright. I'm okay...Really I am." The tears began to dampen her own cheeks.

"But my God, you've just been in _jail_. I can't imagine how horrible that was for you. I'm going to get you out of here."

Hailey silently disentangled herself from her mother and took a seat in one of the four utilitarian chairs surrounding a small table.

"I've hired you a lawyer, Christina Bridgewood," Joanne said. "Your father said she's the best he'd ever seen on these cases. She should be here soon."

A few minutes later a small, quiet knock repeated three times before the door opened, admitting a very petite redhead standing on impossibly tall high-heeled shoes.

The young woman, business suit failing to completely hide the toned curves of her five-foot, three-inch body, introduced herself to Hailey and sat across from her. She brought a soft-sided leather briefcase from the floor, putting it on the table and removing a thick manila folder.

While the barrister studied the papers, face fixed in concentration, the silence in the small room crushed down on Hailey as she thought about what lay ahead. Her anxious mind plowed through scenario after devastating scenario, her life flashing before her eyes like a movie, the plot too complicated, the running time far too brief.

After a seemingly unending few moments, Bridgewood's clear, strong voice filled the small space, snapping Hailey back from her run-away thoughts.

"Well, I just spoke to the Attorney General and I must say I was extremely surprised by her position on your case."

The disclosure hit Hailey's mind like a freight train, a heavy jolt of instant panic flaring beyond her ability for control.

"How bad is it?" she asked, her nerves going numb with dread. "Am I going to get the..." she couldn't even finish the sentence aloud. _Death penalty._

The lawyer's face donned a smile full of perfect white teeth as she went on. "The Attorney General said, and I quote, 'No public good would be served by bringing this case to trial,' end quote. She goes on to add some stipulations, blah...blah...blah. Essentially, the charges are being expunged, like they never happened."

"But what does that mean?" Joanne Barrow asked, her voice a thin scratch of anxious breath. "Is my daughter going to prison?"

"No. It means that something's going on here that I don't quite understand. Somebody obviously pulled some strings, some _really_ big ones, but I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth...and I suggest you don't either."

Hailey quickly nodded in agreement. "So what's next?" She asked, not yet daring to feel any hope.

Bridgewood pulled some papers out of the black leather bag and handed them to Hailey. "It means that you'll have to appear before the judge and agree to attend counseling sessions, pretty much until the doctor releases you," she said. "But other than that, you're free."

Hailey was stunned to immobility. Her voice disappeared as a group of thick black clouds fluttered across her vision, threatening to carry her off in their abysmal embrace. She clutched the arms of her chair until the clouds parted and the buzzing in her ears died away. "I can't believe it," she finally gasped in surprise. "It can't be true, after what I've... done?"

"It's a miracle," Her mother said, turning to face the attorney "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

The young woman continued. "Your mother also asked me about taking out a loan against your uncle's trust to pay my fees. Well I have some good news there. I talked it over with my partners and since we won't have to go to trial, we decided to make this case pro bono. One of the male partners was actually the one who suggested it."

The attorney continued, her face filled with compassion uncharacteristic of her profession. "Everyone agreed, what those men did to you was _beyond_ savage," she said. "Just between you and me, I probably would have done the same thing."

She held out her hand, taking Hailey's in a firm handshake. "I'll be there when you go before the judge, but it's pretty much over." She started packing her things back into her briefcase. She cocked a thumb toward the sky. "I don't know who, or how, they did this, but somebody up there likes you."

Hailey felt herself becoming light-headed, the clouds returning, and leaned on her mother for support.

"Can it be true?" she asked her mother as the blood returned to her brain. "Is this nightmare really over?"
Chapter Thirty-Five

The Chief read the report in silence while Smith stood at loose attention before his desk. Summoned to his presence, the detective had nervously considered the many possible reactions his boss might have to the incident with the bikers. He had to admit, he'd second-guessed himself more than once in the two days since the encounter, wondering if he'd done the right thing, or the easy one.

Finally breaking the excruciating silence in the room, Matarski spoke. "I read your report. Very thorough," he said. "But, troubling at many levels."

Smith nodded silently.

"You allowed a woman suspected in three homicides to walk away," he grimaced at the man standing before him. "How in hell can you justify that?"

"I was trying to get her to surrender, but we were surrounded by armed men," he said. "They gave her the option to go with them and she took it. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it...short of starting a gun fight."

Matarski frowned, cocking one eyebrow in skepticism. "Let's move on. Why didn't you challenge the leader of the bikers? Surely you could have taken him down."

"Chief, I told you. They were all armed," Smith started. "If I'd challenged him, there's no telling how many people would have been hurt...or killed."

Matarski shook his head in disgust. "The leader of those bikers, you saw him again, after the altercation. How do you justify letting _him_ go?" The Chief gave Smith a condescending look. "You should have immediately arrested him for obstruction and interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty."

"I wouldn't have a witness, or a leg, to stand on," Smith defended. "It would have been a waste of everybody's time."

"That's not for you to decide!" Matarski roared.

Smith matched the Chief in volume and intensity. "Where do you get off sitting on your ass behind that desk and judging what I did? You weren't in that alley! You didn't see the looks on their faces."

The Chief harrumphed loudly. "I also wanted you to be aware the Attorney General has decided not to prosecute this case. The Barrow woman was released this morning."

"What!" Smith's shout echoed off the walls of the room, bouncing back and forth between the two men. "You can't be serious!"

Matarski shrugged his shoulders. "The A.G.'s afraid of hordes of rape victims, along with victim's right groups, coming out of the woodwork to defend this girl, something about it turning into another _trial of the century_."

"The A.G.'s out of her mind!" he exclaimed. "No trial?"

"No trial." The Chief reiterated.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Smith said, struggling to get his temper under control. "How did that happen? With the DNA and the video this should have been a slam-dunk."

"There are other factors at work here, Smith," he said, the unmitigated arrogance flowing with the words. "The Senator doesn't want his son's memory dragged through the mud." Matarski went on, his voice a drone against the blood now roaring in Smith's ears. "Please see that all case files and evidence are in my office before the end of the day."

"So that's it?" Smith asked, his voice tight, the irritation peaking again. "This just gets buried under a mountain of political bullshit."

"That's it. Case closed." Matarski repeated, the voice a clipped burst.

Standing before Matarski, Smith again heard Hailey's frustration-laced words in the back of his mind. _The only reason you give a shit is because he was the son of a senator. You don't care about what he did to me._

"So, let me get this straight," Smith started, gathering all his mental powers to rein-in his anger. "The Senator doesn't want _bad press_ , so Barrow goes free."

"That's the reality," Matarski said. "Grady swings a big bat, like it or not."

Smith expelled a loud breath. "I thought you might say something like that," Reaching forward, he placed the single sheet of paper in the center of the Chief's desk. "I'm quitting the force. Here's my letter of resignation."

He stood upright, looking over the Chief's head. "I can't be part of this anymore."

Matarski pushed the neatly folded page back toward Smith. "I know you've been under a lot of strain lately," he said. "Take a vacation. You have the time coming."

"No. I think it's time to do something else."

Matarski paused, seeming to consider Smith's words. "Well, based on your actions in the field, I can't really say I disagree."

Smith's internal circuits began to burn, overheating with resentment. "My actions in the field? I was surrounded by armed bikers on a busy street. What the hell was I supposed to do?" he raised his voice to a sharp bark. "There were by-standers everywhere. It would have been a blood bath!"

"You watch your mouth!" the Chief fumed, face now turning crimson. "You're already looking at an I.A. disciplinary hearing, maybe even charges of criminal dereliction of duty."

Smith put his hands on his hips in defiance. "Fine, you do that...and the press gets an early Christmas present," he said. "I'm sure my attorney can make the trial last for months...months of _daily_ press conferences. I'll see to it that every piece of that kid's dirty laundry shows up on CNN."

The Chief sputtered in rage-induced brain-lock as Smith continued. "You want me gone, fine. I go, but I go out easy, with my pension intact."

"You arrogant son of a bitch!" Matarski screeched. "Are you trying to blackmail me?"

"Not at all," Smith answered, his anger turning to calm acceptance. "I just know I'm not holding the bag for some politician's spoiled kid. Grady's son was a _rapist_ , plain and simple. Don't forget that...and Hailey Barrow wasn't his only victim. There are two more out there." He paused to take a deep breath. "Did he deserve to die in that alley? No...Am I going to throw away my career because his father wants to sweep this all under the rug? Not on your life!"

He dropped his badge on Matarski's desk, turned and walked toward the door.

"You ever breathe a word of this to the press, or anyone else," Matarski warned, his face again flushed to a beet red. "And you'll regret it."

Smith put his hand on the doorknob, pulling it open. "I already regret it." He shut the door, feeling an odd sense of profound relief wash over him from head to toe.

Two days later Smith found himself sitting on a tall stool at a table in one of Tucson's quiet piano bars, nursing a beer while waiting for the waitress to bring his dinner.

The melancholy sounds of Jazz floated across his consciousness, bringing him a bi-polar feeling of hope and sadness. The war-weary former detective now guarded a tendril of optimism for his marriage after he'd spent three hours talking to his wife, the proud man baring his soul and being rewarded with her tear-filled reciprocation. He silently thanked her for the second chance he wasn't sure he deserved, but would take none the less.

The sadness came on the heels of his resignation. The feeling wasn't from leaving the job, he'd made that decision before his conversation with the Chief ever took place and he discovered he enjoyed the newfound feeling of freedom. It came sneaking in on rails of retrospection, of his life...and the test of his values the Barrow case brought.

_How do I justify putting my work before all else...before Cassie, before Matthew. Look at what it cost me, all that lost time with Cassie...and the son I can't get back._ He took a swallow of beer and continued his musings.

The hollow tone of the phone clanged in Smith's ear jarring his thoughts back to the here and now. Recognizing the voice instantly, he began to fill Mendoza in on the altercation in the alley and his conversation with Matarski.

"So, these puke bags gang-raped a 19 year-old girl at knife point and she capped three of them. Are you serious?" Mendoza asked.

"And then I had to fire on the last one myself. I nearly got killed by a gang of angry bikers bringing her in." Smith said, his emotional division evident, even over the telephone.

"Four punks dead and no one in jail. I'm almost sorry I missed it." Mendoza said sarcastically. "Christ, What a mess. Where is she now? In custody, I presume."

"She turned herself in, got a lawyer," he said. "But the AG decided not to prosecute."

"You're shitting me," Mendoza said, the bombshell statement catching him completely by surprise. "How the hell did that happen?"

"Her lawyer claimed she shot Stone and Rackley in self-defense. No witnesses, no one to contradict her statement," he said. "Said she went to force a confession out of them and it simply got out of hand."

"And Grady?" he asked. "Don't tell me, let me guess. Mr. Big didn't want his son's dirty little secrets to get out."

Smith shrugged his shoulders, indifferent to the fact that Mendoza couldn't see it. "This is an election year. The Senator doesn't want the negative publicity of a trial," Smith said. "Besides, if she did go to trial, her lawyer will bring up the mistakes in the original case, or she can argue diminished capacity due to the trauma of the rape, you name it. _Max Factor_ doesn't have enough lipstick to cover that pig. The whole thing is a fucking legal and political minefield...and I guess I got to wear the tap shoes. Nice, huh?"

Smith took a long drink of his beer and stared through the glass. "She said it Hector, right there in that alley. She said the only reason anyone cared about this case was because of Grady's political clout."

"Was she right?" Mendoza asked. "Is Grady the only reason anybody cared about this case?"

"I like to think that's not true. I think _we_ cared about this case," Smith said, upending his glass. "We just wanted to find a killer. Instead, I ended up finding another victim."

"She really was a victim, wasn't she?" Mendoza responded in tentative agreement.

"Of the worst kind of crime," Smith concurred. "One so horrible she couldn't wrap her brain around it. So it consumed her."

"You're right." Mendoza sighed.

"Well, thanks again for all your help," Smith said. "It's been a pleasure to work with you."

"And you too," the Deputy said. "And if you ever want to get back on the job, let me know. We could use a good man like you."

"Thanks, but I think I'll try something new." He said.

"Well, good luck."

"You, too."

The phone went silent in his hand.

Epilog

John Smith looked at his watch. In exactly one hour and twenty-three minutes he had to be at the marriage counselor's office. He couldn't... _wouldn't_ ...be late for this appointment. _Cassie deserves a real husband. I'm dammed lucky she gave me a chance to be that man again._

It took a couple of weeks to adjust, but he knew leaving the police force had been the right move. Cassie had nearly jumped into his arms when he told her the news. He'd hung out a shingle and now his new career as a corporate security consultant was gathering some steam. He never imagined he'd find an abducted child during a routine background check.

He held the small boy's shaking hand, leading him through the crowed CPS office to a desk against the far wall. He thought about the boy and the hovel he found him in, the trash knee-deep, a collection of his father's drug paraphernalia in plain sight on the kitchen table.

He pulled up another chair. Sitting next to him, he offered the boy a piece of gum and popped one into his own mouth. "Your mother will be here, soon."

"I want to go home," the tow-headed kid demanded between tears. "I want my mom!"

"We called her and she's on her way."

That seemed to settle the youngster down and the boy sat looking down at the floor. "Am I ever going to see my dad again?"

_How do you tell a six-year old his father shot his mother, nearly killing her, and then kidnapped him for two months?_ He struggled for the right words. "Maybe when you're a little older," he said. "Your dad made some mistakes and he has to go away for a little while and think about what he did." _Christ, that was weak. I'm no good with kids...not anymore._

As the social worker led the boy away, he thought about how that child would process his horrible experiences and how... or if...he would find a way to integrate them into his life.

Back at his office a half hour later, Smith sat at his humble steel desk, fingers tapping away as he wrote up a report for his newest client.

The walls needed painting, but the rent was affordable and the location was close to home. _Home_ ...he rolled the word across his mind several times. He still couldn't believe his wife had allowed him to move back in. He didn't even mind sleeping in the guest room for awhile. He was home and after a few intense counseling sessions, Cassie was hinting at the _possibility_ of reconciliation. In the middle of his warm, fuzzy thoughts, the door opened, squeaking on the rusty hinges.

He peered over the top of his computer screen and saw a woman enter, quietly approaching the desk.

She peeked over the monitor, her face a mask of tension and expectancy. "Are you John Smith, the police detective?" the woman's voice came through, soft and strained.

" _Former_ police detective, yes." He answered.

"A friend said you might me able to help me find my daughter," the woman began to pace back and forth in front of the desk in anxiety. "She's missing."

He frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't do that kind of work any more. I do mostly corporate security consulting now."

The woman's strained voice climbed another octave, words coming in a machine-gun burst. "You don't understand. Cindy's only 18 and she's confused. We had a big fight and she took off with that loser boyfriend of hers. That was ten days ago. The police said they couldn't do anything because she's legally an adult and she left on her own."

He leaned back, the cheap office chair groaning at the stress of his movement. "If they can't do anything, I don't see how I can help."

He motioned her to a chair. She sat, but fidgeted nervously.

"She would never stay gone that long on her own. I'm so afraid something terrible has happened. My friend said if anyone could help, you could," she said. "You're my only hope. Please, she's out there all alone. I'm scared to death for her."

Smith sat up again and tried to console the woman. "I'd like to help, but as I said, I really don't do that type of work anymore. I can refer you to a good private investigator, someone who does missing person cases, if you want."

"My friend said you helped her when she needed it."

He searched his memory for a connection. "Who did you say referred you?"

"She said if you asked to show you this." The woman turned her hand over and the Queen of Hearts looked up at him, her bright eyes daring him to refuse her call to royal service.

He thought about the appointment with the counselor and silently thanked his wife for agreeing to the session. _I promise I'll put you first from now on. Just give me a chance to prove it._

"I have an appointment in a few minutes, but go ahead and tell me about Cindy. I'll see if I can help."

"Oh, thank you!" the woman visibly relaxed. "You don't know how much this means." She reached into her purse, pulling out a photo of a young woman smiling at the camera. "This is Cindy..."

****

Standing by the breakfast bar in the kitchen, Hailey paced nervously and held up the newspaper, scanning the front page her way of killing time. A small gasp emerged from her tight lips as she fixed her gaze on the prominent photo of Police Chief Matarski shaking John Smith's hand. She read the headline. _Decorated Tucson Detective Retires._

_Good for you,_ she thought as she put the paper in the trash can, knowing that violent, aberrant side of her was gone forever. She checked her watch for the third time in ten minutes. _Relax, he'll be here. He's never late._

She was still a little jittery in anticipation of tonight's planned festivities. Doug told her he'd taken care of everything and promised her an evening to remember. His only instructions were that she should "dress to the nines".

The doorbell rang. Looking through the peep-hole, Hailey saw Doug standing in the hall. Her first _real_ date in almost a year, she was more than a little nervous and the butterflies circled her stomach, demanding attention.

Hand on the doorknob, she took a deep breath. _Just relax and don't screw this up,_ she told herself as she unlocked the door. _He's a nice guy, don't go all 'wounded bird' and scare him off._

She knew it had been a long road for Doug, with her putting him through several quazi-dates, just to get to this place. She admired his tenacity...and everything else about him. She felt gratified, and thrilled, that he didn't give up on her in favor of a woman with less baggage, one needing a little less of the constant reassurance he readily provided.

Doug stepped into her apartment and she felt his eyes upon her. She noticed his face lighting up, spreading in a wide grin of honest male appreciation. The butterflies continued their aerial maneuvers, but for the first time since the attack, she enjoyed being viewed as a _woman_. She basked in the stare for several seconds before he broke the silence. "Wow, you look amazing."

She did a small pirouette, the black cocktail dress floating around her. "Thank you sir," she said, enjoying his gaze. All of the suffocating fear, all of the raging uncertainty, it was all gone. All she felt now was a pleasant tingle dancing in her limbs as his eyes traveled over her body.

"How is the shoulder?" He asked.

"Still hurts sometimes, but it's getting better. At least I don't have to wear the sling anymore."

She took in his tailored jacket and tie, noting how the formal attire offset his rugged good looks. She found the contrast _very_ appealing. "You look pretty good yourself. Nice suit."

"It's kind of fun getting dressed up once in a while, and I couldn't very well take you to _McConner's_ in my leathers."

"You got reservations at _McConner's_ ," she said. "I'm impressed."

"A friend of a friend, you know how that goes." he said.

She cocked a finely plucked eyebrow in surprise at his admission. "Nobody gets reservations at _McConner's_ these days. That must be some friend."

"So, what happened at the hearing?" he asked, skillfully changing the subject. "I know you said you wanted to go alone, but I wish you'd let me come with you. I wanted to be there for moral support."

"Judge said I have to go to therapy for at least a year, but I think it might _actually_ work this time. I can't believe it's over. I can't believe I got my life back, just like Uncle Greg said."

"I can't tell you how happy I am for you...for us," he breathed a deep sigh of relief. "I was so afraid for you...afraid I'd lose you."

She smiled at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Ready?" he said, reaching for the doorknob.

Exiting the building, she saw a long black limousine idling at the curb, chauffeur standing by the rear door.

"That for us?" she asked, smiling in hope that it was.

"You've been through a lot," he took her hand and squeezed it ever so gently. "I wanted tonight to be really special."

The driver closed the door behind them and Doug poured two glasses of champagne from a bottle chilling in the center console, placing one in her hand.

He pulled a package from behind the seat, the bright paper plastered with " _Happy Birthday_ " lettering over its entire surface.

"This is for you."

She took the package and gently shook it back and forth, listening intently for some clue to the contents. "What is it?"

He laughed at her child-like glee "Well, why don't you open it and see." He prodded.

She carefully removed the paper and opened the box, heart skipping a beat as she saw what it contained.

"Oh, my God," she said, drawing a quick breath. "It's so beautiful."

The rough, barnwood frame held a painted rendition of Greg, his dark hair blowing in the wind as he rode the Hog into a golden sunset. The small smile played across his lips powerfully depicted his simple joy at riding the machine down the open road.

Hailey felt the tears emerge as she took in the artist's amazing re-creation of her uncle's handsome, weathered face, the chiseled features lovingly captured. _My God! He looks so real._ She touched her fingers to the glass, mentally connecting to her memories of the man in the painting. _Like when you were healthy. That's the way I want to remember you._

"I love it," she threw her arms around Doug's neck, hugging him tightly as her tears wet his shirt. "Thank you so much."

Wiping the tears from her face, she looked deep into his blue eyes. "But, how did you do this?"

"Artist friend of mine owed me a favor," he said. "I saw the picture of Greg hanging in the living room and 'borrowed' a copy with my cell phone so he could make this for you."

He raised his glass, clinking it to hers. "Cheers."

"You seem to have a lot of friends," she said, taking a sip of the golden, bubbly liquid.

He threw her a devious smile. "And all of them in low places." He took another sip of the liquor before refilling the glasses. "I heard there's a new casino attached to the restaurant. We could play some Poker or Black Jack after dinner if you want."

"I don't even _touch_ cards anymore," she said resolutely. "I promised a friend...long story."

She saw he was taken aback by the firmness of her tone. "But playing some slots sounds like fun." She smiled and it lit up the car.

"Well alright then," he said. "Slots it is!"

He leaned forward and took her firmly in his arms. She felt a little stiff at first, but quickly willed herself to relax, melting into his warm, searching embrace.

For the first time since David, she was wrapped in a man's arms and all she felt was a gentle, undeniable pleasure spreading through her body in growing waves.

He slowly leaned forward to kiss her, stopping just inches from her soft lips. "Happy twenty-first birthday, Baby." He kissed her gently.

"Thank you." She leaned in, kissing him deeper, never wanting to let go.

****

269

