

An

Elvis

Kind

of

Girl

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2019

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn, my reader and editor who is kind and generous with her patience and attention.

Prologue

She was an Elvis kind of girl.

You know . . . the one you see in the crowd . . . rocking back and forth, blond hair, shoulder length . . . maybe a little longer . . . glistening, swaying to the beat of the King of Rock'n'Roll moaning through "Jailhouse Rock", or crooning one of those immortal love songs . . . "Are You Lonesome Tonight" or "Loving You". Her ocean blue eyes sparkle, perfect teeth papered in an eternal smile. The girl next door . . . the one with a pristine, wholesome, sexuality the makes you long to reach into her pants, smooth and caress that pink, feminine part of her that swells and begs for something deeper . . . demanding and hard . . . something that plumbs her depths and strikes at her very being.

She'd had some boyfriends. Actually lots of them . . . even been engaged once. Joseph Martin. He was everything a girl could want. A fine Christian boy . . . tall, a head of wavy ebony hair, softly chiseled features . . . a sort of young Rock Hudson, a bit of a bumbler at times, but sweetly sincere, and very much in love with her. She was his Doris Day, sparkling like still water in the morning sun, and smiling at all the right times. They just went together like shiny brass book ends. His Mom and Dad owned the hardware store out near the highway. He was damned near perfect.

She'd held Joseph . . . and been held by him, and more than a couple of others who worshiped her . . . her body, her mind, her devotion to her Lord. She'd let them touch her . . . and touched them, but she always drew the line. Marriage . . . that was when she would engage in that sacrament, the Holy union God intended. When they had entered their bold covenant with God, she would give her all, but not until then.

With Joseph it was almost different. She'd even picked out a wedding dress, borrowed twenty bucks from her mother to put it on lay away at Guy's Bridal Best down in town. Mary was thrilled. No one could be better than Joseph for her beloved daughter. Even her little brother liked him. She remembered the loud cologne and the way his love stuck in his throat the night he stammered as he knelt on one knee and pressed the small diamond into her hand. She couldn't say no, but the 'yes' didn't last. Fear finally overcame her, not the fear of being a wife and mother, but a fear of herself . . . a gnawing feeling that she could never really be those things that she had been trained and raised for . . . and then there was that thing. She kept it it hidden quite well, but she knew it could erupt without warning and transform 'happily ever after' into hideous disaster.

Joseph had actually cried when she broke it off. But it was right. She couldn't expose him to that darkness, reveal herself, and drag him into that pit. It would be a sin which even Jesus couldn't forgive.

So she crawled back into the small town girl you bring home to meet your mother . . . the one your dad secretly lusted after . . . the one you wanted to have in the back seat at the drive-in. Who cared what was playing? It was you . . . you and her hidden behind the steamy windows, breathing in the pregnant sighs, and the hands . . . your hands . . . that wanted to explore everything . . . including yourself.

She was Kristen . . . Kristen Parker . . . the daughter of an Evangelical Pastor and his lovely wife. She was a fine Christian young lady, Bible study daily, still a virgin at 28, no drugs, only the occasional glass of wine, a paragon of virtue . . . if it still exists. But she had a hobby . . . if you can call it that . . . one that she practiced with ultimate care and devotion . . . she killed people . . . not just anyone, and in her mind . . . only the ones who deserved it.

Chapter One

She was 16 when she decided to do it. She watched the scene through the crack in her bedroom door. He entered, then stood ramrod straight, his lips in an iron curl.

Her Father . . . she always called him that . . . he demanded it from her and her little brother, Zac.

After all, he was a man of the cloth. He loved and honored his God. He ministered to his flock in that small town in northwest Georgia, guiding and inspiring them to follow in the footsteps of Jesus, his Lord and Savior and theirs. His truth burrowed deep into their bodies and their souls. They drank from the cup that "runneth over" with his charisma. On Sundays his voice boomed through the small sanctuary. It was not unusual to hear sobs or howls of spiritual delight from his congregants. He assured them that all was good, as long as they remembered that peace and salvation lay in the hands of God. That was the law in this land, a land he ruled. He knew that from time to time, sacrifices must be made. Only a fevered servant of Christ was blessed with the power to determine the fates. He was that blessed one.

His wife, Mary, named after the Virgin and the Magdalene whore who became a saint, sat in the crimson easy chair across from the fireplace. She nursed a cup of tea and waited. She'd sneaked a shot of brandy in the brown liquid from a pint bottle she had hidden away for medicinal emergencies. At least that's what she told herself. She sat up as she heard the latch on the door and the creak of the hinges.

Kristen, clad in her long linen night dress, cringed at the top of the stairs, hidden in the shadows. She heard the light thump of Zac's feet and felt the warmth of his small hand at her elbow. He was ten, six years younger that Kristen, but already observant and full of questions . . . some that had answers she didn't think he should hear.

"Norman, you're late. Why didn't you call?"

"Why must you ask, Mary? A congregant in need. It is my pledge to counsel those who need the Lord's guidance and mercy."

"Of course . . . and the needy was Diedra Newsome. Tell me, Norman, what exactly did she need?"

"Remember Mary, when you question me in that tone, you question the Lord."

"And did the Lord tell you to screw her? Was the Lord present when you removed your clothes and hers . . . entered into that unholy union of a married man with a woman who seeks nothing more than a a tongue in her mouth and a hard penis? You think I'm a fool? I've had calls. Half the congregation knows. The other half will before long."

She rose from the chair. He stepped into her path and glared. He paused as if to gather the force. Then his open palm exploded across her across the face. She stumbled and lurched, the sheer force of the blow throwing her off of her feet. The tea cup bounced off the floor and rolled onto the carpet. The blood tricked from the corner of her mouth. She put her hand to the wound. Kristen heard the sobs bursting, and watched her mother cower, waiting for another blow. It didn't come . . . at least not yet. Father had done his best . . . or perhaps, his worst.

"Vile and foolish woman. When you question me . . . you question the Lord our God. Remember, "the Lord doth work in mysterious ways his wonder to perform", not just blessings, but punishments as well. You shall not speak of this again, and if you do, you will rue the day you defied me. 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.' Study your Bible lest you forget. And be ever watchful to remember your place . . . always . . . always at my side and always in silence."

"And these are your excuses . . . your justification for this infamy?"

Again she stumbled to her feet. She tried to get around him, but he shoved her violently. She tumbled back down to the floor. Her cries pierced Kristen like howls from a demon. Mary propped herself up on one elbow and he lashed at her again. There was a slight splash as his palm slapped against the pool of blood that ran from her mouth. He stared at his palm for a moment, then wiped his hand on his shirt. The red stain clung to him like the Stigmata. Mary lay back on the carpet, frightened and whimpering through pink swelling lips.

Father's lips trembled. His jaw was hard, his fists in knots, and the muscles in his arms rippled with malice. He left her trembling on the floor and headed for the stairs.

Kristen bolted for her room, Zac not far behind. She pulled her door to as quietly as she could. She collapsed on my bed and wept. This was her Father, some would say a man of love and peace . . . but violence that knew no end, and begged no remorse.

Mother didn't leave the house for a few days. When she finally emerged, she wore a broad-brimmed hat and pair of large sunglasses. She spoke little, and when she did she hid her swollen cheek feigning a casual hand . . . but I knew . . . and she knew that I knew. When she passed, she would place her hand gently on my shoulder and look at me with sad, pleading eyes. Pleading for what? Forgiveness for him, redemption for herself, some sort of oblivion?

At the beginning of her junior year, Father . . . who pretended to ask, but really only demanded . . . told Kristen to enroll in Auto Mechanics at the small high school. "Learn something useful," he said. Of course, he didn't know how useful the knowledge would become. Kristen didn't either at the time, but she learned.

The man had a couple of bad habits besides his dalliance with some vulnerable members of his flock. He always drove way too fast, as if God would not allow his mission to be delayed, and he never wore his seat belt. When I dared remind him, he came back sternly with his standard retort to any criticism, "My mission is the Lord's. He will provide."

I tried to forget the look in mother's eyes, the way her movements had slowed, and how she slumped as she walked, but the pain was as constant as a cancer . . . growing, building a foundation of disillusions, betrayal, and finally hate. He didn't stop. The abuse became less physical, but even more mental. Mother began to retreat into a shell, a hard, cold place no one could reach, much less penetrate. I tried to move into her, but it was done. She was a ghost . . . a soulless being who had retreated from anything human.

The hate began to spread. It started small, but settled into me, my heart, and then began to crush my spirit. When he hit her the last time, my mind was made up. It would, indeed, be the last time. I knew he was going to a neighboring town the next day as a guest preacher . . . to tell a tale of love and forgiveness. I slipped out of my room after midnight, a flashlight and a set of cable snips clutched in my sweating hand. I stealthily slid through the door to the garage. I dropped to my knees and eased under his small SUV. Then it hit me. I put my hand to my mouth to suppress a scream. What the hell was I doing? Was this only another form of weakness? An excuse? Was I creating an abomination? Was this simply a shortcut to Hell? Or was it a deliverance from something that reeked of pure evil? My mind caught the image of his open hand flashing at mother. . . heard the flat sound of flesh on flesh as he slapped her once again. . . his words.

"I've warned you, woman. My wrath is heavy. Mine is the right hand of God. You will obey me, or you will suffer. Now shut up . . . cease your sniveling before you wake the child."

But I was no longer a child . . . no, not yet a woman . . . but something that a man who assumed the mantle of deity was sculpting into a young fury with a mind and a will of her own. Father would do no more harm. I prayed . . . and I received an answer. It was then that I truly recognized the Will of God.

The brake line was easy to locate. I clipped slightly halfway to the middle and the fluid began to seep onto the gritty concrete one drop at a time. It left a dark spot in the gray surface. I imagined his blood flowing with it, burying itself within the sin and the violence of the worst of God's children . . . my Father, Satan's own cursed hypocrite.

Chapter Two

The tree lined road was winding, only two lanes of scarred blacktop. Every couple of miles bore a sign clearly dictating a 45 mile speed limit. But Father was late. The dashboard display on the blue Ford Escape read 65. The lines were yellow on both sides of the center. No passing. But Father whistled his favorite hymn "Amazing Grace" and kept a heavy foot on the accelerator. He rounded a turn and suddenly an ancient Chevrolet was blocking his passage. No doubt some old fool and his wife out for a Sunday drive. He cursed under his breath, and hit his horn. But the rusting behemoth remained steady, blocking Father's road . . . one he believed he owned.

He hit the horn again, and rushed out into the left lane. He never saw the pickup approaching until it was almost on him. He hit the brakes, but nothing. The Man of God swerved across the asphalt and slammed into a thick stand of pines. No seat belt. The air bag inflated, but it it didn't keep Father's face from detonating as it hit the safety glass. His skull was crushed and his back was broken in three places. The EMTs were on the scene within ten minutes, but extracting him from the car was a gruesome and lengthy process. It didn't really matter much. He was dead.

I guess you could call that my first. I told myself that I hadn't killed him. It was the Will of God . . . perhaps one of those mysterious wonders Father was always preaching about. I guess I'll never really know. The funeral was held in the sanctuary . . . closed casket. The director apologized over and over to my Mother, but there just wasn't much they could do with his face all mangled like that. There were probably two or three hundred people stuffed into the small building . . . lots of wailing, of course, and prayers. I told them Mother was consumed with grief, and sedated. That was why she showed so little response to the proceedings. When various members of the congregation had offered their tributes and the final words had been spoken by a visiting minister, Mother, Zac, and I walked by the casket slowly and she whispered something even I couldn't hear. I thought Zac made a spitting sound. I grabbed his hand. He scowled at me for an instant, then bowed his head in feigned reverence.

I glanced toward the back of the church. Tucked back in the crowd was Diedra Newsome. She was covered by a coal black smock, a tumble of black lace adorning her head. She held a white linen handkerchief to her face. I couldn't tell whether she was actually crying or just determined to be part of the show. I wanted to glare at her, but I'm not sure she would have noticed anyway.

I also caught a glimpse of Joseph. He had always respected Father, but of course he didn't know the full story. It was better that way.

Chapter Three

Priss Maybry didn't look at all like what she was. She'd never liked the name Priscilla. It was a relic she'd inherited from a spinster aunt. She wasn't sure she liked Priss much better, but it clung to her like a bad fitting top, sometimes too loose and others too tight, but never, never quite right. She walked silently down the street, small discreet steps, her head slightly down, like child being forced to make an apology for something she had no control of.

She wore loose fitting jeans and a t-shirt, her shoulders being dusted by a light blue jacket. Her blond hair was pulled back off her face, no makeup except a pale blush on the cheeks and a hint of pink lip gloss. She looked like a prim first grade teacher out for some window shopping and a bit of air that was as fresh as it got in the middle of bustling, humid Miami. Some might call her pretty in a small sort of way, but the term "handsome woman" was more fitting.

It was only if she bent at the waist that the careful observer might spot the small bulge in the middle of her back. Could be anything . . . but it wasn't. It was a holster with a short barrel Beretta 9mm clipped to her jeans. Very deadly at close range. She hadn't left her apartment without it since the rape. The slight harmless lady was a Detective Second Class. She was Miami PD, and she wasn't quite as harmless as she appeared. She'd killed two men, one a dealer stoked out on Crack. He'd fired first, but his aim wasn't so good. It had taken only two shots to take him down, one through the heart and another piercing his neck. DOA. There was an investigation, but she was cleared immediately. Even the papers gave it short shrift. After all . . . nothing unusual in Miami's mean streets.

The second was a little more dicey . . . originally a domestic call. The boyfriend came home drunk, slapped Mama around. She was used to that, but when he went for one of the kids, she hit 911. Priss was in the neighborhood with Dontravious, one of her partners. The friend wouldn't come out of the house, but when the woman ran out with a small girl in her arms, the cops approached. He was standing in the window with a long gun, screaming for them to leave the property. His first shot hit the unmarked cruiser. There was no second. Priss was too quick and too sharp. She caught him through the right side of his face, then Don got one off straight into his belly. He bled out just after the EMTs arrived.

Some screamed police brutality, unnecessary use of force. His girlfriend sued the department, naming Priss and Dontravious as obvious defendants, but the man should never have fired. The bullet hole in the cruiser and the camera verified the sequence of events. After some scurrilous comments by the civil rights groups, and a few by the ACLU, things cooled, and the PD went on with the collection of the bad guys.

Priss wasn't proud of any of it, but it came with the job and like it or not . . . she was good at it.

There was actually a third . . . one Stuart Macelli . . . the psycho who had raped her and left his vile seed within her to grow until the miscarriage. She never could decid whether to count him or not . . . maybe because he was more mad dog than man. Anyway he would assault no other women unless he could reach out from the grave. The way she left him . . . Priss didn't think that would happen.

Mary's kids had actually done quite well since the unfortunate accident. Kristen graduated from high school with honors and an endorsement as a Certified Auto Mechanic. She never really used it except that once, but it was a good back-up in case she had the need. She tried the local community college, but it just wasn't her thing. She wasn't stupid, but she simply wasn't a student. Books . . . no . . . the endless parsing of academic pronouncements when a little common sense would do . . . no again. So she went to work as a receptionist in a local salon. She learned the beauty trade and became a walking advertisement for the wonders of make-up, various ointments, lavishly trendy hair styles, and other tricks of the masters of deception and disguise ensconced in the folds of fashion.

On the other hand, Zac had problems. The kid was smart enough . . . maybe even too smart . . . but trouble was the addiction that fed him. It made the adrenaline pulse through his veins like a jackhammer. Only then could he forget. No drugs, thankfully, but booze, minor run-ins with the law, and a running battle with school authorities were all his specialties. What made it worse was the girls. He looked like a matinee idol, and could talk his way into or out of most anything. The girls adored the "bad boy" and it became an enabler. Mary cried and begged, but finally signed for him to quit school in the first semester of his junior year. One condition . . . he had to have a full-time job and help with household expenses.

He was only seventeen, but he immediately got a position selling cars at the local Ford dealership. He breezed through the training, listening, learning, watching the old pros. They were generous with their advice and expertise and within a couple of months Zac was outselling them all. He had a sixth sense for pinpointing the wants and needs of any kind of buyer. He stroked each one, cajoled, impressed them with his charm, and before long he had their signatures, and the driver was out the door with a smile and a few less bucks in his pocket . . . and that much more for Zac.

Even better, he stayed out of trouble. His mother, Mary, was thrilled. She began to babble about how her boy finally found himself. Kristen, despite the demons that still haunted her in the dark of the night, was mighty proud of her little brother. Zac had definitely learned something . . . he could sell anyone anything. A year later he quit the dealership and became the thing that was his destiny . . . a legitimate entrepreneur, buying and selling anything that a sucker thought he needed. He moved out of Mary's house and purchased a two thousand square foot condo, beautifully furnished, nicely located near downtown, with a perfect space for an office, and various delights for the ladies he frequently entertained.

Kristen had also moved on . . . she just didn't know where. She had no idea what would eventually happen when she decided to go to the show. Elise, a close friend, had persuaded her to see Don Marone, probably the premier Elvis impersonator on the circuit. He was appearing in Atlanta, only about a two hour drive. She and Elise talked as they skirted down the highway, mostly stuff about her friend's upcoming wedding . . . dresses, flowers, music, all the things that make a wedding a wedding.

They parked in a huge lot and made for the entrance. Kristen was amazed when he took the stage. His jet-black hair shimmered in the stage lights and the side burns were perfect. His white jump suit, covered in silver studs and small faux diamonds, glittered every time he moved . . . and did he move . . . the hip cocked, the head bowed, the graceful, but sensuous. glide of his arms. He stared into the crowd, focusing on the ladies, that Elvis sneer ever on his lips, and eyes like the deep oceans.

The crowd, mostly women, was a mix of ages. Mature women, way past that glow of youth, swung their hips and thrust their hands in the air. There was the younger set . . . more energy and willful lust . . . driving an electric charge that pumped the entire house into a frenzy. When he crooned "Love Me Tender", the women went into overdrive . . . screaming, crying, begging, and throwing items up on the stage . . . a rose, a necklace, a program . . . and even some lacy things that no man except your husband should ever see.

Kristen actually thought it a bit tawdry, but before she knew it, she was caught up in the frenzy. She even wished she had something to throw, but she certainly wasn't willing to take anything off, especially in a crowd that had breached insanity.

They were sweating as they exited the hall when a man neither of them knew approached them. Kristen's first instinct was to ignore him. She'd gotten quite good at it. She turned her head, stuck her nose in the air, but he was politely persistent.

"Ladies, would you like to meet Elvis? He really hasn't left the building. Nothing funny, or threatening going on. I'm Bill, part of the road staff, and I just thought you might want to meet the man. Good public relations when we come back through next fall."

Elise looked at Kristen longingly. There was little doubt what she wanted to do.

"Come on Kristen. They're two of us. We'll be okay. This chance may not come around again."

Kristen hesitated, but she didn't want to ruin Elise's fun, and to be honest, she was intrigued. The road guy smiled and pointed back toward the entrance to the hall. They followed.

The "King" was sitting on a folding chair before a giant make-up mirror wiping copious dollops of perspiration running down his forehead and dripping off his upper lip. He rose when they came in, and took another swipe at his face with the damp towel. The small dressing room was almost steamy. He performed a courtly bow and placed a light wet kiss on each of their hands. I thought Elise was going to pass out. Her eyelashes were fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. She put her open hand to her breast. Her lips moved, but no sound came. He pointed to a couple of chairs in the corner and sat back down.

"Ladies, Don Marone" he growled sweetly, "this is indeed a great honor. I would be nothing without my fans."

Elise was still speechless, and I must admit I was a bit overwhelmed. Up close, he looked just like the man who had crooned dozens of Number 1's, and captured the hearts of most of the ladies in the western hemisphere. We went through some idle chatter. It didn't take me long to know that I liked the guy. He quickly dropped any of the pretentious stuff and talked like a man with depth and real values. He was a practicing Christian with a wife and two kids. He showed us the pictures. Despite his shock of black hair, his wife, Sarah, was blond and the kids, a boy and girl five and six, had eyes like a still pond on a Sunday morning. He was most obviously proud and loving, and missed them all terribly.

"I understand you ladies don't really know me, but I had one of my staff quit recently to marry a fine boy she met in Tampa a year or so ago. I'm gonna sing at their wedding."

He chuckled like a favorite uncle. "Anyway, I need help. Elvis girls. They travel with the road crew. We plant a couple in the crowd and their job is create excitement . . . stroke the response . . . get the patrons up on their feet and enjoying themselves. You'd be amazed at the difference it makes. Nothing funny, no demands other than a good performance. Most of my people have been with me through several tours. We do the East Coast, usually from Charlotte south. Columbia, Charleston, Savannah, Atlanta, then several stops in Florida, ending in Miami. It's about six months all together. Again, no funny stuff. I have a few firm requirements. No drugs, excessive alcohol, and no sexual encounters with staff or patrons. It's honest work. We just want our payin' folks to have a good time."

Elise was already shaking her head. She knew her fiance would never go for it, and her dream was the three bedroom, two bath, white bungalow with the picket fence, petunias in the yard, and two and a half kids, followed by a comfortable retirement. Kristen was another story all together.

Chapter Four

The receptionist job was okay . . . somewhat boring at times . . . but okay. Still it wasn't really the job. It was more Kristen, herself. She'd learned a lot, but something inside her longed for a bit of adventure . . . some pure excitement she knew she'd never find in that small town in Georgia. There were men . . . not really . . . more like adolescent boys. They generally had one goal in mind . . . to get in her pants, or at least score a blow job. Sorry, she just wasn't into it, and she wondered in that dark, sad place within her if she could ever love. She was simply hard inside. It wasn't that she had no empathy for others. She liked to walk and always went by the park. She caught herself smiling more than once at a child giggling as her mother pushed the swing. She'd drop a dollar in the cups of a few of the homeless that lolled on the sidewalks. But she knew the hard thing was there and didn't expect it to ever disappear. She even feared it was growing . . . enshrouding her heart . . . and her soul if she had one . . . in a smothering gray gauze, a suffocating mist that choked and goaded her to take another step into that nether world. She needed something . . . maybe just a change . . .time, place, a different filter to view people and things.

This was the chance. She'd become an Elvis Girl. What the heck? If it didn't work, she'd find something else. She knew one last thing very well. She was a survivor. She'd do what she had to. Maybe that was actually the hand of destiny . . . even the Will of God.

She started at ten bucks an hour, but there was a catch, and it was a good one. When they were on the road, Don Marone Inc. paid all of her living expenses, food, lodging, benefits, and even a generous clothing allowance. Her hours totaled sixty a week. If you put a pencil to it, the sum was impressive.

She joined the show in Atlanta. She watched the crowd, the other girls, copied some of their moves, and listened. Then it was on to Savannah where she immediately began to shine. The road crew took to her instantly and verified Marone's promise. Nothing funny, no violations, no drugs except for a small bottle of Xanax she kept in her handbag . . . just to come down after the shows. The staff was friendly and welcoming. No questions, just a quiet kind of acceptance. She was safe. Normally they spend a couple of nights in each city, just enough time to set up, break down, pack, then on to the next gig. She dutifully banked most of her check each month, sending a little to Mom and putting some aside, affectionately calling it her "Mad Money". At first she didn't know how Mad it would become.

The Jacksonville show was crazy. Kristen didn't even know women could act like that. They certainly weren't members of the church she had dutifully been raised in . . . but maybe in some way they were . . . the shouts of deliverance, the tears of devotion, the hand wringing and the ceaseless wailing. Were they so different? Or was it simply ecstasy in a more exotic package?

The smells of sweat and frustrated sex . . . promised, but denied . . . hung in the air pregnant with the pounding drums and the screeching guitars full like graying seductive thunder clouds. The crowd mulled for a moment, then began to file out, but only after begging for more. When Don did "Heartbreak Hotel", the house came down. They finally began to leave, women crying, moaning, clutching hot hands to their damp breasts.

Kristen watched in amazement. Her forehead was shiny. The the salty perspiration had soaked through her fetid clothes and the fabric gripped her skin. She had been at her best, screaming, jumping up and down, and finally throwing a wadded hunk of damp silk at the stage. Don picked it up, drew it slowly to his lips, then wiped his brow. He threw it back into the third row and there was a violent scrum. It lasted only seconds, and a red-faced blond, probably in her late forties, thrust it above her head, a proud banner. A violent battle cry escaped from her painted lips. It was all as planned, but somehow Kristen felt ashamed. . . . not just for the screaming woman . . . a woman who would no doubt spread her legs for a dead man . . . but for herself. "This is what its come to," Kristen whispered to no one. And now she was tainted.

Finally the hall was empty. The custodians were already at work, sweeping the debris from the floors and hoisting the plastic bags from the containers of cans and discarded programs. Suddenly Kristen felt a wave of claustrophobia. The noise rang in her ears as the roadies began to break down the massive amps and coil the endless black cords that gave them life. She walked out in the air that should have been cool and fresh, but it only engulfed her like a funeral cloth. After all, it was Florida, and the humidity insisted on clinging a bit longer.

She didn't know why, but she turned right on the sidewalk. There was a flashing neon light down the block. It was garish, but perhaps there was air conditioning, maybe even laughter that didn't taunt her like the ghosts from the concert. Her steps echoed on the concrete. The side walk was deserted, but she focused on the light. She stopped outside the window. The glow of the beer signs flashed off her cheeks. Sheets of curled paper were taped inside the dusty glass, announcing the appearance of local talent and various other neighborhood activities. One told of a performance of Christian folk music at a nearby church. She battled a wave of nostalgia and thought of her mother. Again there was a faint blush of shame. The jukebox was warbling with Hank Williams, "I Can't Help it if I'm Still in Love with You".

Who did Hank love? She didn't know. .Was it a woman or some romantic concept that haunted him with the promise of comfort and peace? And Kristen . . . who or what did she love? And who loved her?

She went in.

It was what you might expect . . . smoky, sparse crowd . . . several empty seats at the bar. She scanned the room, then settled on a tattered red stool. The bar tender came over and turned his lips up in a greasy smile. She ordered a ginger ale on the rocks. He tipped his head to one side, thought about carding her, then spoke.

"Nothing else in it?" he asked gently.

She shook her head politely and waited. There was one couple on the dance floor. Faded jeans, cowboy boots, and faces that had seen plenty of miles, and probably plenty of heartbreak. Hank was still singing mournfully and the Drifting Cowboys were right behind, crooning the loss. She watched them for a moment. The woman's tired head was resting artfully on her partner's shoulder, a flood of bleach-blond hair flowing down his back. Her held her left hand tenderly, the other hand placed on her back. They rocked slowly back and forth to the beat, and paused to look into each others' eyes with a subtle longing. Suddenly it hit her . . . they were in love, maybe only for the night . . . but maybe that was just enough.

The bartender placed the drink in front of her and she looked into a mirror. She wasn't sure she liked what she saw, but she was here, and she decided that it was okay. In the reflection, a man approached, a sweating bottle of Miller Lite in his left hand and a slight smile on his face. He was actually quite good looking, a little rough perhaps, but his broad forehead was tanned and a sweep of black hair curled over his eye. His lips were full and his dark eyebrows suggested a hint of Hispanic blood. His chest was filled out like some sort of pagan god, and his arms were massive. He wore a turquoise t-shirt with Margaritaville emblazoned in bold black letters. She tensed up slightly. He sauntered in her direction.

One large forearm slapped on the bar next to her.

"Hello pretty lady, buy you a drink?" Strong baritone, definitely manly, but not threatening. "The name is Max, as in "to the max", and it's all here."

He grinned, but kept his distance.

For a moment, Kristen felt sorry for him. If that pickup line was the best he could do, she'd nurse the rest of her ginger ale for a moment, then head for the door. But she was just plain lonely, and probably a bit curious . . . and he was alluring in a dangerous sort of way. Those were the instincts that pressed upon her. She sat for a moment more, took a sip, then turned toward him.

"Thanks Max, but no thanks. Meeting someone," she lied, but she couldn't quite suppress a small smile. He didn't seem discouraged.

"I'll wait with you. Some crazy types in here. They'll stay away as long as I'm here."

Still no threat in his voice. What the hell, maybe he just a nice guy trying to be protective.

"What's your name?"

She hesitated a moment, "You can call me Krissy."

"Yeah . . . I'll do that. New in town?"

"Yes, just here for a couple of nights. Business, you know."

It went on from there, actually becoming a conversation. Kristen had another ginger ale. Max was a charter fisherman. He lived on his Luhrs 41, treating the tourists to the best catches on the West Coast of Florida. He bragged about the big ones, and loved the benefits of a "cash money" business. From the high-fives and slaps on his back from the patrons moving in and out of the bar, he almost seemed like a local celebrity. But more important to Kristin, he maintained that friendly, non-threatening manner. As a matter of fact, he even seemed to have some . . . manners, that is.

She listened, exuding the appropriate oohs and ahhs at critical times. She began to relax. This wasn't bad . . . a nice distraction, even a pleasure, to talk to someone who actually seemed to like her without wanting something in return. They'd been at it for about an hour when she began to realize that maybe that wasn't exactly true. Something else was coming.

She felt a chill creep up her spine when she heard the words, "Hey, you wanna see the boat? It's not far from here. I'll take you back to hotel when we finish."

She wasn't crazy about that word "finish". There was something lurking . . . something she didn't want to see . . . or feel. Still, she went.

Chapter Five

Kristen padded down the dock, Max holding her arm gently. She'd removed her high heels and her bare feet made a soft thumping sound. Part of her wanted to turn and run, but now she felt almost obligated to see this mini-ship that this man was so proud of. The name on the stern read "Vacarro del Mer" in bold red letters. Kristen knew that it translated roughly to cowboy of the sea. Seemed to make sense. The outside of the boat was immaculate. The white fiberglass gleamed in the moonlight, giving off a ghostly, but heavenly pale.

Vacarro rocked like a lady as she stepped on board. Max fumbled with a key and hit a switch on the bulkhead. She went in and heard him close the door with a loud click. The interior was spotless. A small recliner sat across from a cream colored leather love seat. A teak coffee table was adorned with a collection brass framed photos, mostly men holding large denizens of the deep, broad smiles on sunburned faces as they strained to support the weight of their impressive catches. Max grinned and waved a muscular arm in a sweeping welcome.

"How about a real drink?"

"No thanks, I'll stick with the ginger ale if you don't mind."

He laughed and poured himself a double of rich Maker's Mark over three ice cubes. Then he put a glass of golden liquid in front of her. She sniffed it, just to be sure. It seemed okay, and so did he. She had settled into the recliner, mostly because it was close to the door. She kept her shoes in her lap, and took a deep breath. He took a long draft of the whiskey and sat across from her.

They talked about Florida, the amenable climate, the restaurants, and a host of other innocuous things that couples dabble in while they quietly check each other out. Max was still the gentleman, but as the whiskey in the glass began to dwindle, he got a little louder and seemed a bit unsteady. Kristen noticed a small gilt framed photo of a curly blond boy, probably about nine. She picked it up and turned it toward Max.

"My boy, Billy. Good looking kid, huh?"

Kristen smiled and nodded. "What about his mother?" His face was instantly hard."Got what she deserved." he growled. Now he softened again.

"So how about a tour of the rest of the Vacarro? She is a pretty girl, kinda like you. She's tough in a seaway, but very much the lady, and very comfortable."

There was manly pride in his voice, and a hint of reassurance.

Kristen hesitated, but she'd never been on a boat like this one, and she wanted to see. She set her shoes and pocketbook down beside the recliner and followed as he led her down a set of three teak steps. She marveled at the galley, full-size refrigerator, stove top with four burners, a full oven, double sink and nice storage. The door to the master stateroom was closed. Max placed his brown hand on the knob and turned. Then he gave a courtly bow and waved for Kristen to go ahead.

There was queen-sized bed sporting lavender silk sheets, perfectly made, and two fluffy pillows at the head, but she caught the reflection quickly. She shuddered. There was a spotless, shiny mirror on the ceiling. That was when she suspected she'd gone too far. She heard the latch settle firmly as he closed the door to the stateroom and grinned at her with a trace of menace in his eyes.

"Krissy, relax. We both knew you'd end up here. Let's cut the silly ass games and get to the real thing. Max, I said, as in 'to the Max'. Now I'm gonna show you why that's the only damned truth there is."

He put his hand to his crotch, then snatched her arm and yanked her to him. He smelled of sweat and whiskey as he pressed his tongue into her mouth. He was massive and powerful. It would take more that one woman's strength to resist him. He threw her on the bed and ran his tongue over the side of her face. Then he thrust his hand under her blouse. The skin on his palm was rough and leathery as he forced it up under her bra. For a moment she was unsure. His hot flesh almost felt good against her eager nipple. Maybe she had waited too long. Maybe this was what she secretly wanted, what she had yearned for as she watched the couple on the dance floor. She felt the moist heat build between her legs. Her mother's bruised features flashed through her consciousness. She'd made a vow to her mother . . . still a virgin.

Kristen whispered, "No," between clenched teeth. She flashed through her options, not sure there were any. Her mind took a stab.

"Max, I gotta go."

"No Krissy, you don't."

"No, I mean go . . . like to the ladies'. I don't want to mess up your sheets. Something in my purse. I need it. Let me up. Back in a minute. I promise."

She tried to look eager and sincere. His fingers were locked around her forearm. It hurt.

"Don't shit me Krissy. You'll stay until I decide different. That door to the cockpit is locked from the inside. You're here, honey . . . and we both know what you really want."

Max stared into her eyes, enjoying the terror, smiling like a mad man. He shook his head and paused. His grip relaxed.

"Okay, I guess when you gotta go . . . you gotta go." He moved aside on the bed and she rose carefully.

"I'll be right back and I'll bring your drink. Then we go on." She nodded and forced a bloodless smile.

He seemed to like that. She slipped out of the stateroom and made for her pocketbook. The plastic bottle was in the bottom. She unscrewed the top and filled her palm, not bothering to count. His glass was on the table in the galley. She dropped the tiny pills into it and followed them with a generous dollop of the brown whiskey. A couple of ice cubes and she was ready. She swirled the liquid gently and the capsules began to flake, then disappear.

She heard him stir.

"Hey, I'm on my way . . . just freshening your drink."

"Oh honey, you're a woman a man can only dream about," he called from his lair.

He was still lying on the bed, but he'd removed his shirt and jeans. His briefs bulged and seemed to throb. He dropped his hand and ran his fingers over his crotch, the hideous grin still etched on his face.

She knew she needed to distract him . . . to make sure there was time for the residue to become invisible. This isn't me, she thought, and struggled to force her mind and her presence into another space. She was frightened, but it had to work. She had to protect herself no matter the cost. She entered the stateroom at a slow and sensuous pace. She placed the drink on a table just out of reach from the bed. She needed time.

"Maybe you'd like to see something else," she cooed.

His face lit up with the grin widened, the devil leering behind it. She began to sway and lift the bottom of her blouse, exposing her tanned belly, then the bottom of the bra. She reached behind her back. Her fingers trembled as she unfastened the clips. A glance here, another peek, then her breasts. They were full, the color of blushing ivory. Her nipples were like brown bullets, punctuating the feminine beauty. Again she wondered. What were God's children made for if not pleasure. Of course God had decreed that there must be pain and suffering. That was the price of sin, but there must also be deliverance, and ultimately forgiveness. Perhaps she did need something . . . the thing that now lay before her . . . embodied in this vicious, but glorious, hulk of a man. She fought, but she wasn't sure she could win.

She continued to sway and toyed with her skirt. His eyes had become glassy. It was time.

"Max, just another little taste of your drink will make it all even that much better. Then I'll finish this little show. Believe me, you're gonna like it." She hoped it was her lie, but at this moment she wasn't sure of anything.

He laughed and pointed to the glass. She lifted it gingerly, gave it a light swirl and put it in his hand. Then she turned her ass toward him, watching over her shoulder as he took a huge gulp, then another. Kristen reluctantly lay down beside him and stroked his chest. The muscles were hard and hot. She kissed him on the cheek, then continued down his neck. He put one hand behind her head and snatched a swath of her hair. She felt pressure as he guided her down. The other hand rested on her thigh. She tried to stifle the bile in her throat.

Max tried to turn toward her on the bed, but suddenly his body refused to obey. He looked at her. She wondered what was next, a crushing blow, a violent rape. She tried to steel herself, but she was shuddering in his grasp. Suddenly she felt his fingers loosen. His eyes were bleary and now he struggled to focus.

"You bitch. The drink," he slurred, "you drugged me. I'm gonna beat the shit out of . . ."

He tried to will himself off the bed, but it was done. He stumbled and hit the floor with a thud.

She lay still for a moment, then rose, feeling the salty perspiration running between her legs and over her breasts. He was breathing heavily, but it was steady. She wanted to spit on him, but wondered if he was worth the time. She seized his jeans and rifled his pockets digging for the key to the salon. Next was her top and bra. She pulled them over her head and shook out her hair. Then the shoes and the pocketbook. She opened the door effortlessly, and checked for any sign of activity on the dock. None. She vanished into the darkness like a fleeing wraith.

Chapter Six

The bus was on time and so was Kristen. She'd taken two Xanax before she slumped into the hotel bed. Thankfully sleep had come. She was still a little woozy, but there was an empty seat across from the TV. She dozed as the morning news droned. Soon they'd be in the next town, another show, and the images of the horror of last night behind her. Thank God for the drugs. They had saved her in more ways than one.

The bus hit a pothole and she was jarred awake. The clock showed noon. She was hungry, but still somewhat groggy. There was a smart, dark haired woman on the local station. She was standing on a wooden dock in the morning sun behind the transom of a sport-fishing boat. Kristen could just make out the name.

"This just in. Max Montez, a popular local Charter Captain was found this morning not breathing in the vee berth of his boat VACARRO. Attempts to revive him were unsuccessful. Tourists who had booked a charter arrived at about 7 AM. They hailed him to no avail. However the door to the main cabin was ajar. Thinking Captain Montez may have overslept, one of them went aboard to find him unconscious. He called 911. Pending further investigation, no additional details are available. However, an unidentified source close to the authorities stated that they suspected an overdose of controlled substances. More at six o'clock as this story unfolds. This is Luisa Diaz for channel 12 News."

Kristen froze. He was dead. She'd killed him. She didn't mean to . . . but she'd killed him.

Her mind scurried. Had anyone seen her with him at the bar? Had she left any traces of her presence on the boat? Had she cursed God or had he cursed her? She began to whimper. She forced her hand over her mouth and bowed her head. Let no one on the bus see that she was scared and suffering. She forced her eyes shut, feigning sleep, but her mind raced through hell.

There was a quick flash of denial, but no . . . the drug . . . the booze . . .she had killed him . . . or at the very least been the agent of his death. But he attacked her? Would it have been rape? How would a jury see it? After all, he had picked her up in a bar. She had gone willingly to his boat. What did she expect . . . she an Elvis Girl who heaved moist panties at a phony stage act. Her guts churned and she wanted desperately to throw up. But she couldn't. There were the others around her. They mustn't know. She tried to calm herself and think as clearly as possible. Was she really guilty of some heinous crime, or had Max, the man whose wife got "what she deserved" finally gotten his. He was a secret brute, a rapist, a man who took things that he decided were his, without apology or remorse . . . or even a slight sense of right or wrong. Wouldn't God's world be better without these beasts? The creatures that preyed on the helpless and the meek, those whom Jesus had honored and rescued . . . the ones that received his love.

She decided. The bastard was dead . . . the world might even be a better place . . . and God had worked in mysterious ways his wonders to reveal. It was His Will. Father said so.

Chapter Seven

Pris Maybry was bored. You wouldn't think so in her line of work. There was the homicide committed at the liquor store hold-up out near I 95, the shooting of the two dealers at South Beach when a drug deal had taken a wrong turn, and the missing child whose mother had been stabbed over on the west side. She wasn't even sure where to start. Her partners, Don and Pete, were covering all the preliminaries, interviews, scanning the crime scenes, looking for obvious motives, et al. Nothing was pretty, but it was her job. She'd chosen the work. Get the bad guys . . . take them off the street . . . and hope for something better . . . maybe even justice . . . in Miami, a city of contradictions. Brilliant orange sunsets, the indigo water, laughter and music inundating the streets . . . and the endless darkness, the violence, and the grotesque. . . hideous twins side by side soothing, smiling and snarling through the same gentle mouth and razor-sharp fangs. Priss had asked herself time and again, "So who were the winners?" Most days she didn't know.

The phone rang. She was reluctant to pick up, but it was her cell. Not many people had that number. Maybe it was even something good . . . something that might take the edge off this torrent of blood and suffering in this, her city. The first thing she heard was the sobs. Cassie. Again.

An old classmate from high school . . . a woman now . . . one who'd made a bad decision. It involved a man she thought she knew, but then didn't it always. The marriage . . . the thing that had begun with a type of bliss . . . a thing that promised eternal love, security . . . for sickness and in health . . . all of that flowery shit . . . gone . . . . dissolved in the reality of life as it was . . . a parade of disappointment, dissolution . . . one that demanded endurance, and must often tolerate an incarnation of evil. That incarnation was her husband, Clint Mason.

"Priss, I didn't want to call. I know you've got your own stuff to deal with, but he did it again. I don't know where the rage comes from. I just know it comes. I guess I'm the most convenient target, and maybe the only one who can't seem to defend herself. He left this morning, screaming and storming. I don't think he'll be back this time. He grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me against the wall. Thank God, there's nothing broken. I plowed into the floor and I think he even kicked at me. I'm not sure, but I cleaned up some blood and I seem to be okay. Only some bruises. I don't care what he says, how many times he apologizes. This time he's not coming back. It's the booze . . . makes him mean as hell. The counseling didn't help. He only went once . . . thought he was gonna slam the mediator in the mouth. I'm changing the locks, canceling all of the credit cards . . . maybe even going to my mother's up in Tampa. Just wanted to let you know. Don't need you in any "official capacity". I'll call when I get settled."

"No official capacity". That meant forget I was a cop. She'd filed a complaint once, then dropped the charges when he promised to stay straight, but that had become a line like something out of a shitty B movie. He'd said it so many times that it just seemed like another bad joke.

I actually liked Clint when I first met him. Hell, I was in their wedding. They looked like the perfect couple . . . she in shimmering white, standing on the yellow sand on Miami Beach with the blue Atlantic rolling behind her. Pretty and shy, a little uncertain, but obviously deep in love. He towered over her like a Greek God with that distant, but caring, look in his eyes. A man you could depend on. He would nurture, protect, keep the common beasts at bay. Priss believed all that. Later she scolded herself, questioned why she hadn't seen the signs . . . the subtle clues that something was lurking. After all, she was a cop. She was supposed to have instincts. She should have known . . . or at least suspected. But she didn't, and soon she realized just how wrong she could be. She tried to pass it off as a lesson, but Cassie was the one who ended up learning the hard way.

Clint. Clint was the beast, the liar, the cheater.

She called me the first time he hit her. "It's your fault," that's what he told Cassie. Priss didn't even remember why, but he hit her. Cassie didn't get it, but she bought it. It was her fault. Then Clint cried . . . actually fell to his knees and cried. Begged her forgiveness, swore it would never happen again. And it didn't . . . until the next time . . . and the next. She swore this was the last time.

Priss remembered years ago when she and Cassie sat next to each other in Dr. May's math class. How they'd made promises, then linked their little fingers and smiled. The "pinky promise" they called it. An impenetrable, inviolable, vow that could never be broken. Cassie had already broken it several times, but maybe . . . just maybe this was it . . . the last time she'd let that bastard abuse her . . . the last time she'd listen to his sad entreaties . . . his empty words . . . and suffer the violence that she knew would always follow.

Chapter Eight

Kristen had resisted in Tampa, but Sarasota wasn't so easy. At least she didn't even have to use the Xanax. She'd met him at Marina Jack's after the show. He was older. It was obvious from the gray scruff on his chin and the brown stains on his teeth. He'd taken her to a run-down motel where the carpet smelled and there were stains in the toilet. Condemned it . . . that's what they should have done, but hey, it was almost South Florida and the signs blinked with their missing letters. The prices were right . . . as in dirt cheap, and any of them would do for some crap wine and a quick fuck. At least that's what he thought, but not exactly what the lady had in mind. She'd prayed over it, even reread the biblical passages about Delilah and Jezebel, the false prophet whose body was eaten by dogs. She was still confused, but still obsessed. God would council her . . . that she fervently believed.

Again she sat at the bar. She knew he was a dirty sonovabitch the moment he stepped up to her shoulder. She'd come to recognize the walk, the talk, the carefully disguised manner of the creeps . . . the ones who secretly hated any woman . . . the ones who wanted to denigrate, defile, disrespect, and ultimately conquer. Nobody needed the bastards. When they went away, no one would miss them and somehow everything would be better. At least that's what she told herself, but now she had come to believe it, and it was definitely in her power to make it right. She nodded her head as he approached. The will of the Lord . . . it was his will.

There was nothing charming or even interesting about him. Something sour escaped from his skin every time he moved. She had followed him into the filthy room with all the assuring nods and shakes she had in her repertoire. He'd chuckle and wink at her like a clown in a fun house mirror. The smug look on his face told her he was absolutely sure of a blow job at the very least. He locked the door and lay back on the bed with a bottle of Jack Black on the end table. His gnarled hand was wrapped around a milky glass. Kristen wondered when it had last been washed.

"Relax," she cooed, "you're gonna like this a lot."

He lay his head on the pillow and grinned though his brown teeth. Then he unzipped his jeans and pulled his thing out of the denim. It was growing. She could smell that putrid odor that clawed forward and permeated everything within the small room. She saw the yellow sweat run over his chest, but she forced a smile and began to jiggle her hips slowly. She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled one taut breast out for his eyes to feast upon. Then she went to her belt. She turned and shook her tight ass. She teased him as her pink panties slid over her thighs, then her ankles. She wadded them up and threw them into a corner.

She heard a quick grunt and a deep breath being snatched out of the foul air. She knew she had him, but when she looked back over her bare shoulder, he seemed to have fallen asleep. That was a hell of a note. She was damned near insulted. Was she losing her touch? It had never happened before. She stopped and stared for a moment. He didn't move. His thing was flaccid . . . as lifeless as a dead fish lying on the dock. She stepped closer, but there really wasn't much to see. He was still, his gray lips slightly parted, eyes all but closed, and his fingers limp where his hand had slid off the edge of the threadbare mattress.

She focused on his chest, but it was motionless . . . no swelling or heaving The blood was draining from his body. The papery skin grew pale quickly. She started to check his pulse, but she was repulsed at the thought of touching him. Her guts churned and the thick yellow fluid erupted in her throat.

What the hell? Heart attack maybe. Nothing she could do. She just knew she needed to get out of there as quickly as she could. If he was gone, the hell with it . . . leave his stink to sink into that mire . . . that fiery place that was reserved for the demons, abusers, even those who molested and maimed children and dogs. It was their punishment . . . their fate . . . well deserved . . . predestined by God. She grabbed her things and left quickly. She'd done nothing. It was an absolution, directed by her Maker. There was no stain.

Chapter Nine

It was early when her cell rang. Kristen reached groggily for the night stand and checked the caller ID. Not a number she recognized, but she answered. The voice was muffled, almost like someone had put a rag over the phone. Still, it seemed vaguely familiar.

"I know where you were last night and I know what you did. I also know about the others. You must stop. I've protected you . . . had your back. I even got the pink panties. That was extremely careless. I can't keep it up forever. Just stop."

The skin on her neck crawled with something black and nameless. She pulled the covers up high under her chin. Her right leg began to quiver. She blinked her eyes, hoping to stop the tears before the sobs overwhelmed her. It worked . . . but only for a moment. Now her entire body shook. She begged for it to stop. It didn't.

Who? Did he really know? He had to . . . the panties, only now did she remember throwing them aside. She was in such a hurry to get out of there . . . to leave an old man cold and lifeless. But was he? Should she have called 911? She reviewed his death mask in her mind. No, nothing would raise him. He was stone dead and the muffled voice knew . . . knew all of it . . . the list of others . . . even the reasons she had performed her little exorcisms . . . Now he should also know she was a divine instrument . . . a mistress of the quick and the dead . . . perhaps even the right hand of God.

The alarm clock blasted its warning. Kristen had a bus to catch. She forced herself to lift the blanket, and stumbled toward the shower. She had left the demons hovering over his corpse in that filthy motel. That's what she told herself. The ride to Ft. Lauderdale would be at least four hours, maybe more with traffic. She would load her suitcase into the luggage compartment, sequester herself on the back row and feign sleep. There she could pray and think. Maybe it was all wrong. The Bible said very clearly, "Judge not, lest ye be judged." She thought of Jesus, what would he do? Forgive, forget? The prostitute at the well . . . "let he who has not sinned cast the first stone." She shook her head violently. The bastard was dead. It was fitting. Not her, not guilty. But again perhaps the instrument. Nothing had changed. His fate had been sealed. No . . . not guilty, She was only present.

She stuffed a pillow under her head and closed her eyes. She strained to shut out the chatter of the other girls and the musicians, but it kept coming like a screaming force from the tower of Babel. Still, only one sound rang clearly in her head. It was the incessant screeching of the banshees . . . the admonitions . . . the accusations . . . the voices of violence and evil.

The bus rocked and lurched forward . . . a cold transport to a place she didn't want to go. Kristen covered herself with her cotton jacket. Her mind plodded back into the miasma that had been her life . . . no . . . her mission for the last several months. The image of the old man, his mouth slightly open . . . his eyes rolled back into his head . . . clawed into her consciousness.

"You must stop." That's what the muffled voice had said . . . not just words, but a command . . . but from who? Wasn't she ridding the world of an evil . . . things cursed by her God? Those demons would do no more harm . . . defile the women . . . perhaps in some ways the innocents . . . perhaps not, but certainly not deserving of being treated like animals . . . beasts of burden who lived only to serve as receptacles of the demon's desire to degrade, to dominate, to fill them with their poisonous fluids and endure their abuses. What was the plan of God, but to punish and extinguish the evil rooted in men's hearts . . . to destroy their earthly desires and hideous passions for flesh . . . for pain?

At one time she thought she knew. She could have simply watched, accepted, even tolerated this suffocating mantle of sin. But instead she had acted . . . taken the reins of retribution into her own hands. An avenging angel, like the one who destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, extinguishing the sloth and depravity that had infected and dominated these abominations of God.

But what about judgment? It was strictly forbidden in the Bible. That was the provenance of God, and only God. Wasn't pride the worst of the cardinal sins? To assume the holiness and the power of God? To decide who must live and who must die based on man's pathetic faculties, his pretense of the ability to define right and wrong?

She shook her head and mumbled something into the collar of the jacket. No one seemed to hear it but her.

"I must stop."

Lauderdale turned out easier than she thought. The hotel was a lot nicer than the places the performers usually stayed. She even had her own room and a private bath. Off the balcony she could see the deep blue ocean and the clouds like so many fluffed pillows. The scent of the salt air and the frothy, rolling waves seemed to sing to her . . . to set her free.

The show that night was something from another galaxy. Kristen felt submerged in a sea of color . . . mostly women bedecked in every fashion statement they could summon. Floods of platinum locks reaching down bare backs tanned tanned by the fabulous Florida sun. Latinos, African-Americans. Perfume clouded out any semblance of fresh air.

Accents from every part of the globe rang in her ears. Orbs of gold and silver flashed . . . necklaces, earrings, bracelets and bangles, The crowd pulsed with every drumbeat and the women went wild while the men they drug along shook their heads reluctantly and tried not to enjoy the counterfeit King too damned much. Kristen did her thing beautifully, starting with a gentle sway, then shaking and screaming like a woman possessed. When the time came, she manufactured real tears. Then she pawed the wadded up panties she had hidden in her handbag. She gave them a fevered toss and they landed with a bound right in Don's palm. He stared at them for a fleeting moment and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He dabbed at his lips and issued a sly smile. When he threw them back into the crowd, the screaming fans fought over them like they'd exhumed the Holy Grail.

As the crowd filed out, Kristen realized just how exhausted she was. Her endless internal debate on the bus, plus the lack of sleep the night before, had drained her of any physical or emotional energy she'd held in reserve. Besides, tonight was different. She knew she must stop. She knew it . . . and tonight she did . . . no searching for a random bar . . . one that held at least one pure animal . . . an abuser . . . a scourge . . . a beast who must be condemned and eliminated before he could surround another woman and engulf her in his own hell.

In the room she stripped off her sweaty clothes and slipped into the shower. She could almost smell herself. She twisted the tap until the water steamed. The she lathered her body in soap and scrubbed with the wash cloth until her skin burned red. She clawed the shampoo through her hair and dug deeply into her scalp.

Kristen was heaving, her breath coming in bloated gasps, but she was free. She went easy with the snowy towel, patting herself dry, letting the cool air caress her skin. Then she rubbed the soothing lotions into her damp skin. She stepped into the bedroom and presented herself before the full length mirror. Her naked body looked no different . . . but then she was different, wasn't she? She had stopped. This night proved it. No longer would she sit in judgment. There were other ways to serve her God. She would find one that did not require this savagery . . . no, make that murder. Kristen collapsed on the mattress and wrapped herself in the sweet smelling linen. She slept the sleep of the innocent . . . at least for now.

Chapter Ten

It was quick to Miami. They got into the hotel on an early check-in. Not even noon. She declined an invitation from the other girls to wander around South Beach. Even with a great night's sleep, she was still somewhat tired, maybe not physically, but mentally, she was exhausted. She unpacked her few things and reassured herself that it was over. No judge, jury and executioner . . . not this time. This was the last stop on the tour. Two shows. Soon she would be home, wrapped in the blanket of her small Georgia town with her mother and brother safe at her side. Maybe she'd even meet Joseph for lunch. There was no harm.

It was time for a bite to eat and a peaceful nap. Perhaps even a little Bible study. After all, it seemed appropriate given the latest series of events, and despite her rationalizations, she needed her own forgiveness. She thought, even knew . . . Jesus was always ready to accept her confessions and take her into his loving arms.

The first show that night was fantastic. The fans frantic, the music incredible, Don Marone at his very best. Every move, every jolt of the hips, every twitch of the hips, each expression fine tuned to compel the crowd morph into his minions, and, of course, the ladies into his willing slaves. Kristen did her usual gig with an extra flair, ass swaying, arms gyrating, and outrageous screams erupting from her painted lips. She did her thing with the panties. She wasn't sure whether she was glad or sad when the show came to an end, but there would be one more the next night. Then she would decide. Another tour in the fall, the Gulf Coast . . . Alabama, Mississippi, all the way to New Orleans, every stop meticulously manipulated and planned?

She'd see when the time came . . . maybe yes, maybe not.

Priss Maybry sat at her desk, still bored . . . still the pile of files on her desk, unsolved cases, child trafficking, murders, rapes and other incarnations of mayhem and evil that infected Miami, a city of beauty, character, and unfathomable decadence.

She thought about Cassie. It had been at least a month since she'd heard from her. Was she in Tampa with her mother? Had Clint been quiet? Was he stalking her or had she caved again and let him back into her life . . . the monster of dysfunction and abuse still rearing its ugly head? Maybe she should call, but Cassie had made it pretty clear in her last communication . . . no "official capacity". So Priss would wait. She tried to wish it away, but somehow she didn't think it would be long.

Chapter Eleven

The last night.

Kristen still didn't know whether to elated or disappointed. After all she was flying home the next day. She'd made a few friends, but no one she'd miss like crazy. Don had been kind and appreciative, even given her a raise mid-tour. He told her she was her own kind of star . . . the heart and soul of every crowd since Atlanta. She listened patiently and believed he wanted her back next year. Still she knew she could be replaced, maybe even easily. Bouncing up and down, screaming at the top of your lungs, emitting breathy sighs, and throwing panties wasn't quite brain surgery. So be it . . . whatever it was, she could deal with it.

She called her mother just before she left the room. Nothing lengthy, just that she'd be back in Georgia that next afternoon and to give Zac a hug for her. Home for dinner, it was sweet music to her somewhat tired ears.

Kristen checked the full length mirror one last time. She had to admit that she looked absolutely fabulous, her hair in a pert pony tail shining like newly spun gold, skin glowing like muted sunshine. Her colors were well chosen, a pale yellow blouse that clung in all the right places, and black slacks that accented her graceful, but sexy curves. She stuffed her same silky stand-by in her pocket. Perfect timing. This was the last pair, a gentle chartreuse instead of the usual bright pink. She kind of liked the change.

The show was a fitting end to her tour of duty. Damned near mass hysteria. She'd miss it, just the pure excitement, the music, the primal screams, every minuscule detail of the release of a secular god, the "King" of rock'n'roll. Don didn't just look like Elvis, he moved like him, sounded like him. He was Elvis . . . exhumed and reincarnated in all his glory.

Then it was over. The cool breeze bathed her as she exited the coliseum. She looked left and right down through the endless flood of headlights crawling for home, but taking something only a god can give . . . the glow of a past full of hopes, dreams, and the rhythm of lives, some well spent, others wasted, full of regrets and sheer loneliness.

She was filled with longing . . . she didn't know for what, but she turned right and walked. When she saw the flashing of the neon lights, something danced within her. She stared through the window, the colors reflecting her glistening face. It was almost as if an invisible arm was pushing gently into the middle of her back. What's the harm? Last night . . . tomorrow she'd be in the comfort of home . . . her mother Mary and Zac bubbling with questions and reaffirmation. She was her own woman, strong, brave, perhaps even wiser from this excursion into a land that was forbidden by Father, her past, but its own kind of holy.

She silently recited the beginning of the 23rd Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures . . ." . The words penetrated her brain and washed into her soul.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me . . .". Kristen had done just that . . . both literally and figuratively. Some part of her actually understood that "valley". Surely there was nothing wickedness in this last stop, a final resting place for the evil and violence she had left behind.

Ginger ale at another bar with another bartender who smiled and shook his head lightly. Music, a three piece band . . . drums, an electric bass, and a good'ole'boy with a white ten gallon hat cocked a little sideways above one bushy brow. His boot tapped loudly on the wooden stage. The three were really in a groove. He was doing Jerry Lee Lewis moaning through Hank Williams' song of disappointment and defeat, "You Win Again". Dancers, you bet . . . most with loving looks . . . but a flood of longing permeating the crowd, a sense of sadness released reluctantly, but authentic and almost suffocating.

She spotted him way across the room . . . a Greek God . . . a distant caring look in his eyes. They were focused on her. At first she looked away, but the temptation engulfed her. When she glanced back through the smoke he was still there and so was that look, this time tinged with a hint of sadness . . . a secret desire for some sort of release.

When he was sure he had her attention, he pointed, curled a finger, then pointed to the dance floor. This one was a little more upbeat . . . still Hank, but now "Hey, Good Lookin'". The band pushed the tempo and so did she. Her will was gone. Kristen felt herself rise off the stool and take a step in his direction. He was actually quite a good dancer, nice rhythm and light on his feet. When the band hit the last lick, he placed his hand gently on the middle of her back and guided her to a table near the back.

"I don't want to be rude, but you sure are on damned fine looking woman. Don't take that wrong, but I gotta say it and there ain't a man in this place that would argue."

Okay, so he was direct and straight up. Better than that parade of snarky lines she'd heard since she'd been on tour. Give him credit for that . . . and he still looked like a Greek god.

"Name's Clint. Yours?"

"Krissy."

That was the beginning. They walked out into a light rain . . . a baptismal that would wash away all of their sins, take the guilt and bury it in hallowed ground. Later she wished they'd never got to an end.

Chapter Eleven

The house looked a little run-down, but it was dark . . . hard to see. The grass seemed higher than it ought to be for a neighborhood that people took some pride in . . . all earned and paid for. Track homes, small brick dwellings with small yards, a palm or some shrubs here or there, but well-kept.

It started like they all did. They were barely inside the door when he asked much too casually, "How about a drink?"

She told him she'd just stick with Ginger Ale. Clint stepped behind a bar on the right side of an open living-dining room combination while she sank down into an easy chair in the corner. The place was nicely decorated, nothing expensive or ostentatious, but tasteful and comfortable. It definitely had a woman's touch, but there wasn't any noticeable trace of a woman. No candids, a few coffee table books, but mostly things that said 'fishing'. It was okay, and that's the way she felt.

Clint brought her a glass with like lifeless Ginger Ale. As she brought the first taste to her lips, it seemed to stall on her tongue, not many bubbles, and a subtle, medicinal tone to it. Stale, she thought. a He clicked the ice cubes in his tumbler and caught the faint scent. Something brown and golden . . . bourbon, she figured.

They exchanged what could only be called small talk . . . nothing unpleasant or threatening . . . then something unwelcome began to invade her mind. It seeped and crawled, slowly at first, then increased, accelerated, more like an attack. She turned in the chair, crossed her legs, and struggled to clear her head, but it was done. He stared at her for a moment, more of a leer like on his face, like a snake preparing to swallow a twitching mouse.

He put his drink down and stepped toward her. He went to one knee and removed her shoes. He took one foot in his hand and began to knead the soles. His hand was firm, digging. pulsing, but relaxing, and highly erotic. The tension began to soften and flow into a quiet space. In some mystical way it soothed. Each muscle in her body whispered surrender. Then he took her hand. He lifted her off the hair and kissed her gently, but insistently, on the lips. She didn't resist.

"Come with me. We've got things to do."

She wanted it, but there was no reluctance in her. She braced herself on the arm of the chair as she stumbled to her feet. The threads of the carpet seemed almost to caress the bottoms her feet. He led her down a short hallway and to a room at the back of the house. It took her a moment to recognize where they were. Lacy curtains, lots of pink, a cheap print of gondolas. Venice, she guessed. Tissues on the nightstand next to a brass lamp lit low. In her confused state, it seemed warm, and replete with those things that make a nest for a couple in love. She knew they weren't, but she didn't resist.

Kristen shook her head. In a sudden flash of clarity, she knew why she was there. He'd drugged her . . . of that she was sure. Even in that gray cloud, she remembered the other times. The Xanax was in her pocketbook. She knew the routine. The dance, the tease, the show she'd manufactured to keep them at bay until she could strike. Surely she could keep her wits about her for just a few more minutes. Then the escape . . . the will to save the thing she vowed to her mother she'd withhold until marriage. She began what had been her magic. He suddenly he turned.

"Okay, shut down the shit."

Clint grabbed her by the shoulder. It hurt. He kissed her again . . . this time violently . . . forced his tongue into her mouth. His fingers shot through her like a glowing red iron. He threw her on the bed and tore at her blouse. In an instant she could feel the cool breeze licking her breasts. She shook for a moment and stared into his eyes. They spit fury. His smell was earthy, musky, but it some ways it beckoned to her. She tried to seize on something rational, calm. She wanted her voice to sound confident, but alluring. She needed time.

"It doesn't have to be this way." she whispered. "I can satisfy you, make your dreams come true. You don't have to hurt me."

"I told you to cut the shit. You're right . . . I don't have to hurt you, but that doesn't mean I won't," he snarled "just remember, Darlin' . . . you're mine. That's all you need to know."

He yanked her slacks down around her ankles, then snatched the waistband of her panties. They split in two with a hushed urgency. His hand roamed over her mound. He placed his palm directly between her legs and kneaded the soft flesh. She was wet, and now he seemed to inhale the scent of victory, domination, tearing at the illusion of anything kind or gentle. Now he pulled at the zipper of his jeans. It was out, hard, pulsating, an instrument of desire and destruction.

She opened her mouth again, and his flat hand slapped her violently across the cheek. Her head jolted to one side. Her lips quivered and she began to sob.

"Save your tears, Bitch. This is what you came for. We both know it."

He forced her legs apart and thrust into her, then pounded, flesh on flesh. She tried to speak, more to scream, but in some small part of her mind, she knew he was right. She willed herself to fight, but what she really wanted was surrender. This was it . . . perhaps the thing that was missing. Was it the ritual that finally made her a woman? Was this her purpose in life, her fulfillment? God . . . she hoped not. At least that's what she told herself.

For some unfathomable reason, she began to relax. Was she somehow welcoming this betrayal, this rejection of all she held close, believed in, this thing that protected her body and her soul? She didn't know, and now she wasn't sure she cared. He slammed into her again and again, her hot silk ushering the searing thing in and out. Then his body went rigid. He stiffened. Something blazing and creamy was flooding into her. She gasped and jerked as the stream came in bursts.

Then she heard it . . . a muted pop . . . another . . . and a splash of something warm and sticky splattering and running down her face. She opened her eyes to see only a hand clutching a fistful of his hair. Her carnal invader's head jerked back, the neck at an odd angle, blood running from his lips and down to his chest. Then fingers released. Clint's body went limp and and collapsed on her, pinning her on the mattress as the fabric sucked up his life's fluids.

Kristen was motionless for a moment, trying to parse what had just happened. She heard a thump as a small pistol tumbled to the floor. Still she couldn't move. The last thing she heard was the light, but hurried, footsteps and the slam of the front door.

She tried to move, but the body was heavy. One muscled arm lay on either side of her, his head at a gruesome angle across her breast. the dead weight defying any effort to slide from underneath him. She wrestled, and was finally able to pull one leg from the tangle. She braced her knee against the edge of the mattress and placed her foot firmly on the floor. She pushed and his body began to sway a bit. An arm was released. She rolled him over and his hand hit the carpet with a muted thump. Now she was free.

Her first steps were toward the bathroom. She grabbed a grayish towel and stabbed at her face. The blood was still wet and warm. She dampened the towel and scrubbed as the deep red became pink and finally began to disappear. She knew she had to get out as soon as she could, but her clothes were torrn, barely enough of them to cover her private parts, much less her shame. The closet. A dowdy trench coat just long enough hung on a metal hanger. She grabbed the last of her clothes, stuffed them into the pockets, threw her handbag over her shoulder. The strap dug into her flesh as she remembered his steely grip, the unrelenting force . . . no . . . not passion . . . just a desire to exercise dominion, inflict pain, destroy will.

Now, how to get away from this scene of horror? She rifled his jacket and found the keys to his Marquis. It started easily. She rolled out of the driveway, looking left and right, hoping for no nosy neighbors or passing traffic. She headed for what she thought was downtown. As soon as she saw a well lit corner, she pulled into a space and shut down the engine. She threw the keys into a near-by drain, pulled the coat closely around her. She wiped her face once more with a dirty tissue and hailed the first cab she saw.

Chapter Twelve

It was a little after six when Cassie left Tampa. She had stayed late to have dinner with her mother . . . some wilted Caesar salad, and gluey lasagna left over from the night before. She hugged Mom, assuring her she'd be back very soon, then headed for her battered Chevrolet, suitcase rolling behind her. It was only about 5 hours to Miami, especially if the traffic stayed relatively light. She really didn't mind driving in the dark. The highway down the West Coast was all four or six lane and the speed limits consistently 70 mph except through Sarasota and some of the other larger cities. She should be safe at the house before midnight. She just hoped Clint hadn't decided to do a few nights at their former home before she returned. Her attorney was filing the separation papers, but there had been a couple of delays and technically the house still was in both names.

Around nine Cassie felt her eyes start to grow heavy. Maybe she should have skipped those two glasses of cabernet she had with dinner. Anyway she knew the safe thing to do was pull over. She remembered a well lit Rest Area from the last time she'd made the drive. She wasn't really in any hurry and she figured better safe than sorry. She park under a street lamp and made a quick trip to the Ladies'. Then it was back to the car. She locked the doors, reclined the seat and put a jacket over her shoulders. She was asleep in ten minutes, nestled in and snoring quietly.

Cassie was still out when she heard a car door slam not far away. She cleared her eyes and started when she saw a shadow hulking at her window. His knuckles tapped on the glass. He held a penlight in his left hand and something shiny in the other. He pressed the silver against the window. She rubbed her eyes again and put one hand on the horn. If the bastard so much as threatened, she'd blast that thing until the devil himself was roused. Then he smiled and pointed at the badge. Florida Highway patrol. Still she kept the window up and checked the lock on the door. His voice was muffled, but she heard his words clearly.

"Just checking, Ma'am. You okay?"

She nodded.

"You know you can't park here overnight . . . state law."

Cassie cracked the window slightly.

"I understand officer, just catching a short nap. On my way to Miami . . . eyes got a little heavy."

"Well, it was wise to stop, but I'm afraid I have to ask you to move on. You've been here over three hours."

She nodded again and waved lightly. She turned the key and the Chevy fired up instantly. She waved again and mouthed "thank you." Then she backed out and eased toward onto the exit ramp.

Cassie pulled into the next 24 hour Mac Donald's and got a cup of black coffee. The caffeine steamed down her throat and surged in her veins. It felt good and she was revived for the last two hours. She shoved a Paul Simon CD into the player and listened to Paul's mother lament his involvement with Julio, that hoodlum he hung out with down by the schoolyard.

When she made the turn into the driveway, she felt a sense of relief. Clint's car wasn't there. Maybe the restraining order was working. She shut off the engine and took a deep breath, whispering "Thank God" to herself. Then she noticed something. A glow seeping around the blinds in the front window. It had to be coming from the back of the house. She glanced at her watch, 5:20. She turned her head left and right. The street was silent and deserted, only a slight sheen on the new fallen dew. She eased the door open and slipped onto the sidewalk. Why? She asked herself. But she slipped her pumps off one at a time and tiptoed on bare feet up to the front door. She gingerly placed the key in the lock before she realized that the door was ajar. Someone in the house?

Maybe it was time to dial 911, but wouldn't she look like a darned fool it the police arrived and the place was empty. Maybe Clint or a neighbor had inadvertently left it that way. After all, her friend next door, Alice Angler, had a key. Maybe she'd gone in to check something.

Cassie was frozen for a moment, but she decided. She pushed the door with an extended finger, wishing she had used that WD 40 on the hinges. They groaned, but no other sound escaped from the inside. The glow still shone from the back. She scanned the living room and placed her shoes on the tile next to the entryway. She stepped onto the carpet and felt something squishy under her toes. She looked down a spotted a tiny trail of something dark. No big deal . . . Cassie wouldn't win any awards for her housekeeping. The light seemed to come from her bedroom. Still on tiptoes, she took baby steps toward the yellow crack.

The door swung open. She gasped and covered her mouth to hold back the reflux erupting in her throat. The blood, the contorted face, the gun on the floor. He was naked, engulfed in the hardening red ooze, the ghost of white fluid on his belly. She tried to put it together . . . wanted to tell herself no . . . but there wasn't any other scenario. Clint had been screwing someone in her own bed. She retched for a moment, then picked up the gun. She stared at it for a moment. It was cold and hard in her hand. Her finger was on the trigger. Her arm lifted without her will. She turned the barrel to his face. Before she knew it, she had squeezed the trigger. The final small pop . . . then another. The torrent of blood spilled from the hole in his forehead, and the left side of his face exploded. Cassie leaned over the body and spit right between his eyes. Then she collapsed on the floor and shook.

She wasn't sure how long she lay there, crying, sucking in masses of fetid air . . . wishing this was nothing more than a bitter nightmare. Then she clenched her cell and pounded out 911.

"My husband is dead." That's all she said. Almost instantaneously she heard the sirens.

Chapter Thirteen

Priss had enjoyed one of few rare days off. She had a couple of appointments and even savored the luxury of shutting her cell down. She'd slept a little late, lingered in a hot shower, then treated herself to a fresh sausage biscuit. She'd put on a pound or two, but what the hell, this was a holiday. She might even splurge and do some shopping. Around noon she decided to be a big girl . . . check to see if there were any messages. There were . . . three to be exact. The first two were just more of the usual bullshit, but the third . . . it was Dontravious.

"There's a woman says she knows you. Took her into custody . . . said she wouldn't speak to anyone but Detective Maybry. Name's Cassie Morgan. Call . . . let me know what to do."

The message was terse . . . and frightening. Priss hit the speed dial on Don's cell. "Be there in twenty minutes." She checked herself in the mirror, ran a brush through her hair, grabbed her keys and headed for the station.

Priss could hear the sobbing before she went through the door to the squad room. Cassie was slumped on a bench looking like a crumpled puppet. Her face was bright red, and the trails of her tears sparkled in the flickering of the harsh incandescent bulbs. Neither spoke. Priss took Cassie's hand gently and led her down the hall to the interrogation room. She produced a wadded Kleenex from the pocket of her jacket and handed it to an old friend who was obviously coming apart. They sat opposite each other in hard wooden chairs. Cassie looked at her through eyes like two red moons.

"So he's dead. He was already that way when I got there. The sonovabitch . . . I still loved him. He hit me . . . he screwed another woman in my bed while I was in Tampa. I was still hoping something would change, but I was wrong . . . he was Clint and he would never be anything else. I didn't do it, Priss. But I couldn't resist one last thing . . . the gun . . . for all the times he . . ."

Cassie heaved and threw up on the table between them. Priss grabbed a couple of paper towels and swiped at the Formica. Then she wiped Cassie's lips softly, and whispered into Cassie's ear.

"I know this is hell, but I got to hear the whole story."

Priss didn't have to hear much to imagine the agony, but it was almost incomprehensible . . . maybe because it was a friend . . . or maybe it went back to Stuart Macelli, the bastard who raped her . . . who left her with a child that would never be born . . . a man she'd killed without regret.

"So I'm guessing they're gonna formally book you when we get out of here. Fingerprints on the gun, obvious motive, maybe even traces of his blood on your clothing or your feet. You're gonna have to hold up as best you can. I'm gonna call an attorney I know. He owes me a favor. Meanwhile, I gotta check some things. It sounds like you might have an alibi based on time of death . . . the stop at the rest area . . . maybe something else. It's gonna be tough, but you have to be patient . . . trust me. That's all I can tell you right now."

Priss rose from the table, took Cassie's hand again, and motioned to the matron on duty.

"No cuffs," was the last thing she said. Priss stood stiffly and watched as the matron guided the broken woman . . . the victim . . . or perhaps the murderess . . . down the hall. The click of their shoes echoed among the subway tiles on the cold walls.

_____________________

Kristen should have slept. She was in her own bed, entrenched in the love and security of the home she was raised in. Her mother was nearby and her brother only a phone call away. These were the people she treasured . . . her wall of acceptance, protection, and simple warmth.

But she didn't.

Her mind spun like the wheel a on a treadmill, the rat slowly breaking down, soon to come to a dreadful end. It was like some convoluted version of JEOPARDY. Alex Trebeck revealed the categories.

UNSOLVED CRIMES appeared on the screen. The answers first . . . Kristen Parker . . . The question . . . "Who was responsible for the murder of Clint Morgan?" ---

The answer, Kristen Parker . . . The question . . . "Who was responsible for the deaths of at least two, perhaps, three men?"

The answer, Kristen Parker . . . The question . . . "Who used sex to lure these men into the widow's web of deceit and violence ?"

The answer, Kristen Parker . . . The question . . . "Who belonged in the very pit of hell?"

She knew. She shivered and drew the blanket up around her neck. She needed to get up, but she couldn't move. Her mind still raced.

What about God? What about redemption? What about vengeance? These men were all beasts, sinners, abusers . . . men who were blasphemers in the eyes of the Lord, "Vengeance is mine . . ." Wasn't that in the Bible? Weren't these animals entitled to their fates? Wasn't the world a bit more just . . . a bit safer . . . cleaner . . . with these bastards wiped off its face? Kristen wanted badly to know, but it wasn't that easy. Her mind and her heart did battle, but there was no winner. She collided over and over with a wall the seemed impenetrable. Steel, concrete? No . . . something much harder, more brutal . . . her conscience.

Meanwhile Priss was very busy. She drummed her fingers on her desk and massaged her forehead. There was a jackhammer pounding away between her eyebrows. "A matter of life and death". That old cliché appeared before her reddened eyes . . . a cliché yes, but at least one man was dead . . . a man she'd known and even liked in a world that seemed far away . . . and now a old friend might be the murderer.

She pulled a yellow legal pad from her desk drawer and began a shaky scrawl.

Cassie, a treasured friend who had been abused or a vicious killer?

Alibis?

The mother?

Forensics?

The cop at the rest stop?

Too many holes . . . unexplained circumstances?

She drummed the top of the pencil on the table, stared at floor, then beckoned to Dontravious. He came over and sat down hard in the folding chair before her desk.

"So, what's your take?"

Don looked out the window at the gray high rises around them, then sucked in a deep breath.

"You don't want to hear it, Priss. Pretty obvious to me, and Pete's on board. I know she's your friend, but its simple. She comes home unexpectedly, finds her husband screwing another woman in her bed. Pulls the pistol and puts two slugs in the back of his head. The whore, or whatever, bolts when his body rolls off of her. For good measure, your pal puts two more into his face. Crime of passion. Maybe she gets 2nd degree manslaughter . . . or gets real, real lucky, even justifiable homicide. Bottom line is she's guilty. Time, opportunity, motive, weapon. It all fits. Sorry, but we should be able to wrap this one up quick. You're gonna have to accept it. Sorry . . . shit happens."

Priss shook her head and brushed away a tear before it escaped from her eye.

"God, I hope you're wrong. Her story is shaky, but that doesn't mean its not true. You and Pete hold tight . . . do what you need to do, but I'm gonna do some serious checking. She says she slept in the car at that rest area. Coroner says the time of death was somewhere between midnight and three AM. If I can find the cop that roused her at the rest area, her alibi holds. We gotta be patient."

"I'll do what I can, but the case is tight. We damned sure don't want Internal Affairs screaming special treatment or some sort of collusion. Could cost us all our jobs. Me and Pete will help, but it may not be much. Bottom line, we got to cover our asses."

Chapter Fourteen

He'd done what he had to do. No choices.

She was safe at home with the ones who loved her. She would get over it with time and the help of the Lord. He'd killed a man. He'd probably end up in hell, but hadn't he been there already ? . . . those stupid disguises, the wigs the sunglasses, the phony mustaches, and sitting through those barbaric displays, watching that bastard prance and fawn . . . mostly over himself. The women? How could they not see themselves committing blasphemy with every shake of their hips, every lurid desire buried within their heathen breasts? And Kristen . . . what about Kristen, his Christian Goddess . . . prodding them with her own parade of sinful suggestions. The screams, the entreaties, and the panties . . . my God, the panties. What had she become? Could he even bear to touch her?And now . . . what was he?

Priss wasted no time. Don's words hung in the air like the stench of a plague. None of her team needed an encounter with IAD, or maybe worse . . . spending time polishing their resumes. She had to be cautious and thorough, but she had to move. She placed her pad in front and reviewed her list.

Alibis. If she could nail just one, this nightmare could be over quickly. She had to call Cassie's mother \--- nice lady --- but if she didn't know what was happening, Priss damned sure didn't want to be the one to tell her. She had no choice. She dialed.

"Hello. This Priss Maybry, a high school friend of Cassie's. Hope you are well."

"Oh Priss, I certainly remember you fondly."

The voice was welcoming, spoken with a mother's love, even vaguely soothing

"I am trying to reach Cass. I thought maybe she was with you in Tampa. I tried her house, got no answer."

"She was here. We had a lovely visit. She left around six a couple of nights ago. I am sure I'll hear from her. I'll tell her you're trying to get in touch."

I thanked her and put a healthy check by #1.

The next call was to the regional office of the Florida Highway Patrol. Priss wished she had the location of the rest area, but Cass only remembered that it was two, maybe three hours south on I 75. The sergeant on duty tried, but couldn't find any record of a trooper making a stop like that. He explained that since there was no arrest or any violations, there was probably no paper work. He promised to send an email to all of the supervisors on duty that night in that area, but he didn't hold much hope for anything concrete.

She thanked him and decided to try even more of a long shot. The regional manager told her there was a MacDonald's at damned near every other exit on the highway. Unless there was a receipt, there was no way they could trace one cup of coffee sold over a hundred mile stretch. Priss put a black X after

that line on the list.

Okay, Forensics. The ME determined that the wounds to the face did not cause Clint's death. They were too fresh and didn't fit with the advance of rigor mortis. It was the shots to the back of the head. Time of death between twelve and three AM. Just when Cassie claimed to be asleep in her car.

The gun definitely had Cass's prints. Any others were smudged too much for a clear impression. The Only blood at the scene belonged to Clint. One bloody footprint on the carpet, female, size 6. Otherwise no evidence on the premises of anyone other than Cass and the other female, as yet unnamed. Maybe Don was right, but without further evidence it didn't make much difference. Cassie was nailed. Those final shots to the face were not going away. They spoke to rage and reinforced motive. Like Don said, typical crime of passion The only thing missing was the girl. They had found strands of blond hair on the pillow, but without someone with a DNA match, it was worthless. Another X.

Okay, that left a final path. Find the girl Clint had left with. And left from where? He'd probably picked her up . . . most likely at some bar. She brought up Google on the computer and typed "bars near the Knight Concert Hall". The screen blinked and a dozen or so places were immediately illuminated. She place her finger at the top and scanned the list. Nothing really caught her, but then . . . Billy Bob's Redneck Bar jumped out at her in all capital letters. Something was flickering in her memory. She tried hard to concentrate. After all, she was a detective. They were supposed to be like elephants. They never forget. Priss laughed at herself for a moment. Then it hit her.

She was having dinner with Cass a few months back. She asked about Clint and Cassie spit out, "Probably at Billy Bob's," a sneer on her face. That was all she said, okay. Maybe a place to start. It was almost four. The evening staff should be on duty. It might be time for a friendly visit. She decided to call first. Yeah, the evening staff was there. It was Shelby, raspy but cordial, inviting her to come on by for a cold one.

Priss parked her unmarked near the front of Knight's. She could see a couple of beer signs and a large blinking sign across the street. Bingo. Miami folks liked that one. She walked the few steps in that direction and pushed open the dirty glass door.

The place looked like a hangout for the homeless. Dark, lots of ancient wood, more beer signs and a couple of faded posters. One of them depicted a gray and white Elvis in the famous "Heartbreak Hotel" pose, leg cocked, groin thrust forward, hand clutching a silver microphone. His face a portrait of pure agony, and pure sex.

She took a seat at the bar. There were a couple of aging boys in flannel shirts at a table toward the back, and a couple more were standing at attention with pool cues resting against their hips. They eyed her cautiously and spoke under their breaths. A tall blond approached her. Probably ten pounds overweight, a tight tank top emblazoned with BILLY BOB's across an ample breast. She wore cutoff jeans short enough to show plenty of ass. If Priss didn't know better, she would have thought "sprayed on". Black Converse hightops with loose laces completed an outfit that actually looked kind of sexy in a decidedly trashy way. Maybe she'd try it sometime and see if it changed her luck. Well . . . maybe not.

"You're a cop. Right? Sorry, we don't do that stuff in here. No hookers, no dope, we card everybody," she declared through puffy red lips slathered in red gloss.

She batted false eyelashes framed in a deep blue eye shadow . . . totally not necessary, but maybe just previewing the wares in case anyone was interested. One of the boys at the table raised a sweaty bottle in a mock salute.

Priss mouthed a silent yes and nodded. She was caught in a stifling cloud of cheap perfume. It almost gagged her, but at least it was a brief respite from the smell of stale cigarette smoke and booze that swallowed the place.

"Figured as much. You don't fill the bill of our usual distinguished clientele. I'm Shelby. What'll it be?"

"Just a Diet Coke, no glass, and maybe a little information. Nothing official," she added.

Shelby eyed the crisp twenty Priss laid on the bar.

"Well, a good bartender does the best she can."

Priss asked her if she knew Clint Morgan. Yeah, he was a regular, liked his Bud Light, and was mighty generous with the tips. Came in two or three times a week, mostly alone, but he seldom left that way. Got a little rowdy sometimes, but a nice guy overall as long as he didn't have too much to drink. Then it got a little dicey. Shelby admitted she had to cut him off on more than one occasion, but he was cool about it.

Had she seen the girl?

"Oh yeah, one of those little princesses . . .looked like a prepubescent cheerleader, or one of those blond Elvis Girls smiling like sunshine and clapping like they were having an instant orgasm. Might have been a hooker, maybe just trying to get lucky, or a lost child looking for a new Sugar Daddy. The thing was she ordered ginger ale. That didn't happen too often."

Shelby sneered when she said it.

"Clint hit on her. In a few minutes they were yucking it up. Maybe forty minutes or an hour . . . then they left . . . I'm guessing it was together. Nothing unusual for Clint. He damned sure had a way with the ladies . . . if that's what they were."

"One more question . . . would you recognize the "Elvis Girl" if you saw her again?"

"Hey, I never forget a face . . . might cost me a tip sometime." Shelby grinned . . . no, make that leered.

Priss mumbled a thanks and left the twenty on the bar. Shelby started wiping down the sticky surface with a rag that reeked of ammonia. It needed it.

That was about all the bartender had. Most of it fit with what Priss already knew, but something stuck in her mind. At first she couldn't quite pinpoint the words. Then it hit her, "Elvis Girl". She focused on the connection. Each of the incidents that had appeared on the computer screen coincided with one of those concerts . . . the Elvis impersonator, Don Merone. Priss remembered the words of her first supervisor at the department, "There's no such thing as coincidences, at least not when they surface in multiples."

Okay . . . Elvis Girl . . . Don Merone . . . dates and places. Too much to dismiss.

Priss was back at her desk, pad in hand, squeezing a scarred ballpoint and massaging her wrinkled forehead. It was late evening, mostly quiet. She didn't like it. Curiously enough she often concentrated much better when the voices were loud and the phones were ringing. Then she was able to shut out damned near anything except the noise in her head. Right now that was what she needed to hear.

She pulled a file from her cabinet and reviewed the particulars of the crime, reread the forensics report, jotted down a few alternative scenarios, but none of it was working. It came down to one thing . . . she had to find the girl . . . identify her in some way. She just needed to get a hit, something to start the process. She went back to the interview with Shelby. Where to begin . . . Okay, maybe just the usual . . . canvas the neighborhood, hookers, other local bars? But she had nothing except a loose description . . . young blond . . . cheerleader type . . . Elvis Girl. She wasn't even sure what that meant. But at least it was a place to start.

Priss went downstairs to the unmarked and found one of the last rental movie stores in Miami. She was there in a few minutes. When she asked the clerk for old Elvis movies, he put his hand to his mouth and pretended to cough, more likely stifle a chuckle. But he knew his inventory and was back at the desk in no time with a stack of about five. She scanned the titles and picked "Love Me Tender", "Blue Hawaii", and "King Creole". She went back to her apartment and fired up the DVD player. A generous pour of Menage a Trois into a dusky glass and she was ready. The screen flickered and there was Elvis in all of his manly glory. Actually the movies were a lot of fun . . . not much difference in the plots, but the Elvis Girls were ever present, just like Shelby said . . . blond, clapping their brains out, and having instant orgasms over "the King". Really kinda cool. She promised herself when this was over she'd plan another visit to the movie rental and revisit some of that purportedly innocent raw sex.

Chapter Fifteen

Cassie was a full-blown wreck. Priss had seen her a couple of times before she made bail. The sight of an old friend in the orange garb, no makeup, the grief oozing from her like an infected wound, and the gray blank face devoid of any life or any hope drove Priss into an abyss of despair and desperation. Priss almost hated the cop in her, but she did it anyway . . . asking the same questions . .Now she was . getting the same answers. The story made sense . . . Yes, Cass had fired the shots that tore into Clint's face, but he was already dead. The girl, or some other unidentified perp had put the slugs into the back of his head.

Okay, it was almost too convoluted to try to believe, but why would she have dialed 911, stayed on the scene? Maybe it was just shock, or a clever plan to explain away a vicious murder . . . one where the bastard probably got what he deserved. Priss knew she wouldn't get much farther sitting at her desk enveloped in stark confusion. She slammed the butt of her hand into her forehead and swiveled her head and neck until it cracked. Next?

Meanwhile Cass was burrowed back at her house, the scene of the hideous crime. She and her ankle bracelet immersed in what the judge loosely called "voluntary detainment". Priss thought of it more like "holed up in hell". The service had cleaned the place after forensics had it's fourth go, but the blood stains were still ripe on the carpet. The investigating officer directed that it stay until all court proceedings had been completed.

Priss had to move.

She picked up the phone and dialed the office of Knight's Concert Center. Of course they had security cameras for the front entrance and the stage door in the back. Yes, the video was available for both nights the Elvis impersonator had been performed. Priss could get them at the theater office that afternoon. It was a long shot, but at least it was a start. She wanted Don or Pete --- better yet --- both of them to view them with her. Extra eyes and close examination had worked wonders before.

It was almost five PM when Priss returned to the station. Don was sitting in her office munching on a bag of popcorn, drumming his fingers on the desk. Pete stood outside the door laughing with a tall uniform. You'd of thought they were going to the latest Ironman showing at he Ritz. She raised a hand and motioned them to follow. No one was using the conference room. They had a full video set up with surround sound and a 65 inch screen.

First the front entrance. Hell, it was mob. There were at least fifty girls who might have matched the description Shelby had given her. Too many, too much madness . . . another dead end. They watched it three times, Pete checking his watch every five minutes. On to the tapes of the rear stage door.

They plodded through the roadies in and out, rolling and carrying blocks of equipment that could have projected thumping guitars and pounding drums to the moon and back. They were mostly young and male. They were grunting and sweating like draft horses in the late Florida heat. The huge trucks and vans were pulling out. The clock on the wall read 6:30. Probably enough. Her guys had lives, too. She hit the pause button and thanked them each as they bolted out of the room.

Priss really didn't have any plans. No hot dates, no sick friends to visit. She sighed and tried to remember what was on TV that night. Too many cop shows, some medical drama and a lousy sit-com or two. What the hell? She hit the rewind button and watched the roadies again. Still nothing. The screen went black for a moment, but as she reached for the remote, a blurry body appeared, then another. The focus came up. There was more. She leaned back into the chair and waited.

There he was, Don Marone, actually looking a lot like The King even without all the sequins and rhinestones. He pranced a bit as he disappeared through the door. Another ten minutes and there they came . . . four of them, young, wholesome, and beautiful in that "girl next door" way. Two blonds, a brunette, and one redhead. Very different, but all alike in one obvious respect. They were all "Elvis Girls" . . . the beauty, the energy, the muted sexuality. In a couple of hours they'd be screaming, jiggling their asses, crying in the aisles, and shouting declarations of their undying love for the undisputed king of rock'n'roll.

Kristen hist pause and zoomed in on the blonds. They were holding hands and laughing . . . maybe some inside joke or maybe just happy to be who and what they were. She hit another button and checked her candid, a nice head shot. Then she zoomed out got what she could of a full body shot. A couple more clicks and she would soon have several 8x10 glossies. Billy Bob's and Shelby would be the first stop.

Chapter Sixteen

His work was done . . . at least he hoped so. Kristen was safe at home with her mother, and others who valued the sweet small town Georgia girl . . ...the one who had ventured into a world that could be very cruel . . . even deadly . . . especially if you chose a gruesome pursuit like hers. Not that the bastards hadn't deserved it. They'd carved their own miserable fate with their passion and lust. It was Kristen's own version of the wrath of God.

But it was time for him to attend to his own business, bid a bitter adieu to his role of guardian . . . a role which he hoped would be ephemeral. Yes, it was time to fade into the background. He smiled to no one but himself. Kristen was a survivor . . . just like him, but in a slightly different way, Maybe worse, maybe better . . . but definitely different.

She still couldn't sleep. The doctor had given her a prescription for Flexoril, but it only worked when she doubled the dose or combined it with one of the Xanax she still kept in her handbag. She stared through the curtain. It was morning, but she was exhausted. She stumbled to the bathroom and gazed into the dull mirror. The thing that stared back at her looked barely human . . . gray, deep crevasses beneath her eyes, her lips pale and lifeless. She was drowning . . . she knew that, but how to push off the bottom . . . reach the surface . . . fill her lungs with air . . . snatch some semblance of life? She heard her mother call, "Kristen . . . breakfast?". She hadn't eaten much of anything in days and she didn't want to start now. Surely that would pass. She would pray again, but she knew that she had insulted her Maker, committed the cardinal sin of Pride. Consumed by her foolishness, she had judged and killed. Those were the exclusive provenance of the Lord. He was just and forgiving, but perhaps she was beyond all of that. Perhaps she had gone too far. She also knew that His Wrath was terrible and retribution was final. Maybe this was it.

Oh . . . there was one more thing. She was late. It had happened before . . . stress mostly . . . but this time it felt different . . . more of a crawling . . . like there was something inside her. She remembered his warm explosion just before the fatal shots had scrambled his brains.

She knelt beside the toilet and her body jerked. She threw up nothing but foul,stinking poison. She pulled the handle down. The liquid swirled around the bowl like acid searching for sacred flesh to erode and devour.

Priss glanced at her watch. Almost 4 PM. She grabbed a couple of the 8x10's and bolted out the door. The traffic was miserable . . . too near rush hour . . . but she was at Billy Bob's in twenty minutes. She parked on a yellow line next to a fire hydrant. This wouldn't take long.

The bar looked a lot like the last time she'd been here . . . a few glassy eyed patrons looking well into their cups despite the early hour, the same smell and the same greasy bar. Shelby was parading behind the sticky wood polishing glasses. It was mostly for effect, and a chance to shake her ass not so delicately as she moved. After all, it was nearing the onslaught of her motley crew and the greenbacks they'd leave for her attentive service and salacious smile. She nodded at Priss,

"Hello Detective. What'll it be?"

Priss laid the photo on the scarred Formica.

"Recognize anyone?"

Shelby used a red talon to pry the candid from the sticky surface. She studied . . . but for long.

"That's her . . . the one on the right. The Elvis Girl who left with Clint."

"First, are you sure? And second, would you be willing to testify under oath that she is that same girl on that same night?"

Shelby brushed her bleached curls off her forehead. She bit her lower lip and nodded, "Only if I got to."

Priss mumbled a "thanks" and headed back to the unmarked. She was back at the office quickly, her mind whirring and trying to settle on her next step. Back at her desk she pulled her notes from her top drawer land fired up her Dell. She went into the Florida Law Enforcement site. Checking the dates of the Elvis concerts during the last six months, she typed in "deaths under mysterious circumstances" and waited. The computer made intermittent whirring sounds as the lines with cities, dates, and attached police reports populated the pages. It was damned near overwhelming. Lots of people had died for all kinds of unexplained reasons. She used the filters and changed the settings to 'men only'. That helped a little. It was still more information than she could digest, but she had to start somewhere. She decided on a reverse order. Nothing of note in Ft. Lauderdale . . . a couple of shootings and one guy knifed, but the circumstances surely weren't that mysterious . . . probably drug deals gone bad or someone screwing around with someone's wife or girlfriend.

It was too late for a road trip, but she jotted down the names and phone numbers of the investigating officers. She'd start early in the morning, hoping to catch them before they started sorting out the previous night's miscreants or drowning in paperwork. Right now all she wanted was a hot bath, a glass of Cab and maybe some delivery from Su Ling's. Their sweet and sour pork was the best on her side of town.

Priss just couldn't shut it down. She kept seeing Cassie's wan face in her mind. As much as she dreaded it, time for another visit, or maybe she could get by with just a call. It was too damned complicated, but at least her hair was clean and her stomach was full. Sleep . . . she desperately needed it. She finally dropped off an hour or so before her alarm rudely reminded her there was work to do. Yep, it was 6 AM and she was supposed to be raring to go. She wasn't.

Dontravious stumbled in just before Pete. Neither one of them looked too damned good. That 'maybe next time I'll take a job as as a butcher' look was sunken in each one's eyes.

"Any luck?" Don mumbled.

"The dick from Jacksonville is calling me back around nine. Had a kind of strange one up there. Local fishing captain found on his boat in the bed stark naked. Appears as though he had company of the female persuasion. Pubic hairs, traces of makeup in the bathroom. His blood tested full of alcohol and drugs. ME thinks it might have been Xanax. Just stopped breathing. The detective couldn't find any evidence of prior drug use, but the bartender where he hung out said he had a decided attraction to the ladies. Saw him leave with a blond. That's all, but guess who was in town that night just a couple of blocks away."

"I got my money on Don Marone, the living reincarnation of The King."

"Bingo. Pass Go and collect your two-hundred dollars."

"Hey, hey, hey . . . no checks. So you goin' up there?"

"Don't know. I'm gonna fax a copy of the photo and see if I can get another ID from the bartender. If so, a road trip may be in order."

The call was right on time. The Jacksonville detective, Ron Mallard, had already received the fax with the photograph. He probably wouldn't be able to run it by the bartender until she showed up for work. He listened carefully as Priss went into more detail on her end of the murder. Lots of similarities, maybe an MO that matched better than she'd first expected. She finally decided a nice quiet trip up the coast might be good for business. She figured she might need that extra pair of eyes again.

"Okay guys, who wants an all expense paid vacation?"

Pete and Don stared at each other with thinly disguised dread. Pete told a tale of woe that included a skeptical wife and a son with a Little League playoff game the next evening. He gave Priss his best neglected hound dog look and waited. Don wracked his brain, but just couldn't match Pete's story. He clicked his teeth and bit into his tongue.

"Okay . . . I guess I'm Number One with a bullet."

"Thanks Don, but let's forget the bullet part. We'll throw some things together and leave first thing in the morning. We can be in Jacksonville by three, stop by the downtown station, get briefed by the locals, and be at the bar by four. Pick you up at your place at nine. I'll sign out the unmarked."

He threw her a mock salute and tried to click his heels. It actually looked pretty dumb, but she got the message. Meanwhile Priss went back to the phones to make arrangements. And one more thing, she needed the name and address of Don Marone's road manager. A call to the Knight Center squared that one. Damned convenient. Rob Patterson. He lived just outside of Jacksonville during the off season. She figured the investigating detective could do some of the legwork . . . confirm schedules, supply the names and addresses of all of the road crew, including the Elvis Girls. If she was lucky, she might have all of the info before she and Don left the next morning.

Chapter Seventeen

The call came in at just the right time. He knew people who knew people. He could make arrangements. Definitely one of the perks when you dealt with distributors all over the state. After all, Florida bore more than a passing resemblance to the Wild, Wild West of legend. Lots of talent for hire . . . scruples? The hell with them. A little cash slipped into the right greedy palms had kept him in the loop. That was where he needed to be if the ends of his mission were to be met.

He knew when she left, who was with her, where they were going, and why. He had to stop her. He didn't really want to, but it was what it was. He had to kill her, or mess her up so badly that she would back down. It was the only way. He needed more firepower than that puny .22, and he required an air-tight alibi just in case.. He would be far away when it happened. There were guys who had total arsenals, and they weren't shy about killing cops . . . if the price was right. And it was. Not much choice if he was to protect her . . . and he was, no matter the cost.

Priss and Don cruised up the coast. He drove, keeping the needle at about 75. She talked, a legal pad perched on her knees and a chewed up ballpoint between her lips. They reviewed what they knew and what they didn't. They ran through a series of "what ifs", but nothing seemed to make any sense. Time and opportunity matched in significant places, but motives . . . not so much. It was all just too damned random.

In her briefcase were the rest of the photos, a few more notes, reports, and confirmations of motel reservations if they needed them The Captain had authorized a couple of days, then further time if strictly warranted. Priss was glad she'd caught him in a good mood. Thankfully homicides were a somewhat down this time of year. When it got a little hotter, the drug dealers and gang-bangers would keep them all too busy. She was happy to be traveling with Dontravious. The guy was smart and he listened. She trusted him, liked him, and respected him. He was a cop's cop, and . . . surprise, surprise, a gentleman. Damned good combination.

Slick and Slug weren't too bright. They'd dropped out of high school up near Atlanta the same year. The rest of their education consisted of graduate studies in petty theft, stealing cars, and whatever financed their cocaine habits. They were a kind of Laurel and Hardy duo. Slick was thin and small without the clueless, goofy look pasted on his face. He even wore the black bowler down over his too-big ears, but it was deceiving. He was actually the dubious brains of the outfit, quick, cold and merciless.

Slug was well . . . a slug. Slow, suggestible, a man who took orders and performed at an acceptable level. The crime part? To be fair, they were pretty good at it. If the situation called for it, the boys could be damned near mean. Enforcers is the polite term. They were good at that, too. They flew into Jacksonville, arriving about ten and immediately cabbed to a large local mall. They went into an AEROPOSTALE and immediately found a clerk who was much too proud of his car. A '69 GTO, electric-blue, parked in the far corner of the lot nearest to the main entrance. Perfect for our boys. The kid wouldn't get off until nine. By that time they'd have the car back in his space and be long gone back home. They'd celebrate the big payday with booze, some nose candy, and maybe even a couple of ladies of questionable virtue. These girls didn't much care who they hung out with as long as the goodies kept coming.

The car was easy to hot-wire. They picked up the AK with the folding stock, and an extra clip, deftly provided by a contact who knew his firearms. No serial numbers. It would be more than adequate. Somewhere around four, someone would die. Meanwhile it was on to Wendy's for one of those giant cheeseburgers and super-sized fries. Slug was in a great mood, both of our boys excited about a fat hunk of cash. Maybe they'd splurge and go for the bacon burger even though Slick knew he didn't need the extra calories. Slug didn't care. He'd eat anything that had stopped moving.

After gorging on lunch, they checked out the bar where the knew the targets would appear just after four. Slick cradled the AK like a new born baby. He unfolded the stock and slid it up under his arm. Then he popped the clip into the chamber and checked the feel, the weight, the trigger. It was a good thing . . . familiar and deadly in the grasp of his sweaty fingers.

The trip was smooth, if unproductive. Don and Priss had explored every possible angle short of abductions by aliens. None of them made the slightest bit of sense, and some were downright ludicrous. Coincidences . . . that's all they could come up with. Priss's hand ached from writing while the unmarked bounced up the asphalt. The back seat was a disheveled pile of wadded up legal sheets along with a couple of Subway bags they'd acquired at a lunch stop. She had almost drained her iced tea and Don's cup was already bouncing on top of the yellow mess.

Motive, motive, motive? She scratched on the pad for the umpteenth time. Random murders just upset everything she'd ever learned about homicide investigations. She jammed the point of the pen through a few sheets of paper. Don was humming an old Al Green song much too loudly, probably trying to drown out her constant sighs and grunts of desperation. Thank God they were almost to Jacksonville and their appointment with Detective Sergeant Alonso Blocker.

His office was modeled after those of every cop in Florida. The wall filled with framed citations, a photo of Blocker with a smiling mayor, a couple of framed candids with the wife and kids, and a desk piled with reports and at least three layers of dust. Blocker filled a swiveling office chair like a hunk of brown beef ready to be carved at he dinner table. And behind him, one more picture of "the" man with a smiling team of Florida Gators dated 2007, the year they won the National Championship in football. From the look of it he was a tackle or maybe a guard, still huge, but muscled like a young Rocky training for the next bout. His head shone like a polished eight-ball and his grip eased just before crushing every bone in Priss's hand.

Don continued to stand for a moment looking like he was a bit baffled. But no, it just felt so damned good to be stretching and letting the blood creep back into his fingers. Maybe Priss would drive part of the way back. He'd beg if he had to.

After sitting with the Sergeant and pouring through a couple of reports that were very thoroughly written, Priss decided it just wasn't her day. Nothing she didn't already know. Maybe she and Don ought to expense a bottle of good Scotch and get drunk. One last shot. The Alligator Tavern, the vic's watering hole of choice. She hoped fervently that Celine, the bartender who had been on duty that night, would identify, or at least recognize the girl in the photo.

"Oh," the massive tackle growled, "one last thing. I was able to contact Rob Patterson, the road manager you called about. He faxed me a complete list of employees, even a glossy of the happy crew in Atlanta, ready to set out for our beloved Sunshine state, replete with the allure of sandy beaches and breathtaking entertainment."

Priss held the picture. It was slightly grainy and out of focus. The crew mostly looked like a band of misplaced hippies, but at one edge, there she was. Priss couldn't be sure. Her face was somewhat in the shadow and her body hidden behind a bearded man with a sour face. There was a hand written list of names under each of the figures. "Kristen" could be the one from the security footage. But maybe the lady at the Alligator Tavern could make an ID.

The three of them piled into Priss's unmarked. Don sat in the back. Sergeant Tackle barely squeezed into the front --- knees against the dashboard --- and fired directions. It wasn't far, but it didn't matter much.

No such luck. The bar . . . it looked like shit. Smelly, dirty, the whole routine. Celine was definitely not the Dion version. Friendly, fat, made up like Betty Davis in "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane", but eager to cooperate. Sorry . . . it had been months ago, busy night, Max was slightly drunk, nothing unusual. She stared at the two photographs. They were familiar, but that's all she could vouch for. The only thing she could say for sure that the girl looked like a cheerleader. Celine had thought about carding her, but then the blond ordered ginger ale. What the hell? Why bother?

They didn't stay long. The tackle had hesitated a moment while Priss and Don went out into the street. That's when Priss saw the barrel sticking out of the window. A sharp rattling sound. Priss felt a fierce burn, like a hot spike piercing her shoulder. Don hit the pavementt, a spatter of red liquid bursting onto the dirty sidewalk. In an instant she realized he wasn't moving. She reached for her Beretta, but her right arm felt lifeless, the fingers of her hand immediately cold and numb. More rattling and shards of concrete sliced into her cheek. She curled into a tight ball and rolled to her left, bracing against the tire of the unmarked. Then the door to the bar burst open. Blocker was moving like a black cobra. His dark hand was wrapped around the grip of his service automatic. He knelt and fired off three rounds at the escaping blue flash. It was all he could do. Pedestrians were scattering and diving into alleys. No need for that kind of collateral damage.

A spine chilling screech assaulted her ears and the GTO slammed into a faded Ford parked at the curb. The rear end swerved into the middle of the street. Suddenly a delivery truck appeared from nowhere. It hit the Pontiac broadside and the two came to a standstill in the middle of a building traffic jam. The hood was crumpled and smoking, the occupants motionless. The AK dropped to the ground with a slap. Priss crawled for Dontravious. His chest was dotted with fat bleeding ulcers. He was breathing, but his eyes had rolled back into his head, and the gasps were quick and shallow. Blocker bent over them for a moment. Then he checked the scene over the hood of the unmarked. He rose slowly and headed for the GTO, pistol pointed, aimed, gripped with two hands.

"Police. Out of the car. Hands in the air," he commanded, but neither of them moved.

Sirens squealed from around the corner and back and whites appeared like a swarm of angry bees. Blocker and the uniforms appeared from all angles and approached one measured step at a time. Slow, cautious, guns pointed and ready. But still no movement from the assailants. Slick and Slug had eaten their last cheeseburger, done their last line of coke. The tackle's first shot had caught Slick right in the back of his neck. Slug's chest was impaled on the steering wheel of the GTO. No seat belt . . . His head had imploded at the impact with the windshield. He stared through lifeless eyes at the empty street.

Priss sat up. A jackhammer pounded in her head. She looked around, struggled to focus. Then she touched the IV in her forearm. Two things sprung into her mind. Hospital. Dontravious? Quietly, but suddenly, a lady clad in white appeared at her side. She put her finger to her lips and checked a chart on a computer screen.

"It's all right, just a flesh wound in your shoulder. Dr. Santos has it all under control. We just want to make sure there's no infection or additional damage. You should sleep. Might even be released tomorrow."

"My partner, Dontravious?"

"He took three rounds in the chest, but fortunately nothing near any internal organs. He's in ICU, but he's doing well. Should be out in a few days. Detective Blocker should be around about four and Dr. Santos will check on you during his evening rounds. Now, sleep. It's the best thing for you."

Priss fought it, but in minutes the meds had gotten to her, and she drifted off.

Chapter Eighteen

Alonso and Priss were now on a first name basis . . . almost being murdered together will do that for you. He knocked on the hospital door around four and poked his head around the corner. Priss had stirred. The meds had worked, but she was coming out of it. Her new best buddy stepped in gingerly with a grocery bag tucked under his arm

She waved weakly and manufactured a small smile. His was big and genuine even though up close he looked like a massive Teddy bear.

"Feelin' okay?" She nodded, "brought you something."

Looking a bit sheepish, he pulled a small bunch of purple daisies and a file folder out of the brown paper. Priss put her fingers to her lips then placed them gently on the back of his hand. She mouthed a silent "thanks".Now he was grinning like a giant Barney doll.

"Would have brought a pizza, but I didn't know what toppings you liked. Anyway,a little reading material, if you can do it. I guessed you'd get bored quickly. Maybe there's something in here we missed. Somebody wanted you dead and they damned near got their wish. So what's that about? There are three things that drive murder: passion, sex, and money . . . and they all spell power. So review your notes. I made copies of all of it. I'll be doin' the same thing. We'll come up with something . . . a couple of smart Dicks like us. Priss pursed her lips, but managed to smile again."

Her Teddy bear and savior left with one final wave of the meaty bear paw. She instantly realized she was tired. The file would have to wait. Later, she promised herself.

Dr. Santos came by about six. He was tall, probably Cuban, brown eyes with great intensity, and silky black hair, probably a little too long. Quite handsome, Priss thought, in that mysterious Ricardo Montalban way. He eyed the empty tray next to her bed, then picked up her chart.

"Hungry, I see. That's good and I like this chart. No infection, no serious contusions, only minor bruises, just a few stitches and some fluids. I can probably release you in the morning if you promise to go back home and take it easy for a few days."

Priss wasn't sure she would be able to keep those promises, but she'd give it her best.

"I know you're concerned about your associate. He was quite fortunate, and you as well. We were able to close all of his wounds. A couple of pints blood. No damage to any internal organs. We did, nevertheless, air lift him to Miami Memorial so he could be close to home. Just a precaution, but in the best interests of comfort and safety. His recuperation will be a bit slower and more precarious than yours, but I assure you he should experience a complete recovery. A few scars and no other lasting damage."

She thanked him. He raised one finger, smiled, then added, "See you in the morning. Sleep."

But she couldn't. She poked at the file, took a deep breath and closed her fingers on it. She adjusted the bed and raised her body at the waist until she was almost in a sitting position. Her arm ached like hell. She stared at the manila folder as though it was a venomous snake. Part of her was afraid, but she knew there were secrets on those pages . . . things that could only be discovered by handling the very things she feared.

The first page was the list from Marone's road manager. Kristen, the girl in the photograph, the only solid lead. She pulled the photo close to her face looking for something. She didn't know what. A pretty, blond, vibrant girl with the smile of youth, confidence, and an undeniable sexuality. On the nest page were full names and addresses. Kristen Parker, Burnsville, Georgia. Priss pulled up the map on her cell. Small town, a little northwest of Atlanta. Not that far away, probably three or four hours on mostly interstate.

She called Alonso. Her unmarked had several bullet holes and had to be towed to the local Police Lot. Could she borrow a car, professional courtesy, pending investigation, and all that. He would check and call back. It didn't take long. Yes. He would pick her up at the hospital around ten and leave the vehicle with her with the tank topped off.

"So Priss, where are you going? Need a hand? I'm sure I can get permission from the Captain. We'd both like to put a lock on this thing. Good for business and Lord knows we got a lot of other shit on our plates."

She thanked him, told him about the trip, but said she really didn't expect much. Didn't need a nursemaid. It was just a bit more leg work . . . maybe fill in some gaps. She hoped she was wrong. She was.

Alonso was waiting at the curb when the nurse wheeled her out of the reception area. She took one look at the car and laughed into her palm. It was a faded black and white. The "Jacksonville Police" bled through where it had been sprayed over. It had streaks of rust here and there and had obviously been in more than one fender bender. The emergency lights had been removed. The only thing worse than the outside was what lurked in the faded interior. Torn seat covers, floor mats worn through, and a musty smell strong enough to force a gag.

"Priss, how you feelin'? Nice, huh, only used by a little old lady who drove it to church once a week."

He laughed and she tried.

"Truth to tell, the damned thing runs like a top."

Priss could hear the big interceptor engine purring like a contented cat. She hugged the big man and he ambled back to a uniform who was waiting in the first row of the parking lot.

She crawled into the driver's seat, got it adjusted, and tried the radio. It was working and so was the GPS glued to the dashboard. She popped four Ibuprofen from her purse and slogged them down with bottled water. She hadn't been able to get her shoulder holster over her wound, so the Beretta was tucked into her leather bag . . . close enough for government work. She laughed again, but it hurt. She reminded herself to restrict any sudden movements. If anything, she was going to be damned careful.

Priss found the interstate. She entered the Burnsville address into the GPS and cruised northward, not knowing what to expect, if anything. She debated whether to call Kristen's home phone. Hell she might not even be in town. Talk about a wild goose chase. She finally decided to stop at the next rest area. She had to pee anyway. She pulled into any empty space near the building and left the engine idling.

First she dialed her station, got her supervisor on the phone and informed him of her plans. She could almost feel him scowling on the line. He didn't like it, but then he didn't like much of anything that wasn't his idea, or at least a stroke of genius that he could steal credit for.

Now she dialed the number in Burnsville that was listed for Kristen Parker. A sweet sounding older woman answered, probably the mother.

"Ms. Parker, this is Detective Priss Maybry, Miami PD. I'd like to speak to Kristen if she is available."

Mary Parker hesitated, her voice taking on a hard edge.

"She isn't, I mean she hasn't been feeling well . . . and shouldn't be disturbed. May I ask what this concerns?"

"Of course. We had a few issues with personnel from the Don Marone show when they appeared in Miami. I am sure Kristen was not involved, but my supervisor has directed us to interview members of the road crew. I am near your town on another assignment, but it occurred to me to visit while I'm nearby . . . save me and the department another trip. I only need a few minutes of her time. May I call this afternoon? I assure you your privacy will be respected."

"I suppose it would be all right, but you understand she may not be able to see you."

"Well, like I said, I am nearby and it won't take but a few minutes. Around four?"

"Since you are close, I guess it will be okay."

Priss congratulated herself. Mom had bought it all and Priss certainly intended to be delicate and unintrusive. After all, she didn't really think the girl was involved to any great extent, but her gut was still gnawing at her. What the hell? She'd tell her gut to shut up.

She turned up the air. It was struggling in the Florida heat and humidity. But she felt pretty good under the circumstances and even better after she'd peed and splashed some cold water on her face. She looked at the reflection on the dusty mirror. Gray, wan, not exactly the picture of good health, but she was surviving quite nicely, thank you. Back in the car, she tried again to review what she did and didn't know. It was fruitless, but all good cops had instincts, and she was a good cop. A few hours, a few questions, a legitimate face to record in her memory . . . not just a couple of black and white photos. She'd had her share of hunches . . . and throughout her career, several of them had paid off.

So Slick and Slug were on slabs at the Jacksonville morgue. It didn't bother him much. He actually liked the sound of it. The boys hadn't performed up to his standards, but at least it had saved him some cash. The black cop from Miami would be out of commission for a few weeks. Excellent . . . but that damned Nancy Drew clone just didn't know what was good for her. She should have gone back home and just minded her own business. It would have been much healthier. Maybe they had it wrong. He didn't want to kill anyone, but if his girl was in danger, it became necessary. Anything for her. She was an innocent . . . a pawn in God's game . . . an agent of his wrath. The guilt wasn't hers . . . never was and never had been . . . not from the very very beginning.

Chapter Nineteen

Priss gunned the Interceptor up I 75. She was still a couple of hours away . . . enough time to ponder what few facts he had. The ID of Kristen Parker from the photos, the coinciding dates of the Elvis shows with the dates of the crimes, a possible match of MO's plus the attempted murder of her and her partner. She still felt little doubt that she was getting closer to something. She just wasn't sure what.

Another element was eating at her like some hideous incubus. Someone was feeding at least one perp info . . . the progress of the investigation, her theories, and even her schedule. Maybe the worst part of it was that the mole had to be on the inside . . . someone she trusted, probably valued. Moreover, it had to be one with the force. No one else had that kind of information. She shuddered and flashed some faces . . . no . . . suspects through her mind. Suddenly she felt nauseous. She popped four more Ibuprofen and tried to concentrate on the road. She patted the Beretta in her leather bag. It didn't help. She was doing the only thing that made any sense. Stay on the beat, do what any smart investigator did . . . follow the leads, collect the information and play the bull dog. Don't let go until your teeth hit the bone.

She was getting closer to Burnsville. Her shoulder was hurting like hell. She stopped onto another rest area, checked the wound and massaged it a bit. It helped, but only a little. She splashed water on her face, and drained her bladder. She looked the mirror . . . still a bit gray, dark circles under the eyes. She applied a bit of lip gloss and some color on her cheeks. Now she looked a bit more alive. It was probably temporary, but she tightened her fingers and made a fist. Okay . . . she was ready she lied to herself.

The house was freshly painted white ship lap, some boxwoods and azaleas framing a front porch with two green rocking chairs. It screamed pleasant, welcoming, middle-class hospitality. There was a newer Mercedes 350 convertible in the double driveway. She was washed and waxed, glistening like a new born baby.

Priss glanced at her watch and checked her face one more time in the rear-view mirror. She put her fingers to her temples and shook her head. This was as good as it was gonna get. She threw her leather bag over her good shoulder. Ten minutes to four, perfect timing. She parked next to the Mercedes, definitely a beauty and the beast scenario.

Mary Parker was conservatively dressed in a sky blue shift, a string of glowing pearls around her neck. Her silver hair was coiffed. She wore a lovely diamond and a discreet gold wedding band on her left hand. She smiled warmly, the picture of of old South propriety, elegance, and hospitality.

"I assume you are Detective Maybry. Welcome. I've made fresh coffee and some light pastries. Kristen is resting, but she usually stirs around 4:30. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. This my son, Zac."

She pointed to an overstuffed lime colored sofa. A tall, good looking man raised out of a matching easy chair. He wore pressed khakis and a black Izod golf shirt. Tan, buffed alligator loafers accented the casual class. His blond hair was fashionably long and his face was calm, confident, and boyish in a sexy sort of way. He thrust his hand toward Priss, his grip firm, but accommodating.

They sat and simply chatted like old friends for a few minutes. The coffee was rich, and the cookies were moist, yet crunchy, a combination of walnuts and short bread that was absolutely delicious. The clock on the mantle chimed at 4:30. Mrs. Parker rose and glided towards the hall. Priss heard a door being cracked. They she waved for Priss to follow. Zac got up, waited a moment, then fell in a step or two behind the detective. .

Kristen was lying on her left side, the sheet pulled up to her neck. There was a nightstand next to her head, a black book with a golden spine. It was open, and marked with a small slip white of paper. Priss saw the letters of something written on it, but she couldn't make it out at this distance. She said the name Kristen, a whisper at first, then with a bit more volume. No answer. No perceptible movement.

Priss approached slowly. She stood at the bedside. The face was partially hidden by the sheet, but the face was decidedly gray and the lips held a hint of blue. Priss touched her shoulder, then put her fingers to Kristen's neck. No pulse and no sign of any breath. The body was cool to her touch. Kristen was dead. Still beautiful in her clay mask, but quite dead. Her silken hair was splayed over her neck and chest in a golden shroud. Priss glanced at the bed stand. It was the Bible, the pages opened to the 32nd Psalm, a plea for redemption. The white paper was marked in a shaky hand, "Blessed Lord, please forgive me." Priss stood up and reached for her cell. That's when she heard the click. She'd heard it before . . . unmistakable . . . the sound of a pistol being cocked into a firing position.

She turned slowly. Her leather bag was on the sofa in the living room. No way to get to the Beretta before she might be gunned down. Zac was glaring at her through eyes full of tears.

"You did this, bitch. Why couldn't you just take a hint . . . leave it alone . . . answer the phones and meet your cop buddies for drinks after work. But you didn't see . . . she was doing the work of God. Sorry, but sometimes vengeance is the only rational response to the travesty, and hypocrisy. It started with that sonovabitch we called Father. I watched while he lied and abused the Godly woman who gave birth to me and Kristen. She is the Saint, the angel of atonement, but she didn't have to be a martyr.

Mary Parker stood behind her son, her flesh and blood, sobbing into a wet a handkerchief. "Zac, I it wasn't like that . . . doesn't have to be this way. Your father was an imperfect man . . . much like them all. Yes he sinned, but he also saved. He brought many to God. Don't forget that part of it."

He halfway turned and Priss thought she had a chance, but he was quick. Zac grabbed her arm and spun her around. The pain shot through her shoulder like a fiery poker. His forearm cupped her neck, cutting off her breath. He hammered the cold barrel of the Ruger straight into her temple.

"Zac. No," Mary screamed.

"It's too late, Mom. It has to end here."

She ducked back into the hallway.

"Detective, I want to tell you I'm sorry, but I can't. No, you didn't kill her but you are the agent of her death. Kristen was the only thing I ever truly loved. I'll grant you any confessions . . . any last words you'd like to utter . . . then as God would have it, I will consign you to Hell."

Priss whispered a quick prayer from her childhood.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep,

but if I should die before I wake,

I pray the lord my soul to take.

Now she prepared to die.

Cruel, ironic, violent, unjust . . . Perhaps . . . but if you were God, maybe you could have it both ways.

Zac turned for one more look at his sister. There was a shuffling noise and out of the corner of her eye, Priss saw Mary swinging something in a blur. It thudded into Zac's head and she heard something crack. Only later did Priss realize what it was . . . an Oak rolling pin. He crumpled onto the carpet and the .22 fell from his hand. Priss grabbed it. She bent over him and cuffed both wrists from behind while he was still out.

Mary stared at him splayed out on the floor.

"Not in my house." she demanded in a quivering voice.

Those were the only words Mary spoke. She lumbered toward the hall, the sobs in staccato like the hollow tongues of demons.

Priss dialed 911.

Chapter 20

The squad cars arrived almost immediately, EMTs not too far behind. No doubt, Kristen was dead. Probably had been for an hour or so. They found two bottles in the medicine cabinet, Xanax and Flexoril, both half-empty. A smudged glass, also empty, was sitting on the counter. It all seemed obvious, massive OD. Her heart had simply stopped. Later that day, the ME confirmed it, but with one more revelation. Kristen was pregnant, the fetus had died along with the mother. The ME stated that the pregnancy appeared normal and the child, if carried to term, would most likely have been born a healthy girl.

Zac was booked . . . now in custody, charged with first degree murder and conspiracy. Ballistics had identified the .22 as the weapon that killed Clint Morgan. A search of cell phone records revealed several contacts with Slick, and a few others showed brief conversations with someone at a number that Priss wished she didn't know so well. The investigation was still active, but all of the evidence looked sound. There seemed little doubt that Zac would be indicted, and the DA had used the term "slam dunk" to refer to the case.

Priss's shoulder was healing nicely, but the Captain had cleared the purchase of a ticket back to Miami. She liked that part, but the rest of the equation was dicey, if not downright frightening. Her plane hit the runway a bit after six. It was too late for any action. Dontravious picked her up at the airport. He was a little gray, but upbeat. She filled him in on all of the events, but left out one important detail. She wanted to wait . . . to sleep on it. A steamy bath and a glass of Cab always cleared her mind, and she wanted to be damned sure she didn't jump the gun.

The hot water seeped into her as she kicked the info through her head. She swirled the Cab in her glass and took another slight sip. Okay, she'd do it in the morning. She had to know . . . not only for herself, but for Dontravious and the others in her squad.

Priss was at her desk by 8:30. She listened and pounded the eraser of her yellow pencil into her desk top. The glass in her window was smoky, but she could see all of the traffic in the hall outside. There was a light knock and she saw Pete smiling and waving. She motioned him in and pointed to the metal chair in front of her desk. He came in and sat. She rose to close the door and drop the blinds. She took a deep breath. It was all too necessary.

"My God, Priss. You're okay. That's the important thing. I wish I'd been there."

"Why is that Pete? So you could finish the job yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on Pete. It took me a while, but I finally figured it out. You know and I know . . . so let's cut the bullshit."

Pete slumped and dropped his head to his chest. His jaw went hard and he licked his lips. He locked his fists on the arms of the scarred chair. Slowly his eyes rose to hers.

"You weren't supposed to get hurt. That wasn't part of the deal. I owed him . . . what can I tell you? My wife . . . the kids . . . it was all at stake. I thought 'What's the harm in providing a little information?' It's a win-win. The girl goes free to be with her God, or whatever. Some scummy bastards go to their last reward. It's quick . . . it's over . . . and everybody is happy."

"It doesn't work that way when it comes to murder. That's something you oughta know, Pete."

He sat for minute more. His mouth moved, but there was no sound . . . something he wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come. Pete got up and went out the door He pulled it to with a slight, but resounding thud, and turned down the hall.

I have to admit I cried for a few minutes. I had trusted the wrong man . . . not the first time.

That afternoon Pete submitted his resignation . . . told the Captain he was just burned out. He had an offer from a shipping company . . . private security, solid paycheck and benefits. He became invisible quickly. In some twisted way, Priss was glad.

She kept her mouth shut. Maybe it wasn't right, but it was all a blur . . . and what could she prove . . . and why? She knew his wife . . . had held his kids. Putting him in jail wasn't going to make anything any better . . . and he was gone.

Epilogue

Kristen was buried under a towering Magnolia in the churchyard in Burnsville. Some of the same mourners who attended her graveside service were there when they laid Father to rest. There were rumors, but no one really knew the whole story. They didn't need to. The parishioners believed she was one of their own . . . a sweet Godly girl who had probably made some bad decisions. It was about forgiveness.

A week or so later, Mary Parker moved . . . most believed . . . to a small town near Baton Rouge. She had relatives there, but no one in the small Georgia town ever heard from her again.

Zac entered a plea of Justifiable Homicide. His court appointed attorney protested strongly. He hoped a guilty plea might bring a reduced sentence and avoid any talk of execution. Zac insisted. "The Lord will provide", he said over and over. The jury was not so accommodating. A stern faced judge read the sentence. Twenty to life for the murder conviction and another twenty for conspiracy, including hiring two thugs to kill Priss and Don. "You will have plenty of time to pray" he barked. Then he slammed his gavel on the desk.

Priss had called Cassie several times . . . left messages . . . no response. Cassie had been cleared, even received an official apology from the department, still nothing. Then one afternoon Priss's cell rang. She was on another line with an informant . . . things she needed to know. She finished and flipped back to the ID. Cassie . . . a voice mail.

"Priss, I guess I need to apologize . .. maybe even say thanks, but I can't. Too much shit to handle. Clint . . . I don't know. Can't do it now, maybe never. I still love you, but please don't call again."

Priss was hurt . . . no other way to put it. Old friends, bad times, the things that come between people who once thought their devotion would never end. She quietly forbade herself to cry. It worked for a while. Then it didn't.

Pete . . . yeah, Pete . . . he had, indeed ,disappeared . . . his family with him. Some said Houston or San Antonio . . . big cities where they could get lost if anyone was looking for them. No one was. Right, wrong? Who the hell knows? Priss had remained silent.

Meanwhile she and Don were back at it . . . trying to staunch the flood of violence, injustice and mayhem in the Magic City by the sea.

God help them. No one else would.
