

Daewoo

# The Ruins

## By Cleve Sylcox

Daewoo – The Ruins

Cleve Sylcox

Copyright © Cleve Sylcox 2014

Published by Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, excerpt by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

ISBN 13

9781311892171

Edited by

The Red Pen Diva

Vickie Jacobs Struckmann

Cover Art

By David Graham

Copyright © David Graham

This Book is for Mature Readers

Second Printing

This is a work of fiction - names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors' imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

# Introduction

The moon's glow reflects off the ocean in bright glitter beneath a star filled sky. A perfect night, perhaps, for lovers to stroll aimlessly along the beach, while holding hands in deep romance listening to their hearts yearning for an embrace. They watch the surf swell, then thunder against the rocks at the far end of the beach in flumes of brilliant white foam and spray. The beach sparkles in the moonlight with sand pipers and gulls competing for crab and mussels. Tonight, however, no lovers stroll the beach.

A young man marches across the sand, seemingly alone. He is deep in thought unaware of the gulls, the moon, or what lies ahead.

Vincent steps onto the boardwalk of Templeton, California. Ahead of him the walkway winds along the beach then turns sharply left above the churning surf. A steady hollow clunk emanates from the wooden planks as he walks steadily, but uneasily. His heavy boots fit comfortably but create more noise than he wants. He wears rough blue jeans that fit snug around his thin waist. A plain white t-shirt hangs limp off his thin shoulders beneath a light blue jacket. Greasy shoulder length hair hangs from under a dirty ball cap he wears backward. His five-foot eight frame steps evenly, quickly. The moonshine silhouettes his figure against the bright night sky.

Waist high wooden rails border the walk. Hanging from the rails are ads for local restaurants and shops. A breeze rattles the ads metal frames clanging them against the wooden railing startling Vincent. He stops and listens. An eerie silence engulfs him after listening to the clumping of his boots. He hears only the calls of the gulls, the surf and the wind. He turns in one quick move to look behind him. All he sees is an empty boardwalk with moon radiated sand dunes beyond. Tall grasses sway in the breeze. His mind races with an imagined pursuer, a cop maybe or the FBI, his steps quicken.

The hard rubber souls of his boots create a steady rhythm as they strike the wooden planks.

"We couldn't be followed. I was too careful." Vincent mumbles while looking around frantically.

"Calm down... just a few more feet to go," said a disembodied voice.

Vincent turns looking the length of the dock, then behind him. He does not see anyone. The voice, the maddening voice, echoing in his head drives him forward. Where did it come from, how could he allow it to continue swirling thoughts of madness mixed with the melody of screams and blood-curdling laughs. Tears roll down his cheeks from eyes wide with the fever of lunacy.

He slows his pace as he nears the end of the walk. Stepping to the railing he looks through blood-shot eyes forty feet below to the surf of ink black water swirling around thick piers - a dark swirling mass of foam and liquid. The only sound comes from the beach where waves crash to shore.

"I can't do it...I...I just can't do it!" Vincent screams as he rocks from side to side, his hands grasping the railing. His mind spins as his stomach churns in rhythm with the surf. The horizon of moon and surf blurred by watery eyes seem surreal.

"Do it! It will be quick. You wanted, fame - I gave it to you. Now you must give me what I want.... your soul."

Vincent looks at the moon, and then throws his head back yelling, "Where are you! Show yourself.... where are you!" He falls to his knees and reaches into his inner jacket pocket. He pulls out a 357 Magnum. "I'll kill you! Show yourself!"

Vincent hears a lady laugh to his right. He turns to see a woman wearing a bathing suit leaning on the rail laughing at him. He fires three shots at her then her image fades. Behind him he hears a man laughing. He turns to fire but that image fades before he has time to squeeze the trigger.

"There, I showed myself - now, do it! If you really want to kill me you have to kill me where I live...in your head," the voice taunts.

Vincent turns toward the surf staring across the ocean at the moon. He cannot fight it, this thing in his head. His eyes swell once again with tears as he raises the pistol to his temple, then stops. His sobs hushed by the roaring surf. The maddening voice is irresistible, controlling all that used to be him. He could end it all now. No more people would die by his hand.

He raises the pistol.

He feels the cold steel press against his temple. The smell of gunpowder enters his nostrils, gritting his teeth as he squeezes his eyes close, his hand shakes violently. He concentrates hard to maintain his grip. His trigger finger finds the smooth curved trigger as his muscles find the strength to obey his reluctant command.

"Just a little more, a little more.... that's it.... Now!"

Vincent's alarm rings, waking him.... he sits up gasping, wide-eyed in a cold sweat. He looks around the room for the railings, surf and star filled night sky finding only the dirty walls of his motel room. He wipes his brow, inhales deep, uneasy and then exhales, long and slow. He falls back in bed staring at the brown smoke-stained ceiling breathing restlessly, awkwardly. A ceiling fan spins in quiet revolutions above him. The alarm clock buzz's steadily. The bed sheets twisted in knots about the bed with his pillows somewhere on the floor. He lies breathing heavily staring at the ceiling not wanting to believe the nightmare. Then he hears the voice....

"Good morning Vincent."

Vincent looks around the room only hearing a soft laughter growing louder penetrating into the deep recesses of his scrambled mind. His hands grasp the sides of his head, then pull at his hair until the laughter fades to a chuckle, then...silence. He sits motionless for a few moments with is hair twisted and tangled as the bed sheets.

"No, No.....NO," he shouts aloud as he sits up. Sweat beads on his bare chest and forehead, his breathing labored as if he just finished a long and tedious race.

His arms sheen with sweat as he stares at the dawn and listens quietly.

His eyes nervously pan the room.

His breathing slows to normal as he tries to swallow dry spit.

Somewhere in his conscious reality, an euphony rakes away any delusion of a dream.

His breathing slows to normal, the corners of his mouth arch into a slight grin and he begins to softly laugh.

Crossing his legs he stares at the wall ahead of him.

A voice speaks to him.

A soft voice that whispers to him all the things Vincent wants to hear. The room swirls around him... he smiles.

## The Ruins

Paper tumbles down a vacant alley off Fifth Street in Meyersville, Rhode Island's, Walden Village Apartments. A small subdivision of low rent apartments surrounded by deserted houses.

Behind the apartments, tall privacy fences line the backyards shielding the residents' view of large green trash bins. Past the trash bins, tall sycamores line the edge of the broken asphalt way.

Beyond the trees, thick brush grows in a large vacant field. The brush thins to tall thick patches of yellow weeds which thin to clumps of tall brown grass. As the field approaches a steep incline, white sandy soil spreads its fingers through the grass absorbing it into dirty white dunes. The field falls thirty feet to the Albany River. The wide river flows past the sandy bank with its glistening white caps reflecting red and blue lights of a lone squad car.

The cars police radio echoes chatter across the water disrupting Detective Selma Porters' concentration. She stands on the rocky shore looking at a litter covered sand bar, which extends from the river's bank into the swift moving channel. She and her partner were first on the scene. An anonymous call to 911 reported a body floating here. The call came from a pay phone on a nearby corner.

The sand narrows to a daggers point as it reaches into the current thirty yards from shore unraveling Selma's nerves. The narrowness of the sand bar and swift current bothers her - a tightrope daring her to fall into an abyss and drown. Where the bar meets the shore, an old rusted barrel rests half buried in the sand. Jagged iron rebar protrudes from the bar about ten feet out, followed by a plastic five-gallon bucket, some unrecognizable small flat objects with rough edges poke up from the sand bar here and there. They are half an inch square, some more some less, thin as razor blades but not sharp, aluminum in flexibility. She is sure there is more to all these objects below the surface of the sand but they are not why she is here. They are obstacles to avoid for now.

She takes a deep breath turning her concentration on the corpse lying partially in the water on the bars far end. She takes her first step onto the bar careful to avoid the objects in her path.

As she walks she canvasses the sand ahead of her for anything useable, footprints mainly, and so far none. Her training taught her to be observant, take in everything, not to overlook even the smallest of clues. Right now though she isn't sure if this is a murder, as far as she knows this person may still be alive but she doubts it. She watches the carcass rock in the waves. She covers her mouth and nose with a handkerchief trying to filter out the foul river smell of sewage, it isn't working.

She always wanted to be a cop, like her Irish father who retired with honors from the NYPD a few weeks earlier. He was always her knight in shining armor, her Lone Ranger at times.

His countless medals testified to his obligation as a street cop. He declined numerous offers to become a detective. The street is where he belonged, where he wanted be. She watched her hero as he gave his short speech. He looked tired, worn, fatigued. His life as a cop had taken its toll.

That is the main reason she turned down the detective position with her fathers honored third precinct. She didn't want to end up like him - sixty-five looking like seventy-five.

When Meyersville called with an offer she accepted it without hesitation. Their crime rate is one of the lowest in the nation.

_Sure,_ her father warned her, _they have a few gangs in the_ ___burbs_ _, no murders in one hundred years but this is America - that will change!_

That was yesterday. As she approaches the corpse she thinks a loud, "Well, Pop...you were right."

Selma's gray pants suit seems out-of-place on the sand bar, with her black flats sinking in almost over the edges into the sand. Some sand is already in her shoe and she imagines them filling before she gets back to shore. Selma is young, almost twenty-eight. Never married and no kids, unusually tall, six-five and very lean, an Irish red-head with a temper to match, a looker in most circles but in no hurry to settle down with 'Mister Wrong.' Some call her, Match-Stick.

"It doesn't get any better than this does it, Lee? I mean a body on my first day," she said sarcastically into her radio.

Lee, her assigned partner, stands on shore in a parking lot behind, Tucks, a man's clothing shop. The small raised parking lot is empty with the exception of their plain white patrol car. The parking lot rests twenty feet above the river on a man-made levy protecting downtown. Large rocks line the banks from the parking lot to the river. Lee Robinson stands in the open door of the squad car with a microphone in hand. He removed his black suit coat tossing it into the back seat. His black skin stands out against his white dress shirt, something he hates wearing, white clothing does not suit him. He is older than Selma, thirty-four and going through a rough divorce. He is the only black detective on the Meyersville PD, where he has worked for the past ten years after graduating from the academy. Tall like Selma, six-six, muscular, and he used to play pro-football until he tore his right hamstring. Selma finds him handsome and intelligent, although she has only known him less than three hours.

"Stay focused," he replies, "Now, when you get there, don't touch the body, until after the Coroner gives you the ok. Meanwhile look around for clues," he instructs.

"You don't have to worry about that," she said as she steps next to the pink and blue clothing wrapped tightly around the swollen body.

The corpse lies on its right side with its feet on shore. Its head and upper torso sways in the river. It could be female but this is uncertain. Selma steps over the swaying mass to its front where all doubt about the sex is removed – it is female.

The woman wears a pink and blue blouse covered with small orange flowers. It is open in front, no bra

A short skirt drapes over the female's legs, no shoes... no panty hose or panties. This is clearly visible as the skirt is torn in front. She appears to be in her middle twenties with dark brown hair, petite.

Selma steps closer to the water's edge, then kneels trying to see past the murky water to the victims face. She finds this impossible but notices something wrapped tightly around the throat. It appears to be a light tan nylon. Further examination of the corpse reveals no visible gunshot wounds. Lifting the blouse she finds a small tattoo of a rose on the left breast near the nipple.

The female's arms are outstretched in front of her and bound at the wrist with something nylon. The right arm submerged and the left arm floating limply.

Selma sees something resembling hair floating in the water from the left hand. Using a stick, she lifts the hands from the water. Several thin strains of hair hang from the closed fist. She leans closer staring at the fine threads.

"Excuse me!" a voice startles her. She spins on her toes maintaining her balance while looking up at an old short man with a balding head and thick black glasses.

"What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me like that?" Selma shouts.

"I'm sorry, Detective. I'm Ralph Simpson the Coroner." Ralph is in his mid-forties but looks much older. He stands five feet tall, and always wears a three-piece dark gray suit. He is Meyersville's Coroner, a position he won narrowly three years before. Accusations of a drinking problem made the election close. He has never denied or refuted the charges but many suspect jus the same.

"Yeah, ah..." Selma stammers, "...my name is Selma, Detective Selma Porters."

"Yes, the young man on the bank told me you would be here." Ralph motions with his hand toward the bank.

Selma looks up at the squad car.

Lee waves at her. His dark skin stands out against the backdrop of silver blue windows of downtown Meyersville.

Selma smiles glaring at Lee wishing he had warned her of the Coroners approach. She steps back as Ralph pushes his way between her and the corpse.

"Excuse me, I need to get in here," he said as he sets his bag down a few feet from the body. "You were through here weren't you?"

"No, there is something in her hands. I think its hair."

Ralph pulls on a set of rubber gloves before carefully reaching in the water to lift the arms. River water drips off the hands as several hairs dangle from the closed fist. He pulls the hairs out of the fist then carefully places them in a plastic bag. He hands the bag to Selma without saying a word.

She holds the bag up to eye level and examines the hairs, then looks at Ralph, "Thanks."

Ralph does not lift his head. He is busy preparing a mix of different chemicals in a small jar, "Your welcome," he replies, obviously much to busy to be bothered with her.

As Selma walks away Ralph reaches out, touching her arm.

"You did a preliminary search of the area before I arrived?"

"Well...no. She washed ashore...right?"

"Maybe so, but maybe not," Ralph points to the corpse, "...she isn't waterlogged."

"What do you mean?"

"The body is not waterlogged. Look at the skin..." Ralph points to the feet and then to the water line on the neck, "...the only part of this body that's been in the water is that end. The rest has been dry." Ralph stands, "I would say the body was placed here to make it look like it washed down stream."

Selma pauses for a moment. No footprints, but maybe they were washed away, she looks at the shore where a small group of reporters gather behind Lee.

Lifting the radio to her lips, "Lee, get those reporters out of there! Seal off the parking lot and this entire area. We need a damn sweep!"

The street lamp stretches its glow around the lonely street corner of Riverview and Vine. Riverview runs along the banks of the Albany River, north to south. It extends from the northern Hampshire neighborhood through southern Hampshire before circling around to the main highway, Interstate 57, ten miles south of Meyersville. Vine stretches west from the corner up a steep grade past the local telephone company through low-income neighborhoods to downtown Meyersville two miles away. Across the river thick woods line the hillside and continue over low hills to the Atlantic Ocean some six miles away before giving way to a rocky shoreline.

The northern section of the Hampshire neighborhood sits on a slight sloop furthest from the river. Run-down apartments and roughed paved alleys fill this hilly section of Meyersville because of its pristine view of the river. Beautiful view but still to close to the river to escape the annual floods and constant stench. Few people live here and year after year fewer remain.

The southern section of the neighborhood sits at the base of the hills along the river. Before the floods businesses filled the area. All that remains is an old strip mall long since abandoned after the floods of '84. Demolition crews razed the residential dwellings where black mold, rats, and the homeless took up residence. Gangs didn't claim this area as the river's stench here is strong.

Vine runs along the front of the mall to its south, while Riverview zooms past its eastern end. Graffiti spots the walls of the yellow brick; broken glass liters the inside of the vacant shops, and sidewalks; brown stain lines the brick walls half way up marking the various levels of the yearly floods; grass grows in the broken asphalt of the parking lot and a metal sign hangs from its frame squeaking as it swings in the breeze. The sign reads, "Albany River Mall."

Locals refer to this area as, The Ruins, because the mall was constructed with a Roman design and now resembles the Greek or Roman ruins. Stone columns line the front of the mall with some lying on their side, some broken in half and one or two still standing. The metal awning that used to protect shoppers from the elements lies scattered about. Three large round concrete fountains, one on each end and one in the middle of the mall, stand dry. In each, a statue of a Roman god lays unrecognizable in pieces.

Paper from the northern alley tumbles across the parking lot stopping suddenly as the breeze presses it against the stained yellow bricks.

A lone man stands in the shadows of The Ruins watching a car at the far end of the lot. For more than an hour he watches. Making sure things are secure, watching.

Listening, watching.

Watching, waiting.

The car sways, rocking from side to side with moans swelling from within. The rocking steadily increases with intensity then slowly subsides. A few moments pass, then the front passenger side door opens and out steps, Jojo, a hooker, a lady of the night. Her long thin legs stretch out from the car's interior wrapped in black nylons, caped with a tight short black skirt. Thin strings hold her black high heels to her thin feet.

Jojo stands, swinging her hips from side to side as she bends over reaching into the car, then backs out shaking her finger at someone inside - giggling. Her burnet hair hangs limply about her shoulders. An arm reaches out for her. She steps back avoiding her trick's playful attempt to pull her back in. She giggles.

Her short black skirt and halter-top, that barely covers her large breast, hangs loosely exposing her thin waistline. She raises her hand to her lips, blows a kiss inside the car, and staggers backward giggling before closing the car door.

She waves, while watching the car pull out of the parking lot and listens as its tires crackle in the gravel as it pulls onto Vine. The vehicle accelerates up the incline toward downtown Meyersville leaving her all alone.

As the car crest the steep hill past the telephone company all becomes still.

Darkness wraps around her like the arms of a lover's embrace. She inhales deeply and smiles nervously. Like a lover, the darkness never brought her anything good. The dark vacant windows create dark hollows where anyone might be hiding. Gangs roam this area from time to time and she wants no part of them.

Today's body on the Albany only adds to her anxiety. The local news reported it as suspicious, under investigation.

She told that bastard to pick someplace out-of-the-way, not here, to close to the city, to close to the river, to close to the murder scene....but the money. Yes, he paid her well.

Paper rustles against a wall of The Ruins attracting her attention. The breeze increases, howling through the shells of the stores. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Lighting crackles nearby, briefly illuminating the field off to her right causing Jojo to turn in a sudden rush of fear. Another crisp clap of thunder startles her as she looks up at the black night sky. She takes a deep breath and then trots toward her car with her hair waving in the breeze. She climbs behind the wheel as rain pours down. Large drops of rain pound on the vehicle's roof rushing down its windshield. Rain droplets bead on her cheeks and brow. Another clap of thunder and lighting, this time close enough for her to feel the car vibrate around her. In the bright flash she sees someone standing beside her door, a silhouette, a shadow of someone. Did she really see it? She is not sure, too quick, and too fast. Maybe it was nothing more than a shadow of a post or tree, maybe nothing, maybe something.

She locks the car doors.

Another flash of lighting and the shadow is gone. Gripping the wheel with both hands she leans her forehead against the wheel in relief. Her imagination is playing tricks with her.

Wiping the rain from her forehead she pulls the car keys hanging from the side pocket of her purse. They jingle as she pulls them free. Beneath her purse on the passenger seat is her telephone bill.

Her attention turns toward the paper and remembrance of her conversation earlier with,

"That fucking telephone company. I hope that creep took care of the bill like he promised, stupid shit."

She places the key in the ignition then stops as a sound catches her ear.

She hears laughing, soft and very low.

It comes from the back seat.

Her heart pounds, her breath withdraws into her chest sending her breast thrusting forward in one tense inhalation. She remains fixed frozen in a moment of time that seems like an eternity. She stares wide-eyed into the windshield ahead of her. Her ears attentive to ever sound - her lower lip quivers.

"Hello Jojo, it's me...the stupid shit."

She looks into the rearview mirror to see two yellow eyes staring back at her. She releases her breath in one sudden gasp and turns around staring into the shadows of the backseat trying to see past the glare of the street light beaming through the back window. No yellow eyes, just the sudden sheen and flash of a knife blade slicing through the darkness.

Lightning strikes a lamp-post accompanied by an explosive boom of thunder drowning Jojo's scream.

"Get that damn thing out of my face!" Selma demands. The reporter ignores her continuing to jab the microphone at her while asking questions. Selma grabs it from him then screams into it, "I said get it out of my face!"

The audio man in the news truck takes off his headset throwing it onto the console.

The crowd of reporters becomes very silent.

Selma throws the microphone to the ground and shines a quick smile at the stunned reporters before walking away. The microphone hits the pavement emitting a loud ping, followed by a squeal of feedback.

All day she combed the sandbar and parking lot looking for clues with no luck. Non-existent foot prints in the sand, nothing but the hair and a cigarette butt that may be anybody's. Working past eight o'clock and hungry, she is no mood for blood sucking reporters, especially when she has nothing to tell them.

She trots up the steps of the coroner's office just as the downpour begins. Inside waiting is her partner, Lee, and Captain O'Donnell.

"Well?" O'Donnell asks holding his hands out to the side.

He is impatient. First murder ever on his watch, plus reporters hound him for information he does not have, and the FBI calling about something called, The Daewoo Murders. He doesn't know a thing about them. All he knows is he does not like it. His quiet little municipality is not quiet anymore. He has been Chief of Police for the past twenty years after serving ten years as a beat cop for Meyersville. He loves quiet and peaceful. He takes pride in his crime rate and control of the gangs.

When he took over, the gangs ran rampant, creating disturbances as they spread. Good police work and persistence put an end to all that. He pursued them like the old hounds he raised in Williamsport, Ohio as a kid. They never stopped until they captured their quarry, and neither will he. Some call him Tiger, most call him Sir, with a capital S.

His build demands respect. Only five-four, but he is muscular and at fifty-one he looks like he can take most comers. He is a widower with three adult kids; all of them live in Ohio near Williamsport. His wife died in a car accident some five years ago. He dresses in uniform, a white dress shirt, black slacks, black police issued belt, and black steal toed shoes. Hanging from the belt is several small ammo pouches, a holster holding his forty-five caliber police issue on his right side, and a portable radio on his right hip. A coiled cord runs from the radio to the microphone clipped to the front of his shirt near the right collar-bone. His shining gold badge hangs fastened to his shirt above his left shirt pocket. Stubble darkens his face as he hasn't shaved since this morning. He wrinkles his brow at Selma's approach.

"Well what?" Selma asks stopping a few feet in front of him.

O'Donnell is not used to Selma's non-conformance - he is in no mood for her lip. He's been waiting for her to come in because he did not want to face the reporters, then she took her time smoking a cigarette and putting on make up. He is more than frustrated.

"This is the first murder in Meyersville in one hundred years and all you can say is, 'Well what!'"

"What do you want me to say...we have a big fat zero and no clues except for a few strains of hair...and this." She holds up a baggie containing a cigarette butt.

"Finger prints, saliva.... What," O' Donnell questions.

"Found this tidbit on the sand bar a few feet from the body. Ralph seems to think it was the killers." Selma lowers the bag placing it in her pocket.

"Yeah, Ralph asked us to come down right away." Lee announces.

"Good, let's go." O'Donnell grunts. He stares at Selma, then turns down the hallway walking along side her. "I sure hope you learned how to handle a crime scene at that police academy in New York."

"They sure did, although they did not prepare me for one on a sand bar, on a rising river," Selma said.

"What do mean?" Lee asks.

"The Albany, it is rising again. Our crime scene is under several feet of water now," Selma explains.

"Shit!" O'Donnell growls.

"We have men canvassing the river banks, and the parking lot but so far nothing," Lee adds as he opens the door to the morgue.

They enter the morgue facing a large wall filled with three-foot by three-foot metal doors in two rows running the entire length of the small room. Ralph slides the corpse from the river into the far stall shutting the large door. The click of the latch echoes filling the room. He removes his rubber gloves throwing them into a trash can. Then he picks up a small stack of papers handing them to O'Donnell.

"Here's your preliminary report." Ralph said as he sits down at a table pouring a cup of coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

O' Donnell thumbs through the report, while Selma and Lee read over his shoulders.

Lee reaches out stopping O'Donnell.

"Wait, look. You mean she wasn't sexually assaulted?" Lee said.

"That's right...no semen or signs of forced entry. She was as clean as clean can be. The only bruises were the ligature marks on her wrist and neck." Ralph said as he reaches into the inside of his lab jacket for his flask.

O'Donnell stares at him and the flask, remembering the accusations during his run for Coroner.

Ralph looks up at him, "And you expect me to do this job sober?"

O'Donnell said nothing.

"So, what was the cause of death?" Selma said as she sits down at the end of the table.

Ralph takes a drink from of his coffee. He smiles at Selma, "Guess."

"Drowning," Lee blurts out.

"No," Selma said while shaking her finger at Ralph.

"Suffocation, she was smothered to death!" She pauses, thinking, "...but, she would have bruises on her face and jaws?"

"Not if she were denied oxygen without being forcefully smothered. Like, having all the air in this room removed. We would die," Ralph said while pouring himself a drink from his flask.

"Could that be done with a plastic bag?" Selma asks.

"Yes, yes.... and the marks would be hidden by the ligature marks on her neck from the nylons." Ralph said then drinks the whiskey from his cup.

Just then Officer Strake, a short, thin patrolman burst into the morgue, "You guys won't believe this. One hundred years of silence and now another one."

Everyone turns toward Strake.

"At The Ruins, a taxi driver said he received a call to pick up a woman having car problems and found the woman there... she's decapitated."

Selma and Lee rush pass Strake toward the door.

"Yea, lunch was terrific. I had a nice relaxing meal at Mc D's." Sam Glenn said sarcastically to a co-worker.

His heavy frame strides smoothly past the cube in his business casual attire to his three-foot high cubed wall enclosure. A computer monitor sits quietly displaying a screen-saver with the Meyersville Tel logo bouncing around on the screen. He works the swing shift along with a skeleton staff as a customer service rep taking complaint calls for NT.

He, along with most employees of the Meyersville Tel, hate working here. The hours are long, the customers rude, and the pay is poor. He hurriedly taps the keys of his keyboard to log back in from lunch as they have a strict, "On Time," policy. The logo vanishes and the screen displays the computer's desktop. Meyersville Tel overlooks the Ruins and the river. Sam places the headset over his graying hair, slides the bulk of his forty-year old six-foot frame up to the keyboard, and adjusts his two hundred and forty pounds in his chair as he prepares to take a call.

Sam's cube partner, Vincent James, is still out to lunch. He had a late call that pushed him past his normal break time. He looks over at the empty chair wondering how long Vincent's been gone. It doesn't matter - not his problem.

Vincent rushes into the cube a few minutes later throwing a sack of hamburgers down on his desk, he is soaked from the rain. He hurriedly puts on his head-set, while with his free hand taps the keys of the keyboard logging in. He breathes heavily after running from the parking lot to his desk. Rain drips from his hair, and the bill of his ball cap. Rain beads on his cheek. His shirt, pants and shoes reflect a wet sheen as he adjusts himself in his chair.

"Made it, shit. Oh man, I have to quit smoking.... shit." Vincent said as he leans back in his chair trying to catch his breath.

"One of these days you're not gonna get back on time. You wouldn't want to break your prefect record." Sam said smiling at Vincent.

Vincent still breathing heavily, "Yeah, your right," Vincent leans forward as the speaker in his headset beeps indicating a call, "Thanks for calling Meyersville..."

Rain beads on Selma's black rain coat with its hood pulled tight around her face. She is not concerned with style, just functionality. It is keeping her dry. Many of the police officers on the scene wear various rain jackets, clear, blue, yellow, and orange. All have the word, POLICE stenciled on the back in large white letters. Large spot lights standing on shaky tripods illuminate the area around the car. Thunder rumbles as they remove Jojo's headless body from the back of her car. The white sheet covering the corpse turns gray as the rain washes over it. The two EMT carrying the gurney squint in the down-pour and lift the body into the ambulance.

Selma stands next to the open rear drivers' side door watching Ralph climb onto the back seat of the car. Lee opens the rear passenger side door and then gasps at the site of Jojo's head lying on the floor board. Blood covers the front set and back, and pools on the back floor board next to the head. The head lay's on its side with a large butcher knife stuck into its ear. Blood also soaks the passenger seat where Lee finds Jojo's purse, and telephone bill.

In the shadows of the mall, rain drips steadily into large pools. Rats scurry about looking for a dry place to hide. Tonight they will be hard pressed to find one. Thunder crackles in sync with the flashes of lighting etching across the darkened sky close by.

A lone man watches the parking lot but this time at the spotlights, the flashing squad car lights, and the officers in the rain. An officer adjusts one of the spotlights tripods causing it to swing abruptly to one side. The man steps back dodging the spot light flashing past his lair. His feet shuffle on broken glass and bits of gravel as he backs up. Absent-mindedly he bumps into a long piece of aluminum leaning against the wall knocking it over. The metal rattles as it falls clanging against the concrete floor sending its sharp crisp metallic ring to the far side of the parking lot fifty yards away. In unison the officers all stop and turn toward the sound.

"Wonder what that could be? Lee, let's go check it out," Selma orders.

"You and you come with us!" Lee said to two officers nearby.

Ralph pauses from his work in the back seat of Jojo's car to watch Selma and Lee run toward the mall, then at the head lying still and motionless on the cars floorboard; blood pools around it. Lightening flashes, thunderclaps loud and long rolling across the darkness above him. He takes a long drink, tucks the flask into his inner coat pocket, and begins his examination.

The four run toward the center of the mall through the rain, their feet splashing in puddles. Selma sends the officers to the rear of the building while she and Lee go in through the front.

Pulling his pistol from his shoulder strap, Lee presses himself against the rough yellow brick wall opposite the doorway from Selma. His breath steams in the humid air as rain drips from his hair down to his cheek. He hasn't worked with Selma before and is not sure what to expect from her. Usually partners discuss this type of maneuver in advance so when the situation arises it is clear what each will do. That discussion has not taken place, until now. He looks across the doorway to Selma making eye contact, pointing to his chest, and then points to the doorway indicating he will go first. Selma nods in agreement.

As he turns the corner moving through the doorway, Selma leans through the doorway with her arms extended pointing her revolver into the blackness covering his entrance.

The front portion of the old store is littered with small piles of trash along with a long piece of aluminum lay on the floor. The squad cars red and blue lights flash through the doorway but aid little in helping them see.

Lee pauses, adjusting his eyes to the darkness, then moves through the room to an open door on the far end.

Selma follows Lee through the main entrance where Lee now covers her as she moves past him through the open door at the rear of the room. As she does he follows behind her.

The doorway leads to an open warehouse with scattered stacks of rotted wood, and trash. The ceiling collapsed years ago exposing the warehouse to the elements. Water puddles, some an inch or two deep, spot the warehouse floor. Large metal beams lean down from their casing to the floor. Chunks of roofing material lay about, along with scattered metal ceiling joists. The majority of the roof lay flat on the concrete floor of the warehouse but the rim of the roof remains intact. It is as if a giant fist punched a whole through it. Walking without making any sound is difficult as trash lays everywhere.

Through the collapsed roof they see lighting flashing beyond the hill at the rear of the mall. Squad car lights from the parking lot swirl on the hillside. Rain pours from the night sky into the warehouse pattering all around.

Selma strains to see through the wall of darkness in front of her. She feels the interior brick wall with her hands as she slowly steps forward. She can hear Lee stepping in pace with her through the pat of rain all around them. Her heart beats fast, her mouth is dry, her breathing quick and shallow. The adrenaline rush pushes her forward as she finds this exciting yet at the same time frightening.

No training at the academy could prepare an officer for the reality of facing life or death in this kind of situation. Her logic dares to flee with every step into the unknown. Rain spatters around her. Her own breath sounds intense, making her wonder if it is loud, too loud perhaps, loud enough for whoever it is that made that aluminum fall to hear her. Her mind swirls with what ifs; what if there is more than one; what if it is only one but with an automatic weapon what will she do; what if it is an animal....she hopes it is an animal, a cat, a dog, a freaking squirrel for that matter startled by the light.

Ahead of her she hears the crunch of heavy footsteps, not a squirrel.

"Halt! This is Detective Porters of the Meyersville PD." Selma's voice explodes from her, echoing through the rain. To her surprise the words burst from her with authority.

More movement.

"Halt, or I will shoot!" she envisions a large man scurrying around blindly in the darkness. Her small flashlight dangles from her belt loop. For a brief second she grabs it but then decides against it. It would definitely give her position away.

Silence, nothing but rain splattering.

She listens intently, her heart rate rapid, her breathing shallow as she was trained to control it but at this moment it is hard to remember anything. Her hands shake; her feet feel heavy as she tries to step carefully forward.

More movement to her right.

Jerking the pistol she fires two quick shots that strike metal, pinging loudly and sparking in the darkness as they ricochet.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" shouts a voice from the blackness.

"Stay where you are, don't move!" Lee orders.

Selma fumbles with the hook holding the flashlight then after what feels like an eternity she finds the latch and unhook the light. She shines the light ahead of her, while Lee shouts orders into the darkness telling the suspect to lie down. Lee clicks on his flashlight. Before them appears a young black male about twenty year's old, medium height, and thin build.

"Stay right there!" Lee demands.

"Down, down on the ground, now!" Selma shouts.

Selma rushes over to the suspect as he lies down on his stomach. She forces his arms behind his back slapping handcuffs around his wrist.

"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney, if not, one will be appointed to you." Lee reads off the Miranda from memory obviously forgetting most it, then kneels next to the youth. "I sure hope you have a good excuse for being in here tonight."

"Search him for any wounds or weapons," Selma said catching her breath while frisking his legs.

"Clean." Lee said after checking him over.

"Clean here. Ok, on your feet." Selma and Lee lift the young man to his feet shinning their flashlights onto his face.

"Ok, who are you and what are you doing here," Lee demands.

The young man said nothing.

"Ok, want to play it that way...we can play along," Selma said as she reaches for her radio.

Two officers rush in through the rear door. "All clear in the back..." said Officer Justin, "...need any help?"

"Yeah, take this young man to the squad car and watch him." Lee orders, "...and get some more men in here to canvas the area. I want every inch of this mall checked by morning."

"Yes sir." responds officer Couch.

The officers escort their suspect out of the store and to the squad car.

"Wow that was exciting." Selma said to Lee, "You Okay?"

"Me? ...shit, I'm fine. Nothing bothers me. I live for this." Lee said as he and Selma begin their walk out of the store. They step out of the storefront where Lee stops remembering the lack of communication in the beginning. He looks at her. "By the way, why is it the black guy always goes in first?"

Selma smiles at him and walks away.

Lee steps next to her, "No, now wait, seriously. I say women first ...women's lib and all that." Lee continues pleading his case all the way to the squad car.

"Yes, I will be more than happy to...no...." Vincent places the customer on mute, "errrr.... why are people always so stupid!" He takes the customer off mute, "No ....yes...I'm sorry you feel that way..."

Sam turns in his chair to listen. Vincent is good at handling himself with irate customers but lately Sam has noticed Vincent's fuse becoming shorter and shorter.

".... Yes...NO ...I mean no... I cannot do that. The credit you ask for is.... Yes, one moment and I'll get you a supervisor... Yes...yes...one moment I'm placing you on hold." He places the customer on hold and stands throwing his head set on the desktop, then mumbles something about killing and guns as he walks off.

Sam watches Vincent storm out of the cube where he punches a wall. As Sam turns back to his desk he glances at the computer screen taking note of the customer's name, Sally Williams. He also notices little notes on Vincent's desk.

It is not unusual for Customer Service Reps to take notes, doodle, or make notes concerning accounts, but these are unusual; addresses, phone numbers, and quotes. Beside each name is a drawing.

The first one illustrates a woman tied up lying on her side with her head in water. The next shows a decapitated woman lying across the rear seat of a car. The drawings are crude but clear enough for Sam to tell what they are. Sam's headset beeps indicating a call. He rolls to his desk as Vincent returns with a supervisor.

Sam finishes his call then turns around to find Vincent holding a pad of paper, drawing. The supervisor is speaking with the customer. Sam turns back to his desk wondering about Vincent. The night plows on. Each call runs into another. At the end of his shift Sam turns to say good night to Vincent, but he is already gone. He wonders why Vincent left in a hurry, he usually says good night at least. He looks down at his watch, 2:10AM.

Sam closes his programs and logs off his computer before leaving. He pulls the strap of his laptop bag over his shoulder when he sees more notes on Vincent's desk. These are new. He recognizes the name, Sally Williams. This is the woman who became irate and wanted a supervisor. Next to the name is her address, 1710 Devore Chow, Meyersville. Next to her address is a drawing of a woman... hanging from a tree.

"I guess we all need a hobby." Sam thinks aloud then sits the paper down on the desk next to the monitor.

He walks to the parking lot through the rain stopping briefly when he notices Vincent's car still parked on the opposite end of the lot thirty yards away. Beyond it, in the normally dark Ruins, are several squad cars with their headlights pointing toward a car. They are one-hundred and fifty yards away down the steep slope. Sam sees clearly a silhouette of someone sitting in Vincent's car. The lights of the squad cars shinning behind it cast a bright haze through the car's rear window as the thick mist of rain creates a haunting halo surrounding the bright plumage of light.

"Vince," Sam yells. But the shadowed figure does not respond.

Vincent is a private guy, aloof most of the time, so this non-response does not surprise Sam. He continues to his F-150. As he climbs behind the wheel he cannot help thinking about those drawings on Vincent's desk. He turns the ignition bringing the truck to life. The radio is tuned to the local talk radio station. The topic tonight is about the woman found on the sandbar with her head submerged and of the decapitation at the mall. The words submerged and decapitation echo in Sam's ears as he recalls Vincent's desk.

The drawings.

Vincent's ramblings.

"I wonder." Sam thinks aloud.

He pops the old truck in gear, flips on the headlights, and turns on the windshield wipers as he pulls out of the parking lot. Down Vine he finds a rock road leading off behind some brush. He pulls the truck onto the road and parks behind the brush with a good view of Vine.

He shuts off his headlights. "Let's see what you're up too now, Vince."

The Daewoo sits quietly in the rain. Its black paint reflects the bright lights from The Ruins, the rain enhancing the sheen. The moisture runs in streaks down the car's windshield. Large rain drops pound on its exterior but Vincent is oblivious to the deluge. He sits looking at the cell phone he holds in his lap. He sits still with the exception of his thumbs which move in slow precise movements. He has an earpiece going to his ear and dials the same number over and over. The light radiates from the phone's display glowing on his cheeks and brow.

All he sees is the dial pad.

All he hears is the ringing of the phone and then the click as she answers.

"Hello, this is Sally...Hello ...If you call again I'm going to call the police.... Hello, why are you doing this to me!" Sally screams into the phone before slamming the receiver down on the hook.

Vincent smiles as he places another mark next to three others, "No man at home. Four answers and all Sally," his smile broadens.

"She will be easy to kill!"

"No," Vincent yells, "get out of my head!" He reaches up pulling his hair.

"It's time you wimpy little dick, get moving or you will pay, I promise you that."

Vincent covers his ears. He closes his eyes tight as if trying to block out some invisible force from entering his head. However, you can't block out what is already in. "I ...I will you know, I...I will kill her....she ...she shouldn't talk to people like that."

"Kill her, kill her good!"

Sally is a middle-aged schoolteacher in the Meyersville school district. She is divorced and lives alone. At the age of fourteen she began to like boys. Thought a lot about them, and dated almost anyone who asked her out, although not sexually active she had her flings. She liked the rough guys, the hoods, the gangsters. By the time she reached twenty-four she had an abortion, several failed love affairs, and then at twenty-six married a tall dark handsome man, Billy Samuel, most knew him as Billy the Kid, mean, ruthless. He ran a notorious gambling house in Jersey famous for its losing customers. The marriage lasted ten years before a divorce. Billy, was a wife beater, raped her several times, and spent every dime they had before he left her for a woman on the west side. He died with a gunshot to his temple in a small town south of Providence, Rhode Island. The shooter never found.

The whole affair left her shaken. She no longer trust men. She thinks of them as low-life's who only want sex, booze, and to beat weak thin women.

With a long thin finger she twists her brown hair nervously.

She wishes a man were here, any man. She would do anything; suffer anything for him, as long as he stayed next to her. Being alone usually does not bother her but on nights such as this she wishes someone were in the house with her, someone to hold.

Prank calls are not uncommon. Maybe one or two a year but tonight the calls bother her more than normal. All day long the news reports on T.V. talked about the Albany River body, then tonight, the headless woman they found at the Ruins. She pulls her sweater tightly around her shoulders rubbing her arms as a chill runs up them. Red lights flash outside the living room window as an ambulance passes by from southern Hampshire heading toward the hospital morgue.

The red lights flash across her face as she looks out the window. The lights fade down the street disappearing into the rainy night.

Lighting flashes in the distance.

Her house lights flicker darkening the house for an instant then the bright luminescence of her lamp resumes its labor. Sally rubs her arms as a chill engulfs her. Before turning from the window, she takes one last glance up and down the street looking for more lights, more signs of humanity in the dark stillness surrounding her. She needs comfort. She needs to hold someone close; at least then she might not feel all alone.

What she sees startles her. Someone is standing on a corner with his back to her wearing a yellow rain coat and hat. He smokes a cigarette in the spotlight shining down from a street lamp. The smoke swirls around him in the thick mist of rain.

"What in the world would someone be standing..." she pauses thinking.

Her fingertips lightly tap her lower lip. All at once her heart races, while in her mind spin thoughts of a lunatic in her neighborhood looking for an easy target, an easy kill. Her imagination swirls with thoughts of him breaking in her door, raping her, killing her. She clutches her sweater at the collar, eyes wide, breathing labored, tight chest, she can't get enough air.

Running to the door she checks the deadbolt and locks. In a maddening race as if trying to beat an imagined force, she rushes to each window in her two bedroom home - all of them locked and closed.

In the kitchen an open telephone bill liters the table. A couple of pages of the bill skid off the oak tabletop floating to the floor on a breeze flowing in through the open kitchen window. She reaches across the sink to close the casement window when lighting burst with a deafening explosion of thunder. Her eyes behold a ghastly sight of twisted teeth, and two large eyes staring down on her in the glare of the window. She leaps backward into the kitchen table staring at the dark void above the sink. Another flash of lighting reveals the monster as tree limbs tossing and turning in the wind outside. She pats her chest nervously.

Rushing into her bedroom, she opens a nightstand drawer where she keeps a midnight special, a .38 revolver. She is not going to be raped or beaten again. Placing it in her sweater pocket she returns to the kitchen table to pick up the pages of bills from the floor.

She checks the backdoor again, all secure. Then she remembers the basement windows. That afternoon a plumber finished replacing her old lead water pipes with copper. The copper was too long to maneuver through the narrow corridors of the house, so the basement windows were used to slide the pipes through.

I guess I should check them too.

The basement, to her, is a place of punishment. A place where all those bad things she remembers happened to her, although not in this house. In the house before this one when she was married to that man, Billy. A slight grin crosses her face, "At least I don't have to worry about him now, do I." She pats the .38 resting snug in her sweater pocket.

The stairs run from the kitchen in the center of the house to the center of the basement. She stands in front of the door and takes a deep breath as she begins unlocking the basement door. It is tedious as the locks are old and the deadbolt sticks. She pushes up on her toes as she strains to turn the old lock. Finally, the dead bolt gives allowing the door to spring free, held now by the doorknob. As she turns the old door handle, it rattles loosely. The door squeaks as she swings it open. Switching on the basement lights she peers down the narrow staircase.

A few empty boxes sit harmlessly along the far wall. With the exception of a washer and dryer the basement is unfurnished,

Stepping slowly down the stairs, she looks across the basement carefully listening and looking across the dimly lit space. A lone eighty-watt bulb shines above the washer and dryer casting little light for a large space. If someone is hiding on the far side of the basement in the shadows, or possibly under the stairs, she cannot tell right away. Boxes stacked neatly to the floor rafters at the end of the basement provide little hiding space. Beneath the stairs is vacant.

She stands on the concrete basement floor looking across it at the small windows on her right side. Three rectangular windows set recessed into the concrete with a dirty film covering them. A single center latch holds them secure, she hopes. She hurries over to the first window. Pushing herself up onto her tiptoes to check the latch, she finds it locked and then the next is secure, then the last on the far end of the basement she finds latched as well. Satisfied, she lets out a deep breath.

Turning around to check the windows on the opposite side of the basement she stops and stairs dumbfounded at the sight before her. In the dim light; where she stands on the edge of light and dark; where obscurity is heightened; where eyes seldom see clearly in the haze of shadows; there in front of her she sees the window is open. Mud smeared on the glass and the interior walls. Muddy streaks of brown run down from the window to the floor where brown water pools.

She begins to tremble, her stomach twists into a knot. Her mind once again races with what to do. Run, flee up the stairs, race out of the house screaming for help but she is unable to move, fear paralyzes her. Her feet will not obey. Sally stands frozen in place staring horrified at the site. Then her eyes pan the basement floor below the window where a pair of muddy tennis shoes sits pushed next to the wall. She covers her mouth with her forearm trying to hold back the urge to scream. Someone is in her home. She is sure of it. Her eyes remain transfixed on the shoes as her feet now move her unknowingly backward away from the threat. Her eyes steadily stare at the laces hanging loosely and pulled slightly from each eye-hole of the shoe as if they were taken off slowly, deliberately then placed side by side. Her fingertips lightly touch her trembling lips.

Those shoes, those same shoes he wore while mowing the grass, going for walks, and...and dear God while...how, he is dead, I shot him...he can't be here...No, I refuse to believe it.

Her backward movement stopped by the basement wall but her stare does not break.

Lighting flashes followed by a loud clap of thunder. A transformer explodes up the street sending sparks raining down through the night and creating a blinding flash. The lights go out.

Sally's heart flutters as she desperately reaches up grabbing hold of the concrete windowsill pulling her weight up looking out the basement window. The street light is out along with house lights across the street...all is dark and still. The sound of rain patting against the window along with distant thunder is all she hears. Frantic, she looks around the basement into pitch-blackness. Her right hand gropes at her sweater pocket and the .38.

The lights flicker then come on briefly but go out again. The light in the basement stairwell stays on, but the overhead lights of the basement remain dark. She looks out the basement window at the glow from the street light shining its rays through the small windows above her head. Her hand begins to shake, tears flow down her cheeks as she wonders why the basement lights went off. It could be the circuit breaker as the panel is close by but she knows, she just knows it was not the breaker. There is only one answer, one conclusion, someone turned them off. Her hand finds the pocket and removes the thirty-eight. She holds it loosely, shakily. She bought it during her divorce for protection. Took a few lessons but only used it once; one shot to his temple and then she ran. It was an easy shot. No need to aim. No need to be a crack shot when your inches away. What confidence her thoughts brought her fade rapidly, no running now. No where to go.

Sally's heart leaps from her chest as a loud clack comes from the top of the stairs. She steps into the corner opposite of the muddy shoes, and begins sobbing. She wants to scream but her voice lodges in her throat as if trapped. Sinking into the corner, she slides down along the wall to the floor where she pushes herself into the corner of the basement. Her sight blurs as tears swell, her thoughts ransacked with images of her own death. Confusion runs rampant. She wipes her eyes allowing her vision to focus on the top step where she can see the toe of a tennis shoe. Raising the gun, she points it at the stairs. Her hands tremble as she grips the butt of the gun with both hands wrapping her right index finger through the trigger housing. Softly she sobs as tears flow down her cheeks.

Vincent stares down the steps into the darkness. He turned the basement lights off when they were flickering. In his hand is a half-inch thick hemp rope with the rest coiled around his shoulder. In the other hand a large beam flashlight. He waits, not from hesitation, but for a command.

A whisper brushes against the back of his neck and into his ear, "Now," comes the command.

He bounds down the stairs to the concrete floor turning toward the darkness.

Sally squirms in the corner pressing her body hard into the rock surface. Her trembling lips utter softly, "no...no, Billy, I'll do anything, Billy, Billy..."

Vincent turns on the flashlight – pointing it directly at Sally.

Sally covers her eyes as the beam blinds her, she pulls the trigger.

The gun clicks on an empty cylinder. "No...no, no, NO!" She continues pulling the trigger but the gun is empty, "no," clack, "no," clack. She rapidly pulls and releases the trigger shouting, "No, No, No!"

Vincent runs across the basement to Sally. He grabs her hair, forcing her onto her stomach.

Sally's hands smack the concrete sending the gun sailing across the basement floor where it bounces and then slides between the washer and dryer.

She moans, and then the scream trapped by fear finds the courage to explode from her throat piercing the night.

Vincent twists her head quickly to the side and listens with delight as he hears the distinct crack... of Sally's neck. He drops her corpse onto the floor in a heap. With uninterrupted movement he does his work. Placing the prepared hangman's noose around her neck, he slides the knot tight then begins dragging her across the basement floor.

Vincent pulls the body to the bottom step where he pauses before dragging Sally up the stairs. He is not a strong man but not weak either. He pulls the body up the stairs one-step at a time. As he does he plops her head down on the steps as he climbs. Another step up, he lifts, he pulls, and then relaxes, plop the head smacks on the step. Another step, another lift, another pull, plop.

The backyard is large containing many trees. As he pulls her body out the back door the rain begins to pour again. He drags the body across the yard to a tall tree with several limbs hanging seven to eight feet off the ground. He throws the free end of the rope over the limb and then tries pulling the body up. His footing slips causing him to fall in the mud. He lets go of the rope allowing the body to flop down into the muddy yard. He will use the Daewoo.

The headlights of the Daewoo beam across the yard through the pouring rain as Vincent turns the vehicle around backing it across the yard. He ties the rope to the rear bumper then pulls the car forward. The tires spin in the mud sending bits of it into the air. He can see Sally's body slowly rises off the ground.

Nearby is another tree where he ties the remaining rope, while maintaining tension on the rope tied to the Daewoo. The exchange is flawless as Sally's body only drops slightly. He returns to the basement where he picks up his muddy tennis shoes.

Sally is left swaying from the tree as he drives away.

The house is open with Vincent's muddy tennis shoe tracks leading from the back door to the basement window.

On the street corner the silhouette of a young man stands smoking a cigarette with smoke swirling around him in the rain. He watched the Daewoo pull to the curb but lost track of it. Now as Vincent drives away,

"I wonder what you're up too," Sam said as the Daewoo's taillights vanish around a corner.

The next morning as a gray dawn emerges with a sprinkle of rain and dark clouds looming on the horizon, Robert Sky carries his trash cans to the curb. He carries them by the handle, one in each hand, working his biceps, forearms, and shoulders. He is a body builder and makes every chore an opportunity to flex his strength.

He lives next door to Sally, at 1712 Devore Chow. The lots here are spacious two acre lots with trees and bushes secluding the homes from one another. The thunder and rain did little to wake him, as a matter of fact it made him sleep very sound. As he places the cans on the curb he notices something odd in Sally's back yard. The object swings into view from behind a row of tall Poplar trees at the crest of Sally's driveway in her backyard, then disappears, swinging behind them again. At first he thought it was some trash blown up in the tree from the storm, but as his eyes focus it takes on a more macabre form, like a body hanging from a noose. With urgency he walks up Sally's driveway to the Poplar trees lining the rear of her driveway and steps around them. His jaw drops, his eyes bulge, his voice sticks in his throat. It is all he can do to turn away and call the police.

"I don't get it...I simply don't understand this shit." Selma stands in Sally's kitchen, "The tracks lead in from the back door and go downstairs. They stop next to a basement window with footprints in the mud outside the window indicating someone came through it to the basement. What did they do converge and then disappear!" Selma takes a sip of coffee before looking out the kitchen window, "I bet she knows," she points to Sally who is still hanging from the tree.

"Yeah, but she's not talking." O'Donnell said angrily as he glances around the kitchen, "Where's that partner of yours, Lee?"

"He'll be here soon, had to drop his kids off at school."

"Oh, yeah..." his tone softens, "...forgot about the divorce. How's the kids taken it?"

"Well, I guess. He hasn't opened up to me yet, to new."

"When he gets here I want you two on this day and night!"

O'Donnell starts to walk away when through the side window of the kitchen he sees reporters in the driveway, his rough tone returns, "...and keep those hounds away!" O'Donnell shouts. "The mayor wants me to sit-in on a press conference I'll be back in a couple of hours."

Selma watches O'Donnell walk away before ordering a group of patrolmen to stand guard around the perimeter of the property. She steps out the backdoor where a sweep for evidence is well under way by Sally's swaying corpse. Ralph takes pictures of the scene including Sally from several different perspectives.

In front of the house a mob of reporters and bystanders wait behind the yellow police line manned by a half-dozen of Meyersville's finest. Their view of Sally is blocked by large Poplar trees. Chief O'Donnell approaches the line. Selma can hear him saying, "Alright, alright one at a time."

She continues her march across the yard following the drag tracks in the mud, careful to stay a couple of yards off to the side. At the yellow police line she watches the coroner unit lower Sally's body onto a white plastic cloth.

Ralph covers the victim's head with one end of the cloth then folds the plastic around her. Two officers lift the body onto a gurney placing it in the back of an ambulance.

Selma lights a cigarette and motions for Ralph to come over to her. "Morning Ralph," she said.

"Yeah, this is puzzling," Ralph said as he removes his plastic gloves. "...she wasn't killed here."

"Why doesn't that surprise me, but if not here, then where?" Selma looks up at the sky as rain begins to fall again.

They run beneath a blue plastic canvas of a makeshift command center.

"Not sure where, but I think I know how. Her neck is broke."

"From being hanged?"

"No, before."

"Whoever is doing this takes precautions."

"What have you found inside?" Ralph asks.

"A thirty-eight...an empty thirty-eight."

"Whose?"

"Not sure yet, I'm taking it to the lab for prints. I don't think it was fired, at least not recently. Other than the gun, muddy footprints from two different shoes, no finger prints, nothing else so far." Selma said then takes a long drag from her smoke and flips through her note pad, "I suppose you want to know about her?"

Ralph nods as he shoves his gloves into his coat pocket.

"She is...was, Sally Williams, elementary school teacher, down at McKnight."

"Lot of kids gonna be unhappy today."

"Probably, yes."

"Anything else?"

"Well, she lived here for ten years, popular in the neighborhood for her annual picnics, and loved to talk on the phone. I found her phone bill spread out on the kitchen table next to the phone. Lots of calls to LA."

"Any connection?'

"Don't know. When Lee gets here I'll have him run a check with the Meyersville Bell and get a record of all her calls. Do you have a time of death?"

"I'd say she died sometime after 3am last night."

"That matches the neighbor's story across the street."

"She couldn't sleep?" Ralph asks.

"No, she likes watching the rain and was about to go to bed when lighting took out a transformer down the street. Lots of sparks, electricity popping, according to her it was 'cool.' A little while later the lights in the neighborhood began flickering and came back on. A short while after that she heard a scream. That was around 3:10 am."

"How can you be sure?"

"She had to reset her alarm clock and looked at her battery-powered wall clock." Selma said with the cigarette tucked in her lips as she flips through her note pad, "Another thing, the neighbor thought she saw a car moving around over here in the backyard during some lighting strikes. It was hard to tell in the distance through the rain and darkness for her to tell if it was a car or just the trees wiping around in the rain."

"A car? No headlights?"

"She did not mention any. Chief O'Donnell pointed out the tire tracks in the yard when I arrived. We'll get a plaster cast of them and give it to our boys in the crime lab."

"Yeah, like they have a lot of experience at that," Ralph takes a long drink from his flask.

Selma watches Ralph screw the lid back on the flask and tuck it in his inner jacket pocket. She understands his frustration with the unit's lack of experience in crime scene investigation, for that matter she probably has just as much as most of them. Ralph once worked in Chicago, and before that New Orleans. He is used to crack units skilled in investigation. The rain pats the canvas above her head in a steady down pour. Ralph looks out in the yard at the rope swaying in the rain. The wind twist the hangman's knot back and forth as it hangs across the tree limb. She watches his eyes as he studies the scene. Perhaps he is remembering another case, another rope. She takes a drag of her cigarette and continues the discussion with a question she does not like asking,

"Was she molested?"

The question breaks his stare as if bringing him back from some distant place. He turns his eyes toward her and finally said,

"No, but I only did a once over. I will do a more thorough examination at the morgue." Ralph said as he pulls the flask and takes a drink.

"Any signs of a struggle or violence?"

"No, none. Even if she had it might not have done her any good. Mrs. Williams was a very physically weak woman. Her assailant or assailants must have been strong to drag her out of the house and then across the lawn... may have used that vehicle her neighbor spoke of to pull the body up....but why? Why do all this?"

Selma shrugs, "Maybe trying to cover his tracks." She exhales a thick stream of smoke into the rain. "Officer Davis," Selma shouts.

Officer Davis is O'Donnell's assistant. He has been on the force for nearly a decade; held various positions from traffic cop to desk clerk and wants desperately off the beat. Last month he passed his test for detective and only waits for paper work to clear. He is a tall strong man, young - thirty-two, with a sharp attitude only because he is tired of waiting on paper work, thinning hair-line, a slight beer belly even though he does not drink.

As he steps beneath the canvas his large form blocks out the light. Selma met him earlier in the day and had forgotten his size.

She steps back allowing him under the canvas and out of the rain. "Make sure no one messes with these tire tracks until our boys have time to examine them,"

Davis nods, "Well do," then stares at the flask in Ralph's hand before turning out into the rain.

"And you," Selma turns to Ralph, "...find out what you can during the autopsy and I'll see you at the morgue this afternoon."

Lee sits at a table in the cafeteria of the Meyersville Phone Company speaking with Angela Warren - a young, but very mature black supervisor. Lee finds her attractive, as he likes short well-shaped women. That's what got him into the divorce, his lack of discipline. He had a fling with a stripper he busted for prostitution.

"How's the coffee?" Angela asks, as she looks him over. She likes cops.

"Horrible, but I didn't expect much from a vending machine," he smiles at her as he takes a drink.

"The ledgers for the woman um...Sally Williams, did you find what you were looking for?"

"Well, yes. They verify her making calls to California last night, but there is an eight-hundred number on here. How can I find out where this is too?"

Angela leans over the table to see the ledger, "Oh that number is here. It is to our call center."

Lee doesn't mind sitting near this beauty but tries to maintain a professional demeanor, while looking down her low-cut blouse, "uhm... call center, here?"

"Yes, we have it staffed 24/7/365."

Lee looks at the date and time of the call, "Is there anyway of knowing who she talked to last night?"

"Yes, I will get that information and be right back." Angela said with a smile as she leaves the table.

Lee watches her walk away.

He refocuses his view to a corner of the room thinking about the murders, _There has to be a connection_. You don't go years without a murder and then have three in twenty-four hours without some sort of connection." He thinks aloud then drinks the rest of his coffee.

He looks over his notes about the murders. He flips the page to the suspect they picked up last night, Brandon Coachman. He is clean. No bloodstains on his clothing and his story checked out - he was looking for his dog. His landlord confirmed the story about the dog getting loose all the time. He usually finds the gray mutt in the abandoned mall. He was in a cell at the time of Mrs. Williams's death. Regardless, Lee feels there is a connection.

"Here ya go." Angela said startling Lee, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

Lee catching his breath, "That's ok," he reaches up and takes the papers from her.

"I hope it wasn't some deep fantasy or some seductive moment," she said sliding into the hard plastic chair across from him, smiling.

This comment surprises him as he looks up at her smiling face, "...ah, well no...No interruption at all." He refocuses on the ledgers.

"Vincent James," Angela speaks up trying to regain Lee's attention, "He is one of our model employees. I bet in all five weeks he's worked here, I've never once received a customer complaint."

"That's impressive, I guess. Do you get a lot of complaints?"

"Oh, you know the norm, drunks, people trying to cheat the system, you know... the norm. We do have legitimate complaints from time to time and most reps last a few days before getting a complaint but not Vincent. He hasn't had one, ever."

"I'd like to meet him."

"Sure, his shift starts in just a few minutes. I'll go get him." Angela stands and takes several steps away then quickly turns around.

Lee's eyes squarely focused on her buttocks.

She smiles at him as he looks up at her, "You know, there's more of this action at home. When I come back I'll give ya my number." Then she turns walking away from the table taking long strides swinging her hips radically from side to side.

Lee shakes his head looking down at the tabletop, _I got to get a handle on this._

I few minutes later Vincent strolls into the cafeteria

"Hi, Detective Robinson?"

"Yes, you must be Vincent, heard a lot of good things about you."

"Don't believe them detective. They really don't know me." Vincent said as he shakes Lee's hand.

"Care for a seat," Lee asks while motioning with his hand at a chair across from him.

Vincent sits down then looks across the table at Lee, smiling.

Vincent's small wiry frame makes Lee think of a young kid, but one look at his face, all thought of youth vanishes. His features are reflective of his age, twenty to twenty-three, long brown hair to his shoulders wrapped around thin cheeks - looks ordinary. His clothes though reflect punk mentality - loose and baggy, he wears his ball cap backwards

"The reason I asked to speak with you is about a call you had last night with a Mrs. Williams, Sally Williams." Lee does not see any reaction on Vincent's face, "Do you remember speaking with her?"

"Let me see, ah well, yes. She was upset that she was being charged for so many long distant calls." Vincent sits with his hands resting on the table in front of him.

"So, were you able to help her?".

"No, she was irate, and began yelling when I told her the calls were made from her residence and I couldn't credit her account."

"What happened?"

"I got a supervisor and he finished the call."

"What was the supervisor's name?"

"Jeff Wear, you can find him in his cube upstairs."

"I might do that, what did you do while the supervisor was talking to Mrs. Williams?"

"Got a coke, went to the restroom...why so many questions?"

"Just general questions, do these questions bother you?"

"No, but I'm wondering why you're asking me."

"Like I said just general questions," Lee watches Vincent who is now beginning to fidget in his chair. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just need to get to work. Is there any more questions?"

Lee pauses for a moment looking at this young man wondering why he is in such a hurry to get to work...maybe he doesn't like cops or maybe he doesn't like questions.

"Just one more, did you talk with Mrs. Williams again?"

"Nah, the supervisor finished the call," Vincent stares at Lee, and then forces a grin.

Lee stands extending his hand, "Thanks for coming down and talking with me."

Vincent does not raise his eyes toward Lee but stares intently at the tabletop. After shaking hands he hurry's out of the cafeteria.

Lee finds this very strange. As he thinks about it, he hears Angela's heels clacking on the hard tile in the hallway outside of the cafeteria. Vincent barely raises an eyebrow as they pass.

"So, did you find what you came here for?" Angela said while she leans against the table in front of him allowing her freshly un-buttoned blouse to hang open a little more than usual revealing a deep view of her cleavage.

He looks up at her barely controlling the focus of his eyes from the top of her blouse, "Yes ...yes I did. Can I speak with Vincent's supervisor ..." he looks down at his notes, "...a Jeff Ware?"

Angela smiles at him, "Sure, It seems to me your finding all sorts of reasons just to," she pauses for effect and then walks away knowing Lee is watching her, "...hang around."

Lee bites his lip as he watches her walk away then mumbles, "Believe me, it's not hanging," not realizing he is speaking loud enough for her to hear him.

"Excuse me," Angela asks as she turns back toward him.

"Nothing, nothing at all...." Lee smiles.

"I will have Mr. Ware here in just one minute, need another cup of coffee, it's black, hot and nasty...just like me," Angela smiles and then purrs softly.

Lee's mouth drops open as he sits staring at her for a moment.... "Ah, hum...a coffee would be...ah, great, but hey, I can get it myself. You don't have to worry about that. Besides you're doing enough already," he stammers.

"Well, I'll be right back then." She winks then turns slowly before walking out of the cafeteria.

Lee watches her leave in wide-eyed wonderment. "Wow!" He said aloud then walks to the coffee machine depositing a quarter into it.

He presses the button for a cup of straight black coffee. Angela's words float in his mind ' _Hot and Nasty_.' He smiles, chuckles a little.

As he pulls the coffee out of the holder he hears footsteps behind him. He turns to see Sam standing at the entrance of the cafeteria holding a napkin to his nose. Sam sneezes.

"Bless you," Lee said.

"Thanks," Sam answers sounding very congested. "Are you the cop that was talking to Vincent?"

"Yeah," Lee responds, "I seem to be at a disadvantage here, you know who I am but I don't who you are."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sam said, "My name is Sam Glenn, I work with Vincent."

"So you're his cube buddy," Lee said smiling.

"Yeah, I need to talk with you.... in private." Sam whispers. "It's about Vincent."

"Hmmm, I see. I really want to speak with you. Let's see.... Angela is bringing your boss down...ah, Jeff Wear."

"Yes"

"Once I'm finished speaking with him we can talk." Lee turns from Sam walking toward the table.

"Detective, this is urgent. I was there last..." Angela interrupts Sam as she trots into the cafeteria.

"Detective Lee," Angela shouts, "please follow me upstairs. Jeff will see you in his office."

Then she turns trotting out of the cafeteria. Her heels clack on the tile and fade as she rounds a far corner. Lee continues staring down the hallway long after she leaves.

"Detective?" Sam asks.

"Ah...listen kid, we will have to finish this some other time." Lee quickly runs over to the table he was sitting at gathering his briefcase and note pad.

"Detective, it is urgent that I speak with someone...."

"Kid here," Lee shoves Sam a business card, "call my desk and leave a message." Then he hurries out of the cafeteria trying to catch up with Angela.

Sam looks down at the card, then yells, "Vincent killed that woman last night!" his words echo down the empty corridor. He walks solemnly to a table where he stands alone thinking about what to do next. Behind him he hears someone walking into the cafeteria.

It is Mike Barney who steps to a vending machine looking over his choices - preservative saturated hamburgers or ham on rye. Sam has worked with Mike for several years. They have a good working relationship although at times the age difference causes a communications gap. Sam is not familiar with the new terms of the modern youth even though he has two teenage boys. Mike is twenty-two years old a real computer genius. His light brown hair is cut short and combed to one side. He sports long side burns and usually wears a plaid shirt along with blue jeans and tennis shoes. Tonight is no different as his thin frame stands at the vending machine trying to decide what poison to purchase.

"Hey Mike, you got a minute." Sam said stepping toward Mike.

"Yeah, sure I'm on lunch."

Sam looks around to make sure they are alone, "Listen," Sam whispers, "...it's about Vincent."

Mike thinks it is strange Sam is whispering but Sam can be goofy at times, "Oh, what has he done this time? Steal your pins or alter you work orders," Mike said laughing.

"No, it's serious." Sam grabs Mike by the elbow rushing him to a table, "I think Vincent is a murderer."

Mike looks at him expressionless, then burst out laughing, "You are joking?" Mike stands and turns toward the hall.

Sam pulls Mike back, "No, I'm serious, Mike. I tried telling that detective but his interest is only in Angela's ass."

Mike smiles at Sam still not convinced, "How do you know for sure?"

Sam looks around again then whispers, "On his desk are doodles of the killings. He sketches them out as he talks to his victims and then kills them in that way!"

Mike shakes his head, "Dude, you want me to believe he is killing our customers?" He holds his hands up with his palm facing Sam, stands, and then walks away, "Sam you've been watching too many mysteries."

"Mike I was there, outside the lady's house! Mike, he killed her damn it!" Sam yells.

Mike continues walking out of the cafeteria without turning around.

"Shit!" Sam picks up a cafeteria chair and tosses it across the room where it clang's against the cinder block wall.

The intercom system hums to life with a male voice, "All employees please beware of the new adherence policies. Please be at your desk and logged in ready to take calls at your appointed time."

Sam looks at the wall clock deciding he should head back to his desk. Maybe he can catch that cop later. He steps toward the doorway when Vincent steps into the cafeteria leaning against the white metal door jamb smiling at him.

"Hello... Sam," Vincent said smiling then begins walking toward Sam.

Sam takes several steps backward.

"You'll never get away with this!" Sam said defiantly before stepping toward Vincent. Sam's heart races in part with fear and the other in rage.

Vincent stops but remains smiling while staring directly into Sam's eyes, "So, did you think I wouldn't find out." Vincent grins.

Sam's charge stops as he looks deep into Vincent's eyes. A black pearl of an iris stares back at him reflecting yellow flames and a piercing sharp wooden point coming at him. Sam shakes his head trying to remove the vision, then looks at Vincent who has moved closer.

"I was there! At that ladies house...the one you hung. I saw the drawings Vince." Sam said angrily while continuing his charge toward Vincent.

Vincent reaches into his front pocket pulling out a switchblade. Flipping his wrist and pressing the silver release button he snaps it open. The shiny pointed blade locks in place shining in the fluorescent lights.

Sam stops his approach looking at Vincent who has hurried his pace toward him. Sam knows nothing of fighting with a knife but reacts fast by grabbing a near-by chair and holding it out like a lion tamer.

Then from behind Vincent, "Don't do it," shouts Mike Barney from the hallway. Vincent turns around to see Mike and a muscular, Ken Olson rushing towards him.

Vincent turns rushing toward Sam holding the knife blade pointing forward. Sam jumps to the side dropping the chair as he bumps into a table. The chair clang's on the tile floor as Vincent slashes the blade at him.

"I hate you," Vincent shouts.

The half-hearted attempt misses Sam but slashes his shirt.

Vincent runs to the emergency doors at the end of the cafeteria shouting, "Screw you!" and laughing.

Vincent slams into the doors horizontal handle. The red door suddenly springs open surprising him and he falls through the doorway onto the wet grass and rain. Looking up he sees Ken lumbering toward him.

By the time the muscle-bound Ken reaches the door Vincent is running pass the corner of the building and disappearing down the steep grade toward, the Ruins.

Ken leans on the emergency doorframe catching his breath watching the rabbit bound away from him, "Screw that shit," he said.

His massive muscles are good for lifting heavy objects, and football but not for running long distances or chasing little thin guys who bound across grassy terrain like a rabbit. He runs his hand across his balding head wiping away a spray of rain. This motion always reminds him of his father who used to do the same thing while considering a problem, usually while dealing with Ken. Ken is young at twenty-four, and has worked with Sam and Mike for a year. Sam usually teases Ken about wearing brown shorts everyday with a blue polo shirt, white soaks and dirty tennis shoes. He turns back to the cafeteria where Sam is getting up off the floor.

"You okay," Ken asks.

"Sure," Sam said as he checks the slice in his shirt, then he looks at Mike "See, now do you believe me?"

"Well," Mike said, "...why was he trying to stab you?"

"He heard me talking to you and was going to kill me to shut me up!" Sam said.

Mike looks at Sam then at Ken, "I thought you were shitting me. I went upstairs and found Ken looking at these." Mike lays Vincent's drawings on the table.

Ken leans on the table looking at Sam, "You saw Vincent at that house last night?"

"Yes."

"And you tried talking to that Detective?"

"Yes, and he wouldn't listen."

"Well," Ken said while patting Sam on the back, "You won't have to worry about going it alone anymore, because now he will have to kill three of us to keep things quite."

Mike looks at Ken, "Kill? Screw that."

Vincent runs down the steep embankment tripping then tumbling to the bottom of the hill soaking his already wet clothes. He looks up at the steep incline trough the rain seeing only the pressed trail of flattened grass in his wake. He walks across the recently vacant Ruins' parking lot to the yellow bricks of the mall. Police tape still cordons off an area on the far end of the lot. Vincent smiles when he sees it, _Bye, bye Jo!_

He steps through the doorway of what used to be a hardware shop. The walls are barren with the exception of hooks and nails. It is open to the far gray brick cinder blocks of the back wall.

Trash litters the floor. Vincent kicks at it as he quickly steps to the center of the long room where rusty doors cover the entrance to a storm shelter - his hideaway.

The heavy doors squeak on rusted hinges as he lifts them. A musty odor saturates the air around him as it escapes from its dark confines. The pungent smell is nauseating causing him to cough and gag then he trips, nearly falling down the concrete staircase.

"Stop being a coward and get down here!" a disembodied voice demands from the dank abyss.

Vincent lowers the metal door with a soft metallic clank. He presses his hands on the concrete trying to maintain his balance on the algae covered concrete staircase. His shoes slide then grip and then slide again before finally finding a hold on the rough edge of a step. Vincent holds a lighter above his head cautiously stepping down the remaining steps while pressing his free hand against the concrete wall. He steps off the last step holding the lighter high above him. Its light shines in an empty ten by ten space revealing algae growing on the walls down to the mud floor. The dim light flickers as a breeze suddenly whisks by his face.

The faint light does nothing to help in detailing the pale outlines in the shadows. The flames flicker again and then go out. Coldness surrounds him, wrapping around his thin frame like a frigid blanket.

Vincent's nervously flicks the lighter producing only sparks, then finally a flame - behind him and to the right, a whimper. He turns to see a young woman with torn clothes laying nearly naked pushing herself into a corner. Her feet and hands bound, and mouth gagged.

"Ah, there you are." Vincent said as the lighter flickers out.

A black limo splashes through puddles in front of the Meyersville police station. Rain slows to a mist as the limo stops directly in front of the stations main entrance. Its white license plate reads, 'FED' in black letters and then below it in small black letters is the word, 'Government.' The driver's door opens and a man dressed in a neat three-piece gray plaid suit steps out. His medium height and lean build glides as he trots around the long vehicle to the passenger side opening the rear door. He stands at attention holding the door open.

"I told you, Jules, leave it to me and my men.... yes, we'll find her." Agent Josh Salvatore speaks into his cell phone as he steps out of the limo.

He stands and looks at the driver while nodding his head gesturing thanks. His black three-piece custom-made suit fits his lean tall body well, giving him the look he has always liked, that of Private Eye Philip Marlowe. He continues toward the stairs leading up to the police station while carrying his black briefcase. He closes the cell phone and tucks it neatly away inside the inner pocket of the suit coat.

The FBI assigned him this case because he is experienced with Mob cases of all kinds, embezzlement, fraud, counterfeiting, murder, and more. He is good friends with many high-ranking officials from many walks of life both legal and not so legal. He served in the military special Ops. during both Gulf wars, Afghanistan and now works for the FBI under the guides of Home Land Security. This case, The Daewoo Murders as the FBI refers to them, belong to him. All the FBI resources are at his disposal. He trots up the concrete stairs looking the old building over. Two lions lay prone with their heads held high on either side of the staircase. The building is brick in need of repair.

He pushes open the double outer doors and walks briskly through them down a long hall to the double doors at the far end. He looks up at the tall ceiling, with cobwebs in the corners and then at the dirty walls, he thinks to himself, "What a dump," he takes the last few steps at the end of the hall to the large double doors leading to the front desk. As he reaches for the door handle they abruptly open toward him.

He jumps to the side pressing himself against the wall to avoid the onslaught of Officer Davis escorting two prisoners. The prisoners are handcuffed and their legs shackled. A chain connects the handcuffs to the leg shackles. The prisoners wear orange jumpsuits and take the allotted short steps allowed by their ankle bracelets. This is t slow for Davis. He is in a hurry and forces the prisoners up onto their tip-toes as he pushes them forward. The prisoners walk side by side moving their feet in short rapid steps. Davis walks directly behind them with one hand squeezing the center of a chain he wrapped around their right and left forearms. As he squeezes he lifts and pushes the inmates causing them to hurry their short steps. The doors slam against the hall walls narrowly missing the agent.

Davis pauses as he looks over at Josh, "Can I help you," he asks harshly. His prisoners grown as he squeezes the chain tighter.

Josh stands against the wall staring at Davis.

"Well," Davis questions again, "I don't have all day."

"Um, yeah...I'm looking for Detective Porters."

"Her desk is through the doors, third desk on the right against the wall, the one with all the boxes stacked around it."

"Thanks," the agent responds as he watches Davis hurry the prisoners forward, "Need some help?"

Davis looks over his shoulder, "Nah," then slams his captives into the double front glass doors and pushes them forward forcing the doors open.

As the doors open Josh can hear the rain splattering hard outside again. The doors close behind Davis and the outside noises become muffled. He turns his attention to the sound of clacking keyboards from beyond the double wooden doors.

He steps through the doors and on his right is a dirty white wall with a long bench stretching its entire length. Sitting on the bench is the same filth he's seen a million times – whores, bums, drunks, and various carcinogens from the swamp of misfortune.

A young lady sitting on the bench across the room from the sergeant's desk smiles at him.

He looks at her but does not return the smile.

She smiles with a deep look of admiration.

"Pfft..." he smirks and then turns to the desk where the Desk Sergeant has been watching the whole affair.

On Josh's left is a low wooden railing running to a large wooden desk where the Desk Sergeant sits impatiently staring at him. The desk faces the bench and beyond the sergeant is a large room - a virtual maze of desks with stacks of paper, boxes, file cabinets along with a hurried staff of men and women scurrying about. Somewhere in the maze a phone rings. He looks at the sergeants silver name tag, Sgt. Herb Sensimilla. Josh chuckles at the name. Sensimilla is a heavy-set African-American man with large brown eyes and short-cropped hair.

"Can I help you sir," Sensimilla, asks while rocking forward in his chair.

Josh reaches into his interior pocket of his suit jacket pulling out his black wallet. He extends his arm and flips the wallet open displaying his FBI ID,

"I'm here to see Detective Selma Porters."

"Agent Salvatore, please this way." Sensimilla walks around the corner of the desk to the railing opening a gate for Josh to walk through, "Detective Porters desk is down that way, third desk next to the wall. The one with—"

"...all the boxes around it," Josh finishes the sentence for Sensimilla.

Sensimilla watches him walk away, "How do ya like that," then he shakes his head returning his attention to the ladies on the bench, "Now, ladies you can all sit right back down. I'm sure he's not interested in any of you," he smiles at them.

Josh walks toward the row of desks along the far wall. Selma sits with her back to him looking over autopsy reports from, The Ruins.

"Excuse me, are you Detective Selma Porters," Josh said as he steps next her desk.

Selma looks up from her work at the tall lean agent and smiles, "Yes, I am."

Josh holds his ID out in front of him facing Selma, "My name is Josh, FBI Agent Josh Salvatore."

Selma's eyes gleam at this tall handsome man. She glances at the badge, "Please, sit," she points to a chair next to her desk, "What do I owe this pleasure?"

Josh sits but does not smile placing the briefcase on his lap, "Detective this is not a social call. I'm here to take over your case," Josh said coldly while pulling his orders from his inner suit pocket. He hands her the papers.

Selma stares at him stunned while taking the papers from him. She quickly turns in her chair while unfolding the orders and reading them.

"You know I will need everything you have so far," Josh said flatly.

Selma looks at him and then at the paper work.

Josh can see the surprised look on her face,

"Let me explain and give you some background on why this is happening."

"Yes," Selma said interrupting Josh, "...please explain."

Josh presses the copper buttons on the briefcase clicking the black case open. He pulls several photos from the case handing them to Selma.

"What is this," Selma asks holding the black and white eight by tens.

Josh does not say anything. He is busy trying to close the snaps of the briefcase lid.

Selma looks down at the pictures; the first one shows a luxurious home surrounded by tall pines and oaks.

"That's the Villa Holmberg, in L.A.," Josh said without looking up - still fiddling with the snaps.

Selma finds Josh holding the briefcase close to his eyes as he tries to secure the latch. She looks down at the photos flipping to the next one. It shows a ransacked bedroom.

"That is Patties bedroom," Josh said while he shakes the case above his head still staring at the lock.

"Patty," Selma asks.

Josh sits the case on his lap slamming its lid shut. The lid stays closed and he smiles, "Yes, Patty Vandermel. The daughter of a very rich man, Stanley Vandermel.... you have heard of him?"

Selma stares at Josh for a moment, and then recalls the name, "Shit, you mean, Vandermel? The rich, powerful, west coast syndicate boss. He made a fortune from running the docks in San Diego, and San Francisco for the mob. Some claim he is the one responsible for the 1998 slaying of Conginco, the former mob boss of Seattle and the entire Alaskan Syndicate."

"No, this is Stanley Vandermel. He made a fortune off artificial arm pit hair implants."

Selma stares at him for a moment not sure if he is joking, "Implants?"

Josh smiles, "Nah, just kidding, you are right. Just trying to break the ice...ah, hum...Stanley Vandermel's daughter, Patty, was kidnapped two months ago."

"Ok," Selma pauses and tosses the pictures on the desk, "You have a rich mob bosses daughter kidnapped by someone who is either very stupid, or has large cohunes."

"Large cohunes describe him well. The kidnapping happened in broad daylight and during a party at the villa. No witnesses, and..." Josh reaches into the pile of photos and pulls one out laying it in front of her, "...only this photo of a car. No one knows who it belongs to and its license is not registered at the California DMV."

"Isn't that a Daewoo?"

"Yes, rare Korean car, mostly sold in Canada..."

Selma interrupts without looking up as she flips through the rest of the photos, "Are these all pictures of the same car?"

"Yes, a Daewoo LX4. I was assigned to the kidnapping case two months ago and since then tracked the car across country."

"Wait, you tracked the car?"

"Well, it really was easy ...I just followed the trail of blood."

"Blood?"

"Yes, a few days prior to the kidnapping there were three murders - all in the same neighborhood, and all within a 24 hour period. I didn't think they were connected to each other, unusual yes, but not uncommon until I saw this," Josh reaches in the stack again and pulls out another photo and holds it up in front of her, "...on the front page of a St. Louis news paper. The photo was taken at an apartment complex three months after the kidnapping where the third of three murders occurred – all in the same neighborhood, and all within twenty-four hours. Note the license plate of the car nearest the apartment is the same as the one in LA, M.A.R.A.X. Where ever this Daewoo appears there are soon murders."

"So, these other six photos follow the same scenario?"

"Yes, and there are two more cases I feel are related, but haven't connected the dots yet," Josh leans close to Selma and whispers, "I think you're a good match for my Daewoo."

Selma scoot's back from her desk, "Pardon me!"

"What I meant is, the murders here were all done in the last 24 hours like the others I investigated and it does not end there..." Josh pauses and then looks at Selma in the eyes, "Your first victim was found in or near a river, and you're second found decapitated, and the third was found hung in or near her own backyard, right?"

"Yes," Selma looks at him puzzled, "Do you have a copy of my case files?"

"Nope, that is his M.O. He gets a job as a customer service person and then kills the first three customers that piss him off. He is consistent...almost mechanical. LA, Salt Lake, Denver, KC, St. Louis, Indianapolis, Louisville, Pittsburg, New York, and now here," Josh explains.

Selma leans forward in her chair, "You mean you have followed this maniac from city to city - he is employed the same, kills the same, drives the same car, and you still have not caught him?"

"Oh, he is very illusive, our little friend."

"Do you have a name, a motive...what?" Selma said as she stands and paces the floor in front of Josh.

"No, he changes it and covers his tracks well. Usually the car is not seen until the last murder, oh, and by the way, he isn't going to run. He will stick around a few days before leaving town."

"What, don't tell me he gloats before he ventures off?"

"We are not sure." Josh said as he watches Selma walk past him and sits down in her chair.

"What's the psych profile say about him and why haven't we heard of this until now?"

"The profile is pending, and why haven't you heard about it, well, no one has put all this together until now." Josh clears his throat.

Selma leans back into her chair while crossing her arms. She stares intently at Josh. "I'm in this you know."

"Sure...sure, you can tag along."

"Tag along!"

"Yes, and watch a pro at work." Josh said with a smile.

"Yeah right..." Selma said sarcastically leaning back in her chair squeezing her arms tight across her chest.

Thunder rattles the wooden windowsill and sends a torrent of rain upon Meyersville. Sam steps back from the glass window as rain splatter's into the room through the opening. He trips over a rancid mattress but reaches out catching a door frame. His stumbling echoes down the hallway of the abandoned house. He looks at the litter scattered around the room and down the second story hallway that leads to a steep spiraling metal staircase to the third floor attic. Beyond the spiraling stairs is the wide, steep staircase leading to the first floor foyer. The air smells musty causing Sam to step closer to the window. The threat of getting a little damp is better than breathing the odor. He fixes his eyes out the window onto the single story ranch house across the street where a black Daewoo LX4 sits in the driveway.

The houses are on Wagon Wheel Avenue, in the Hampshire Neighborhood. The area is sparsely populated. This was a thriving community until the floods, and then realtors couldn't give the lots away. Most new building stopped and very few residents stayed. Abandoned buildings such as this one are commonplace - a haven for gangs. Graffiti covers the inside and outside of many buildings and small bands of youth patrol their turf like soldiers in a combat zone. A few carry makeshift clubs made out of scrap lumber. Most have knifes, and some have hand guns. Sam watches as a group gets out of a car on a distant block and run into an abandoned house.

On a daily basis the street is lined with big 4x4's, dump trucks, and vans of construction workers hired by the city to clean up the flood mess. They pile large debris with their bobcats and by hand. Steady work for a depressed community. The rain however, keeps the workers at bay at least for today.

About a hundred feet up Wagon Wheel, to the north, is a red Mustang. Mike sits watching the residence where the Daewoo is parked. A tall pile of construction trash shields him from the house. Occasionally he glances up from his PSP toward the Daewoo, or checks and rechecks the safety on his Colt Forty-Five but mostly he concentrates on his game.

To the south about three hundred feet from the Daewoo on Wagon Wheel is a green 4x4 with Ken behind its wheel. He too is playing his PSP with a Y-FI hook up to Mike. He hasn't looked up at the house for many minutes and for the most part forgotten about his assignment. A twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun rests across the passenger seat along with an overturned box of shells. A brush pile separates him from the Daewoo.

The neighborhood is quiet except for the splattering of rain and the infrequent rumbling of thunder.

Sam leans on an interior doorway where he can clearly see the Daewoo and smokes a cigarette. He does not carry a gun, but prefers a baseball bat, a 32 Spalding. From here he can see Mike's car clearly but not the house where the Daewoo is parked or Ken's truck. He exhales blowing a thin stream of smoke that hangs in the thick moist air. The smoke drifts like a cloud on a cool breeze down the hallway toward the spiral stairs. He steps to the window taking cover next to the wall. From here he can see Ken clearly playing a hand-held game and not paying much attention to anything else. The Daewoo and house stand still and lifeless, worn from the floods. A dirty dark brown water line from the flood circles the residence about three feet up the blue siding. The yard is mud, and the concrete drive zigzags with cracks. Sam looks down at his cigarette and flicks it out the window.

Mike looks up at the window in time to see the trail of smoke looping through the air left behind by the tumbling cigarette butt. He yawns, stretches with one arm out the side of his car, before looking down the street. From his view-point he can only see the grill of Ken's 4x4. A large brush pile hides the rest of the truck. The game is getting tiring as the rain is all but stopped. He tosses his PSP on the passenger seat and decides to call Ken to change games but Ken does not answer. This worries Mike as Ken normally answers his phone no matter what is going on. Getting out and walking over is not an option as Vincent might see him, and if he drove, it would definitely give him away. He must get out of his car and move directly from his cover to the far end of Sam's vacant lookout. From there he can see Kens truck. As Mike reaches the corner of the house he is surprised to see the truck vacant. Even at over one hundred feet away it appears Ken has abandoned his post. _Shit Ken, where are you? Maybe with Sam?_ As Mike turns to the back of the house he stops suddenly horrified as a large blue shirt stands directly in his path. Mike shoves the shirt and bulk pushing the imposing figure backward a step.

Ken shoves Mikes hands aside, "Hey, what are you trying to do!"

"Shit Ken what do mean sneaking up on me...you scared the shit right out of me."

"Sorry Dude, but I had to take a leak, and well, when duty calls."

"Did you have to scare me like that?"

"Well... sure," Ken smiles, "What were you doing out here anyway?"

"Couldn't get you on the phone, so I thought...never mind. I guess while we're here we should check on Sam."

"Yeah, maybe he has something to eat."

Sam steps into the hall listening to Mike and Ken's heavy footsteps echoing in the house. He steps back into the small room used as his lookout point as the footsteps behind him grow louder.

Outside, Vincent stands below the window listening. In his hand is a device of his own creation – part Molotov-Cocktail and Grenade – with a T-n-T twist. He casually pulls the pin at the top of the glass bottle while squeezing the triggering handle. He steps away from the building and tosses it through the window. The handle springs loose with a loud ping and the fuse ignites causing sparks and white smoke to fountain from the bottle top. Vincent's toss is perfect. The bottle enters the room tumbling end over end, and shatters as it hits the floor. The grenade explodes along with the T-n-T in a ball of yellow, red, and blue flame.

Ken and Mike stagger backward and fall through a rotted wall into another room. Fire engulfs their clothes, face and hands as they roll and pat themselves frantically trying to extinguish the flames. A timber falls onto their heads – popping their skulls like pimples.

Sam sails into the hallway with his clothes on fire where he meets the splintered point of a two by four – he dies instantly as the point impales his midsection, blood pools at his feet soaking into the rotten carpet.

Vincent ducks as the explosion sends debris out the window and over his head. Black smoke pours from the window mixed with flames. He smiles and walks slowly away to the Daewoo. He opens the driver's side door and slides onto the driver's seat.

"Isn't it lovely," the disembodied voice laughs.

"Shut up," Vincent said softly as he turns the key in the ignition.

"The flames, the smoke, and the smell of bar-b-que," the voice laughs louder and more hardily.

"Shit! I hate you. I really, really do," Vincent said as he places the car in gear and backs it out of the driveway. Then he pauses watching the flames dance out of the window and the smoke radiate off the roof.

Selma sips her black coffee from a Styrofoam cup while keeping a steady watch on the Ruins. She is with Lee who sits behind the wheel of their unmarked squad car staring at the billowing smoke in the distance to the north. They car sits on the banks of the Albany, behind thick brush not far from the broken asphalt parking lot of, the Ruins

"That FBI guy is taking over the case isn't he," Lee asks while taking a drink of his coffee.

"Yep," Selma takes a drink of her coffee.

"What, does he think he is going solve the murders?" Lee jokes.

"Yep," answers Selma while tilting the cup up and drinking the last of the ebony fluid as she continues staring at the parking lot.

"What is wrong with you," demands Lee.

"Nothing," Selma said as she points towards the parking lot.

Lee looks through the windshield and sees a Daewoo stopping near a light pole.

"So, that's the Daewoo?" Lee said and reaches in the back seat for his belt holster.

"Looking for this," Vincent said as he sits up in the seat pointing a .357 magnum at Lee.

"Woo..." Lee moans as he leans away from the gun.

Selma turns looking at Vincent but before she can pull her service revolver Vincent fires three quick blasts into the back of the front seat. Lee groans and falls over onto Selma's lap. Smoke rises from the seat and blood pours from the three wounds in Lee's chest.

Selma frantically pushes Lee away as Vincent reaches out and covers her mouth with a rag soaked in chloroform. Selma struggles trying desperately to push Vincent away, but the chloroform overwhelms her. Her eyes roll back into their sockets and she passes out.

Long thin clouds roll in from the northeast, as the sunset cast a red glow with orange and yellow streaks of color through the clouds. The river rolls swiftly by while rising from the recent rains sending panic through the remaining residents of the upper Hampshire Neighborhood. Over the past few years the river has taken its toll and even the die-hard survivors are wearily watching the river for the sixth time this year. They too have had enough. Few join the line filling and stacking sandbags - it is all fruitless. By The Ruins, Vincent watches the river too. Slowly, the unmarked squad car rolls down the embankment disappearing beneath the swirling muddy current with Lee lying in its front seat.

Vincent turns to his assistant, Brandon Coachman, "Everything in place?"

"Everything, except for you getting the hell out of here," Brandon replies as he wipes his hands on a rag.

Vincent places his hand on Brandon's shoulder, while holding the other one behind his back and smiles, "You're a great help. I couldn't have done any of this without you."

"Thanks, "Brandon said shyly, "but you said you would tell me what this was all about when we were through, and it looks like we are through," Brandon lowers his head and then looks up at Vincent, "I've done all you asked, I watched out last night, and made phone calls for you. I even dumped that woman in the river."

"That reminds me," Vincent smirks as he squeezes Brandon's shoulder, "You know a lot of my activities yesterday. You also know my face."

"I...I won't say a word, I promise you." Brandon stammers and begins to step away as Vincent lunges forward raising his hand from behind his back revealing a long bladed knife. Brandon lifts his arm to block the downward stab. The blade slices through his forearm and deeply pierces his side. Vincent pushes the blade hard, driving it through Brandon's ribs.

Brandon gasps before dropping to his knees. He looks up at Vincent who leans over him gritting his teeth and breathing heavily. Vincent smiles, and then pushes one last time with a twist of the handle tuning the blade. Brandon's mouth closes as blood trickles out from between his lips and he falls to his side. Vincent stands with Brandon's blood smeared on his shirt and pants. The corpse lay on the muddy bank of the Albany still and lifeless.

Vincent looks down at his friend, "Crap!" Vincent falls to his knees next to Brandon, "Damn it, look what I've done." He reaches out pulling the knife from Brandon's side.

Rain begins to fall heavily again, washing away the blood pooling next to Brandon's corpse and on Vincent's clothes. Thunder claps amid the heavy downpour. Lighting flashes with crackling distant thunder but this does not shake Vincent from his deep consultations. Darkness permeates around him and a sense of deep loneliness surrounds the morsels of what was once Vincent. He slowly begins walking away. His strides are short as he walks quietly in the rain and mud.

"Oh, what's the matter with you," the disembodied voice whispers into his ear.

"Get away from me," Vincent growls softly.

"Did your little friend get a boo boo," the voice laughs and then fades away.

"Dick head," Vincent whispers as he struggles to step forward. He lifts his head looking towards the yellow bricks.

"I've brought you a long way, haven't I?" The voice whispers, "in there is why we came here today.... now go and finish it!"

Vincent stops and looks across the broken asphalt toward the glass less storefronts,

"Yes, we can. We can stop it here, today," he said solemnly.

But he knows it will all start again in the next town somewhere. He does not know why he kills only that he must. He goes under some kind of a spell, a trance of some kind, and then when he awakens death confronts him, bloody hands. The voice, the driving force in his mind leaves him for a short time after the killing. It enters the bodies and removes a glowing amber, then places it in a jar. He latches the top closed, and places it in the trunk of the Daewoo. Why it wants these he does not know. The worse part is he remembers it all like a bad dream - a dream that never ends.

Selma struggles trying to squeeze her hands through handcuffs holding her to an old pipe above her head. She recognizes them as handcuffs by feel, not by sight. She is blindfolded, her feet are tied together – she is clothed but shoeless. As she struggles with the handcuffs she shifts her feet and occasionally her toes strike something sharp, cutting them. Pausing for a moment, she listens to the silence as she had when she first awoke. Still, she hears no recognizable sounds, only the dripping of water into some distant pool. To her right is a rough wall where she rest leaning against it. Her wrists soar and her legs tremble from exhaustion.

The blindfold is loose and she rubs her head against the rough wall in an attempt to force the cloth off her eyes. She presses her head on the wall and then pushes up with her feet. The blindfold slips down onto the bridge of her nose and she can see the handcuffs above her head as a faint light illuminates the room. She pushes again and the blindfold pushes further down across her nose exposing her eyes completely.

"What the hell," she gasps as she beholds the room before her – double edge razor blades stand on edge covering a makeshift wooden floor.

The blades are less than an inch apart. Covering the floor in-between the razors is large chunks of broken glass. The room is about ten by ten and on the far wall is a man in a suit. He too is in handcuffs and hangs from his wrists on the same steel pipe. He is not conscious and in the dim light Selma cannot tell who he is or if he is alive. She looks around the room to the open doorway to her left where the bladed wooden floor ends giving way to a concrete staircase leading down. That's when she notices a thin red beam of light, about knee-high, across the doorway entrance.

_A trip,_ she mumbles and then continues examining the room. The light source is an old kerosene lantern hung on a nail just a few feet from her. The kerosene odor is weak, and she assumes it had not been lit long. If it had the odor in this enclosed space would be stronger. On the wall opposite the doorway is a window covered in black paper. Below the window is a small end-table with an old dial phone sitting on it. A telephone wire runs from it to a wall outlet. She finds this odd, but what isn't odd about the room.

She twists her body in an effort to look behind her and when she does the pipe above her head gives a little. Its holdings are loose. She works the handcuffs toward the end of the pipe slipping the cuffs off the end. She lowers her arms and removes the blindfold from her face, then turns resting her back against the wall, she rubs her wrists.

The man groans.

She looks over at the man who lifts himself to a standing position and looks over at her.

"Josh...how?" Selma stammers.

"What, where are we?" Josh asks.

"Josh, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I think so," Josh answers as he rubs the back of his head.

"What happened?"

"We were in route when my driver suddenly became ill and we pulled over. I was helping him and I got clobbered from behind. Everything went black. What about you?"

"Well, we were on stake out watching The Ruins when our suspect got us from behind. He shot my partner ...If I ever get my hands on that little fucker!"

"How did you get loose?"

"The pipe is not connected over here, and I was able to slip the cuffs off it."

"That is weird. Why would someone go through this much trouble and then allow you the ability to get free? It doesn't make sense."

"Yeah, I know. Look at the doorway."

"A trip," Josh said questioning himself.

"Yeah ...I wonder."

"You wonder what," Vincent said from the stairs and then laughs. He watches as his two captives turn toward him surprised, "Hello, don't be so surprised to see me; after all I'm the one you're looking for."

"Motherfu—" Selma starts to step across the room, but stops as she remembers the razor blades, glass and her bare feet. "You better hope I never get my hands on you, you piece of shit."

"Now, now...don't be too hasty. You're just mad because I killed your partner, Lee."

"And all those women." Josh adds.

"And men, don't forget. They all deserved to die." Vincent said giggling. "but you two, you're just doing your job."

"Then let us go." Selma demands.

"I plan on doing just that." He turns to Josh, "You followed me across country and this is as close as you have ever been, for that you deserve a break." Then he speaks directly to Selma, "You're young, new and deserve a second chance."

"Gee, I'm all choked up, come over here so I can show you my appreciation," Selma said sneering.

"I'm sure that would be fun, but no. Here is what we are going to do. Detective, where you stand is about five feet from the phone by the window. Outside the window, on a string is the key to the agent's handcuffs. Also, outside the window is a ladder leading to safety. So, here is the game – get the key and let the agent loose, then both of you climb down the ladder to safety or you can forget about the key and climb down the ladder to save yourself. It is your choice."

"That sounds all—."

"To easy," Vincent interrupts Josh, "Yes, to make it more interesting I have a bomb set on a timer of two minutes. If you try to escape through the door the bomb will be tripped by this laser or by the door at the bottom of the stairs when it is opened. You must go out through the window. One more thing...if you both escape the bomb will not go off, and I will surrender Patty to you. If not, well, I will enjoy her over and over again."

"You're a sick bastard!" Selma said and spits at him.

Vincent wipes the spit from his face, "Good shot, for that though, you lost one minute."

"Screw you," Selma sneers.

"The time will begin when you hear the phone ring," Vincent laughs and walks down the stairs.

Selma immediately begins examining the window and the razors on the floor. She questions if the small table will hold her if she jumped over to it.

The phone rings once and Selma leaps into action. She reaches out as far as she can to the table with her handcuffed hands. Her fingertips barely touch the table edge but it is enough to tip the table over. The table bangs on the razor littered floor. She kicks the tabletop breaking off its legs. Then she presses the flat tabletop to the floor stepping on it to the window. She rips the black paper, lifts the window open and frantically looks outside for the string with the key.

There is none.

To her right on the roof she hears a chirp. She sees a squirrel with the string and the key dangling from its mouth, "Fucking tree rat!"

The explosion is enormous and sends a ball of yellow and red flame high into the stormy night sky. Most residents do not hear the explosion as it mixes in perfectly with the thunder. Those stacking sandbags see the flame as it reaches above the trees surrounding them.

The next day O'Donnell stands at The Ruins looking at the burnt corpses of a male and female.

"Any ID Ralph?" Chief O'Donnell asks the coroner.

"Nah, I will have to do a dental," Ralph said as he wipes his hands.

"Shit, Officer Davis, have you any word on Detective Porters, or Agent Salvatore," O'Donnell asks.

"No, none."

"Officer Sullivan and Couch front and center. Have you heard anything from Detective Lee?"

"No Sir," responds officer Couch

"No, Sir" acknowledges Officer Sullivan.

"Ok, thanks," O'Donnell said and then motions for Officer Hankins. "Have you heard..."

"No," Hankins interrupts him.

"Thanks...somebody find them!" O'Donnell yells and throws his hands into the air.

In Tampa, a Daewoo is parked outside an ocean front building. Inside, Vincent answers the phone, "Thank you for calling Tidal Cable, our picture goes in and out like the tide! How can I help you?"

"Listen, you piece of shit. If you don't help me I'll come down there and move your tide in and out," the caller yells.

"Sure sir," Vincent smiles, "May I have your name and phone number. I'll be more than happy to help you with that!"

End – Part One, The Ruins

Thank you for Reading, Daewoo – The Ruins. Please leave a review on Amazon. Thank you so much.

