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Rubicon Ranch

Book One

Riley's Story

A collaborative novel by

Lazarus Barnhill

Eric Beetner and JB Kohl

Nichole R Bennett

Pat Bertram

JJ Dare

Christine Husom

Deborah J Ledford

Nancy A Niles

By Second Wind Publishing

at Smashwords

Dagger Books

Published by Second Wind Publishing, LLC.

Kernersville

Dagger Books

Second Wind Publishing, LLC

931-B South Main Street, Box 145

Kernersville, NC 27284

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the authors' imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Second Wind Publishing LLC

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

First Dagger Books edition published May 2012.

Dagger Books, Running Angel, and all production design are trademarks of Second Wind Publishing, used under license.

For information regarding bulk purchases of this book, digital purchase and special discounts, please contact the publisher at www.secondwindpublishing.com

Cover design by Pat Bertram

Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-938101-08-3

Working on this collaboration with nine authors who have never met was like jumping off a diving board into murky waters. We wrote with no idea of who the killer might be, and we didn't find out until the very end. Luckily, we all survived the plunge.

Read more about Rubicon Ranch at www.rubiconranch.wordpress.com
Chapter 1: Melanie Gray  
by Pat Bertram

Melanie Gray dressed all in white—loose cotton pants, billowing long-sleeved top, wide-brimmed straw hat, flowing scarf. She checked her pockets to make sure she had her cell phone, camera, and extra memory card, then grabbed a canteen of water, slung the strap over her shoulder like a bandolier, and stepped outside. Heat scorched her lungs and the glare of the desert sun burned her tear-sore eyes.

She hesitated. Maybe she should stay inside today. Seven o'clock in the morning, and the temperature had already climbed into the hundreds. She was more of a mountain girl—though at forty-three she could hardly be called a girl—and preferred the cool of higher elevations. To be fair, Rubicon Ranch lay three thousand feet above sea level, and the harsh weather and bleak desert vistas suited her present mood, but she hadn't slept well lately, hadn't slept much at all since Alexander died, and she had little strength to deal with the present heat wave.

Damn Alexander anyway. Why did he have to wreck the car and get himself killed? Didn't he know better than to text while driving? And how could he have already spent their advance? Had he squandered it on the woman he'd been texting?

Melanie strode down the driveway to Delano Road, wishing their publisher wasn't holding her to the contract for this final coffee table book. If she still had the advance, she could return the money, find somewhere to burrow, and heal in privacy, but now she had to finish the book of desert scenes by herself, and she knew nothing about photography—Alexander always took the pictures, she wrote the blurbs. Her only option was to shoot as many photos as possible using her small digital camera, and hope that by lucky accident some would be publishable.

When she reached the road, she hesitated again. Right or left? Odd how she couldn't seem to make up her mind about anything since Alexander's death. Not that it mattered which way she went. Most roads in Rubicon Ranch eventually wound to the desert.

Turning left on Delano Road was the shorter route—the desert lay a scant two hundred yards from her rented house—but she seldom went that way. Cut off from the vast stretches of wilderness by rocky knolls, the region had become a cross between a town park and a city dump. She'd have to dodge bicyclists, skirt discarded furniture, and climb over the steep knolls to get to the wilds. Turning right, as she usually did, she could amble through pleasant suburban streets before reaching the trails that would take her to the remote wilderness areas.

The heat radiating off the blacktop made up her mind for her. It would be cooler in the desert, if only by a couple of degrees, so the sooner she got there the better. She turned left.

As she neared the house two doors down, she felt the disturbing sensation of being scrutinized. She didn't need to search for those observant eyes. She knew exactly who was watching. An old man always sat on the porch, like a land-locked amphibian, staring at everyone going by. Another reason she preferred the long way—she hated anyone knowing her business, especially now when her emotions were so raw.

"Damn you, Alexander," she whispered fiercely. "How could you have done this to me?"

Alexander didn't answer. He never did, which was just as well. If she ever saw him again, she'd kill him herself.

When Melanie reached the end of the pavement and stepped onto the rutted desert track, she slipped the camera out of her pocket, and took photos at random while she walked.

"There is nothing new under the sun or the moon," Alexander used to say. "The only thing that makes one photo different from any other is the artist's eye." He always referred to himself as an artist, and though it annoyed her, she knew he was right. Each of his photos, even those he dismissed as being postcard-pretty, was brilliant, showing a vision of the world uniquely his. Besides being artistically brilliant, they were physically brilliant, capturing light in such a way it seemed to reflect the viewer's soul.

Melanie stopped by an overturned sofa, pointed the camera, and clicked the shutter. How could she ever fool the publisher? He'd know immediately that these photos came from someone without artistic vision.

A horn beeping in the distance caught her attention. A white SUV slowly traveled along a narrow road, following two massive dogs. Whenever the dogs strayed too far afield, the horn sounded, and the creatures loped back to the vehicle. She snapped a photo of the scene, then headed for the rocky trail that would take her to the other side of the knolls.

A man and woman jogged by in tandem, he running heel to toe, she running toe to heel. Melanie photographed their footprints so she wouldn't have to look at the couple. Is this the way the rest of her life would be? Alone, trying to avoid the pain of seeing people in pairs?

Keeping her gaze on the trail, she climbed the knoll. When she reached the top, a faint breeze stirred her clothes, and she could feel the coolness of her drying sweat. She lifted her head and jutted out her chin. I can do this.

She'd never understood the lure of photography, but now, snapping image after image of the desert and the distant hills, she could appreciate how much simpler and cleaner the world appeared when seen on the screen of a camera. Some of the photos actually seemed passable. She really could do this.

She turned around to get shots of the trail she'd just climbed and saw a glint of metal reflecting the sun. She squinted. What was that? A television? She found herself smiling—her first smile since Alexander died. She scrambled back down the trail. The television console had been dumped a long time ago judging by the creosote bushes that had grown up around it, but footprints leading to the box suggested it had been visited recently. She took several shots from the trail, about fifteen yards from the television, then moved closer. The television had no screen, and she could see that something had been stuffed inside. A doll? She crept closer. Ten feet away, she stopped to take another photo, and the truth washed over her. Not a doll. Crammed inside the cabinet was a child, a girl, her eyes half-eaten by some desert predator.

A scream of rage gathered in her chest, but the only sound she made was a whimper. No! Not more death! Feeling tears gathering behind her eyes, she sucked in air and blew it out. It would be hard enough dealing with the cops without blubbering like a fool.

When she got control of herself, she called 911, told the dispatcher where she was, who she was, and why she was calling. After stowing the cell phone in her pocket, she took another photo of the dead girl, then stepped back to get a wider view of the scene.

An ominous hiss and rattle startled her. Heart pounding, she slowly turned around. In the shade beneath a creosote bush lay an avocado-hued rattlesnake, its head raised and curled in her direction. Carefully, she moved a few feet away. The snake relaxed back into a heap. Heart pounding with excitement, she focused her camera on the creature and clicked the shutter. As she was snapping a second photo, the snake raised its head and rattled its tail at her again.

She retreated to the relative safety of the path. A quick check of the stored images told her the photos were stunning, both menacing and beautiful. A feeling of exultation washed over her. She'd managed to shoot a Mojave green rattler, something even Alexander hadn't done!

As suddenly as it came, the feeling of exultation evaporated. The cops would be here any moment. Would they confiscate her camera? Demand the memory card?

Fumbling in her haste, she replaced the memory card in the camera with the spare, then, standing in place and slowly pivoting, took photos of the desert floor, the knolls, footprints on the path, the bushes where she'd seen the rattlesnake, and finally the television. She even found the courage to return to where she'd been standing when she first saw the little girl's body so she could get images of the footprints around the television. By the time the sheriff's department vehicle raced up Delano Road, she'd taken several dozen photos, enough to keep anyone from wondering if there were more.

The tan SUV pulled to a stop at the bottom of the trail. Two people climbed out—a tall, dark-skinned man who looked like a walking mountain, and an equally tall woman who looked liked a Barbie doll and appeared as indestructible. An Hispanic Barbie doll, Melanie amended when the woman drew close.

"I'm Lieutenant Rosaria Frio and this is Deputy Kelvin Midget. Don't joke with him about his name." This was said without an inflection of humor and seemed so inappropriate that Melanie had no response.

She gestured toward the television. As the pair moved away from her, she said, "Watch out for rattlesnakes." Deputy Midget started and gave a furtive look around, but Lieutenant Frio reacted not at all.

Melanie started shaking and the energy drained out of her. She toddled to a hassock-size rock and crumpled onto it in a sitting heap. Elbows on knees, face in hands, she tried to control herself, but the shaking didn't stop.

A few minutes later, she heard approaching footsteps.

"Is she crying, Kelvin?" Lieutenant Frio asked.

"Probably adrenaline shakes," came Deputy Midget's unexpectedly high-pitched response.

"What is she doing out here?"

"Jogging, maybe."

"Not a jogger. Not in that outfit. Why is she dressed like that?"

"Why don't you ask her?" This last was spoken in a voice as smooth as melted chocolate.

Melanie jerked up her head. A second man had joined the deputies. He was tall, several inches taller than Melanie—perhaps 5'11"—but he seemed short standing next to Frio and Midget. Jeans and a white shirt with a badge on the shoulder clothed his lean, flat-bellied body, and a navy blue ball cap with a yellow "Sheriff" embroidered on it covered most of his dark brown hair. He wore mirrored sunglasses, the kind she'd only seen on vintage cop shows.

"I'm Sheriff Seth Bryan," he said with a long, slow smile that went beyond charming and stopped short of a leer.

Melanie tensed at the subtle hint of sexuality. The sheriff tilted his head like a bird about to peck, and she realized he was trying to intimidate her in his own peculiar way. The silly exchange between the deputies had probably also been an attempt to intimidate her. She jutted out her chin, and the sheriff's grin softened.

"Come sit in my vehicle," he said. He held out an arm as if to usher her down the trail.

She stood her ground, glancing from him to his immobile deputies. "Do you think I had something to do with the little girl's death? Am I under arrest?"

The sheriff's eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. "Should you be?"

"I'm not a suspect."

Again that birdlike tilt of his head. "Oh?"

"I couldn't have done it." She gestured to the town below. "The killer had to have came from there. You won't find my tracks leading up here except for the ones I left today, and that old guy who always sits on the porch can tell you I haven't passed his house in weeks."

"You could have climbed over the knoll," Frio said.

Melanie shook her head. "The killer didn't come that way. The trail is narrow and steep, and he or she would have had to carry the body the whole way. Even though the poor girl probably didn't weigh much, it still would have been a foolish waste of energy considering the hundreds of acres on the other side where she could have been buried, and no one would ever have found her."

The sheriff put a hand to his mouth. Covering a yawn, or a grin? She wished he'd take of the silly sunglasses so she could read him.

"Come sit in my vehicle," he said again.

"Why?"

"Because it's damn hot out here, that's why."

Head held high, she preceded him down the trail.

He opened the door of a second tan SUV parked next to the first, waited until she got comfortable, then ambled around to the driver's side and hopped behind the steering wheel. He fired up the engine and flipped on the air-conditioner. Melanie expected him to turn on the computer attached to the dashboard to check her out next; instead, he turned and focused stern-faced attention on her.

"So," he said. "Why are you dressed like that?" Then he grinned.

Melanie gritted her teeth. Thumbscrews would be better than this man's rapid change of manner. He seemed to be playing good cop/bad cop all by himself. Or rather, charming cop/aggravating cop.

"You don't know much about the desert, do you?" She tried to sound severe, but the way he leaned toward her as if her comment was the most important thing in the world, disarmed her, and her words came out with a smile.

"I've only been here eighteen months," he said.

"Long enough to learn that loose clothing is the best way to deal with extreme heat." She gestured to a woman in an exercise bra and miniscule shorts who was jogging past the Navigator. "Sweat on naked skin evaporates quickly, making people hotter and more dehydrated than if the sweat were trapped in layers of clothes." She caught a quick breath, wishing she had chosen her words more carefully. Not very bright of her to mention naked skin and set him up for a sexual innuendo.

"Shouldn't you be wearing black?" he asked, without the trace of a leer.

She stared at him. Could he be referring to her mourning for Alexander? How did he know that? Had he already researched her? Then she realized he meant the black clothing of the Tuaregs and other desert peoples. Crap. Everything this man said or did knocked her off balance.

Though she couldn't see his eyes, she could feel the sharpness of his gaze piercing through his sunglasses. "You're Melanie Gray, the woman who called nine-one-one."

"Yes."

"I know that name . . . Melanie Gray. Oh! You do the coffee table books. My wife has your forest book. So you're a photographer?"

Remembering her shot of the snake, Melanie straightened her shoulders. "Yes."

He grinned again, and she realized he knew all along what she did for a living. She opened her mouth to explain why she'd become a photographer, then clamped her lips together. Two could play this game.

Suddenly it sunk in that she was sitting in a cop car with a sheriff who probably suspected her of murder. What the hell was she doing playing games with him? It was always the innocent who had most to fear from the authorities.

She stole a glance at the sheriff. He was looking at her with his brow furrowed and his body drawn away from her as if worried she would get emotional. Had he thought she'd been sobbing when he arrived? Were his quick mood changes a way of keeping her so addled she wouldn't dissolve into tears? Maybe she would be crying for the child if she weren't already filled to the brim with sadness. And anger.

"Shouldn't we be talking about the little girl," she asked.

"We are talking about her."

Melanie shook her head. "I don't know anything anyway. Just what I said when I called it in—that I was taking photos and happened to see the television. I don't think I know the girl, though I didn't get a close look at her, so I can't be sure." She drew her camera from her pocket and made a show of removing the memory card. "Here. You can have this. It's photos I took this morning."

His fingers seemed to linger too long on her palm as he took the card. She cast him an appalled look. Was he coming on to her? Just what she didn't need, another man who couldn't keep his trousers zipped. Had she done something to give him the idea she was interested? Perhaps in trying to keep her misery private, she had gone too far in the other direction, coming across as flip, maybe even flirtatious.

She turned away from the sheriff's disconcerting gaze and tried to remember what she'd said to him. From the tangle of emotions clouding her mind, a single comment surfaced—her glib announcement that the killer had come from town. When the meaning of those words crystallized, she jerked her head around to stare at the sheriff. He nodded as if he'd known what was going through her mind and had been waiting for her to make the connection.

One of her neighbors was a murderer.
Chapter 2: Seth Bryan  
by Lazarus Barnhill

"Look I know you're dressed for the desert and everything," Sheriff Bryan said, "but I hope you won't be offended if I ask you to sit in the unit here for a minute or two and enjoy the air conditioning while I talk to my deputies."

He could tell she was thinking over his request carefully, that Melanie didn't quite trust him. She also didn't act like someone who had just killed a child and was trying to cover it up, although—he judged—she might be clever enough to do just that.

"Well if I have to wait," she said, "I guess I'm better off in here than out in hundred degree weather."

Bryan opened the driver's door. "One hundred and three degrees," he corrected.

Frio and Midget were standing within a few feet of the discarded TV, as if to make sure the child inside did not get out and skip away. Midget paid less attention to the crime scene than the scrub brush and mounds of rock and dirt around him.

"Do we know who this was?" the sheriff asked as he joined them.

"No," Frio said. "If she's from this housing development, it won't be hard to find out. Not too many girls her age up here."

"They don't know she's gone," Midget offered in his falsetto. "Otherwise they would have reported her missing before Flower Child over there found her."

"Yeah, unless they killed her." He glanced back to his Navigator. Melanie was staring at them. "So this Melanie Gray. More to her than meets the eye, you think?"

"Obviously," Frio replied. "With all those clothes she wears, almost nothing meets the eye."

"Yeah." He turned back toward the TV. "I would totally discount her as being involved in any way, except for one thing. From the very first, she talked about this as if it's a murder."

Midget looked down at him. "You think it's not a murder?"

He shrugged. "What is she—eight, nine-years-old? She sneaks out at night after bedtime and loses her way. No one notices she's gone. She gets lost. She gets dehydrated. She finds the TV console and decides to sit it in for shelter. Maybe she dies of exposure. Or maybe one of those green rattlers around here bit her. Since no one could hear her crying for help, she crawled in the TV and the venom got her." He looked up at Midget, who was gazing around them. "You don't like snakes, do you?"

"Do you?"

He chuckled. "So let's proceed as if this is a wrongful death investigation. What do we need to do, Frio?"

She sighed. "Well, I've already called for the coroner and the bus. Midget and I will cordon off this area with tape and protect the scene as much as possible. We need to figure out who the little girl is and notify her parents."

"What if they're dead too?" Midget asked.

"That would be about my luck. What's the name of the old fart who sits out in front of his house drinking tea and eyeballing everybody in the development?"

A broad smile broke across Frio's face. "Mr. Franklin! Eloy Franklin. I had to serve a warrant on him for indecent exposure last year."

"Shit. Did it involve children?"

"No. He had the habit of going around on the side of his house and peeing in the bushes. He knew the workmen building the McMansion next door could see him, but he claimed he didn't know some of them were women."

"Uh-huh. What did he think of you being a woman officer?"

"He mutters a lot, so I wasn't sure what he was saying. Why do you ask about him?"

"He'll know all the little kids in the neighborhood. He can point out which houses we should go to." He kicked at the dirt. "I guess I have to do that part."

The three turned toward the sound of another large vehicle, this one black and unmarked, rolling toward them. The vehicle stopped behind the other SUVs. Fine dust hung in the air about it like a yellow cloud.

"Well the coroner's always prompt," Frio said.

"Got to admire a man who likes a job like his," Midget said.

"You know what to tell him, right Frio? I want everything preserved. And I want TOD."

"Can't be long ago in this heat."

"I know that, Lieutenant. I think that's going to tell us a lot. I want to know about any marks on her and if her hymen is intact. I want to know about any substances—bodily or otherwise. I want to know about old broken bones, old bruises, old—"

"I got it, boss. You want it all."

Bryan looked at the vast desert spreading before them, then over his shoulder toward the Rubicon Ranch development. "Keep track of residents going in and out of this neighborhood. Nobody disappears. Any changes in routine, I want to know about it." He paused. "I don't suppose there's a chance in hell we can keep this away from the media until we figure out what happened and who might be responsible."

"No, sir," Midget replied. "They scan our calls. I've seen 'em stake out the coroner's office and even follow his van. They'll be here soon enough too."

He nodded. "That's the bad part about a commuter community like Rojo Duro County—not enough real news to occupy the media. Well, keep 'em at bay as best you can. And, since we don't know anything, for God's sake don't tell them anything—including what we don't know." He turned toward his car.

Frio shifted, the leather of her holster squeaking. "Where are you going?"

"Guess I'll go see our old pervert and get a heads up about whether or not the girl belongs around here. Where she might have lived. What else he might know."

"What about our witness there?"

"She's going with me," he said, reflection in his voice. "She's holding out on me."

"I knew your charm would fail you one day," Midget said.

He laughed. "No. I haven't propositioned her. Yet. What I mean is, she offered me the digital memory of her camera without my asking."

"So?" Frio asked.

"When people offer you information without your asking for it, there's usually something else they have they're afraid you might ask for." He glanced at the lieutenant. "Wasn't her husband the poor jackass who wrecked out and got himself killed while he was texting?"

"Few weeks ago. Yeah. That was him."

"Actually, she's concealing a lot from me. She told me she was a photographer. She's no photographer. It was her husband who did that. Their bios on that stupid 'forest' book said she wrote the text and the late Mr. Gray was the photog." A smile spread slowly across his face. "I like her."

Midget followed his gaze. "I don't think she's your type, Sheriff."

"Well. She's not a cheerleader and she's not a cop."

"Yeah, but don't you think she's too smart to fall for you?"

He looked up at the massive deputy, who was smirking at him. "How you doing on that weight loss program, Deputy?"

He exchanged a nod with Sweetum, the coroner, as they met and then pulled open the door to his car and slid onto the cool seat. He pushed the gear lever into reverse and glanced at the mirror. Only after he stopped backing up and slipped the unit in drive did he look casually at his passenger, who wore an expression of alarm.

"I guess you're with me," he said

"What do you mean I'm with you?"

"Well." He shrugged. "The other officers all got duties. I'm taking you home."

"Oh." There was a note of relief in her voice.

"Pretty soon. We have to make a stop on the way."

"A stop?"

"Or two."

From the edges of his vision he could see her turn fully toward him. Her cheeks gained a pink, rosy tint against the flawless cream of her oval face. Her voice was tart with anger. "You really think you're somebody, don't you? You think you're the most important guy around."

"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't written even one coffee table book."

Her eyes flared. "Oh, you're The Man, aren't you—tooling around like the king of the county in your Lincoln Navigator."

"Actually I wanted the commissioners to get me a Beamer Z car." He looked down at her. "But—no back seat. In case I have to arrest somebody and bring them in. That's enough playtime. Back to business. I want to know everything you saw. Exactly what you saw from the time you left your house until you found the girl."

Melanie sat back and looked straight ahead. She took a few deep breaths, then answered. "I saw the same things I always see—runners, dogs and dog owners, SUVs. And that old man who sits on his porch and stares at me whenever I walk by."

"You mean this old guy?"

The Navigator whipped into the driveway of a two-story stone house and pulled all the way up to within a dozen feet of where Eloy Franklin sat on his front porch. The old man's eyes grew wide as if surprised at the suddenness of the patrol car's appearance. His fingers tightened on the mostly empty tea glass as he leaned forward in his rocking chair. Slowly he leaned back.

"He seem nervous to you?" the sheriff asked.

"He must know you," she replied tersely.

Bryan opened the door, but sat behind the wheel for an instant. "One thing, Mrs. Gray. Why did you assume from the beginning that the girl was murdered?"

He slid out of the vehicle and closed the door without waiting for her reply. He walked around to the sidewalk up onto the front porch without looking at the man who watched him intently. Only when he leaned against the white porch railing facing Eloy did he speak.

"Do you know why I'm here, Mr. Franklin?"

There was a slight palsy in his face and hands. Bryan thought it might be age or perhaps fear. Rage?

"I ain't committed no crime."

"No?"

"None I ain't paid for."

"That would be good news for me, Mr. Franklin. I have an important question to ask you. You tell me the truth about this and I'm going to get back in my car and leave right now."

"What is it?"

"I know that you know everybody who lives here. I need to know about a little girl. Eight or nine. Curly blonde hair. Thin face. Carries around a faded pink stuffed rabbit. What's her name and where does she live?"

He nodded. "I'm taking you at your word, Seth Bryan, celebrity sheriff." A brief smile—cunning and sly—flashed. "You're asking about the Peterson girl. Them people from up north up in the cul-de-sac."

"Up north?"

"Minnesota, as I hear it."

"What's her name?"

"Riley."

Bryan nodded. "When's the last time you saw her?"

"Yesterday. Before the sun went down."

"Mr. Franklin, I'm pretty sure nothing in this neighborhood escapes you. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in the last twenty-four hours? Did anybody act in some way they don't normally act? Come and go at different times or take different routes or walk in different places than usual?"

Eloy stared at him. Bryan could not read his expression.

"I didn't see anything I don't always see. . . . The girl's dead, isn't she?"

He turned back toward his unit. "If you think of anything, Mr. Franklin, or if you want to talk to me, you know how to get a hold of me."

He slid into his seat and dropped the car into reverse. Melanie was watching him.

"You scared him." When he didn't respond, she said, "Do you really think that feeble old man could harm a child? And then carry her body out to the desert and stuff her into a TV?"

"You don't?"

"I don't think he can do anything but shuffle into his kitchen and back out to his rocking chair."

"Hmm. Maybe so. How do you suppose he scampers up to that second story window?"

"What?"

"You've never noticed him up there in the evening? It's easier for him to break out his binoculars and look up and down the subdivision without being seen."

Her face was so open, he could almost read her thoughts in her changing expression as she considered his words, probably wondering if she had ever seen the old man in the upper front window of his house, wondering if this was something the sheriff knew or if was he simply playing more mind games with her.

He hid a smile. He really did like this woman.

He drove slowly up the hill, eased into the uppermost cul-de-sac, and coasted to a stop at the curb in front of a stucco two-story. A silver SUV and a black luxury sedan sat in the driveway.

The sheriff's shoulders sagged. He hadn't expected to have to deal with both parents at once. He looked over at Melanie. "I would appreciate your help with this. It's my job to tell them, I know. Only, if this goes the way I think it's going to, these people are going to want to talk to you. They're going to want to ask you what you saw. How you found her. Will you come in with me?"

"These are her parents?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure. I saw their vehicles when they first moved in not long after I got here myself. Minnesota plates. These are the Petersons and I think they have a daughter named Riley."

"Riley." A wave of emotion passed over her face, and he thought she would refuse to help. Then, with a sigh, she said, "Okay. I'll do it for Riley. And for her parents."

They got out of the Navigator together and walked toward the slate gray front door. Bryan rang the doorbell. She stood behind him, waiting.

The door opened to reveal an altogether average-looking man, unshaven, wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants and holding a coffee mug. His head jerked—anxiously, Bryan thought—when he saw the officer in uniform.

"Yes?" His voice had a nervous edge as well.

"Mr. Peterson?"

"Yeah. Jeff. Jeff Peterson"

"I'm Seth Bryan, sheriff of Rojo Duro County. This here," he extended an upturned hand toward Melanie, "is Mrs. Gray. She's one of your neighbors. We were wondering if we could come in for a minute."

Jeff backed away from the door. "Uh, sure. Come on in."

He led them through a large, airy entry down a hallway into a kitchen. Sitting at the table in a smart pantsuit, looking up from the morning newspaper, was a woman as fit in her appearance as Jeff was slouchy in his. If the husband had seemed anxious, the wife seemed displeased and impatient.

"Honey. This is—I'm sorry."

"Sheriff Seth Bryan. And this is Mrs. Melanie Gray. She lives down the street."

"Yes," the woman replied without rising. "You're the writer whose husband died in the car wreck." She folded her paper and stood up, extending her hand to the sheriff. "I'm Kourtney Peterson. How can we help you?"

Bryan took off his baseball cap. "Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, do you have a daughter?"

For just an instant it seemed as if Kourtney Peterson swayed backward, shock in her eyes. Then she regained her composure. "Yes, of course. Our daughter Riley."

Jeff Peterson on the other hand reached out for the back of one of the kitchen chairs to support himself.

"Where is your daughter now, ma'am?"

As his wife opened her mouth to speak, Jeff back away from the table. He looked toward the ceiling.

"Riley!" He dashed from the room. "Riley?" There was the sound of his feet pounding up hardwood stairs.

The three who remained in the kitchen gazed at each other. Kourtney seemed intent on neither offering nor asking for information. Bryan listened to the panicked search of the father, clearly audible from upstairs. Melanie stared at the mother, struggling to understand her reaction—or lack of reaction.

The frantic steps of the father came back down the stairs, slowing as he entered the kitchen. His face was full of dread as he asked, "Where is Riley? Why are you here?"

Bryan took a breath and said, "This morning Mrs. Gray was taking photographs in the desert a few hundred yards outside the subdivision. There was some debris out there. People had dumped some household goods. As she was taking photos, she found a child. A child who was not living. This little girl is about nine-years-old or so. She had curly blonde hair. She was holding a faded stuffed animal."

"Oompah!" the father cried out. He began to sob, pulling out the chair and collapsing into it. "Her rabbit. Oh my God." He moaned, covering his face with his hands.

"What happened to Riley?"

Bryan turned his attention to the mother. "We don't know, ma'am. There are no obvious signs of trauma. She might have died of exposure. Of course, we haven't ruled out foul play either. Right now the coroner is out in the desert with her. They'll take her back to town. We'll need you two to go down this morning and positively identify this child." He paused until the father's sobs subsided. "Afterwards the doctor will conduct a postmortem examination and that will help us determine the cause of death."

He paused, waiting for their questions. Waiting for the grief that so often burst forth from parents who lost a young child. Waiting for some response from them, a response that did not come. He rubbed his chin and slipped the ball cap back onto his head.

"Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, do either of you have any idea what happened? Did you daughter have a habit of sleepwalking or perhaps running away? Was there anyone in the neighborhood who might have expressed some intent to harm her?"

The mother shook her head. "No. Nothing like that. As far as we knew this morning, Riley was upstairs asleep in her bed. Like always."

He nodded. "I'm so sorry to have to share this news with you. We'll be leaving now." He produced a business card and set it gently on the table. "This is my private number. Please call me if I can do anything to help or if you think of anything that would help us understand what happened. We have your contact information in the sheriff's office. Officers will be coming in the next hour or so to escort you to the coroner's office."

No other word was spoken as Kourtney left Jeff sitting at the table and walked the two of them to the front door.

In silence Bryan and Melanie climbed into the patrol car. Bryan turned on the ignition and backed out of the driveway. They headed out of the cul-de-sac down the hill.

"I live—"

"I know where you live." He glanced at her. "Do you have children?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Me neither. . . . If you did, and one of them turned up dead, would you react the way those people did?"

"No. No way." He passed three houses before she spoke again. "So you were just jerking me around when you said they'd want to talk to me, right?"

"Not at all. When a child dies like this, the parents have a million questions. I just knew they'd want to ask you exactly where you were and exactly how you found her and what she looked like. Hell, they didn't ask a thing."

"Hmm. It was more like they were afraid you were going to ask them something."
Chapter 3: Jeff and Kourtney Peterson  
by J B Kohl and Eric Beetner

Jeff Peterson stood at the window in his home office, the wide expanse of desert out before him. The starkly beautiful view went unseen as he stared down at his hands, fingers working a paper clip against the cuticles of his left hand. Beads of blood grew against his nails but he did not stop.

His daughter, his precious daughter . . . dead.

The Rolling Stones played on the stereo. He'd put on "Brown Sugar" as a tribute to Riley. Her favorite. He'd been bound and determined to raise the girl with good taste in music. No "The Wheels On The Bus" for his special one. She'd been the only nine-year-old in town who even knew what a record player looked like.

After the song, Jeff let Mick and the boys play on, the memories rushing in. Leaving him gasping for air.

Each day for the past nine years he'd fended off the flood of thoughts threatening to drown him. Each day he devoted himself to Riley for fear that anything less than pure, unconditional love would undermine what it took to get her.

Now that she lay dead, a brutal act no daughter deserved, the levees broke. Nothing more held back the memories of what he had done those years ago.

Jeff and Kourtney tried everything to have a child. At first they could joke about it. The trying part was even fun for a little while. After all, it involved lots and lots of sex. Even when they first visited a specialist they could still joke about it to close friends, about trying the "turkey baster" approach to getting pregnant. Over time, it became less funny.

Jeff suggested they look into adoption but Kourtney insisted on trying increasingly complicated and expensive attempts. Jeff nodded along. Their marriage had been a long series of compromises. Kourtney stating emphatically what she wanted and Jeff compromising what he wanted in order to keep her happy, each time swallowing the bitter pill and keeping his mouth shut about his own feelings.

Four years and over eighty thousand dollars later the doctors announced that the couple fell into the category of "unexplained infertility." They were given pamphlets on donor eggs, surrogates, and adoption. Kourtney threw them out.

And then, just as so many friends and relatives said would happen, they got pregnant. Jeff wanted to punch someone anytime they said in a cheerful, ignorant way, "I bet as soon as you stop trying so hard, it'll happen naturally." Condescending, uninformed bullshit.

Yet there he stood looking at an ultrasound image of his wife's belly and the tiny peanut-shaped shadow they could call their child. All the hurt and frustration of the previous four years vanished.

Side 1 on the LP ran out and the needle made scratching loops around the final ring of vinyl. Jeff flipped the Stones record and set the needle down on side 2, leaving a smear of blood on the label. He kept the volume high and the door closed, uninterested in speaking to Kourtney. She offered no comfort, only painful reminders of what she'd made him do. He felt it every day since then, in that cold hospital ward. The fierce Minnesota winter howling outside.

The cries of babies in the room next door bore holes in his skull as she said the words out loud. Words he knew he should reject. Absurd notions, illegal plans. But, like always, he nodded his head and did what he was told. Their child may have been stillborn, but Jeff had been born without a spine.

The first signs of complications came in the second trimester. They'd known from the start theirs was a "high-risk" pregnancy. Kourtney spent months in bed and Jeff did everything he could to keep her and his unborn daughter safe and comfortable until it came time to welcome the girl they would name Riley into the world and put the ordeal behind them.

Her welcome party turned out to be a funeral.

Jeff had never seen anyone sink so deep as Kourtney. He knew he was losing her. There could be no recovery from this. He'd seen the impossibly small, blue-tinted shape of his daughter as she was rushed from the delivery room. Kourtney had been under anesthesia and never got a chance to lay eyes on her beyond the fuzzy ultrasound printout on their refrigerator.

Jeff wished he'd never seen the limp, silent ghost of a body. His sole image of his flesh and blood became a fleeting vision of a helpless, dying child. A small and weak result of his insufficient sperm. His lack of manhood.

When Kourtney finally said it out loud, Jeff saw it first as a good sign. She started joking again, albeit a gallows humor. Take another child from the nursery. A child they deserved. Take one from the woman down the hall in for her seventh. That smug way she refused the drugs and laughed it off like giving birth was just another Tuesday afternoon.

Jeff waited for a punch line. Kourtney stared him down. She was serious. She wanted Jeff to take another family's child and run.

He looked out over the scrub brush and distant mountains, at the hiding place they'd escaped to. The view came straight from the fancy brochure for Rubicon Ranch Kourtney showed him and declared, without asking, that this would be their new home. A PLACE TO REDISCOVER. RECONNECT. REVIVE read the slogan. A world away from the Minnesota cold. A world away from the person he thought he was.

Kidnapper. Child thief.

His only solace came in knowing he'd been the best father he could. Riley worshiped him. They weren't just father and daughter, they were friends. Kourtney became the stranger in the house.

And now . . . Riley stuffed into a TV set, Sheriff Bryan said. Murdered.

Jeff shuddered at the thought that somewhere, out there, a killer lurked. The chill grew deeper as he let a thought invade his mind again, the first thought that flashed in his brain when Sheriff Bryan gave them the news—perhaps his daughter's killer wasn't out there. Perhaps she stood downstairs.

The smell of coffee was always a bracer. Cleared the head. Chased the cobwebs out. Somewhere, beneath the numbness, Kourtney knew she felt grief. But she needed something to erase the gray, sharpen her focus.

The coffee maker hissed and popped. Hurry up, she thought, oddly satisfied that some of her impatience was surfacing again. Impatience was a sign of the desire for control. And control was all she had . . . all she'd ever had. She took a deep breath, blew it out, and watched the pot fill.

She felt Jeff upstairs. Brooding. Crying. It wouldn't solve a thing. He'd lost a playmate. A pal. His best pal. Get over it already. They had bigger things to deal with.

The last picture Riley drew was front and center on the refrigerator. MY FAMILY was scrawled across the top in her nine-year-old hand. Riley had placed herself in the middle, a short stick-figure with crazy-curly blonde hair. A small crayon-drawn hand held tightly to Jeff's. His tall figure boasted a wide grin in the center of his peach-colored orb of a head. Kids could never get flesh-tones correct when they colored. Kourtney had half-a-mind to let the teachers over at La Flor del Desierto Elementary know what she thought about that. And what was up with crayon companies making peach colored crayons?

Kourtney swallowed hard. She supposed that the figure standing off to the side in the picture—arms crossed, back turned—was supposed to be her. A picture and a thousand words and so forth. Wouldn't the psychologists have a time with that? Emotionally distant mother, doting father, dead child.

From the den upstairs Mick Jagger sang "Sympathy for the Devil." More brooding? Or a subtle message?

She dumped two packets of artificial sweetener into her mug and filled it with coffee. She stirred three times and put the spoon on a special plate she kept by the pot so she could use it again throughout the day. She took a drink, then another, and set the mug on the counter in its usual spot.

She breathed deeply, feeling the cobwebs part a little. That picture, she thought. That damn picture has to go.

"Jeff," she called. "We need to talk."

Mick Jagger sang louder.

Brooding.

Weak.

Kourtney removed the El Diablo Rojo Restaurant magnets from the picture and put them carefully, deliberately, back in line with all the other magnets. She put the picture on the counter and fished around in the cupboard for a glass pie plate. Not clear glass. She wanted the one her mother gave her years ago. White with the trio of blue flowers on the bottom. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found it. Perfect.

She started to hum along with Mick. What the hell. It was the Stones, right?

She carried the drawing and the plate to the state-of-the art gas stove—standard in all Rubicon Ranch households, according to the slack-jawed realtor who'd sold them the place—and turned on the burner.

The picture caught easily. She turned on the fan vent. No sense in setting off the smoke alarms. Jeff burned first, his peach-colored head disappearing in flame before the fire moved to Riley's body, catching her red lips first, twisting them into a dark sneer that charred and then glowed orange.

She set the picture in the pie plate and watched it burn as she picked up her coffee. When the small flame extinguished itself only a part of Kourtney's head was left in the remnants of the drawing.

She retrieved her work bag from the antique bench near the back door, took her coffee to the dining room table, and booted up her laptop. If Jeff was going to listen to the Stones all day long then he would be useless. And there things to do, things to catch up on, and maybe, God forbid, tracks to cover.

The Bring Anne Neuhaus Home Fan page on Facebook was as busy as ever. Riley's real family wished her a happy day wherever she was. Someone wished her a belated ninth birthday. "Hope you are well, my darling Anne." Anne. Her real name. There were no pictures. She had been less than a day old when Jeff got his hands on her. The Facebook avatar the family posted was a picture of a rainbow arcing above a grove of pine trees. Very quaint.

Kourtney didn't care about the well-wishes or the happy birthday comments. However, there were other comments, comments from the parents of Riley's classmates, that were troublesome.

She scrolled down the page and clicked on the OLDER COMMENTS button and found what she was looking for.

The post had been left exactly one week ago. "Funny thing," wrote Jessica Silver, mother of Antonia Silver of Riley's third grade class—Kourtney was filing that information away for later—"little blonde girl in my daughter's class. Curliest hair I've ever seen. She's a real pill. LOL. Saw your family picture and thought she looked like you."

It went on to say how terrible to lose a child, blah blah blah. But the disturbing thing was the response from Mrs. Neuhaus. "Curly hair. Just like mine. Anne was bald as a melon when she was born. LOL. Do you have a class picture of this little girl?"

And that, Kourtney thought, was the sort of thing she didn't need right now. She'd waited for the response, for the class picture to appear. It hadn't. Jessica Silver posted her fear of privacy acts. A class picture sent to families was one thing. Posted on the Web was another. Thank God for common sense.

But what about now? Would the paper print a picture of Riley for the obituary? For the case? Would the news broadcast it? The coffee had grown cold. She drank it anyway.

Twitter was next. Mrs. Neuhaus had tweeted about the possible lead last week followed by almost hourly pleas to her followers for information about legalities of posting a child's photo online. The consensus was "bad idea."

Kourtney didn't find comfort in that. Maybe Mrs. Neuhaus would set up a private correspondence with Jessica Silver. Jessica could mail a hard copy of the photo, or e-mail it privately.

Upstairs Mick Jagger sang "I Can't Get No Satisfaction."

"Tell me about it," Kourtney muttered.
Chapter 4: Dylan McKenzie  
by Nancy A. Niles

A day did not go by that Dylan McKenzie did not think about the lyrics to Bob Dylan's "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall." His mother had given him nightmares telling him stories about how the large companies were poisoning the environment.

"Someday even the rain will be made up of poisonous, toxic chemicals," she'd told him. "And it will fall on everyone and cause horrible diseases and painful deaths."

She spoke of the future violence to come when children carried weapons and fought in the streets. He'd once read the lyrics, but it had been like a Rubik's cube to his young brain and he'd latched onto his mother's wisdom and had turned Bob Dylan into his own personal idol and prophet.

As he grew older he began to wonder why nobody stopped the chemical companies, why the people of his mother's generation were so intent on peaceful solutions, when obviously they didn't work, and why did they spend so much time smoking pot and wiling away the days when so much work needed to be done?

Flower Power. What a cop out that turned out to be. Fear and intimidation were the only ways to get people to do what you wanted.

He had learned that much from his dad, who'd once been a flower child himself, but had since learned the real ways of the world. He'd seen his dad push people around and noticed how they backed off and let him get his way. Dylan knew the shame of letting his dad intimidate him. But he'd always just been a kid. The day would come when the old man wouldn't be pushing on him anymore.

I'll show you, Dad, like I showed that silly kid, Riley.

He had taken care of her and someday he'd take care of his dad. But—in the meantime, Dylan had other plans. He twisted the band on his wrist, the band he'd made with shoelaces, a strip of leather and a magic marker. He admired the crude letters he'd drawn onto the leather—WWWDD. It had been fashioned after the bracelets at school that were all the rage now. The letters on those had been WWJD. They stood for What Would Jesus Do. Some marketing genius had come up with the concept that whenever a moral question arose as to what action to take, the bracelet would serve as a reminder to act in accordance with what Jesus had taught.

Dylan had taken it a step further. His stood for What Would Warrior Dylan Do. His mother thought he'd been referring to her hero, Bob Dylan, but in actuality he'd been referring to himself. And Dylan did not subscribe to the peaceful notions of the hippies.

A warrior does not fear violence or run from confrontations.

Dylan was all about getting revenge. He'd found a way to make the fat cats pay for their rape of the environment. Dylan would plunder their fortunes and be the re-born prophet, this would be his destiny as a son of one of the visionaries of the sixties generation—that visionary being his mother. No more Flower Power. Like the song, Dylan had grown into a child soldier. He would look after his mother. Dylan knew she'd been aimlessly roaming in Europe and crashing in Hostels whenever she'd been able to pan handle some cash.

She is resourceful, but she's getting older and needs my help.

He revered this woman who had stayed true to her beliefs, who believed the song about the Satisfied Mind, the absence of all worldly gifts and the peace of mind and serenity that follows. She'd been a strong voice during the sixties and Dylan knew that nobody held those concepts dearer than his mother. And she needed his help.

She needs the help of a warrior who knows how to get things done. I will be her protector and we'll never have to be under anyone's thumb again.

Occasionally, his mom would borrow a cell phone and text messages to him. It had been three weeks ago he'd gotten the message that the time was drawing near. His mother had been referring to the time of the upheaval, and as she had further explained meant the time right before the end of the world. She told him a group had been joining together to find a safe place to weather out the coming events and she wanted him to be with her. He would find a way to join her. He had to find a way.

And to think that little kid, Riley, had been about to tell her pollution making parents that she'd caught me breaking into their house and rummaging through their bedroom chest of drawers.

How had such a nosy, irritating, dumb kid gotten the better of him? But being the Warrior Dylan, he'd handled it.

And what would the price of that be? Dylan heard pounding at the front door and shrank against the wall at the sight of the police cruiser parked out front.

Have they come for me? Do they know? Will I be put in prison?

After stripping off the leather skull and crossbones jacket he kicked it under his bed. He laid the blue contact lenses in their box and carefully hid that under his T-shirts. His large brown eyes matched the color of his hair and he quickly pulled a brush through the gelled mass making the waves and curls fall gently around his face. The horn-rimmed glasses completed his appearance as a nerdy, goodie two-shoes boy. Even if someone had spotted him going in Riley's house they'd never recognize him now, unless of course that nosy old man, Eloy had seen him.

Let him tell, most people think he's senile or crazy, anyhow.

Dylan glanced in the mirror and nodded at his appearance with approval.

"We're asking all the neighbors when they last saw Riley," a babe in a sheriff's uniform had been saying to his dad when Dylan entered the living room. "You have not been singled out Mr. McKenzie, I assure you."

At the mention of Riley's name Dylan felt a flutter in his chest. Be cool, he told himself. Officer Babe wasn't even looking his way. If they knew what he'd done he'd be handcuffed by now. They knew nothing and he had to keep his emotions under control to avoid arousing suspicion. Although the way his dad kept acting, it would be him packed into the back of the squad car in not too long.

"She's probably at a friend's house, she'll most likely show up at home when it gets dark," Cort McKenzie railed. "You don't have enough real crimes to investigate? You gotta come around here fishin' for somethin' to justify your salary? A looker like you ought to be dining in a fine restaurant, or dancing the night away. I've always said there's somethin' not quite right with someone who wants to throw people in jail."

"And you're an expert on human behavior?" the babe said with a definite tone and a sneer on her pouty lips. Her gaze traveled to his dad's wife beater T-shirt and lingered on a large hole which his protruding belly had stretched to the size of a tennis ball. The tats his dad had gotten during the sixties had faded into ugly gray blobs running up and down his hairy arms and even from a few feet away Dylan could smell the beery sweat that seemed to stick to his dad even after a shower.

"I know things, sweetheart," his dad said, winked at her and smoothed back his greasy dishwater blond hair.

"My name is Lieutenant Frio," she said tucking her pen and notepad in her uniform pocket. "Maybe you should accompany me to the station where we can get better acquainted and you can tell me those 'things' you know."

"I ain't going nowhere and I ain't wastin' any more of my time. That spoiled little rich kid will show up soon enough." He began shuttling her toward the door, his hand pressing against her back.

"Huh?" his dad said and looked perplexed as she grabbed his arm and spun him around. Before he could react she pushed him against the wall and snapped a pair of handcuffs onto his wrists. He stumbled and landed hard on the wooden bench.

"You had no right to do that," he sputtered, his face turning red.

"Mr. McKenzie, you just sit right there and the cuffs will ensure you'll keep your hands to yourself," she said matter-of-factly. "You touch me again, or make any threatening moves and I won't hesitate to use my pepper spray," she laid her hand on a canister tucked into her utility belt.

"Just kick 'em in the ass and throw 'em in jail," his father said sarcastically, quoting an old Lenny Bruce routine on the job description of a cop.

"That can be arranged," she said, and a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth when his dad loudly exhaled and looked away.

When Lieutenant Frio glanced in Dylan's direction he felt his legs begin to shake.

"You're his son?" she asked and pulled her pen and pad from her pocket. "What's your name?" She wrote down his name when he answered. "Your dad is going to sit right there real quiet and I will ask you a few questions. Is that okay?"

"Sure ma'am, uh, I mean Lieutenant," he said not quite able to stop the tremor in his voice.

When she asked him the last time he'd seen Riley the lie slid easily off his tongue. "I guess I saw her at the school bus stop a few days ago. I hardly ever see the smaller kids, you know. I don't really pay any attention to them."

She nodded and asked his dad the same question. Dylan could tell he wanted to smart off to her again, but with what seemed a great effort, if the tight lips and bulging eyes were any indication, answered in a civil tone that he hadn't seen "that kid" in weeks.

"Have you noticed any strangers about, or anyone who doesn't belong here?"

Both Dylan and his dad simply shook their heads.

"Have you seen any cars in the neighborhood you didn't recognize, or anything usual?"

"Look," Cort said, "these folks around here change cars like they own GMAC. And who knows? Maybe some of 'em do. They all walk around like they've got sticks up their asses, each one of 'em tryin' to outdo the other. What's goin' on, anyway? Someone forget to polish his wingtips this mornin' or somethin'?"

"Just answer the question, Mr. McKenzie," Lieutenant Frio said.

"No, no and no," he stated.

Dylan shook his head no.

The Lieutenant simply made a note on her pad and then clicked the pen.

"You gonna undo these cuffs?" Cort McKenzie asked in the impatient tone that signaled to Dylan that the old man had been royally pissed. He dreaded the Lieutenant leaving because he knew how his dad liked to take his anger out on him.

"Has something happened to Riley?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes softening. "We are investigating some trouble, but I'm not at liberty to disclose what's happened. You'll know soon enough."

That last comment struck Dylan as a thinly veiled threat and he saw the interest in the Lieutenant's eyes as he felt his own grow large with fright.

"Stay close to home," she said. "And for the next few days, don't be outside alone after dark and you should be okay."

Dylan almost cried out with relief. She'd misinterpreted his fear. Well, after all, no one had any reason to suspect him of anything.

That is, unless I left fingerprints at Riley's house.

He couldn't remember if he'd been wearing his gloves the entire time. He'd been so furious by Riley's threat to tattle on him and the acid he'd taken kept doing strange things to time. It had been as though time had been operating like slides on a projector.

Dylan thought about Riley. His dad had been right when he'd called her a spoiled rich kid. The spawn of her parents, she'd only been interested in money and possessions. In fact, Dylan realized, not many kids were interested in his hippie mother's cause. No matter, they could rot right along with their establishment parents. The prophecies of Bob Dylan's song were beginning to come true and thanks to his mom he'd been given a crusade. He'd truly become the blue eyed boy of the song.
Chapter 5: Mary "Moody" Sinclair

by JJ Dare

Moody's nose hurt.

And, she was scared.

For the past seven years, psychologist Mary "Moody" Sinclair had been used to the moist cool air of the coastal town of Winnington Bay, Washington. The dry desert air of Rubicon Ranch sucked the moisture out and left her feeling like she was breathing in tiny sand particles. The scratchiness in her nose added to all the other hurts she had suffered over the past year.

One error in judgment had cost Moody her license to practice. When conventional ADHD treatments had not helped eight-year-old Chad Monroe, in a moment of self-doubt and slight panic, Moody had employed a new-age radical binding technique.

All had been going well for Moody and Chad's parents until Chad started to convulse. Epilepsy had not shown up in any of the boy's medical tests. Everyone, including the coroner, was left with the question: did the tight binding treatment create the epilepsy or was the epilepsy dormant until the binding triggered it?

The humiliation of the trial and its resultant three-month prison sentence added to the hurts Moody had already suffered for her part in the death of Chad Monroe. It wasn't entirely her fault, though. When the boy began to convulse, too many hands had tried to loosen the thick rope wrapped around his small body like a cocoon.

After three months in Fendleton's Women's Prison, Moody had been given court permission to return to her father's home in Rubicon Ranch. When the judge realized who Moody's father was and where Rubicon Ranch was located, he sarcastically told Moody she might wish to stay at Fendleton rather than move to another type of prison.

The judge had been right. Morris Sinclair was not the type of father any child would wish to have. Reclusive and malevolent, Morris had his own vast following of fans who soaked up his famous horror stories and sang dark praises to him. His children were not among them.

When Moody arrived at her father's house, he had not so much as welcomed her as he had grudgingly accepted she was going to be part of his lonely household. He'd never been much of a father to Moody or her two brothers when they were growing up, but hehad been the only parent they had left after their suicidal mother succeeded in one of her many attempts to leave the living.

Morris had always been strange, but Moody's clinical eye was observing a different type of strangeness she recognized. Early senile dementia was creeping up on Morris and Moody was not sure if she was prepared to handle it. She certainly was not in the right frame of mind to help her father after learning about the death of Riley Peterson in the desert outside of Rubicon Ranch.

The child was the same age as Chad Monroe. The coincidence was not lost on Moody and the significance to everyone around her would not be lost. At least, not for long.

The neighbors had, up to this point, been too polite to mention Moody's incarceration. Now, however, after a fourteen-minute visit from the sheriff, she was sure all the people up and down the cul-de-sac were pointing sly fingers at her.

While the sheriff had not mentioned "murder," Moody had not been born yesterday. Her training in psychology made her somewhat of an expert at reading between the lines.

Sheriff Bryan was as smooth on the surface, but Moody detected extreme danger emanating from him as he "talked" to her about Riley. He was tightly coiled despite his casual posture. Little tics and miniscule movements made him read like a loaded weapon.

Gesturing for him to sit down, Moody wasn't surprised when he remained standing. Looking down on someone put the seated person on a lower level, thereby weakening them and giving the person standing an illusion of power.

Instead of raising her head to meet his eyes, Moody suddenly felt a little rebellious and slightly brave. She stared straight ahead at his belt buckle until he gave in and sat down.

"Ms. Sinclair, one of your neighbors said you'd had Jeff and Riley to the house a couple of times."

Just like that, the sheriff stopped talking and stared at Moody. It was one of the oldest police tricks on the books. The "drop dynamite in the water and see what floats up" method of interrogating a person—Moody could not bring herself to say "suspect"—was also a cognitive therapy trick.

Unfortunately, he'd picked the wrong subject to try it on. Moody knew every psychological tactic out there.

With a small smirk, Moody cocked her head slightly and stared back at him for a few moments before answering.

"Seriously, Sheriff, we could do this all afternoon. You know, just like everyone else around here, that I still give free advice. And, you should know that even though it's free, it's still privileged."

"That's a fine line, Ms. Sinclair. As far as the board's concerned, you can't practice and anything you say to anyone else isn't protected."

Well, someone had done their homework. Moody was a bit surprised the sheriff had checked into the medically legal aspects of her forfeited license. It had shaken her more than a little bit when she lost her license because she was a listener at heart, but could no longer openly practice her calling.

"Please don't do this, Sheriff. Whatever happened to that little girl, it had nothing to do with what Jeff and Riley were coming to me to talk about. But, if you get Jeff's permission, I'll tell you all you need to know. Don't make me break his confidence," she said as she dropped her head and stared at her lap. "Not too many people trust me these days," she finished in a whisper.

Moody lifted her head in time to catch a shadow as it passed over the sheriff's face. Whether he was thinking of the one time he'd come to Moody and asked her opinion on a personal matter or whether he was thinking of the extra hurt he might cause a grieving parent or maybe he was just being considerate of her—whatever the reason, he nodded his head in agreement.

"But," he said as he stood up, "If I need to, I'll have to talk to you, with or without Jeff's consent. Okay?"

Moody nodded as she rose and saw the sheriff to the door. Watching him back out of the driveway, she thought she saw him wipe the side of his face like one would wipe away a tear. Well, it was either a tear or sweat from this horrible, horrible heat.

Standing outside for a moment, Moody looked around at her neighbors' houses. Almost every one of them looked unwelcoming. Blinds were drawn in most of them and no one was outside. What horrific secrets were they hiding, she thought as she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

She felt eyes on her. It wasn't unusual to feel as though people were watching her, but this time was different. This time she felt holes being bored into her very being. Accusing eyes. Hateful eyes.

As she turned around to go back inside, from the corner of her eye she caught the twitch of a curtain from the house across the street. She still was not used to being slyly spied upon but, eventually, she would probably have to get used to it since her reputation preceded her in an uncomfortably bad way.

With one child's death under her belt, what was stopping anyone, especially the local police force, from thinking Moody was capable of killing another child? The appearance of the child in her house was not good. Although Riley and her father had been there for secret counseling, there was no way of knowing how Sheriff Bryan would regard their visits.

More so, it would look very bad for Moody if anyone learned of Riley's extra secret visits without her father and without his knowledge. If that happened, Moody might as well start packing her overnight bag.

Jeff Peterson had been on the verge of a breakdown when he had approached Moody a few weeks ago. His wife and daughter were emotionally detached and Jeff was feeling more and more of the strain of their apathy toward each other.

Moody had ended up counseling both Jeff and Riley. Jeff's wife Kourtney had vehemently opposed Moody's sessions and went so far as to forbid Jeff to continue.

However, Jeff loved his daughter so much, he'd defied his own wife and risked everything. Moody had recognized who wore the pants in their relationship and saw Jeff's courage as a positive sign.

All of the therapy fees had been under the table since Moody no longer had a license. This little fact did not make it any less critical, though. At their last session a few days before, Moody had recommended a reconnection between Kourtney and her daughter by reliving the birth of Riley.

When she told Jeff this, his face lost all color and he looked as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Stumbling to his feet, he mumbled something to Moody as he and Riley quickly left. Frowning, Moody sat in the quiet living room and tried to connect the dots on Jeff's extreme reaction.

Now, only three days after that last puzzling session, Riley Peterson was dead by unnatural causes. Moody was again sitting quietly in the living room and thinking after the sheriff left. The music coming from her father's workroom was muffled, but she could make out the beginning of Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sounds of Silence."

Darkness was definitely her father's friend and, so it seemed, hers. Her reverie was interrupted as her father opened the door and deafening music exploded into the house and, quite possibly, the neighborhood. As if propelled by a tidal wave of sound, Morris stumbled into the living room and demanded a limo ride to the airport.

"Dad," Moody shouted as she hurried to turn off the music. "You don't have anywhere to go this week. It's not on the calendar."

Moody's form of helping her father's dementia was to negate whatever he said with conditions. In this case, she left the option open that, indeed, there may have been an appointment on the calendar requiring an airport ride, but it wasn't for today.

Maybe she needed to rethink her way of helping others. She'd been drawn more and more to unconventional methods, but the fallout lately had been severe.

Watching Morris walk to the kitchen as she shut the door to his work room, Moody momentarily wondered if her father, who rarely ventured outdoors, knew anything about Riley.

Obviously, the sheriff had not thought so since he'd never asked to speak to Morris. But, that wasn't entirely unusual because Morris had been strange long before the dementia set in. Holding a conversation with him had always been like talking to a person with the bricks half shy of a full load.

Of course, early on Moody and her brothers had realized most of it was an act. Their father was one of the most famous horror writers of the day and because of this, he often acted the part. Yet, there was that one small phase which his three children all recognized as genuine.

Genuine insanity, that is.

Grabbing her purse, Moody headed toward the front door.

"Dad, I'm going to the store. What do you want for supper?"

"Whatever your mom fixes is fine. Except broccoli. I hate broccoli."

This was her father's standard answer. Each day the hated food changed. Yesterday it was cotton candy. Tomorrow it might be water.

"How about turkey sandwiches for lunch?" Moody hoped an uncomplicated meal would calm her father's kaleidoscope mind. As with other Alzheimer's patients, too many choices would lead to no choices at all.

"Sure, sure," he answered with a wave of his hand. He had found a rolling pin under the kitchen counter and was staring at it like he'd never seen one before. Momentarily, Moody thought about ordering pizza and having it delivered.

Realizing her father had been progressing toward this mental state some time before she moved back in with him, she picked up her sunglasses on the corner table in the foyer and left Morris to his own devices. Hopefully, he would not break anything with the rolling pin before she returned.

The neighborhood had come alive within the short time Moody had been indoors. Some of her neighbors were in their yards gossiping with other neighbors or talking amongst themselves. Others were going about the business of normalcy by washing cars or playing basketball or simply sitting in deck chairs on the dry grass.

As she shut the front door, the sound of the heavy oak door echoed around the cul-de-sac and stopped the chatter instantly. The silence was deafening and the looks she got when she headed for her car were full of accusations. It didn't bother her. No, she couldn't lie to herself—it did bother her. But, what bothered her more were the looks she observed on others.

It wasn't only the looks that conveyed the intent of murder, but the body language of quite a few of her neighbors suggested they were capable of all manner of destructive behavior toward others.

Moody had been pursuing a discipline in criminal psychology before suddenly changing to child psychology in her final year of study. However, her background in studying the motivations behind men and women who committed atrocities against others made her a qualified expert in recognizing potential harmful behavior.

It also gave her the insight into soulless madness. The most terrifying people she had studied were the ones who had no conscience. They could not atone for their violent acts because they were not mentally equipped to feel regret. Talking to them was like talking to the boy or girl next door. They fit normally into society. They were perfect chameleons.

Was one of her neighbors a murderous chameleon?

After leaving the store with turkey sandwiches and her father's favorite iced tea mix, Moody felt apprehensive as she neared her house, saw the front door wide open and heard Simon and Garfunkel once again invoking the darkness that was perpetually her father's closest companion.

Morris was standing in the middle of the front yard, stuttering incoherently and brandishing the rolling pin like a demented orchestra conductor. All of the neighbors had stopped what they were doing as they openly stared at the bare-footed, wild-eyed man in their midst.

As Moody hurried toward him, she could make out some of the words he kept repeating. Dodging a lazy swing from the rolling pin, Moody took it away as she shakily led her father back inside. As she unplugged the CD player in his work room, the weight of silence pressed heavily on her.

The practical side of her mind told her to never leave him alone again. The surreal portion of her brain was still trying to decipher what Morris meant as he continued to recite a horrifying chant.

She ushered him inside and settled him at the kitchen table. As she handed him his sandwich, she heard it one more time before he shut his own mouth with a bite of turkey.

"Little girl dead, smashed in the head, rings of pale hair, face so fair, covered in blood—what a pretty picture she makes."
Chapter 6: Cooper Dahlsing  
by Christine Husom

Not again. Dear God, not again.

Cooper Dahlsing woke up standing somewhere in the desert, surrounded by warm night air. He didn't know where, exactly. Hopefully not far from home. It was dark, but not pitch black. The light of a gibbous moon offered some illumination. No wristwatch, no cell phone. From the position of the moon, he guessed it was two or three in the morning.

As his eyes adjusted, he recognized he was on a trail he often took for his hikes. He wasn't miles from home, fortunately. He stood for a minute, getting his bearings. Moonbeams highlighted the metal on an object to his left. The old abandoned television set. He blew out a relieved breath. He knew where he was and began the trek home.

Cooper thought—had hoped against hope—it had stopped for good. He should have known he would never be freed from the constant threat of occasional night adventures that were better described as night terrors. Nightmares he was actually, physically, a part of. Ones he woke up in, wondering how in the hell he had gotten there when the last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his own bed.

He began experiencing episodes of somnambulism—sleepwalking—during graduate school. After several frustrating years seeking medical answers, he had found a neurologist who diagnosed him with a rare form of epilepsy. The problem was they never landed on the right medication cocktail Cooper was able to tolerate.

Cooper woke up in an assortment of places. One time he awakened staring into a dark shop window at one o'clock in the morning, his car parked and running behind him. Another time he was in a bar having a beer with some guys. Strangers who all seemed to know him. Still another, he was out walking a ways from home in below zero weather, clad only in pajamas and slippers.

But the worst was the morning he awoke with blood on his pajamas. It appeared he had wiped bloody hands on them. From the news on the television, he learned a woman had been killed by a hit and run driver and left to die on the side of the road. Terror weakened him. He wondered if he was the driver. There had been other unsolved hit and runs, but this was the first time he suspected he may be the culprit, the one responsible. He found no dent in his car, but would there be one if the hard bumper hit a soft target?

Cooper's unconscious nighttime activities increased after that. He was even more afraid to fall asleep. He sold his car so he couldn't drive in his sleep. His confidence, and work as a college professor, suffered. Exhaustion became his normal state. He considered hiring a night attendant, but who was completely trustworthy?

He contemplated taking his life.

Instead, while searching for a home in a warmer climate, he found an ad for one in Rubicon Ranch. He felt it was a wise choice to move to Rubicon Ranch. It could get cold at night, but he wouldn't get frostbite, or freeze to death. And without a car, he couldn't run anyone over.

Cooper reached his street in record time. He noticed the lights on in a neighbor's house, surprised anyone was still up at that hour. But people kept different schedules. Movement caught his eyes as he passed old man Franklin's house. A curtain moved back over the window. Why would Franklin be looking outside in the middle of the night? Was there more happening in Rubicon Ranch than Cooper knew about?

Cooper's door was unlocked, thankfully, since he had no keys with him. He stopped by the kitchen and downed a glass of water, then headed to his bedroom. Funny, his bed was made. Then he remembered, he had fallen asleep on the couch watching television.Television, he thought as he pulled back the covers and climbed beneath them. One reason his young friend Riley—his only real friend in the neighborhood—stopped by at four in the afternoon whenever she could to watch Little House on the Prairie. She said her parents didn't like television, but didn't mind if she watched at other people's houses. Cooper didn't really believe her, but what harm was there in allowing her to watch a family-friendly show here and there?

Television. Riley. Anything wrong with that?

* * *

The ringing door bell woke Cooper and he glanced at the clock. Eleven A.M. He never slept in that late, even when he was up in his sleep, meandering around. He must have been wandering for hours the night before for that to happen.

A second ring prompted him to hit the ground running. He couldn't imagine why anyone would be at his door. Riley should be in school at that time of day. And she used the backdoor, anyhow.

When he opened the door, he stared for at least ten seconds, taking her in, trying to assess who she was and why she was there. Her uniform, badge, and sidearm on her right hip gave him the answer to his first question. Her coffee colored eyes caught his gray eyes and held them captive.

"Cooper Dahlsing?" she asked in an official tone. What did her voice sound like when she was off-duty?

"I am."

"I'm Lieutenant Frio from the Rojo Duro County Sheriff's Department. May I come in? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Was this about the rash of home invasions? Did nosy neighbor Franklin report him wandering around at night, moving him to the top of the suspect list?

"Yes, sorry, please come in."

He pushed the door open wide and the lieutenant stepped in before he could step back. They were so close her face was slightly fuzzy to his forty-five year old eyes. But not too blurry to notice her pupils dilated before she blinked. Cooper backed away and Frio walked past him into the living room.

Cooper looked around. He doubted another adult had been in his house since he moved there three months before. Was it passable? He had stacks of books on two end tables and an open one on the coffee table. It was a college text on genetics he had co-authored some years back. Studying Riley's physical characteristics and mannerisms, after seeing her parents, had stirred some questions about the scientific facts.

The couch and chairs were clear of debris. "Have a seat. Please." Cooper waved his hand in the direction of the furniture.

Frio lowered her well-built body onto the edge of a chair and pulled a memo pad and pen from a back pocket. "Late night?" she asked, eyeing his pajama bottoms and T-shirt. Cooper realized it was obvious he had climbed out of bed minutes before.

He shrugged. "I have a flexible schedule."

"You have a driver's license?"

Where was this going? "Yes, but it's from Wisconsin. I haven't applied here. I'm not sure if I will."

"Oh?"

"I prefer to walk."

"I just need it to confirm your identity."

"I see. I'll get it."

Cooper disappeared into another room and returned a minute later.

Lieutenant Frio had her hand on top of the open book on the coffee table. She partially closed it to read the front cover. She looked at Cooper, smirked, and read aloud, "The Fundamentals of Genetics by Cooper A. Dahlsing, Ph.D. and Raymond Beatty Davis, M.D." Frio reopened the book. "The coffee table book everyone should have?"

Cooper half-smiled, a little uncomfortable under Frio's visual scrutiny. What did she see? A female friend once described him as "disarming, not classically handsome, but very good-looking. And way too young to have silver hair." Is that what Frio saw? The longer she stared, the more aware he was that his pajama bottoms hung loosely on his lean frame, and his shirt hugged the muscles of his chest and arms. Did he fit her image of a science book author?

Frio took the license and jotted the information on her memo pad. He read as she wrote, 5-10, 170, GRAY EYES, SILVER HAIR, 45 YEARS OLD.

Cooper had been polite and patient long enough. "So what is this about?"

Lieutenant Frio handed him his license and captured his eyes once again. Cooper forgot for a moment she was an officer at his house on some sort of official business. In another life he would ask her on a date. Correction, if he was in another person's life he would ask her out. With his health issues, he would never get seriously involved with a woman.

"My department is looking into a matter involving a young girl. Riley—"

"Riley?"

"You know her?"

"She's the little girl from a few houses down. Did something happen—"

"When was the last time you saw her?"

The last time? "I saw her riding her bike yesterday afternoon." Sometime after she left his house, when Little House was over.

"How well did you know her, or what her activities were?"

"I can't say I knew her well." Because that was our secret and I won't say. "Why? Is she all right?"

"Sadly, she's dead. We're investigating it as a homicide."

Cooper's mouth dropped. Icicles formed in his blood. "Someone murdered her? How did that happen? Where . . ."

"This is an open investigation, so I am not at liberty to give details. Suffice it to say her body was found in the desert, early today."

Cooper looked down and noticed his hands for the first time that morning. There was sand imbedded underneath his fingernails. "The desert?"

"That's all I can say."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered and continued to stare at his hands. Were they the hands of a murderer?
Chapter 7: Mark and Jamie Westbrook  
by Nichole R. Bennett

Mark Westbrook rolled over in the bed and breakfast's queen-sized bed while Jamie Westbrook, sitting up next to him, scrutinized the Facebook page once again. Lace curtains billowed in the breeze from the open window and the birds were starting to sing their morning songs. "I swear it's her."

By the look on Mark's face, he wasn't so sure. "I hate it when you get on that thing." A former computer programmer, Mark was aware of how easily a person's computer habits could be their downfall.

It was a valid concern. The last thing the two wanted was the cops nosing around in their business. Their business. Most people wouldn't call what they did a business. A scam. A con. A fraud. Those were words the average citizen would use to describe Jamie and Mark Westbrook. An opportunity seeker is how Mark had explained it to Jamie so many years ago.

"Everybody wants to believe in something, sweets," he'd said. "We just give them that glimmer of hope. We tell them what they want to hear and they pay handsomely for it."

Mark had told her that nugget of truth after he rescued her from her short time living on the streets. At first, Jamie was convinced Mark must have been a pimp or drug dealer or worse. Luckily, he was just a con-man. A good one. They'd only been caught once in Iowa. But that was when they'd first teamed up and the couple had only a few close calls since then.

By changing their looks and names in every location, Jamie knew they were harder to trace. A little identity theft wasn't as difficult as it sounded and Mark's computer skills helped.

"I never log on with the same name. You know that." Jamie could understand Mark's concern. She didn't want to go back to jail any more than he did. "You have a ton of safety measures on this laptop. Plus, I use generic e-mails from free servers like Gmail or Hotmail or Yahoo. And I use dumb names. I never use a name we've used."

She wanted to stress that she never used her real name, but it wouldn't matter. Mark didn't even know her real name and she was almost sure she didn't know his. They just called each other "honey," "sweets," "darling," and other terms of endearment. Whatever names they used or whatever city they were in, she was devoted to Mark pure and simple.

Mark looked at her coolly. "It doesn't matter. You need to be careful."

Jamie opted to ignore Mark's warning. With her, Mark was all bark, no bite. He wasn't like that with everyone, though. She remembered the time Mark got so angry that one of their cons wasn't working that he'd punched a hole in the wall of the hotel room they'd rented. Now when Mark needed to cool off, he usually disappeared, sometimes leaving Jamie alone for hours at a time. Like he did last night.

She wanted to ask him where he had gone the night before. Mark had been angry with her after they argued about why they had come to Rubicon Ranch. Jamie was convinced this could be a huge score. Mark worried that they were exposing themselves too much, but he let her plan the con anyway. He must trust me, she thought, even if he did spend most of the night somewhere else. Aloud she said, "You can't tell me that you don't think this will work."

For a couple of months, Jamie had been watching a Facebook page about a missing girl named Anne Neuhaus. Then last week some woman had posted a comment about Anne looking like a kid in her daughter's class, which gave Jamie the idea. She convinced Mark to contact Anne's parents, which was why their next stop was Rubicon Ranch. Of course, they weren't using the same names in both places. That was asking for trouble.

"Let's go over this again," began Jamie. This was the first con she'd planned, since usually that aspect was Mark's domain. "We already contacted the parents in Minnesota, using the names Scott Davis and Melinda Lawrence. They think we're PIs who are looking for their kid. You got their cash, right?"

Jamie knew she was being controlling—almost anal-retentive even—but this was the first scam she'd ever spearheaded and it was probably one of the duo's most elaborate. She didn't want anything to go wrong. Even though the scam was Jamie's idea and she was taking the lead on it, she couldn't fool herself into thinking she was in charge. If Mark thought she was going to get them caught, he would either stop her or leave her. Neither option appealed to Jamie.

"Yes, I have their money. And the account in Minnesota should be good for awhile longer." Mark had created a bank account specifically for the Neuhaus family to deposit the fees they thought they were paying to the private eyes. Instead, Mark and Jamie had no intention to do anything more than making some easy money. Once the Neuhaus family deposited money into the account, Mark would transfer it, a little at a time, to various other accounts—some in other states, some in other countries. It was a safety measure in case the authorities in Minnesota started to get suspicious. The way Jamie and Mark figured it, the Neuhaus family was good for at least another thirty thousand dollars or more, so they needed to give them some new information in order to keep the funds coming in. They had only traveled to Rubicon to keep the con alive.

It had taken more digging than usual, but Jamie was sure Jeff and Kourtney Peterson had something to hide. The couple had left Minnesota quickly around the time Anne Neuhaus disappeared.

"Nobody leaves town that fast," Jamie had pointed out.

"Unless they're running," Mark had replied. "And people who run are willing to pay so they won't be found."

It was the comment Jessica Silver had posted on Facebook that convinced Mark to hack into the Rubicon Ranch School District's computer system. There he found Riley Peterson, daughter of Jeff and Kourtney. The Petersons were the only family in the Silver girl's class with ties to Minnesota. It was a long shot, but Jamie was convinced she and Mark could extort the Peterson family to double their score.

Jamie twisted her ponytail around her fingers. It was a nervous habit. "The next thing then is to contact this Jessica Silver person via phone and see what she'll tell Scott and Melinda. After that, we contact the Petersons in person as Mark and Jamie."

"Right. And explain to them that Scott Davis and Melinda Lawrence from Minnesota think their kid is this missing one and we—Mark and Jamie Westbrook—are willing to act as their intermediaries to make this whole thing go away." Mark was silent for a moment. "This is a pretty complex con, honey."

She sighed. "I know. But we can do it." She reached over and ran her fingers through his dark blond hair, still messy from whatever sleep he managed to get the night before. "I mean, we already pulled off the Minnesota part of it. It's just a matter of pulling the Rubicon half. It's like two cons, really."

Mark raised his eyebrow at Jamie's words. "Two cons that overlap and could blow up in our faces."

His words were sharp, but there was no edge to his voice. Mark's calm manner surprised Jamie. He had been in an awful mood for the past two days—ever since he got stopped after running that stop sign as they drove into Rubicon Ranch. Of course, he had no intention of paying the ticket and it wasn't as if Mark Westbrook was even a real person—he existed only on paper. It wasn't a name they'd ever used before, so there shouldn't be a problem. But just coming to the attention of local law enforcement was enough to put him in a rotten mood. Maybe his mood was improving at the thought of the big score. Jamie was grateful that he didn't decide to bail on this one. She wanted to prove her worth to him and this was the only way she could think to do that.

"But they won't blow up. We can do this. You can do this."

Mark got out of bed and walked toward the shower. "Let's get dressed and get this party started."

The seductive smile on Mark's face was all the invitation Jamie needed to follow him.

Mark stepped back into the bedroom area, water still glistening on his broad chest, a towel wrapped around his waist. He could hear Jamie singing in the shower.

"Stupid girl," he muttered. There was a good chance this con wasn't going to work. There were too many variables. What would happen if the two families got it in their heads to talk to each other? That would ruin everything.

If he didn't ruin it all first. Running that stop sign as they were scoping out the Rubicon Ranch community was a dumb mistake, one noticed by a cop. Not just any cop, but the sheriff. The car they'd rented was a dark sedan with tinted windows. In this neighborhood, the vehicle might as well have had a neon sign hovering above it. Now the police knew Mark and Jamie were in the area, even if the identities the couple had were good for now. Hopefully nothing else would happen to bring them to the attention of the law.

And staying in this bed and breakfast just outside the Rubicon Ranch neighborhood was more proof of Jamie's stupidity. Here they were, the only guests in an out of the way hostel. Strangers outside a neighborhood that valued its privacy.

Jamie obviously wanted some kind of romantic trip with this one. Mark's anger rose as he thought about the chances they were taking on a con that would probably go very wrong. The only thing that had gone their way during this half of the operation was seeing a nine-year-old girl leaving the Peterson house. Her wildly curly blonde hair could have made her a member of the Neuhaus family.

In the bathroom, the water shut off. Jamie must be done in the shower. Her long brown hair would take forever to dry.

He got dressed and went to the briefcase he used to store his tools—disposable cell phones, files of information on their prey, lock picking tools, identification documents. His briefcase held everything a person would need to start a new life, or to steal one from someone else.

He took the Minnesota phone—the one the Neuhaus family could call—and looked through the manila file folder for Jessica Silver's information. He might as well call her and get this part of the scam over with.

Jamie stepped out of the bathroom. Mark motioned to her to keep quiet as he dialed the number he found for the Silver home.

"Good morning, Silver residence," came the overly cheerful female voice on the other end of the line.

Mark introduced himself with his "Minnesota name" and explained he had been hired by the Neuhaus family to look for their missing daughter. "I'm calling to follow up on the comment you left on the Facebook page."

There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. "Um, well, I don't really know what to tell you. This girl in my daughter's class just reminded me so much of that family what with the curly hair and all." Jessica Silver spoke quickly and quietly, as if she didn't want to be overheard. In the background, Mark could hear children giggling. He briefly wondered if he had called during a party of some type.

"You mentioned that. Is it possible to get a class photo of the girl? We have access to software that might help us in our investigation."

Jamie grinned. They had no such software, but getting a photo to send back to the Neuhaus family would probably be good for at least another couple hundred dollars from them.

Outside, a car door shut. Employees showing up for work at the B and B, Mark assumed. He made a mental note to check out the employees. It never hurt to have some blackmail information at the ready. Blackmail and bribery had come in handy more than once.

On the phone, Jessica was stalling.

"I can understand your concern, Mrs. Silver," began Mark. "I certainly wouldn't want to post a picture of children online, either. You never really know who would be watching, do you?" Mark winked and blew a silent kiss to Jamie who stifled another laugh.

"Oh, exactly," came Jessica's relieved reply. "I'm so glad you understand. You just never know what kind of crook and creeps can be lurking in cyberspace."

The comment almost made Mark laugh, but he controlled himself. "You are so right, Mrs. Silver. You never know who is looking at sites like Facebook and other social media. It's a crazy world."

"Isn't it though?" she answered, her voice now more calm and open than it had been. Mark's instincts told him Jessica was becoming less reserved.

"What if you just scanned the photo and sent it directly to me?" Mark suggested. His suggestion served a few purposes. First, he couldn't give up yet. Jessica Silver would hand over the photo, he was sure of it. Second, the prospect of additional money from theNeuhaus family was never far from his mind.

"Well . . ." Jessica began.

"We would run it through our software and if it's a match, we have something to go on. If not, the Neuhaus family doesn't need to know." Mark paused, as if thinking. "Tell you what. I'll scan the photo personally. The only person who would see it would be me. Does that make you feel a little better?"

From across the room, Jamie shook her head in amazement at the ease Mark was able to convince the woman on the phone.

Jessica Silver agreed and Mark relayed the e-mail address he had set up for this operation. It was the same one the Neuhaus family would be using, ensuring all the "Minnesota information" would be in one place if it was needed—for either getting more money or destroying the data quickly if anyone started to catch on to them.

The two said their goodbyes and Mark promised to keep in touch. After hanging up the phone, he looked at Jamie and said, "She'll do it. We should have the picture in a few hours. We'll hold it for a day or so before sending it to Minnesota with another request for cash."

Jamie practically jumped for joy. "Sweet! This will be our biggest score ever!"

"Maybe," came Mark's reply.

"You're not still worried, are you?"

"There are too many things that could go wrong," he stressed again. "Things we can't anticipate because there are just too many players—too many nosy neighbors, too many family members with two cons running simultaneously."

"Yeah, but you scouted the area last night, didn't you?"

Mark glared at Jamie. "What's that supposed to mean? You were with me yesterday when we drove around that damn Rubicon Ranch area."

Jamie's brows knit together. "Last night. You were gone a long time, so I just assumed you were—"

Menacingly, Mark took a step toward Jamie. "Where I was is none of your concern."

Three sharp raps on the door caused Jamie to jump.

Stupid girl.

Jamie ducked back into the bathroom as Mark, having already closed the briefcase, answered the door. But not before shooting his accomplice a threatening look.

Mark took a deep breath and released it as he opened the door. Waiting in the hallway stood two police officers.

Crap.

"Mark Westbrook?" asked the Hispanic woman. She was beautiful and reminded Mark of a Miss America contestant. Too bad she was a cop.

"That's me." Mark kept his voice calm as he leaned against the doorframe, slipping his hand into his jeans pocket. "And how can I help you, Officer?"

"Lieutenant. Lieutenant Rosario Frio and this is Deputy Kelvin Midget," the woman pointed to her companion. "Don't joke with him about his name."

The entire introduction sounded like a rehearsed speech. Mark couldn't imagine anyone joking about Kelvin Midget's name. The man looked like a brick wall. Mark briefly wondered if he could convince Jamie to seduce the giant of a man. It might be to their advantage later. Aloud he said, "Wouldn't dream of it. What can I do for you?"

"Have you seen this girl?" The lieutenant handed him a picture of a young girl who looked just like the one Mark and Jamie were in Rubicon Ranch to see about.

"Nope, can't say that I have," was Mark's response. He didn't grab for the photo or offer any other information.

Midget's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond. The deputy reminded Mark of a bodyguard—his tense muscles and unwavering gaze always on the lookout for trouble.

Frio broke the silence. "What are you doing in town?"

Mark faked a look of surprise at the question. When he saw the officers at the door, he had expected to be asked though Mark wasn't pleased about it. The last thing he wanted to do was bring more attention to Jamie or himself. He silently berated himself for running the stop sign in front of the sheriff the day before. "My wife and I are just taking a little trip. You know, to recapture that spark and see a little of the country." He smiled at Midget in what he hoped was a conspiring manner. "Gotta keep things exciting, right?"

Both officers ignored his question. "How long will you be in town?" asked Frio.

"Well, I don't rightly know," answered Mark. "I wouldn't imagine too long. Probably only a few days."

Midget finally spoke. "You don't have anywhere to be?" Though high pitched, his voice was as deep and penetrating as his presence.

"Nope, not really," Mark answered sticking to the cover story he had created for this identity. "I'm a web designer by trade. It's one of those jobs you can do anywhere."

Frio nodded while Midget made no indication that he had heard anything. Frio repeated the bogus information Mark had supplied the sheriff earlier. Another repercussion of running that damn stop sign.

"Yep, that's me," Mark quipped.

Frio looked around Mark and into the hotel room. "Where's your wife? I don't see her in the room."

Mark flashed another grin and stood up straight, no longer leaning against the doorframe. "Taking a bath. If we're done, I really would like to get back to her."

Frio's icy gaze revealed nothing. Midget remained impassive. Finally the lieutenant broke the silence. "We would appreciate it if you'd stay in the area for a few days. Since you don't have to be anywhere, I'm sure you won't have a problem with that, will you."

It wasn't a question.

Without another word, the officers left. As Mark shut the door, Jamie stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed. "What was all that about?"

"Nothing good," Mark replied. "Absolutely nothing good."
Chapter 8: Eloy Franklin

by Deborah J Ledford

Eloy Franklin limped into his two-story house. He closed the door behind him then dropped his cane into a brass umbrella stand. He winced as he straightened his back and squared his shoulders to regain his rigid military pose. Wringing his hands, cramped from holding their gnarled position for so long, he thought about the sheriff's accusatory words.

He wondered if he held the clue the officer sought. He had witnessed little girl Riley earlier the day in question. She rode her bike right past him. Didn't bother to lift her hand in return to his greeting. She hadn't even looked his way. Typical. Young or old, no one ever did. Fine with Eloy. He preferred it that way—invisible in plain sight.

The West Point graduate of class 1950 despised slipping into the hick monosyllables the man in charge of the investigation expected. If hotshot Sheriff Bryan had been one of his soldiers he'd have given him a stern dressing down, based solely on the look of disgust the cop had settled on "full bird" Colonel Eloy Templeton Franklin. But the retired regimental commander needed to keep up the guise. Had to appear stupid, feeble, clueless.

Eloy had spotted everyone who lived in the vicinity at some point yesterday. First, the sullen teenager who wore a leather jacket embossed with skull and crossbones, a sneer plastered on his face as he rubbed the piece of leather attached to his wrist. Eloy had frowned as that kid disappeared into the side yard of Riley's house. Then there was that psychologist who often "analyzed" Eloy up and down from afar, obviously curious about him but too spooked or standoffish to approach. He figured, surely, even Riley's parents would be suspects.

And a vehicle he had never seen before had stopped right in front of Riley's house. No one got out of the black sedan Eloy figured to be a few years old. He replayed the vision. The windows were tinted so dark he couldn't tell if a man, woman or teenager sat behind the wheel.

Although Eloy's house's exterior and yard needed care, the interior was neat as a pin. Newspapers in a tidy fold, not a piece of discarded clothing in sight, no dirty dishes in a kitchen that always smelled of pine scented cleanser. Books were aligned in tight rows, spines assorted by author, all standing straight as men at attention. Melanie Gray would have been surprised to see the book by her husband tucked on the third shelf of the bookcase. His first thought when he recognized her with the sheriff was to hurry inside, pull the coffee table volume filled with dazzling photographs, and have her sign his treasured copy. But no, he had to remain in his rocker, try to remember to slosh his glass of tea, look the fool.

Three folded flags, encased in shadowbox frames, were prominently showcased in a cabinet beside the staircase. A spot of light bathed the triangles, their dark blue background dotted with white stitched stars every bit as vibrant as the day they had draped his sons' caskets during their military funerals.

Only one son remained. The youngest. Eloy never spoke his name. Tried to forget his face and the voice that haunted his dreams. The outcast hadn't dared to appear in the colonel's house for a decade. And yet, Eloy watched for him. And watched out on his neighbors' behalf in case The Boy—though now forty-five—ever returned.

Sheriff Bryan's words rambled in his mind as Eloy approached the staircase and took the steps two at a time. Once he reached the hall that led to the bedrooms he frowned at an open door. Hand on the knob, he looked over his weight machines and dumbbells in the room where he followed a strict one hour regimen every day. His mind had been slipping lately, forgetting the simplest of things. He closed the door, chiding himself for the carelessness in leaving the room exposed.

He took a few more strides and tugged on a length of twine attached to a panel on the ceiling. Steps dropped down and he ascended these more carefully, not only because of the treacherous slope, but because of what awaited him in the attic.

Eloy spotted the army-issue footlocker stenciled with COL. E. T. FRANKLIN. Unease tapped at his chest. His heart stuttered, knowing the secrets that khaki wooden container with its metal trim held. The Boy's secrets: well-worn photographs of children being forced to do unspeakable acts, terror frozen on tear-streaked little faces Eloy knew would never again be innocent or carefree.

The Boy had hidden his other stash of shame in Eloy's bedroom closet. They were The Boy's treasures, but everyone had assumed they were Eloy's. The old man's fingerprints, left when he first discovered the abominations, had been enough evidence to charge the former military man with pedophilia. That night two detectives entered his house twenty years ago still gave him nightmares. He could still see SEARCH WARRANT printed on the document as it was thrust into his hands before a squadron of cops stormed his house.

After his thirty day release from county jail he had been allowed to move to a different location within the same state. He had hoped fleeing to a new area every other year would throw The Boy off. Each time, to start anew, so Eloy thought. But, as always, the son somehow found the father. So Eloy decided his latest home would be his last.

And yes, he had been caught peeing in the bushes five months after moving to his new house in Rubicon Ranch, but that was only because of the phone call The Boy chanced earlier that day. His son had threatened to visit if the father didn't agree to wire two thousand dollars. Eloy hadn't dared to move from his self-appointed post and go inside to relieve himself. Apparently, he was being watched as much as he played the watcher. Again, he was led away in handcuffs, his scowling face appeared in the local newspaper, and he was shunned double-time by his neighbors, again having to notify everyone of his sex offender status.

The authorities hadn't found the evidence hidden in the footlocker he now approached. That had been an added insult The Boy had thrust upon his father.

Eloy opened the chest and the musty smell of photographic chemicals, old paper and ancient wool filled his nostrils. He used a sleeve of the trench coat he hadn't worn in thirty years to brush aside the pornography and dug to the bottom. His hands grasped the cold handle of a short saber. He took out the weapon, relinquished to him from a captured Korean officer, and tugged the blade from its sheath. The outline of his Makarov pistol caught his attention. A full box of ammunition would be in there, too. He thought of taking them out as well, but settled on the short sword instead. The Boy wouldn't expect that.

And if The Boy in fact had brought harm to little girl Riley, Eloy would need a confession. A bullet fired from his 9mm would surely be fatal. Eloy knew how to use a blade. Was trained as to what areas of the body to nick, knew full well how long it took for a full grown man to bleed out.

He went to his spot at the dormer window, slid a three-legged stool close to the spotted glass, took up a pair of field glasses from the floor, laid the saber on his lap, and waited.
Chapter 9: Melanie Gray  
by Pat Bertram

Melanie stared out the window of the sheriff's Navigator without seeing the houses they passed. What was wrong with her? She could have left the vehicle when he was talking to her next-door neighbor, the nurse with the out-of-control father, but she'd waited in the vehicle like a fool or a suspect. Or like a woman with no place to go.

Alexander's death had left her rootless. She still had to honor the lease on the house, but they hadn't lived in Rubicon Ranch long enough for it to become home. And anyway, Alexander had been her home. Through all the years of their roaming the world, he had been her one constant. She hadn't needed anyone or anything as long as they were together, but now that he was gone, what did she have to show for it? Nothing. No husband, no children, a near empty bank account, only enough possessions to fit in the trunk of a car, but no car to put them in. They'd leased the vehicle Alexander wrecked, and she didn't have the energy to lease another.

And now here she was, riding around with this aggravating sheriff and his barely concealed sexual innuendos. What does he want with me?

If he thought she had something to do with the child's death—with Riley's death—surely he wouldn't have asked her to accompany him when he talked to the Petersons? Unless it wasn't her opinion of them he wanted, but theirs of her? The hint of vulnerability he'd exhibited before going in to talking to them had touched her, but it could have been an act put on for her benefit. A man so adept at traversing the fine line between impropriety and barely acceptable behavior would consider such manipulation part of his job.

She stole a look at him. He seemed oblivious to her presence. One hand on the steering wheel, the other on the mike attached to the radio on the dash, he shot off a barrage of "I wants."

"I want everything you can get me on Jeff and Kourtney Peterson. I want to know everyone Mary Sinclair has been talking to. I want to know if she's been practicing without a license. I want—"

While he finished rolling out his list of wants, Melanie slumped in her seat. Could he be punishing her for daring to talk back to him? Her earlier outburst, when she'd accused him of being "The Man" had felt good. She wished she could summon another spurt of anger, but apathy weighed her down even more securely than manacles would have.

Damn Alexander. If she weren't still reeling from his death, weren't still grieving for the worthless bastard, she'd be more capable of dealing with this situation. But if Alexander hadn't died, she'd never have been in this situation. She'd have been hunched over the computer this morning, finding the right words to describe his photos, not wandering in the desert taking the photos herself.

The sheriff cut a glance at her. Did she detect a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes? Well, she didn't want any sympathy from him. She didn't want anything from him.

"When are you going to let me go?" she asked.

He smirked at her, and she realized she'd lost the game of who-can-ignore-the-other-the-longest, a game she hadn't known they were playing.

"I have a couple of things to see to first." He swung into the parking lot of the bed and breakfast on the outskirts of the housing development.

Rubicon Ranch had once been a stud farm supplying horses to Hollywood for use in movies. All that remained, besides the name, was this ranch house, which did a good business as a bed and breakfast.

Sheriff Bryan turned off the engine. Melanie held still and tried not to let her alarm show. Even he, a man who seemed to think the whole world existed only to do his bidding, even he could not be so deluded as to think she'd agree to bed him on such short acquaintance?

He returned her glance with raised eyebrows, and she could tell he was enjoying her confusion. She felt a blush creeping up her face and wished she were any place but here.

"When did you last eat a real meal?" he asked.

She studied him, trying to figure out this new game, but couldn't see anything in his brown eyes but curiosity and perhaps concern. "I don't know. Why?"

"In my experience, women who lose their husbands see no reason to cook for themselves, so they nibble."

In his experience? As a cop or as a womanizer? Could he be one of those guys who went after grieving women, thinking they were either easy or desperate or both?

"Come on, I'll buy you breakfast." He got out, strode around the vehicle, and opened the door for her.

She folded her arms across her chest. "It's past breakfast time."

"They know me here."

"I bet."

He let out a bark of laughter. Ignoring his outstretched hand, she slid out of the car. A wall of scalding air hit her, stealing her breath and making her stagger.

He caught her arm. "Easy there."

Drat the man! He didn't even crack a sweat, and here she stood, instantly drenched. He grinned at her as if he heard her thoughts. Holding her elbow, he escorted her into the spacious front room of the inn.

A middle-aged woman in jeans and a frilly blouse lit up at the sight of him, and her plain, square-jawed face became almost beautiful.

One of his conquests? He probably had a string of women up and down the state, all ready to jump into bed with him, though Melanie couldn't see his allure. He didn't have half the charm of Alexander. Secure in her belief of her husband's love, she used to be amused by the women who threw themselves at him. Damn you, Alexander, how could you have done this to me?

"You okay?"

Melanie started at the sound of the sheriff's voice, astounded that she'd forgotten him for even a moment. She followed him and the chattering woman to a cloth-covered table in the breakfast room.

"Thank you, Consuelo," Sheriff Bryan said. He pulled out a chair for Melanie.

"Your usual?" Consuelo asked over her shoulder as she scurried for the door.

"Make it two."

An unexpected burst of anger kicked Melanie. "You really are The Man, aren't you? I can order for myself."

"Coffee and toast? You need more than that."

"I wouldn't have had just toast." But that's exactly what she'd planned to order.

The sheriff broke away, poured two cups of coffee from an urn on a rosewood sideboard, set them on the table, and slid into a chair opposite Melanie.

"What do you want with me?" she asked.

He gave her an innocent look as if he didn't know what she meant. "I just want to feed you."

"Yeah, feed me to the sharks," she muttered.

"You're very clever, aren't you?"

She sat up straight. "What?" The word came out almost as a shriek. She modified her tone, but did not try to conceal her anger. "Are you suggesting that I had something to do with that little girl's murder?"

"Why do you assume she was murdered?"

Melanie took a sip of coffee, and tried to make sense of the sheriff's words. "You're saying she wasn't murdered?"

"Did you know the girl?"

"No. I might have seen her, but I don't pay much attention to what goes on in the neighborhood." A stray thought niggled at her. "Wait! I bet she's the one Alexander told me about. Right before his accident, he caught a little girl snooping around in our backyard."

A line appeared between Sheriff Bryan's dark brows. "I never saw the report."

"Report? Oh, police report. He didn't turn her in. Professional courtesy, he said. He was a bit of a snoop himself. Supplemented our income with photos of celebrities."

"Did he ever take photos of your neighbors?"

Something in his expression—an added alertness—alarmed her. "What difference does that make? His death couldn't possibly have anything to do with this little girl. Could it?"

"Why do you ask that?"

She shot him an exasperated look. "Having a conversation with you is like trying to talk to a four-year-old who has an attention disorder."

"Thank you."

"Could Alexander have been killed?" she asked, mulling over the idea. "It was a hit and run. You people told me someone rear-ended him with such force that he crashed head-on into a concrete abutment, and you never found the other driver. What if Riley saw something that got her killed? What if Alexander saw the same thing?"

She sipped her coffee. Maybe she was stretching for an explanation so she wouldn't have to deal with the truth, but would Alexander's death make more sense if he'd been killed on purpose rather than in an accident? Either way, he'd brought his death on himself. If he hadn't been texting his girlfriend, he might have been able to evade the other vehicle.

"I'll look into it again." Sheriff Bryan went still, his body tensed like a hawk spotting prey.

Melanie followed his gaze. A young woman with waist-length brown hair came in and grabbed two cups of coffee. The only indication she might have seen the sheriff was a momentary hitch in her walk as she turned to leave. He continued to watch the door for several seconds after the young woman disappeared from sight.

"Are we on a stakeout?" Melanie asked. "Is that woman a suspect?" Despite the sheriff's reticence to admit the girl had been murdered, someone had killed her. The body had been stuffed into the television in an unnatural position, and there had been an air of evil about the scene.

"Tell me about your neighbors." Sheriff Bryan sounded abstracted, but when Melanie didn't respond right away, he turned to her and said sharply, "Well?"

"There's nothing to tell. The only one I've ever talked to is the poor woman who lives next door, the one you went to see."

"What did you talk about?"

"Nothing, really. Her father came to our front door by mistake one day and couldn't get in, so I went to his house and told the woman he was on the loose. She apologized for his behavior. That was it."

"Who else have you talked to?"

"Is this why you've kept me with you this morning? To interrogate me? But if no one killed that girl, what difference does it make?"

"I'm hiring you to be my gape."

Melanie didn't know what he meant by "gape," but his insinuating tone told her it couldn't be anything good. "You like playing games with people, don't you?" she asked with another eruption of anger.

She didn't know who this angry person inside her was, and she didn't know how to deal with the emotion. She'd always been happy with Alexander, with being his wife, with being his co-author, but now she was none of those things. Just an angry and grieving woman, who seemed to have become the plaything of a sadistic sheriff.

"I bet you really get off on having a sidekick, don't you? Probably always wanted to be one of those guys like Nero Wolfe who gathered everyone together at the end of a case to explain your brilliant deductions."

"Nero Wolfe?" A look of pain contorted his face. "Do I look fat to you?"

"Okay. The Thin Man. But the point remains. You like playing games. And I don't."

The woman who had seated them brought huge platters of food—bacon, eggs, hash browns, sausage, toast, and cinnamon rolls as big as a dinner plate. "I'll be back with your waffles in just a minute. I had to reheat the waffle-maker."

Melanie gagged at the sight of all that food. A bite or two of toast would have been sufficient for her.

Sheriff Bryan waved a fork at her platter. "Eat."

She gingerly took a bite of bacon, then a nibble of the cinnamon roll. She reached out to push the plate away; instead, she drew it closer and devoured half the meal.

"Feel better?" Sheriff Bryan asked.

She did, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of telling him so. "What is a 'gape'?" she asked.

"A gape is a general all-purpose expert. No pay, of course. But lots of benefits."

"Benefits?" She held up her hands. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Besides, it makes no difference. I'm not an expert on anything. Alexander always laughed at me because I was so unobservant. Have no eye for details."

"Doesn't seem to be a good trait for a . . . photographer."

Her face grew warm. So he knew she'd lied about being a photographer. She lifted her chin. "I am a photographer. A very new and inexperienced photographer, but my photos will be published and they've already been paid for, so that makes me a professional photographer."

"Ah."

All warmth, teasing, insinuation disappeared from his eyes. They didn't become cold, but still that bland disregard chilled her, and she knew she'd underestimated him. She wished she knew why he seemed so interested in her. She thought back to their meeting this morning—had it really just this morning? It felt like days—and tried to see it from his point of view. She'd thought she'd handled herself well, but now she saw that she'd merely been numb. Her reaction at finding the little girl seemed too off-hand. She'd compounded that mistake by giving him the memory card. Should she explain why she gave it to him? It might make him lose interest in her, but then she'd probably lose the photos, and she'd lost too much recently to risk another loss, no matter how trivial. And anyway, she hadn't touched the girl, so she didn't have anything to fear.

Or did she?

Perhaps Sheriff Bryan had killed the girl and presumed that she—Melanie—had seen something or photographed something that might incriminate him. Maybe he was keeping her with him not as a gape, but as a GAPP—a general all-purpose patsy.

His next victim.
Chapter 10: Seth Bryan  
by Lazarus Barnhill

Consuela acknowledged Frio and Midget as they entered the café. By the time they were seated at the table with Bryan and Melanie, she was beside them with their usual drinks. Coffee—with cream, no sugar—for the lieutenant and a large fruit punch for the deputy.

The officers stared at Melanie, clearly uncertain about why she was there and what they could say in front of her.

"This may be the most amazing development of this entire unbelievable morning, Deputy," Bryan said casually. "I just watched Ms. Gray here put away two-thirds of Consuela's Number Three Special in five minutes. Never said a word while she was eating."

"That is amazing," Midget said. "I've never been able to finish one myself."

Frio laughed. "What caca! I've seen you down two Number Three's at one sitting." She nodded toward the civilian. "We need to talk and I'm not sure about your guest here."

"What a coincidence," the sheriff said. "She's not sure about us. I'm bringing her on, unofficially, as a special consultant."

Melanie tilted her chin to one side and asked, "What makes you think I want to be some special consultant?"

"And what makes you think she can help us?" Frio's voice was tinged with impatience.

"Because she doesn't miss anything," Bryan said. "I knew that about her before today. I read that book she wrote about forests. Sure, her husband took the pictures and they were beautiful and all, but to really understand what you were seeing you had to read the text. She made you see the photos in new ways—even if you were a trained observer, like me." He stirred his coffee. "Then there was this morning. She picked up on things at the scene better than most investigators."

"Yeah. I wanted to ask about that." Midget leaned back, gazing across at Melanie. "How exactly did you decide the child was murdered? I find that real interesting, since we still don't know that for sure."

"And what about the lack of decomp?" Frio added. "I guess it was just a lucky thing you found her as soon after her death as you did."

The writer arched her eyebrows. "Much longer out there and the scavengers would've found her. As far as knowing her death was unnatural, no one could get inside a broken TV like that by themselves." Whether from the familiarity she had gained or the irritation she was feeling, Melanie's tone sounded more certain. "Obviously someone wadded up her body and stuffed it in there."

"Well maybe," Bryan responded. He blew across the top of his coffee mug. "Little kids are incredibly limber. What if she got lost? The night gets quite cool compared to the day. She looks around for any kind of shelter. She ignores the broken edges of the glass and the prickly electronic gizmos and climbs in and rolls up into a little ball."

She looked at him, apparently waiting for him to continue, but when he kept silent, she said, "And then what? She dies of frostbite on a seventy-degree night?"

"I'm thinking she didn't know there was a sidewinder in the box before she crawled in. Something like that." He shook his head. "I'm still hoping Sweetum will tell us this isn't a murder."

"What's a 'sweetum'?" Melanie asked.

"The coroner," Frio replied. She shifted her gaze to the sheriff. "Are we really going to discuss this in front of your girl here?"

Melanie's jaw dropped. "'Your girl'?"

"Yeah," Bryan said. "She can keep a secret."

Frio smirked. "So, assuming this is a murder, we're ruling Ms. Gray out as a suspect?"

"Yeah, why not. Unless we can't find a better one." The sheriff shrugged. "Who else in our little subdivision can we eliminate as possible a killer?"

"Not many," Frio responded. "We know that lots of residents had contact with the victim. Turns out Riley girl was a social butterfly. She got on her little pink bike—We found it in the Peterson's garage this morning, by the way—and rode all over the development. She paid regular visits to lots of people. Including the counselor lady."

"Moody Sinclair?" Bryan asked.

"That's one house she went to frequently. Apparently she and her dad went over there together for a while. Then dad stopped and daughter kept going." When Bryan didn't speak, she went on. "She also spent some time with the 'nutty professor.'"

"Dahlsing?"

"Yeah. She came and went all around when the mood suited her."

"Hmm. . . Anybody else we know she went to see?"

"Somebody apparently went to her house," Midget offered. "A kid. Teenage boy. Nobody seems to know who he is or where he's from."

"What? In Rubicon Ranch? Did he drive up here from down in the valley?"

"We don't think so," Frio said. "A couple people caught a glimpse of him. They saw him lurking around the Peterson's house. Only thing is, he doesn't fit the description of any teenager in the neighborhood. Fourteen to sixteen. All black clothes. Leather wristband.Tough looking kid."

"Hard for me to believe nobody knows who he is." He turned to Melanie. "Have you ever seen anyone like that?"

She shook her head. "The only boy that age I've seen is a geeky kid who lives with his father down the street."

"Ah!" Frio exclaimed. "That would be the McKenzie house. Yeah, I almost arrested the dad this morning. Fresh guy. Card-carrying male chauvinist. But the son—you can write him off. He's scared of his shadow."

"Shuffle him to the bottom of the deck if you want," Bryan said, "but still check him out. He's the right age and size as our mystery thug." He frowned. "Okay, let's slow down a minute and look at this systematically. Let's take the worst possible scenario and assume we do have a killer in our midst. Rosaria, help me list the people we're looking at so far."

She produced her BlackBerry and began to press the buttons across the face of it. "For starters, there is Eloy Franklin, our resident pervert."

"That's a cop thing isn't it," Melanie protested, "jumping to conclusions. Just because he sits around watching everyone in the neighborhood doesn't make him a dirty old man and it certain doesn't make him a pedophile."

"He is though." Bryan's voice was matter-of-fact. When she turned to him abruptly, he said, "Before he came here he was found guilty of possessing kiddy porn. He had to report to the county as a sex offender when he came to Rojo Duro County."

"Oh my God," Midget said slowly.

"Him being a child predator doesn't make sense to me," Bryan continued. "This guy was a full bird colonel with a distinguished military career."

"Sometimes perverse people lead two lives," Frio said. "Maybe he was trying to make up for his obsession with children by being a decorated serviceman."

"Oh, I understand that. What I meant was, if you're into pedophilia, seems like the last place you'd go is the military. By definition, no kids. I keep asking myself if there is more to that story than we know. Who's next?"

"Well, the parents." Frio manipulated the BlackBerry. "Jeff and Kourtney Peterson."

He nodded. "In the murder of a child, once sex offenders are ruled out, the parents are automatically at the top of the list. What makes the Peterson's even more interesting is their weird behavior when Ms. Gray and I told them about Riley."

"They didn't seem surprised?" Frio asked.

"They just reacted strangely. They seemed genuinely shocked. The dad ran upstairs to see if the girl was there before I got around to telling them she was dead. Mom was cool from the beginning and just got colder and colder the longer we were there. I had this feeling that nothing I could say or do was going to rattle her. And you could tell that dad was pretty much under her control. . . . Never have I seen parents learn about the death of a child and pull themselves together like that."

"Maybe Jeff and Riley were going to see the counselor lady because Kourtney is crazy," Frio said.

"Maybe." Bryan looked at her. "Something weird as hell is going on with them and we've got figure it out. They strike me as a 'big secret' family."

Melanie frowned. "'Big secret' family?"

"Yeah." Midget nodded. "That's when there is something in the history of a family that they all know, but they keep from everybody outside the family."

"All right," the sheriff said, "beside Mr. Franklin, is it possible we have another pervert in the subdivision?"

"You mean Dr. Dahlsing?" Midget asked.

Frio tilted her head. "There are a couple things about him that set off alarms for me. Unmarried adult male. Very friendly to small children. Recently moved here under mysterious circumstances. And he's just an odd duck. I mean, who in this is day and age and county doesn't have a car?"

"I don't," Melanie responded dryly.

"Oh," the lieutenant said. "I am sorry about your husband's accident. But you have to admit the Dahlsing guy's strange."

"Well let's keep him on the suspect list," Bryan said. "Who else?

"What about Miss Sinclair," Frio asked, "your de-frocked counselor?"

"De-frocked?" Melanie asked.

Bryan glanced at the writer. "Moody did some prison time for causing the death of an eight-year-old child. The kid seized during a 'rebirthing' treatment. Suffocated inside a bed sheet." He smiled at her shocked reaction. "It is eerily similar, isn't it? That's why Moody is the absolute last person I would suspect. She lost her reputation and career as a result of that death. Plus she's on parole. Anything suspicious and she would go back to the women's penitentiary without any trial. I just can't picture it being her. On the other hand, because of the death of that child we can't remove her from the list."

"We can take her dad off, though," Midget said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he was walking around in the front yard this morning with a rolling pin, talking about bashing in Riley Peterson's head and making her dead. Well, we watched Sweetum take her out of that TV. Her head was definitely not bashed in. Mr. Sinclair would have known that if he was the killer."

Bryan shook his head. "You know, that guy was weird way back when he was in his right mind. And he was sly. What if he's faking the Alzheimer's? What if he did kill the girl and then publicly, intentionally described the murder incorrectly? We would just say he has diminished capacity and he's harmless and ignore him as a suspect. . . . No, we keep Moody Sinclair on the suspect list because we have to. And Morris Sinclair on the list because he may not be the harmless coot we're supposed to think he is. Who else?"

"What about Cort McKenzie?" Frio asked.

Bryan rubbed his eyes with the back of knuckles. "You know, my first inclination is to say 'no'. I've never known a male chauvinist who wasn't a big, fat momma's boy and, by nature, all bluster and talk. But guys like that typically end up with docile women who mother them. As I understand it, Mrs. McKenzie is allegedly traveling the European continent like a hobo. So why is she staying away from her husband?" He gazed at the officers. "Something in that house just doesn't add up either. Let's keep Cort McKenzie on the suspect list. And what's his kid's name?"

"Dylan."

"Him too, even though the lieutenant thinks he's nothing but a nerd. Maybe we can find out if he knows the mystery teen. So we have Kourtney and Jeff Peterson, Eloy Franklin, Cooper Dahlsing, Morris and Moody Sinclair, and Cort and Dylan McKenzie. Christ! That's eight 'persons of interest' for us to check out. The good news is that, at most, only one of them can be the killer."

"Or two."

Bryan looked at Melanie again. "Yep. Got me there." He folded his arms on the table in front of him. "There's something else. Lieutenant?"

"Yes, boss?"

"Day before yesterday I stopped a guy for running a stop sign. Ran it right in front of me, bigger than shit. I hate to enforce traffic stuff, but I couldn't let him get by with that. So he hands me what turns out to be a fake ID. He's the one I sent you to check out this morning with the information I took yesterday."

"Yeah," Frio responded warily.

"I figured he would be smart enough to know that I was smart enough to know that was a fake, that he would 'get the hell out of Dodge'. But yesterday I saw that slick black luxury sedan parked here when I came over for breakfast. It's still down there this morning. When we came in just now, I saw the flashy chick who was with him in the vehicle. So we have a strange couple—what do they call themselves?"

"Westbrook," Frio answered. "Mark and Jamie Westbrook."

"Yeah, so we have a strange couple showing up and hanging around just as we have a child die under strange circumstances."

"So you want them on the list as well?"

"Yep. I guess we got our work cut out for us." He pulled Melanie's photo memory card from his breast pocket. "Print these pictures out too. See if you can light a fire under Dr. Sweetum."

Frio pushed back her chair and stood. "I'm going to take Dylan out for a shake or something later. Get to know him, take it slow and easy. Maybe he'll warm up to me and learn to trust me. I saw a bruise on his wrist that was probably put there by his dad. If he's abused, maybe we can get him some help, but if I confront him directly, he'll probably lie to protect his abuser—usually the child blames himself for the abuse. It makes me angry. I'll take him to that little restaurant by the drugstore. Probably tell him I eat lunch there every day so he can find me when he's ready to talk."

"But you don't eat lunch there every day," Midget objected.

"From now on I will. At least for a while."

Midget finished his drink and got to his feet. He and Frio turned to leave.

"Lieutenant," Bryan said.

Frio looked back at the sheriff. "Yes?"

He motioned slightly with his head. Frio came close and bent over him, her face by his.

"I want you to go to the closed case files and find Alexander Gray's case. Leave it in my top drawer."

She straightened. "Yes, sir."

Melanie waited until they were alone. "So you told me the truth?"

"You mean about looking into your husband's accident? Well, I wasn't involved with that case and as the sheriff it's always a good policy to spot-check the work of your investigators." He studied her face. "Never know what you might stumble across. Would you like some coffee or tea for the road?"

"Seriously? You let people take drinks inside your Navigator?"

"Well, like I said, I really wanted them to get me a Beamer." He waved at the hostess. "Consuela. Por favor, un café largo para el camino." He turned back to Melanie. "Would you like me to take you home now?"
Chapter 11: Jeff and Kourtney Peterson  
by J B Kohl and Eric Beetner

Jeff stood with his back to it for a long time. He could hear the whipping of the yellow POLICE LINE tape wrapped impotently around the murder scene. When he approached he saw it but averted his eyes, not ready to take in the final resting place of his daughter. When he did turn around his eyes let loose again with tears he thought he'd used up. The desert tableau sent a shiver up his spine. The hole where the television had been, the footprints in the sand all around him like he'd missed a party.

When he left the house that morning he wasn't sure where he'd end up. He needed air and Rubicon offered some of the best as a lure to people in colder climes to drop everything and move south. He sucked big lungfuls of the stuff but they did little to clear his head of the swirling thoughts that plagued him since the sheriff first came to his door. His feet took him to the spot by following some father's instinct and the casual words the sheriff let drop about where the body had been found.

With each passing hour he felt less like Riley's father and more like the stranger he really was. Her real father would never have let this happen.

All that fresh air whistled in his ears. A dark green lizard darted past him, moving in stuttering bursts. Jeff wanted to crush it, to throw rocks and tell the creature not to use this place as a refuge. There could be no peace here.

He'd always told Riley she watched too much TV.

Jeff stepped over the yellow tape with little effort, angry at the police for their lack of understanding how sacred this place had become. He tried to imagine his daughter's body fitting into the a small space of a television console and at the same time willed the image away, which worked about as well as the police tape.

He scooped up a handful of dirt, and a something sliced the side of his index finger. Had Riley been in pain, too?

Jeff had misgivings about how much freedom they gave Riley but Kourtney kept insisting that if they stifled her she would rebel and they'd never get her back. For years Jeff suspected that Kourtney just didn't want to deal with the increasing void between them. Letting her out to ride a bike, visit a friend or just be out of sight, out of mind worked for Kourtney's avoidance. It never worked for Jeff. He worried, he fretted. Kourtney told him to calm down, to shut up, to stop being paranoid.

He stared into the hole and mouthed the words, "Told you so."

Back at the house Jeff entered with his mind spinning on what excuse to give Kourtney about where he'd been all morning.

He found her watching TV. Immediately his blood pressure rose, his heart rattled against his ribs and his face flushed.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked her, much more forcefully than he usually spoke to her.

"Nothing. I was thinking about lunch. What do you want?"

Jeff didn't think he'd ever be able to look at a TV again and here was his wife, slumped down in front of the tube like she had noting better to do than catch up on some celebrity gossip while waiting for the dryer to finish.

"Are you fucking serious?"

Kourtney turned to him. "What?"

Jeff's days of capitulation were over. "Why are you doing this?"

Kourtney sat up straight, slipping right back into fight mode, easy as a comfortable sweatshirt and jeans. "Doing what, Jeff? Doing what?"

"Not doing anything. That's what. Not doing anything that could find out who did this." Jeff still struggled with the words, choosing vague terms like "this," "it" and "this whole thing."

"What the hell do you want me to do? The sheriff said he was doing all he could."

"Yeah. All he could, not all we could." Jeff stepped forward. He never stepped forward in their fights. "Let's go ask around. Let's talk to her classmates in school. Let's go talk to that woman who found her."

"Jeff—"

"Let's offer a reward."

"A reward?" Kourtney stood. Behind her, a talk show host continued to dance and rouse her audience to get up as well. "What kind of reward, Jeff? Fifty bucks? It's about all we can afford. I don't know if you've looked at our checkbook in the last, oh I don't know, six years or so."

"We could take out a home equity loan. Whatever it takes to find who ever killed my girl."

He saw the words run through her like an arrow. For a second he thought he should correct himself, "Our girl." He decided to let it hang, hoping it would hurt her. Knowing it would. He also knew that cut had been healed over by thick scar tissue. Nothing Jeff could say would cut as deep as Riley's apathy toward Kourtney.

"Jeff, Goddammit, the authorities are on top of it. You won't help by playing armchair CSI, okay? You'll probably make it worse."

"What about those private investigators?"

"The couple? Jeff, they didn't look like they could find the Grand Canyon with a map and compass."

"They found us." The argument had gone well past the point of Jeff's usual retreat.

"Just let the sheriff do his Goddamn job."

"Doing something is better than sitting around watching TV."

She picked up the remote and killed the power. The talk show host stopped dancing. "Jeff, they were asking for money, too. If money were no object, hell, I'd hire ten private investigators. We have to rely on the system that has worked for everyone else for a long, long time."

"I swear Kourtney," The tears brimmed back on the rims of his eyelids. "I don't think you want them to find who killed her." He couldn't believe he'd said the words. Jeff could tell by Kourtney's face she couldn't either.

She moved around the couch and stood in front of Jeff. Six inches shorter, forty pounds lighter than him and still he felt intimidated. He held his ground.

"You listen to me. For the last time, you deal with this your way and I'll deal with this mine. I grieved for my dead child once in this life. Maybe I gave all I had to give. You don't get to tell me how much I should cry. You don't get to tell me I'm not doing enough. If they find her killer, what then? Does she come back? Do we get a do-over? Do we suddenly get pregnant and start from scratch?" Kourtney pushed past Jeff and went into the kitchen. Over her shoulder she muttered, "Fuck you Jeffrey."

On the third knock to Moody Sinclair's door, she answered. Jeff tried to clean up his teary eyes, clear his throat of the acid words he said to his wife.

"Jeff." Moody clearly didn't expect to see him. She struggled for words. "What can I help you with? I mean, I'm sorry, first of all."

"Can we talk?"

"Of course. Come in." She stepped aside and Jeff entered her home as he'd done with Riley. He felt the absence at his side and nearly sobbed again but held it together.

Moody wrapped her arms around herself, as if caught with a sudden chill in the room.

"Miss Sinclair, Kourtney and I are . . . having difficulty with this . . . news."

"Jeff, I'm going to stop you there." He flinched, wounded by her words. "In light of the . . . investigation, I don't think it's a good idea for me to talk to you."

"Why not? I can't talk to my own doctor?"

"You see, Jeff," she turned her back on him and paced the tile floor of the entryway. "I'm actually not even supposed to be practicing."

Jeff grimaced. The one place he felt he could seek refuge turned against him. "Why not?"

She spun and looked him the eye. "I don't have a license to practice anymore."

As she explained he felt an odd sense of relief. For the first time since the news came of Riley's death, he felt perhaps it wasn't his wife who'd killed his girl.

The grandfather clock in the dining room chimed but Kourtney didn't bother to count the bells. Jeff had yelled at her. Yelled. At her. Because of private investigators. Nosy peckers who thought they knew something and didn't. Mark and Jamie Westbrook. If they had anything they would have called the sheriff and had him come on over. They were nothing more than a bump in the road . . . a pair of flies that needed swatting.

Jeffrey hadn't been so sure. Don't panic. She'd said it over and over again during the last nine years. "Don't panic, Jeff. Trust me. Please trust me."

Kourtney remembered a time, years ago. She must have been nine or ten herself then. She'd been spending the night with a girlfriend and they'd purposely tried to make words lose their meaning. Kourtney repeated the word "ladle" over and over until they'd rolled on the floor laughing, wondering how such a silly word could have ever come into existence, how anyone could make sense of such a ridiculous word.

That, she supposed, was what Jeff thought of the phrase "don't panic." Somewhere, the meaning had vanished, morphing from a command into absurdity—something that no longer even sounded like English. And that was the really bad part, she knew. A breakdown in communication was the first sign of trouble. And if she couldn't communicate with Jeff anymore, then there was no hope.

The detectives, if that's what one could call them, hadn't gotten much from Jeff. He'd stammered around about their questions, looking like a deer in the headlights, desperately needing a shave—and a spine—but he didn't give too much away. But now? Had he gone to talk to them? Was he taking his fleshy hand and finally, finally pointing a finger in her direction?

Something, some horrible feeling in her gut came to life. It started as a hot pinprick and bloomed, spreading out from her center in ripples that swam to her arms and trickled into her hands like hot lava. She swallowed. An image of Riley pushed itself to the surface of her mind and that hot pinprick in her gut got a little sharper.

Kourtney took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. What would a mother do at a time like this? There had been a time, years ago, when Kourtney could have answered that question. Because for a little while, she had been a mother. She had felt the undulation of tiny limbs in her center, had felt the hiccups of her daughter at night as she lay down to sleep. Tiny jerks of her swollen belly that her doctor said were nothing more than nervous system development in the fetus but which Kourtney knew were the language of her child. "Hey, Mom, I'm here. How you doin'?" There had been connection there—the lifeblood flowing from Kourtney into that tiny thing unable to sustain itself without her. There had been love. And if only she had been awake at the time of the delivery, if only she could have told the doctor what to do, how to hold her daughter, there would be none of this madness now. There would be no unshaven Jeff running through the neighborhood doing God knows what, no dead girl with curly blonde hair in the desert, no suspicion. There would be Kourtney and Jeff and their child. But Kourtney hadn't been awake. Jeff had made the decisions. And their baby died.

After that, there was really nothing to do except solve the problem. And the problem was that they needed a baby to sleep in the nursery they'd worked so hard to prepare. They needed someone to use all those diapers and to drink from those bottles and to wear the tiny pink clothes they bought. Solving the problem was what a good mother would do.

Maybe it had been madness that made her push Jeff to take the baby. The seventh child of a welfare mom from Stillwater, Minnesota. Maybe it had been desperation. Or maybe they'd just done the kid a favor. But really, if Kourtney thought about it, it had been the best solution for all parties involved. If it hadn't been for the Petersons, Riley would have been raised on government cheese and handouts, wearing a winter coat with sleeves that didn't come down past the elbows because there wasn't money for more. She'd have been hungry, living in a house that smelled like a litter box with a four hundred pound mother and an abusive father. And although Kourtney had seen the family on Facebook—the attractiveness of the mother, the gentle eyes of the father, the middle-class appearance of the siblings—she still visualized her version of them in her head.

Kourtney was a savior, a benevolent woman bestowing care and nurturing on a child unable to fend for herself. She was nothing less than this.

She gave a little laugh, but it sounded shrill, almost hysterical, to her ears. She realized she was still standing in that arched doorway between the dining room and kitchen, neither fully in one room or the other, looking at the grandfather clock with its second hand moving idly around and around and the hum of the last chime still resonating in the air. She held out her hands. Trembling.

So. What would a mother do now?

A mother wouldn't stand in the doorway and shake. She wouldn't waste time remembering things that happened long ago. Jeff, she knew, would do whatever Jeff would do. Kourtney would clean up after him as she always did because he was her husband and they were bound by vows. More than vows now, considering everything that had happened. And it was that bond that meant he'd be back. When that happened she'd make him tell her everything—every stupid thing he'd done since walking out the door.

She swallowed and licked dry lips, staggering a little as she turned on her heel and made her way back to the den. Despite her resolve, the pinprick in her gut was a flaming knife now and its heat had spread to her legs and her chest. Even her face felt hot. The edges of her vision blurred and once again she pulled herself together. She dug her nails into her palms and bit her tongue until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

Then, she sat and opened her laptop and logged onto Facebook for the second time that day. She would contact Mrs. Silver and ask her to help with a funeral reception for Riley at the house. Would tell her, "Come right in Mrs. Silver. Sit down. Have some tea and tell me why in the hell you want to mail a picture of my dead daughter to a family in Minnesota." And Mrs. Silver wouldn't be the only rube she'd entertain. Kourtney would fling her doors wide open and invite everyone in. Let them try to find a crack in the veneer of the Peterson family history. Yeah. Let them try.

She typed frantically, composing her message to Mrs. Silver, tears running down her cheeks.
Chapter 12: Dylan McKenzie  
by Nancy A. Niles

It had felt as though the day would never end. When the final bell rang Dylan wiped his brow against the long sleeve of his shirt. It seemed that everyone at school had asked him why he'd been wearing a dress shirt and why he didn't roll up the sleeves to keep cool. In fact, a couple of times he'd forgotten the ugly bruises and had begun to push up the sleeves. But when the material scraped against the fresh welts the stinging pain reminded him of his dad's rough hands clamped like pythons around his skinny arms and the angry eyes, red face and sharp words.

Lieutenant Frio had really set off his dad. Dylan smirked at the memory of her shoving him against the wall and handcuffing him. That alone had been worth the beating he'd received afterward. He admired Frio, in fact, admired anyone who stood up to his dad. But a woman! It made him feel ashamed that he let his dad push him around as he did—although Dylan had found a way to fight back.

He looked both ways as he crossed the busy intersection and scurried across to the other side. There'd been no need to hurry, there would be no one checking on him or wondering why he hadn't gone straight home from school. He hurried because he felt excited and hoped that the package he got from his mother every month would somehow be different, would somehow give him an answer to how he could escape his abusive father, would somehow point him in a direction that would change him and his life forever.

Ever since his mom had sent him the key to that post office box Dylan had checked it weekly and sometimes three and four times a week for some note, some instruction, some wonderful miracle that would take him away from his tormented life and propel him into his warrior nobility.

Patience is a virtue every warrior must master and have in his arsenal. Patience is power, patience will bring good things, patience gives strength to the warrior.

He wished he'd been more patient with Riley. Maybe she'd still be alive if he'd not gotten so frustrated with her. Had he OD'd her with the piece of the white pill he'd given her? Would they come after him and arrest him for murder? Would he end up on death row?

The pain from these thoughts almost doubled him over and he cursed himself for missing another dose of the white pills his mother sent him. And then with a jolt to his solar plexus he remembered the prescription he'd forgotten to pick up. The Ritalin. His mother would be upset that he hadn't sent it. It had been ready two days ago and he'd completely spaced it out.

Calm down. Get the pills later. Two days is not a long time, she will understand.

He slammed through the post office doors and screeched to a halt in front of the little box in the wall. With shaking hands he stabbed the key into the slot and there it was—the package from his mom. He'd been tempted to tear it open right there, just in case she'd sent him something different, but he knew it only contained Xanax. Maybe if he didn't miss so many of the doses he wouldn't be so forgetful. But the tranquilizer made him tired and clouded his mind. He felt so much better without it, plus he'd been putting the Xanaxto a much better use.

Dylan discovered that if he dissolved one of them in his dad's beer, his dad would mellow out and leave him alone. He'd taken to doing that almost every night, but he noticed that one pill just did not cut it anymore. Perhaps tonight he'd dissolve two of them in his dad's beer and really knock him out. He may not be able to hold his own in a physical fight but Dylan knew how to be clever. His mom had always told him to use his brains and not his fists. And he had become quite adept at outsmarting most adults.

Dylan did pretty much everything he wanted and had been able to escape chores and most responsibility, but he needed to get the Ritalin from the pharmacy and send it to his mom's friend in Arizona as fast as he could. She depended on the drug. He would not fail her, not now or ever.

He heard a noise behind him and spun around and ran into Lieutenant Frio. Dylan jumped back and fell on the slick floor and the package flew from his hands. The Lieutenant picked it up and he saw her look at the Arizona postmark. His mom's friend had been too smart to put a return address on the package. Still, he regretted the cop seeing the package and postmark.

He jumped up, his face burning and his eyes flying to her dark gaze and then darting away. She handed him the package and smiled at him. Her eyes lingered on his wrist and Dylan saw the black and blue mark. He quickly pulled down his shirtsleeve and stuttered an apology.

"I'm sssorry, I didn't mean to, you know, run into you . . ."

Lieutenant Frio nodded at the open door of the post office box. "Better lock that," she said, her eyes glued to the package that Dylan stuffed into his backpack. "Can I buy you a Coke or a milk shake, maybe a burger?" she asked.

"Uh, sure," he said, both thrilled and frightened by the invitation. He closed and locked the door to the box. "I need to pick up my prescription at the drug store . . ."

"Great, we can go to the little restaurant right down the block. I eat lunch there almost every day," she said.

Dylan could not keep the grin off his face and cursed himself for not being cool. Frio had obviously been following him. It gave him a strange but not unpleasant feeling and brought to mind a memory of his mother. It had always just been the two of them spending most of their free time together. His dad had been busy at work and, according to his mom, with his sluts. That had been fine with Dylan and even when his mom made him drive with her around town following his dad, he'd just been happy for the time with her.

Those jaunts had been boring in a way, because his dad only frequented a few places—a bar downtown and his girlfriend's apartment. But it got really exciting one night when his mom brought a gun and shot out the window in his girlfriend's apartment. They had burned rubber getting out of that complex and Dylan never forgot the maniacal laughter that caused them to pull over and howl with merriment until tears streamed down both their faces.

He knew it had been wrong, but it still brought a smile to his lips and a gleam to his eyes. Frio had a gun and Dylan suspected she would never hesitate to use it. Maybe someday they could go out to the desert and target practice.

"You look happy," Lieutenant Frio said after they both ordered cheeseburgers, fries and Cokes.

Dylan felt his face turn hot. He must look like a dork, sitting there grinning. But he decided he didn't care.

"I just, you know, I just never expected to run into you, and uh, I guess . . ."

"You miss your mother?" she asked.

Dylan nodded his head and wondered what his mom would think of this woman. He knew she'd mightily disapprove because she hated cops. What had he been thinking, anyway? He slumped against the back of the booth. Frio's eyebrows rose, but she looked away, seeming to make note of something.

"You can't interrogate me without my mom or dad or an attorney present," he said in a shaky voice.

"Hey, I just want to buy you some food, I hate eating alone. And if your mom or dad or an attorney has to be present, then we're for sure going to have go to McDonald's instead. I live on a cop's salary, remember?"

"How much do cops make?" he asked.

"Why? Are you thinking of becoming a cop?"

"No way. That's the last thing I'd want to be."

"It's not so bad, Dylan. I get to meet all kinds of interesting people. And once in a while I'm even able to help someone. What do you want to do for a living when you get out of school?"

"I'd like to help people re-invent themselves. And I'd start with myself," he said while thinking I could re-invent myself by stealing other people's identities and robbing them blind. He imagined his mother laughing at the double meaning and how clueless the Lieutenant had been sitting there staring at him with those big, doe eyes. She seemed blinded by his cleverness.

"But first, shouldn't you know who you are before re-inventing yourself?" she asked.

"I know I'm a nerdy kid, I know my grades are the highest in the school and I know I can probably be most anything I want to be."

"You're ahead of nine tenths of the rest of us then," she said.

He nodded with a certainty that he had her fooled. Dylan felt relaxed and happy with himself, and to think he'd been so upset just a little while ago. What had been bothering him? He remembered the pills for his mom. "I'll be right back, I need to get my prescription."

A few minutes later, Dylan plopped down in the booth clutching the white drugstore bag. He noticed Frio glance at the pharmacy receipt with Ritalin in bold letters across the top. He took a bite of his cheeseburger and gobbled his food as though he hadn't eaten in a long time.

"Why did you and your dad move to Rubicon Ranch?" Frio asked.

"Because a buddy of his got him a construction job. I'll bet that buddy is regretting it as we speak. My dad has always been a jerk, but since we've been in this backwater town he's blossomed into a real fourteen carat basta . . . uh, rude guy." When Dylan laughed it came out high pitched and giggly.

"You don't have to sanitize your language," she said. "Remember, I've met your dad and I understand exactly what you mean. If you ever need help, Dylan, call me." She handed him one of her cards and he nodded and put it in his pants pocket. "I couldn't help noticing that your prescription is for Ritalin. Do you have ADHD?"

"Uh huh," he nodded.

"My niece has that. She gets really tired and the Ritalin helps her stay awake. Does it do that for you, too?"

"Yeah, sure," he said absently between bites of a French fry. And then he realized she'd gotten it backwards. Or had she? What had his mother told him to tell the doctor when they'd gotten the prescription? It had been a few months ago and he couldn't remember. He cursed himself for getting so comfortable around Frio. Had she tricked him?

He stopped eating and stared at her.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Gotta go," Dylan grabbed his backpack and scooted out of the booth.

"But you haven't finished your burger . . ."

"Not hungry," he said and rushed toward the door. He burst out onto the sidewalk and adjusted the pack onto his back. Suddenly it seemed as though a million eyes were on him. Running now he took a short cut through the alley and heard Bob Dylan's song, "Man of Constant Sorrow" in his head.

He didn't feel clever now. In fact, he felt used and abused. Frio had only been friendly with him to get information out of him. Now she knew about the Ritalin. And she'd probably been curious about the package. Had he put his mother in danger? Would Frio continue to follow him? Should he leave this city, go to Arizona and look up his mom's friend? Tell him the cops were after him and he felt scared?

Dylan heard the sound of someone breathing hard and turned around to see a man wearing a black T-shirt, Levi's, and a ski mask that covered his entire face. The stranger's fist shot out and propelled Dylan into the metal dumpster where his head banged into the hard steel side, causing him to black out for a few seconds when he fell to the sidewalk.

"Why were you talking to that cop?" the attacker asked in an obviously disguised, high-pitched voice.

"Leave me alone," Dylan managed to say through the haze in his head. Black spots danced before his eyes and he feared he'd lose consciousness again. He rolled onto his back just in time to se the attacker lunge at him. Dylan raised his legs and kicked the man squarely in the stomach. The air whooshed from the attacker's lungs and now he too, lay on the ground, squirming and gasping for air. Dylan felt a burst of adrenaline. He jumped to his feet and ran away, wondering who the man had been and realizing the attacker had probably been following and watching him for days.
Chapter 13: Mary "Moody" Sinclair

by JJ Dare

A death in the desert only a short distance from her father's house was not as unsettling to Moody as her father's increasingly erratic behavior.

After she and her father finished eating their sandwiches, she could not get him to repeat what had been spewing from his mouth earlier. He would only stare blankly as he sat across from her at the kitchen table.

Fair-haired girl, smashed head, bloody face, pretty picture—what did all this mean and was it connected to Riley's death? Was there any connection to anything or was this simply more of the mania developing in her father's mind?

Sheriff Bryan had not called the little girl's death "murder," but Moody recognized the difference between an investigation into a tragic death and one that was suspicious. The way Bryan was probing into her confidential conversations with Riley and Jeff said a lot about the way the police were viewing the little girl's death.

Morris rose from his seat without a word and went back to his work room. The music was cranked up just like it had been earlier. Once again, "The Sounds of Silence" were incredibly loud even through the closed door.

Usually after they ate, Moody would take a nap. Well, not really a nap, but more of a time of quiet reflection as far away from Morris as she could get in her father's large house.

That was not going to happen today. She was still too shaken by Riley's death, the sheriff's visit and her father's stranger than strange behavior. There was another reason she was reluctant to lie down—she did not want to reflect on the "extra special" secrets Riley had shared with her. She was afraid she would misconstrue what the little girl had told her about the people in her life.

Moody did not doubt her ability to draw conclusions from her own observations. However, coming from a child's mind the same observations were processed subjectively. Since Moody could not draw out more details from Riley, the things she had been told in confidence had the potential to hurt everyone involved. More than that, Riley's secrets would bias the sheriff and his deputies against the innocent.

But, one of those secrets might be the key to uncovering the murderer. How was she going to filter through the childlike observations and discover the monster? Riley had given her all the answers to help find her killer. All Moody had to do was analyze the difference between true facts and the child's perception.

On the other hand, why should she even try? It was not her job. Not anymore.

Still, it was more than Moody's profession. Prying into human nature was part of her own nature. She was a people puzzle solver. She had Morris to thank for that since, for as long as she could remember, she had always tried to put her father's pieces together to understand why he was the way he was.

Everyone in the world had secrets they tried to keep buried. Some, however, had darker parts of their lives they would do anything to keep from coming to light. And, now, from what she was piecing together from Riley's clandestine childlike observations and memories, it seemed all of her neighbors were part of the dark half of the world.

Where better to start than Riley's own parents? The child had told Moody her mother had whispered something about a dead baby brought back to life one night when she thought Riley was asleep.

Did Riley have a sibling, one who had not survived because of something one or both parents had done? Was this why Kourtney had refused to come with Riley and Jeff to talk with Moody? Was Riley's mother afraid her secret would come to light?

Earlier that afternoon, Jeff had knocked on her door. Moody looked through the peephole as he stood there looking more dejected than anyone she had ever seen. After he knocked a second time, he touched the doorknob, but released it and started to turn away.

It was not her concern. Not anymore. The litany repeated itself in her mind as he knocked a third time.

Openly helping him was not worth the risk. Hanging her head, Moody opened the door so she could turn Jeff gently away.

The visit was over quickly. She felt strange—not guilty, not sorrowful. Rather, she felt lighter and unchained. She had stumbled over her words and been uncharacteristically dramatic. It was almost as if another person inside her had taken over and put on the show for Jeff. It was with a sense of relief she hung back and let that other personality take the reins of an unpleasant situation.

Moody got the impression Jeff believed she was the only person he could talk to about his little Riley. His red swollen eyes had beseeched her, but she would not tempt fate or jail a second time. She would do anything to avoid losing her freedom. Anything.

She shifted position in her father's wingback chair.

The boy, Dylan was a puzzle. Riley said she'd seen him in her house, but it was not really him. He had had blue eyes and a black leather jacket and had been rummaging through her parents' dresser drawers. Riley told Moody "Dark Dylan comes out at night."

Moody had dismissed this as a dream the girl confused with reality. The Dylan Moody knew was a little strange, but he was as far from the biker-wannabe Riley described as fish were from the desert. If anything, he was a shy boy with an overbearing, thuggish father and no mother to soften an apparently hard home life.

Hard was an understatement for the neighborhood's oldest resident, Eloy Franklin. There was something he was deadly serious about hiding. Moody sensed it as she watched him occasionally from afar. There was a coiled-snake ready to strike quality to him that put Moody on edge and she could not put her finger on why he did that to her.

Riley had only deepened the puzzle of Moody's own feelings toward Eloy. When Moody asked why she was scared, Riley had shrugged her shoulders and said she did not like him because he was always watching her. She went on to tell Moody she never talked to him and would always ride her bicycle quickly past his house.

Then there was Moody's next-door neighbor. Riley told Moody she had watched a shadow sliding in and out of Melanie and Andrew's car in the wee hours of the morning when good little girls and boys were still asleep.

"I don't know," Riley had responded when Moody asked if it was a man or woman. "It was a ghost," she'd replied in all seriousness. Moody saw no reason to believe it was an actual person. To her, it sounded more like typical night shadows playing tricks with the little girl's eyes.

The new couple in town staying at the inn had done little to draw Moody's attention until Riley mentioned seeing the man change his face. When Moody asked more about what Riley had seen during one this nocturnal wandering, the little girl told her the man had been talking to the woman with him and his face had changed from angel to demon in a second. Moody chalked Riley's observations up to an overactive imagination.

Riley's friendship with Cooper Dahlsing was not that unusual. Some adults felt more comfortable with children than with other adults. As long as the lines were not crossed, an adult/child friendship could be beneficial to both parties. However, the friendship was not the disturbing aspect to Cooper. His possible schizophrenia was.

Riley had told Moody about a few instances when her friend became someone else. "It looked like him, but he wasn't there anymore," she had replied when Moody asked her to explain. Moody recalled the time she had run into Cooper recently. He had acted totally unlike the man she had talked to a few times since coming to Rubicon Ranch. Moody began to wonder if he had a multiple-personality disorder.

She was getting a headache. The dark curtains in the living room were drawn and even with the afternoon sun shining relentlessly, the room was shadowy. As she sat in her father's oversized chair in the semi-darkness, the tomb-like stillness calmed her frayed nerves and tumultuous thoughts.

A click from the phone on a desk four feet behind her made her jump slightly as someone lifted the receiver and touch-toned a number. There was no one else in the house save Moody and her father. She kept perfectly still and knew as long as she did not move or make a sound, she would remain hidden in her father's oversized chair.

With no preamble, Moody heard her father coherently say, "Where do you want to pick up the money?"

She had not heard her father open the door to his work room. She certainly would have heard since the music was still blaring. He must have built another door, a hidden one, some time before she moved into his house.

He had never wanted a telephone in his work area. His rules when working had always been strict—no phone, no computer, no other human being. Only the loud, thundering music.

Moody remained still as the one-sided conversation continued.

"Yeah, I know, but as long as it isn't a fresh strangulation, I'm okay with it. The pictures are better when lividity sets in."

Moody's blood turned cold as she listened to the lucid conversation her father was having with someone. Morris sounded normal, but the content of the discussion was horrifying.

"I know it's local, but that makes it even better. It's like I did it myself because I'd seen the little brat right here in my house."

Morris paused as he listened to the other person's reply. His voice was harsh, but still very lucid, as he said, "But, you already know that, don't you? Just do your job, sport, and remember who you really work for."

Another pause and Morris continued, "What do you mean? You draw more attention to yourself than I do. I don't have any idea what you're talking about—I've been inside all day, even had the kid run out for food."

Moody desperately needed to cough. She swallowed hard and made the tickle momentarily go away.

"You mind your station, sport, and I'll mind my own. Whatever you heard is a lie. I told you, I've been inside all day."

The receiver was gently replaced and Moody listened to Morris quietly muttering as he moved away from the living room. Afraid to stir, she stayed in place for what seemed an hour. When she got up the nerve to move her arm and look at her watch, only seven minutes had passed.

Morris and his feigned insanity. Morris and his feigned sanity. Spin the wheel, Moody thought, and believe whatever the arrow pointed to. Her father was incredibly sane and rational while at the same time, insane and irrational.

Or, so he seemed. Just as she and her brothers had learned during childhood, Morris hid behind layers upon layers of conflicting emotions. His horror books reflected his own personality—the monsters and monstrosities flowed up and down the river of sanity and insanity. Sometimes they were so intertwined, the reader could not tell where normal ended and abnormal began.

But, this latest was more than abnormal. It was an abomination. He seemed to be buying a child's death picture and it sounded as if this was not the first time. The excitement in his voice made Moody sick to her stomach and scared her out of her mind because, from what she had overheard, the signs pointed very strongly toward it being a picture of dead Riley Peterson.
Chapter 14: Cooper Dahlsing  
by Christine Husom

Cooper's brain had been on overload since Lieutenant Frio's visit earlier that day.

He'd glance at his fingernails from time to time, hoping the sand would magically disappear, but it was still there. He couldn't will it away. He lifted his hands to his face for a closer examination. Why did he have sand embedded underneath his fingernails? Was he digging with his hands in the desert?

Riley's body was found in the desert.

The memory of another young girl's tragic death washed over him in a flood. Police officers talking to his parents when he got home from a high school track meet, speaking words that didn't make sense. Images. Emotions.

His sister was dead. Her body had been found in a wooded area about a mile from her school. Cooper was numbed by the news, and tried to process it, but could not comprehend it. Both his mother and father were weeping when the officers turned to Cooper with questions.

Your parents said you gave your sister a ride to school this morning. Is that true?

Yes.

Did you see her enter the school building?

No.

Was there anyone in the area you didn't recognize, who seemed out of place?

No.

The truth was Cooper had no memory of what happened from the time he stopped his car in front of Cecilia's—Cissy's—school and when he pulled into the parking lot of his own school. Cissy was particularly annoying that morning, whining about not getting what she wanted for her birthday the day before. Cooper had learned to ignore her when she was like that. If he ever told her to shut up, or to knock it off, their parents always took her side, anyway, so why waste his energy?

He was eight when she was born—his mother had suffered several miscarriages between them—and his life changed overnight. Gone was his status as the pampered only child. Cissy was clearly the favored one by both of their parents. And she was very sweet until she was three and figured out she could get whatever she wanted from their parents, one way or the other. Cooper loved her and blamed their parents, not Cissy, for her personality. He even defended her when his friends called her a spoiled brat.

Cissy's death tore their family apart. His father began drinking heavily. He didn't even attend Cooper's graduation the following year. He drank himself to death a few months after that. Cooper's mother moved to Kentucky to be near her sister, leaving Cooper with a house of near-mansion proportions, and responsibilities beyond his years. As a nineteen-year-old, he wasn't prepared for any of it, and coped as best he could. Money wasn't an issue—there were seemingly unlimited funds available from his grandfather's investments—so he asked their housekeeper if she would move in during the week while he was at school to take care of things. On weekends, he returned from campus forty miles away, and spent most of Saturday and Sunday studying. The one thing he had control over was getting the best grades possible, and for Cooper that meant straight A's.

Years later, when he was offered a professorship a hundred miles away, he sold the house and moved on. In retrospect, he didn't know why he had kept the house as long as he did. Any happy moments there had faded into oblivion.

He strained again to capture the memory of Cissy getting out of the car and walking into the school, but it was all a blur. At the time, he believed the traumatic news the police delivered was the reason for his mental lapse. Then when he started having sleepwalking episodes as a graduate student, it made him wonder if he'd had milder episodes much earlier, if they'd started the day his sister died. Her killer was never caught and the case had been cold for nearly twenty-nine years.

After the incident which dramatically altered his life again—the time he awoke with blood on his hands—doubt wiggled its way into his thoughts and made him wonder if he had anything to do with Cissy's death. Every part of his being screamed out in denial, but the niggling doubt persisted.

He could never physically hurt anyone—especially someone he loved—as a conscious Cooper. But he didn't know what the sleeping Cooper was capable of. He did strange things—wandering around, drinking with strangers, and who knows what else. He'd searched for years for an effective treatment for his condition. What was that quote from the Book of Luke? "'Physician heal thyself,'" he muttered. "Yeah, right."

Riley.

His dear friend was gone. Why?

Cooper went into the living room and sat down on the edge of the couch. He extended his arm until his hand rested on the edge of genetics book he had co-authored. He opened it to the chapter titled "Inherited Traits" and pulled out the photo Riley had given him. Lieutenant Frio obviously hadn't found it when she paged through his book earlier.

In the picture, Riley was sitting on her father's lap and her mother stood to the left of her husband, her right hand resting on his shoulder. When Riley gave Cooper the keepsake, she proudly announced, "This is me with my dad and mom."

Cooper had seen her out walking with her father, but had never seen her mother in person. He wasn't sure why. The Petersons lived on the same side of the street, a few doors down, but their home was blocked from his view. Mrs. Peterson was striking with her dark, straight hair framing her porcelain face. It was difficult to guess her height, but she appeared tall. Riley's father had light brown, straight hair, and Cooper estimated he was around six feet tall from the times he saw him walk by.

"Very nice picture," he'd told Riley.

"My mom was happier then. I hear them fight sometimes. My dad and mom."

Cooper did not want to intrude on their private lives and changed the subject before she said more. Now he wished he had asked a question or two about their family life. Did Riley know she was adopted? She never mentioned it, but it was clear the Petersons were not her biological parents.

He studied the photo again. Riley had five observable dominant traits she had not gotten from the Petersons—dimples, detached earlobes, freckles, curly hair, and a widow's peak. Both her parents had the recessive traits of no dimples, attached earlobes, no freckles, straight hair, and straight front hair lines.

"When a dominate allele is present, the dominant trait is expressed. The recessive trait is expressed only in if there are two recessive alleles present," Cooper said aloud, as he had to many classes of students over the years.

Mr. Peterson appeared somewhat athletic, Mrs. Peterson struck a graceful pose, and Riley was on the awkward side. And Cooper doubted she would ever have come close to attaining either of her parents' height.

None of that mattered, in the scheme of things, until he happened to catch a couple on a daytime talk show pleading for the return of their daughter who had been kidnapped from a Minnesota hospital shortly after her birth. She would be nine years old. He remembered an abduction incident that made regional, maybe national, news some time back. It could have been nine years.

What caught Copper's attention was Mrs. Neuhaus. She was an adult Riley. Curly hair pulled back, exposing a widow's peak, dimples, detached earlobes made obvious by her earrings, round face, full lips. Riley and Mrs. Neuhaus were cut from the same cloth. And it didn't take a geneticist to arrive at that conclusion.

It was not a criminal offense to keep a child's adoption secret, but it was a felony level crime to abduct another's child. If Riley was the missing Neuhaus daughter, her biological family would never, ever have the opportunity to meet her in this life on earth.

And Cooper had lost his only friend in the area. He rose from the couch and began pacing the length of the room.

Stop it, you coward, it's not about you. And it's time you take some action.

You have doubts about your possible involvement with Cissy's death. You've wondered for over a year if it was you who hit and killed that woman back home.

Quit being a damn coward, worrying about yourself and your precious image.

Cooper stopped by the coffee table, took a final look at the photo, bent over, and replaced it in the book. It might be needed someday. He studied his fingernails, then went first into the kitchen for a small baggie, followed by a trip to the bathroom where he found a nail clippers. He set the baggie on the bathroom counter and opened it as wide as it would stretch. He slid the nail file on the clippers into a useable position and scraped sand, and any other material hiding under his nails.

The baggie was self-sealing. Cooper squeezed it shut, then carried it into his office. He found a permanent marker in his drawer, wrote: CONTENTS COLLECTED FROM UNDER THE FINGERNAILS OF COOPER A. DAHLSING. He dated it, signed his name, and put the baggie in his top right drawer.

Cooper headed to the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and examined his body, searching for any unusual marks such as scrapes, scratches or bruises. Nothing new or suspicious. Riley was spunky. If he had attacked her in some manner, she'd have fought back, friend or not. Unless he had grabbed her from behind . . .

Should he go to the police? But with what? I sometimes wander around in my sleep, and I wonder if I may have hurt Riley? They'd start watching his every move and he'd have to move away. If they let him. No, it was better if he started a little investigation of his own. If he was guilty of this crime, or any other, it was time he paid for it.

He jumped in the shower and thought of his next actions while he lathered and scrubbed.
Chapter 15: Mark and Jamie Westbrook  
by Nichole R. Bennett

The smell of coffee filled the room. Jamie had been sitting quietly on the bed while Mark talked on the pre-paid cell phone reserved for the Neuhaus family. He had been pacing as he spoke and Jamie could see signs that the conversation wasn't going well even though Mark's words continued to be comforting and consoling. Mark's left hand, the one not holding the cell phone, was balled in a tight fist which he occasionally opened as if to stretch out the muscles and tendons in his fingers. The knuckles of his right hand had long since turned white with the tension he fought to keep out of his voice. The longer the phone conversation continued, the more Mark's eyes began to squint and his nostrils flare.

It took all of Jamie's willpower to ignore Mark's half of the conversation, which didn't make much sense anyway. Hearing only part of a conversation left too much to the imagination and Jamie had learned long ago not to jump to conclusions where Mark was concerned.

"Keep in touch," she heard him say before he snapped the phone shut.

"Shit," he said, glaring at Jamie. She could tell by his tone that he was angry. "We have a problem."

Jamie gulped, trying to keep her fear at bay. Mark's temper was nothing she wanted to encounter. "What's wrong?"

"I have a bad feeling about this con. The Neuhaus woman is stonewalling us."

Jamie threw her empty coffee cup into the trash and returned to the bed before speaking. "What do you mean? She already paid. And she promised more. It's still the perfect con."

Mark glared at Jamie, his anger barely disguised. "Don't you get it? That was the Neuhaus woman on the phone. She says she needs more time to come up with the rest of the money."

Jamie felt sick to her stomach with a sense of foreboding. This con had been her idea, her baby, her chance to prove herself and now it might be falling apart. She searched for the right words, but they eluded her. Since there was nothing to say, she chose to remain silent.

It was the wrong choice.

"What the hell are we supposed to do now?" Mark's voice grew louder with each word. "You got us into this mess. How do you expect to get us out?"

"Keep your voice down," Jamie retorted in an exaggerated stage whisper as she reached for the television remote and clicked it on, hoping the extra noise would drown out Mark's yelling. "The damn cops are downstairs in the restaurant."

Mark threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. "Could things possibly get any worse?"

"Everything will be fi—" Jamie had started to reassure him when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. As the camera widened, Jamie could see the roof of the bed and breakfast where they were staying. Bile rose in her throat as the realization that the news crews were in the neighborhood dawned on her. She turned the volume up further, even as she closed her eyes in horror at the reporter's words.

"KRBR has learned the body of a child was discovered this morning near the suburban community of Rubicon Ranch," the reporter said. "Local law enforcement haven't released any details, but a source close to the investigation tells us that the body of a young girl was found this morning and foul play is suspected. We will bring more details as this story unfolds."

A commercial for a male enhancement drug began to play. Jamie looked back at Mark, his anger had receded, but another emotion began to fill the void—an emotion Jamie couldn't quite put her finger on.

"You don't suppose—" she began.

"I'll bet it's that girl—" Mark started simultaneously.

Jamie motioned for Mark to continue.

"I'll bet that's why the cops where here earlier," he said. "That must be the kid whose body they found. Shit! We've gotta take off. The cops probably think we had something to do with it."

Jamie stood from the bed and walked to the small table where Mark was still sitting. Taking a seat across from him, she willed her voice to remain calm. "If we leave now we will only call more attention to ourselves. That's a bad idea. You taught me that."

"So what are we supposed to do? This whole con is starting to fall apart before our eyes because someone killed that little girl. Things can't possibly get worse. We should have just gotten the money from the Neuhaus family and left it at that."

Jamie ignored Mark's last comment. "We can't leave. The cops would be all over us in a minute if we did." And who knows what else they might find if they looked too hard. The thought caused her to shiver involuntarily.

The two sat in silence for few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Mark finally spoke. "What were they talking about?"

"Who? What was who talking about?"

"The cops. What were they doing downstairs?"

Jamie shrugged. "I dunno. That sheriff and the other two cops were in the restaurant with that lady we saw with the camera. Remember her? I wasn't really close enough to hear what they were talking about, but I don't think they noticed me at all. Besides, we have nothing to worry about. We're not involved with this kid's death." Right? she added silently, remember Mark's absence the previous evening.

He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Nope. Not at all."

Something about his voice was elusive. It was the same tone she'd heard him use when the truth was close to, but not exactly, the way he presented it. Others never noticed it, but she'd been with Mark long enough to notice subtleties other people didn't.

Mark began to fumble with the papers on the table. "Obviously, we can't leave. And now the Neuhaus family is getting cold feet or something. That well might have run dry." He glared at Jamie until she began to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "This was your idea. What do you propose we do now?"

She had no idea. The con had started to spiral out of control, but Jamie was sure something could still be salvaged. There really was no other choice because she wasn't going back to jail. Ever. In her mind, Jamie tried to evaluate options and look for possible moneymaking opportunities, as well as anticipate everything that could go wrong. Well, maybe not everything. How could anyone have known that little girl would die?

Jamie was so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn't heard Mark speaking to her. The papers flying into the wall and Mark's hand slamming down upon the tabletop forced Jamie to look back at Mark. He stood over her, though she wasn't sure when he had gotten up from the chair.

"Are you going to answer me?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry, honey. I was thinking. What did you—"

"Your thinking got us into this mess." He practically hissed the words.

Even if she hadn't seen the tips of his ears start to redden, Jamie could tell by Mark's tone of voice that he'd reached a point beyond anger. She frantically searched for something to say that would calm him. "I still think—"

The echo of Mark's hand across her face filled the room louder than any shouts ever could and Jamie fought to keep from crying the tears welling up in her eyes. She gingerly touched her painful cheek and knew there would be evidence of his anger for at least a few days. She only hoped make-up could cover it all.

Mark glared at her. "How about I do the thinking for both of us from now on?"

Jamie could only nod as silent tears began to stream down her face.

Without another word Mark picked up the car keys and left the room, slamming the door with enough force to shake the picture decorating the wall as he did.

Do I follow him? Do I stay? She struggled to determine which option was the lesser of the two evils.
Chapter 16: Eloy Franklin

by Deborah J Ledford

Eloy ran and ran. His feet pummeled the ground, arms propelling him forward, lungs heaving. He glanced over his shoulder, searching the night. Nothing but blackness, no sound but his footfalls . . . and something else. A muttering. More in his ears than floating on the air. "Why? Why? Why did you betray me?" The Boy—his boy—pleaded over and over.

He startled awake, eyes flying open, nearly toppling from the rocking chair. The saber clattered to the ground. Still bleary and terrified, he noticed someone standing on the porch, no more than five feet away.

"Is it you?"

"Well, I'm Dylan. Is that who you were thinkin'?"

Eloy squinted. This boy wore a dress shirt buttoned at the cuffs, jeans, and sneakers the size of snowshoes. His chest rose and fell almost as rapidly as Eloy's. Face red, sideburns dripping with sweat. Dylan, Eloy recalled. He knew the name only from the father's shouts from time to time when night fell.

"You ever used that?" Dylan asked, pointing at the weapon on the floor beside Eloy's foot.

Eloy reached down and clasped the cool grip, replaced it on his thighs, and thinned his eyes. "Maybe."

"You're an old guy. Probably used it in some war, right?" Eloy scowled and the kid backed down one step. "No offense about the 'old guy' thing."

Eloy shrugged and reached for his tea glass dripping condensation, ice cubes long past melted.

"Whisky, huh?" Dylan said, his own scowl creasing a furrow between his eyebrows. "Just like my dad. Mostly beer, but whisky, too. All the time."

"Actually, young man, it's iced tea." Eloy reached for his cane crooked to the back of his chair. "Perhaps you'd like some." He tucked the blade under his arm and ambled to the door. "Come on in. I'll fix you a glass."

He went inside and looked behind him. The boy remained in the same spot, hands shoved in his pockets, head down.

"You're probably hungry. I don't remember a single time my sons weren't chewing on something when they were your age."

Still, the boy held his place on the porch. "Everyone says bad things about you. That you've done sick shit to kids. My dad would kill me if . . ." He looked up and down the street. No one there. Not even a car drove by.

"Lies," Eloy said, shaking his head with regret. "All lies. Believe what you want. All I've got in here are creature comforts. And a tall glass of iced tea and roast beef if you're interested."

"And a sword."

Eloy smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he had displayed that simple human emotion. It felt good.

"Can you show me how to use it?"

Eloy's grin faded away. "No, son. But I will listen if you feel the need to tell me why you think you need it."

He limped into his front room, placed the saber on the hat rack cabinet, then went through his standard regimen: dropped the cane into the umbrella stand, straightened his back, opened and closed his fingers. He felt the boy's presence behind him, heard Dylan's chuckle as Eloy walked unaided down the hall to the kitchen.

"You're bullshitting everyone."

"A necessary evil, I'm afraid." Eloy turned to Dylan who took one last look left and right before shutting the door.

"Please wipe your feet."

Dylan did so, eyes locked to the saber. He ran a single finger the length of the blade.

"Bring it with you if you'd like."

Dylan hesitated only a moment before taking up the weapon.

Eloy went to the refrigerator and began pulling out meat, lettuce, horseradish sauce and a nearly full pitcher. He crossed to the counter as Dylan's heavy steps entered the kitchen Eloy had scrubbed spotless the night before. Ammonia and bleach stung his nostrils as he tipped the sweet tea into two tall glasses.

"How many boys do you have?"

Caught off guard by the question, Eloy sloshed a bit of tea over the rim of a glass. "A few. All dead now." He mopped up the spill as his heart sank. Only two were in graves, but the other was dead to him. No need to tell the kid more—he looked to have his own worries.

"Sit. Food will only take a moment."

A chair squealed against the white tile. Eloy selected four pieces of white bread from a loaf next to the stove and began to spread thick horseradish sauce. He glanced over his shoulder to see Dylan hefting the weight of the saber up and down.

"A Korean officer presented that to me when my squadron overtook his."

"Then you killed him with it?"

Eloy chuckled, remembering the weary Asian man, beaten down, defeated, shoulders stooped, resignation across his face. The same posture and expression Dylan now wore. "No, no. He surrendered peaceably."

"Why did he give it to you?"

"I was the highest ranking officer. We've never formally met." He wiped his hand on a dishcloth and extended it to shake. "I'm Colonel Eloy Templeton Franklin. Retired, of course." The shocked boy enveloped Eloy's hand in a surprisingly strong grip.

"No shit."

Eloy winked and set a sandwich-topped plate in front of Dylan.

"Man, you're full of surprises."

Eloy reached for a bag of potato chips. His back to Dylan, he said, "I'm sure you've heard about Riley. Such a shame. So young."

In the periphery of his vision he watched Dylan. The boy displayed no guilt, then again, no concern either. Lost in thought, he absently twisted a band that was fastened to his wrist. It looked to be made from a strip of leather and shoelaces blackened with a marker.

"What does your bracelet signify?"

Dylan tugged down the cuff of his dress shirt. Hiding the bracelet made Eloy want to know its meaning even more. He knew not to push the young man and cautioned himself not to make a big deal of it—or anything else. Eloy placed their tea glasses on the table, then his sandwich and sat across from Dylan.

Dylan drained half of his drink in three gulps then took two massive bites, chewed a few times, gulped down the half-chewed mass, took another bite and another until nothing but crumbs remained. "That was good. Really good. Thanks." He laid his hand on his forearm and rubbed it lightly. He winced, shuffled in his seat and drew his hand away.

"Show me your arm, Dylan."

The boy held Eloy's eyes for a long time, no doubt calculating the risk. Then he unbuttoned the left cuff and rolled it back. Red welts painted the white skin, circling the boy's lower forearm. Eloy remembered the night when his world shifted. When The Boy gripped his father's forearm so tight the finger impressions remained for a week. Wounds exactly like Dylan's.

"Where's your mother, Dylan? Should we be worried about her?"

"Naw. She's safe. Gone." He rolled the sleeve back down and buttoned up again, hiding the shameful marks. "Europe. Somewhere."

"Do you want to talk about Riley?"

"No. I don't know anything about Riley. 'Cept that she's dead.

"I sense that you're a smart young man, Dylan. You may play games with others." He leaned in and continued in a low voice. "Like me. But you can be yourself when you're here. Now that we've gotten to know each other a bit you're welcome whenever you like. You can tell me anything, everything, or nothing at all while we keep each other company. I can see that you need a friend. Hell, I need one too."

Eloy took a bite of his sandwich and watched the boy while he chewed. He dabbed his lips with a napkin and placed it back on his lap. "If I've learned one thing in what has turned out to be a truly sorry life, it's that deception only brings loneliness. You can confide in me. I won't judge you."

Eloy pushed aside his plate so he could fold his hands on the tabletop. "But I have to caution you. I won't stand for any bullshit. When you speak to me it will be with respect and truth. Do you read me?"

"Yeah," Dylan muttered.

"I can't hear you, soldier," Eloy belted in his commander's voice.

Dylan snapped up straight in the chair, squared his shoulders, all but saluted. "Yes! Sir!"

"Very good. Now tell me. Who were you running from when you found your way to my porch? Who put those marks on your arm? And most importantly, who do you want to kill with my saber?"
Chapter 17: Melanie Gray  
by Pat Bertram

Melanie sat cross-legged on the double bed in a puddle of pale blue sheets, her laptop between her knees. A wave of disapproval seemed to come from Alexander's ashes in the urn atop the dresser, but she could not tell if the censure was directed at her, the unmade bed, or the so very ordinary photos sliding by on her computer screen.

The image of the Mohave green rattler looked like the sort of snapshot any amateur could take. And the photos from the top of the hill? Uninspired. Her subterfuge with the memory card that morning had been unnecessary after all. Even worse, offering the card to the sheriff had been a mistake, the act of someone with a guilty conscience. Would the sheriff believe her guile came from such a flimsy motive as wanting to safeguard her photos? Who knew what the sheriff thought. He'd kept his own counsel, and his eyes, even when he'd set aside his mirrored sunglasses during lunch, hadn't given her a clue.

What color were his eyes? Light brown. Or hazel. The kind that could darken with disapproval as Alexander's had done so often during the past couple of years. But she hadn't detected any disregard from the sheriff. He'd seemed . . . intrigued.

She smiled at the silliness of her thoughts—why would Sheriff Bryan be intrigued by someone as unmysterious as she?—and turned her attention back to the photos. The slide show had started over. There were the images of the abandoned sofa, the dogs racing beside the SUV, the joggers' shoe prints, the expanse of the desert.

Wait! What was that flare? She paused the slide show, clicked on the arrow to bring back a panoramic view of the desert she'd shot from the top of the knoll, and zoomed in to get a closer look at the flaw in the image. Oh, just the morning sun glinting off a distant car. If she decided to use the photo, she could use the smudge feature of Alexander's photo editing program to remove the vehicle. Or not—the car did offer a human perspective to the alien landscape.

Maybe the photos were good after all.

Crap! When had she become so wishy-washy? Could her indecisiveness be a side effect of her grief? Or had it started before Alexander's death, a result of her efforts to stave off Alexander's winces? She loved Alexander and thought he'd loved her. Thought that his increasing impatience with her had been because of something she'd done, but maybe it had nothing to do with her. Maybe it had to do with his need to keep on the move—new places, new experiences. New loves.

He'd strayed before, and when she'd threatened to leave, he promised to be faithful. He needed her as a collaborator, a partner, a traveling companion, if not as a lover. She couldn't even remember the last time they had sex.

The woman he'd been texting when he died—what was her name? Annabeth?—had called her in hysterics when she learned of the crash, thinking Melanie would be sympathetic. "I have no one else to talk to," Annabeth had wailed. Despite a twinge of empathy for the woman's grief, Melanie had hung up on her. Annabeth had called once more to find out when the funeral would be, and hadn't believed Melanie's declaration that there would be no funeral, no memorial service. "You're as self-centered as Alexander said you were," Annabeth screamed.

Was she self-centered? Could she have unwittingly pushed Alexander away?

Sick of the direction her thoughts were taking, Melanie set aside the laptop and scrambled off the bed. She paced the room, but the ice blue walls, the blond furniture, and frilly eyelet curtains—so not her taste—made her long for open spaces. She yanked off her brown shorts and beige tank top, pulled on her just-washed desert clothes, gathered her cell phone, camera, extra memory card, canteen, and stepped outside.

Heat scorched her lungs. Seven o'clock in the evening, and the temperature still hovered above a hundred degrees. Music from the song "Sounds of Silence" drifted toward her from the house next door. Silence. She'd had too much of that lately. Could that be why she hadn't raised more of an objection when the sheriff had hijacked her this morning—she couldn't bear being alone any longer? There had to be someone better to talk to than Sheriff Bryan, but who? Her parents were dead, she had no siblings, and because of her nomadic life with Alexander, she knew people all over the world, but hadn't made any lasting friends.

When she fulfilled the contract for the book, she'd be free. But free to do what? Go where? And how would she get there without any money?

"Damn you, Alexander! How could you do this to me?" She whispered the words, but they echoed in her mind like a scream. Sweat and tears dampened her face. At least when she'd been with the sheriff, she hadn't thought of herself as a widow. She'd almost felt like the mysterious woman Bryan seemed to think she was.

She straightened her shoulders. Maybe she should go talk to Riley's parents. By now, they probably had questions about how she'd found their little girl.

A silver SUV sped past. Melanie caught a glimpse of a stone-faced woman driving, and a man sitting next to her, his face in his hands as if crying. The Petersons. Heading home. Had they just come back from identifying their daughter's body? So, not a good time to visit them.

Melanie lifted one foot to unroot it, then the other, and headed down Delano Road. At the first intersection she turned left onto Tehachapi Road, which wound through the subdivision and far into the desert. Usually she enjoyed the scenery—the houses on Tehachapi had front gardens lush with tropical flowers, which made the desert seem more austere—but in her mind's eye, all she could see was the image of Riley's crumpled body.

Who had killed the child, and why? And why stuff her in the old television console? If she—Melanie—hadn't been so wrapped in her own misery, could she somehow have prevented the tragedy?

It's not your fault, and neither was Alexander's death. She knew that—of course she did—but still, a vague guilt lingered.

Several cars were parked on Tehachapi where the pavement ended, and a couple others jounced along the rutted dirt road. Dogs ran loose, and bicyclists peddled slowly up the steep incline of a path that bisected the road.

Melanie quickened her steps. A half-mile ahead, traffic would thin to almost nothing, and a mile beyond that she'd be completely alone. Away from the problems of humankind. Away from her own problems.

She kept her eyes on the uneven ground as she walked—the last thing she needed was to trip and strain her ankle. The dirt had desiccated in the dry heat, and footprints and tire tracks stood out like hieroglyphics. If only she could read them. She caught sight of a familiar print off to the side—her own from yesterday. Or perhaps the day before. With so much traffic, it couldn't have been there long.

The tracks grew sparse—just a few tire tracks and joggers' treads, along with lots of her own shoe prints—and twenty minutes later, she'd left civilization behind. No people. No cars. She blew out a breath to clear her lungs of city air, then drew in a fresh breath. Just as she started to relax, she caught a glimpse of a black sedan parked perhaps a tenth of a mile down a side path. A car more suited for city streets. Usually the only people who ventured so far off the road were those driving sports or recreational vehicles, like SUVs or ATVs.

Should she stop to offer help? She couldn't see anyone near the car. Besides, if the vehicle had broken down, the driver could have walked out of the desert. She snapped a photo of the car—it looked so out of place among the creosote bushes and jutting boulders that it made a compelling picture, especially with that distant knoll as a backdrop.

Wait! Wasn't that the same knoll she'd climbed that morning and taken panoramic views of the desert? Could this be the same car?

She picked her way across the desert, staying off the path to keep from obscuring tire prints. It's just a parked car, she told herself, but she didn't believe it. The sedan felt out of place. Sinister, somehow. Even desperate.

She came toward the car from the side. The vehicle was in the middle of the path, which she could now see was not a road but a natural formation, a sandy course carved out by rainstorm run-offs. The tires were sunk deep in the sand as if someone had spun the wheels, trying to get unstuck. Shoe prints—a waffle tread—ran from the driver's side to the passenger side, then disappeared. Had someone dragged something to obliterate the prints? She took photos of the car and the ground, moved closer to the car and shot the interior. Maps, empty coffee cups, and food wrappers littered the floor. Keys dangled from the ignition. Were the doors locked? Hard to tell nowadays with electronic locks, and she didn't want to smudge any fingerprints by trying to open the door.

She circled to the back of the car. No license plates.

Earlier, when Bryan had pulled up in front of her rented house, he'd asked to see her cell phone. She'd handed it over, resigned by then to his strange behavior, and he'd programmed a number into it. "My office number," he'd said. "Call me any time." She'd presumed he was still playing games with her, but maybe he'd expected her to find other strangenesses. This might not be another dead body, but it was strange.

She called Bryan's number and got his voice mail. She left a brief message saying she'd found an abandoned car, gave the location, then headed back to the road so she could warn the sheriff about the sand trap.

Her heart gave a strange leap when she saw the tan Navigator drawing near. Trepidation? Excitement? Best not even to think of it.

She flagged down the vehicle, pointed to the abandoned car, then swept a hand indicating he should drive on the hard packed surface of the desert rather than the path. The vehicle stopped, and the passenger door opened. She ducked her head inside and gave a start when she saw Deputy Midget.

Midget's lips twitched. "I get that a lot." He touched the brim of his hat. "I was in the area. Sheriff Bryan sent me. He said to tell you he got your message and will be here as soon as he can. You want a ride?"

"I'll walk. Had enough of cop cars for a while."

When she returned to the black sedan, Midget was sitting in his vehicle, talking on the radio. He clipped the microphone back on the dashboard and climbed out of the vehicle.

Melanie showed him the disappearing footprints, the empty license plate holder, the keys in the ignition. "It might be nothing," she said, "but after this morning . . ."

"Finding a corpse can make one jumpy."

Melanie bristled, thinking he was disparaging her concern, but the intent way he studied the scene made her realize he took her seriously.

A horn honked, and he looked around. "Where is that coming from?"

Melanie pointed to a distant pickup on a side road. "Sound travels."

The horn blared again and again.

"Someone in trouble?" Midget asked.

"No. Someone's just honking their dog. Hear it barking?"

Midget gave her a sidelong look. "Honking their dog? That some sort of local saying?"

"I made it up. A lot of people come here to let their dogs run free. They follow behind in their cars, and when the dogs stray too far, they honk to bring them back."

"That bothers you?"

Melanie hesitated, then blurted out the truth. "It seems sacrilegious. For me, the desert is a mystical place. Somewhere I can be at peace to think things over."

"It's hard, isn't it?"

She glanced up at Midget. His eyes seemed sad, and she knew he hadn't been referring to intrusive noises in the desert.

"I lost my wife three years ago," he said quietly. "Pancreatic cancer.'Bout killed me. Came out west to start over. It's a good place for healing. Except for rattlesnakes. Can't get used to them."

Something in his voice—a hint of glibness—made Melanie give him a second look. He was so massive, he probably intimidated people even when he didn't want to. Could his professed fear of snakes be a bit of theater to make himself seem vulnerable so people would underestimate him?

A vehicle speeding toward them kicked up a cloud of dust. Sheriff Bryan.

He hopped out of his vehicle and grinned at Melanie. "Just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Melanie said, but she could feel the smile tugging at her lips. "Now that you're here, I'm going to head back home."

Bryan turned his head, his eyes scanning left to right. "Where's your car?"

"You have it. At least I think you still do."

"You don't have another car?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"No. We just had the one. Rented. It's too hard to maintain a vehicle when you spend half your time outside the country."

"So how do you get around?"

Melanie stepped back. "You're kidding, right?"

"Serious as a heart attack."

"I walk."

"Even to get groceries?"

"Of course."

Bryan angled his head toward Midget and said in a loud aside, "So now we understand how she could have eaten so much this morning. Probably the only real meal she's eaten in days."

Melanie's face grew hotter than it already was, and she hoped the sheriff couldn't tell she was blushing. She hadn't eaten a real meal in days, but it wasn't any of his business. "Speaking of my car," she said, "when are you going to return Alexander's cameras?"

Bryan looked at Midget. Midget shrugged his linebacker shoulders.

"I took a quick look at the report," the sheriff said. "There was no mention of cameras in the vehicle."

"They have to be. They aren't in the house, and Alexander was on his way to a photo shoot."

"We'll look into it. I have something for you." Bryan reached into a pocket and pulled out a small item using a thumb and forefinger. A camera memory card. "You can have this back on one condition."

Melanie bit her lower lip. "What?"

"You give me the other memory card."

Her face grew unbearably hot. "You knew?"

"I didn't know for sure until you admitted it just now, but I thought it had to be something like that. Couldn't figure out why you'd offer up the card without being asked, but when I looked at your crime scene photos and saw what a good photographer you are, I figured you didn't want to take a chance on losing your best work."

"I erased the card when I downloaded the images, but I can transfer them to a thumb drive for you."

"Good. Now will you tell us the truth about finding this vehicle?"

Melanie took a deep breath, then told him about seeing this same car in a photo she took that morning. "If I hadn't known the car had been here that long, I might have found it curious, but not . . ."

"Not?" Bryan prompted.

"Sinister. It just seemed wrong."

A parade of county vehicles closed in on them.

"Can I go?" Melanie asked.

"Just don't leave town," Bryan responded.

"Very funny." Even as Melanie muttered the words, she wondered if the sheriff had spoken facetiously or if, despite his seeming candor, he still considered her a suspect.

"Ms. Gray!" the sheriff called after her.

She turned around. "What?"

"I kept a copy of all the photos, but the first one didn't go in official files. I kept it for myself."

Melanie hadn't a clue what he was talking about until she got home and inserted the card into her computer. She stared aghast at the photo, one Alexander had taken when they first moved to Rubicon Ranch. Apparently it remained on the card when the rest of the images had been erased. She dropped her head in her hands. Of all the people in the world, Sheriff Bryan was the last one she'd want to see that photo of herself in gauzy desert clothes, silhouetted against a sunny window, leaving nothing to the imagination.
Chapter 18: Seth Bryan  
by Lazarus Barnhill

Bryan left the Navigator running as he stepped out and rang the doorbell. Moving away from the covered entryway to gaze at the lighted upstairs window, he could see the shadow of Melanie rising and heading out of the room. In a moment, she came to the door.

"Well. Now who can't get enough of whom?" she asked.

"Proper English. You got to love a writer."

"It's ten o'clock, Sheriff. Why are you here?"

"I need your help with something."

"You need my help with something that can't wait until daylight?"

"I intentionally waited until after dark, Ms. Gray."

". . . Why?"

He stepped closer, leaning against the doorframe. "Haven't you been watching TV? This place is crawling with reporters and cameras. Something else has happened and I'm trying to keep it as quiet as I can. We're not talking about it on the radio and we're keeping as low a profile as possible. In the morning we'll have to tell the world, but tonight we're trying to find out all we can."

"Something about Riley?"

He sighed. "We haven't found a connection yet, but I think it must have something to do with the girl. I need you to trust me and come with me."

She studied his face. For some reason, she seemed to find him humorous. A smile flickered. "And if I won't?"

He put his hands on his hips. "When I started to go into law enforcement, my aunt asked me, 'What are you going to be, Seth? I know a lot of guys who wear a badge. Some of them are police. Some are cops. And some a pigs.' She told me I had to decide. I know you think I'm a cop. And you're right. I am. I'm a cop with all that comes with it. That doesn't mean I don't know my job. And because I'm a cop, I'm also willing to take that extra little half step across the line. Which means, come with me nicely and help me. Otherwise, I'll cuff your hands behind your back and arrest you for impeding an investigation and throw you over my shoulder, making sure to put both my hands on that round little ass of yours."

They stared at each other across the threshold. He felt the spite, brass and curiosity in her glare. He tried not to smile, mostly because she wouldn't understand it wasn't scorn he felt for her, but admiration. And attraction.

"If you think you need my help, then you're going to have to trust me," she replied.

She turned and quickly climbed the stairs. He could hear her shuffling through papers then coming back down toward him. She had a little bag strapped over one shoulder and a flash drive in her outstretched hand.

"The photos I promised." She gave him a grim, fierce smile. "I am as good as my word."

He slipped the plastic tube into his shirt pocket and motioned toward the Navigator. "Oh, I have no doubt you're very good."

They pulled out of her driveway, accelerated down the street, and wound through Rubicon Ranch.

"Where are we going?"

"The morgue."

"I'm not going to have to look at the little girl again, am I?"

"No. But . . . there's another body."

He sensed that her little gasp was involuntary. "Another? Another—"

"No. An adult." He glanced at her. "You were right about that car. It did seem sinister. No license plates. No registration inside the vehicle. Nothing to reveal who left it there. We ran the VIN right at the scene. Belongs to one of those places in LA where they rent junkers, you know. It was rented to the night manager, who conveniently is gone. You understand what this means?"

She shook her head.

"Somebody with cash bribed the manager to lease the car to himself. That way, if it were, say, used in a crime or got involved in a police chase, there would be no way to track it back to whoever rented it." He looked at her again, as if to make sure she was paying attention. "We felt like it was essential to find out who rented that car, just in case it had something to do with Riley."

"Yeah."

"Then we caught a break."

"What?"

He smiled. "Deputy Midget was one of the officers scouting out the area, trying to find any tracks or trash or anything that might help us. He's really scared of creepy, crawly things, you know. So he came up on this outcrop of rocks with a bed of sticks and vegetation inside it. He was really eyeballing it because it's exactly the sort of place a sidewinder might curl up. And he saw something reflecting in the setting sun." He faced her and said, "Turned out to be a wedding ring—on the hand of a corpse. White male. Thirty-five to forty-five. Probably dead about the same length of time as Riley. And, like the girl, it's not clear what killed him. He was scraped up a little, but that may have been a result of somebody burying him. . . . And, no surprise, the body had no identification on it. Nobody in the sheriff's department or coroner's office recognized him."

"Is that why you came to get me?"

The city lights of Rojo Duro were bright in the clear desert air. The Navigator coursed smoothly along the two-lane blacktop toward the county seat.

"Well, two things, sweetie."

"Call me 'sweetie' again and I'll blacken your eye."

A broad smile crossed his face. "Two things, Ms. Gray. First, we know that you don't know the names of everyone in Rubicon Ranch, but you are tremendously observant. You take pictures. You walk every day. If this guy lives up there or has been up there in the last few days, we figure you will have seen him. If you haven't, that's worth knowing too."

". . . And the second thing?"

He shrugged. "It's like I said to Frio and Midget today, you see things better than most folks. You catch stuff others don't. You put things together."

"Isn't this your job?"

"My job—" His voice was the slightest bit testy. "—is to use whatever resources are necessary to determine who murdered two people in my county, one of them an innocent little girl. I will do whatever I have to do to accomplish that."

She stared down the road toward the approaching lights of the town. "I guess I should feel complimented."

He chuckled. "Let me tell you something, Ms. Gray. This is something I don't say to other peace officers. I don't tell it to media people. I don't tell it to civilians. It sounds way too esoteric for a So-Cal county cop to say. . . . A crime is a living thing."

"What?"

"Like I said, this is an unusual idea. A crime is a living thing," he said slowly. "It's meant to have a short, definite life expectancy. It happens. It's uncovered. It's investigated. It's solved. The responsible parties are dealt with. Now that's in the ideal world. In reality, often it doesn't work that way. Still, the reality is that a crime is organic. It wants to be solved. I've seen that again and again and again. It's like watching a flower bloom. If you're patient. Ask the right questions. Investigate the right people. The truth of what happened, and why, will begin to emerge. And that—" He looked at her again. "—makes a good investigator into something akin to a midwife."

Melanie nodded. "That's what Alexander used to say about photography, that the best photos wanted to be taken. You seem to expect me to argue with you about it, so, for the sake of argument, I'll say that if I personally were a homicide, I'm not sure I'd want a sleazy guy like you trying to solve me. But let's say you're right, what in the world would make you think I could help birth the solution to this crime?"

He chuckled. "Well, maybe I'm just metaphysical enough to think that fate wouldn't have brought a person like you around here if we weren't supposed to use your gifts."

"Oh. Is that what you call metaphysical? Using my gifts? Are you sure it's not arousal instead?"

He shifted on the leather upholstery. "If you ever aroused me, you would know it."

They were coursing down the streets of Rojo Duro. As he had been since picking up Melanie, he was driving more than ten miles an hour over the speed limit. She held herself tightly as if his speed bothered her.

The hospital loomed above them. Bryan drove around behind the building and pulled into an underground parking area denoted with a large, stern sign: AMBULANCES AND POLICE ONLY.

He pulled right up to a large glass sliding door, cut off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. "This is our stop."

She scrambled to get out of the Navigator before he could come around and open the door for her.

The glass double doors at the entrance slid open and they walked into a security area. A triage desk with a weary-looking nurse sat prominently before them. The sheriff nodded at her and she reached beneath the counter. There was a buzzing sound of the door latch being released.

Melanie followed him as he walked directly toward the entrance to the ER department. She almost ran into him when he stopped suddenly, distracted by a young man in his early twenties wearing the dark scrubs of an aide and leaning against the wall by a coin operated soda machine.

Bryan's head slanted to one side. "Are you Dr. Sweetum's boy?"

The kid looked surprisingly anxious, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. "Yeah, Sheriff. I work here."

"I thought I saw you this morning."

"Yeah." The kid swallowed. "Long day."

"For all of us, huh?" He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Just in case an ambulance rolls up, the keys are in that Navigator. You move it, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

Bryan and Melanie continued through the door and down the corridor past the array of cubicles, most empty, where patients were treated. At the far end of the hallway was another door, painted with red letters: NO ADMITTANCE. He held it open for her. The hall on the other side of the door was much darker, and silent. He could hear their footsteps on the tile.

"What'd you notice about that youngster back there?"

". . . He seemed a little overly anxious."

"'Overly anxious'? He was nervous as whore in church." They stopped in front of a wide, unmarked slate gray door. "Makes you wonder why."

She stiffened, seeming to realized it was the morgue the moment she followed him in. Two empty stainless steel tables, drains in the middle of them, lights and microphones hanging over them, dominated the center of the room. Cabinets and supply closets ringed the walls, except for the one farthest from the door. There she saw what appeared to be a half-dozen large, rolling file drawers. Each one big enough to hold a person's body.

Bryan, without hesitation, walked to the drawers and read a tag inserted to a nameplate beside one of the doors. "'John Doe.' Here's our man." He glanced back at her. "Are you ready for this?"

She shrugged. "I guess. He's not all cut up or anything, is he?"

"No. Sweetum's going to do the postmortem tomorrow. It was a long day for him, too."

He thumbed the latch and pulled on the handle. The door and tray inside rolled smoothly out of the wall to reveal an ashen-faced man with superficial scrapes on the forehead and one cheek.

"Oh!" she gasped. "He's naked."

The sheriff smiled. "This isn't TV, Ms. Gray. This is the real world. There's no reason to cover a corpse in the morgue."

She moved alongside the body, looked down at the ashen face, and sighed. "Sorry. I'm pretty sure I've never seen him before." She stood there, tilting her head slightly as if studying him. "You know who he reminds me of?"

"Who?"

"Well, he sort of favors Riley."
Chapter 19: Jeff and Kourtney Peterson  
by J B Kohl and Eric Beetner

He'd almost confessed.

Standing in the morgue, surrounded by police officers and officials all concerned with a little girl's death, Jeff almost broke. Almost told the police what they'd done.

When he and Kourtney stole that child, the little girl they gave the name Riley—a name also stolen from their stillborn daughter—he took not only another family's happiness but he carried out of that hospital a burden for himself that would weigh on his heart every day like the dense black matter of a far away star.

Every time he saw a cop he felt the urge to confess. Standing in line at a coffee shop behind an officer of any stripe—highway patrol, sheriff's department, parking enforcement—he sensed that magnetic tug inside pulling him forward to release the heavy weight that had been crushing his bones for years.

His sobs echoed off the wall of refrigerated compartments as Kourtney's simple, "Yes. That's her," sounded robotic. The monotone words and the scratching of the coroner's pen on his clipboard were as clinical as the chemical smells that invaded his nose.

Next to him, his wife stood as cold and unmoving as the dead surrounding them in that frigid, steel encased room. He watched her for signs of life but saw only a corpse-blue tint to her skin that proved she had no blood within her at all. After all, how could she pump blood with no heart?

Jeff's mind buzzed with what to say as he waited for Kourtney to come out of the bathroom. They hadn't spoken since the car leaving the coroners when she looked over at him, silently crying as he stared out the window, and said, "Oh will you cut it out. You sound like a woman."

They came inside and split to different corners of the house, as usual. When each had exhausted the excuses for not coming to bed they both ended up in the bedroom, avoiding each other's eyes. Jeff sat on the bed in his T-shirt and cotton pajama pants that had long since worn out their welcome. The seams had gone threadbare and the striped pattern had begun to fade like he'd been sleeping in the sun.

He heard the water in the sink turn off and the door unlock. Kourtney stepped into the room in a camisole top and naked from the waist down. It threw him off. He inhaled to speak, but then hesitated and gave a slight choke that made Kourtney suddenly self-conscious of being naked.

She hurried to the dresser and pulled on a pair of black panties and then moved one drawer up to get her pajamas out of the overstuffed bureau.

Jeff noticed three small bruises on her thigh he hadn't seen before. The opportunities to see her undressed had been infrequent since even before Riley's death so there was no telling how long they had been there. Kourtney always bruised easily. "Like a banana," she used to say. Still, the clump of bruises just below her hip bone were one more unexplained curiosity.

Her cold calmness when they identified the body of their daughter would be one she could never explain. Not to Jeff's liking.

"Do you want me to go?" Jeff asked.

Kourtney stopped her dressing. "What?"

"I think . . ." His will weakened. He felt lightheaded. He had to summon an inner courage like the time he went skydiving. Don't think, just jump. "I think we both know this is over. You and me."

"Over?"

"Our marriage. Without Riley here there's . . . no reason."

"Are you trying to leave me?"

Jeff regretted staying on the bed. She stood taller than him. His pathetic striped pants clashed with the bedspread and made him look silly. If he moved now, if he threw his legs over and stood, it would be a sign of aggression. He'd be on the attack. Instead he remained sitting on his side of the bed, legs outstretched and hands folded in his lap—weakness personified.

"I thought you'd want me to go."

"Want you to go? Do you have any idea what people will think?"

"No, I don't. What will they think, Kourtney?"

"It won't be good. They'll get suspicious. They'll think Riley's death caused some sort of rift between us."

"Well, hasn't it?"

"Jeff, I'm just saying to think it through. We don't want people to focus on the wrong thing now. You said yourself earlier about that Sinclair woman. And the police seemed to have a whole host of people they still want to talk to. Why give them some gossip to distract them from the investigation?"

"Kourt, it sounds to me like you want them to look anywhere but here."

"Because I want them to look for the killer. And that person isn't here."

Jeff felt the words on his tongue like bile in the back of his throat. They almost came out. Almost said the thing he couldn't take back. "Isn't she?"

He choked the words down and added them to the roiling acid in his stomach.

"What are those bruises from?"

"What bruises?"

"On your leg. What happened?"

"I don't know. You know how easily I get a bruise. I probably bumped the kitchen counter or something."

Jeff nodded, unconvinced.

"Jeff, if you've got something to say to me, come out and say it."

He stared at her. He couldn't do it sitting up on the bed like that. He swung his legs down and sat facing her. "I think I should leave. Go back to Minnesota. I think I should turn myself in."

"Would you just calm down?"

"Stop it. Stop it, Kourtney. You keep telling me to calm down or shut up. You treat this like it's nothing. Like it will all blow over in a week. I'm through. I'm not asking you to come with me. I'll take all the blame. I just can't live with it anymore. Riley is dead because of us. If we'd never taken her, never brought her down here, she'd still be alive."

"Yeah, living in a trailer park, stealing smokes out of her Mom's purse and biding her time until some uncle rapes her or she gets knocked up at sixteen and her life is over."

"How can you say crap like that?" Jeff stood. He slid his feet part way into his slippers then thought it was the only thing that could make him look more impotently ridiculous so he stomped out of the room in his bare feet.

Kourtney followed. "It's true. You know it is. She had a better life with us than she ever would have if she'd lived to be a hundred with them."

"That sounds an awful lot to me like you're justifying something, Kourtney."

"I am. Justifying what we did. What are you trying to say?"

Jeff reached the top step and stopped. He put a hand on the wooden banister, and spun to face her.

"I said what I had to say already. I'm leaving. You can make your excuses to somebody else from now on."

He turned back around, facing down the steps.

"Like hell you are."

Jeff felt her hand on his biceps, the grip stronger than he thought she was capable of. She was trying to stop him, grab him and pull him back up to continue the fight, but the force of her lunge to reach him punched his body forward and he began to tumble down the steps. How quickly things get out of hand, he thought. How easily it would be for her, who obviously didn't know her own strength when she was upset, to do more damage than she intended. To make a fatal mistake. The only thing stronger than her grip seemed to be her desire to conceal her true self from everyone in her life.

Kourtney stared at Jeff's prone form lying at the bottom of the steps. For an instant, just one, she thought he was dead. He'd landed face down, his hands flung out to the sides and his feet still up on the last two steps. She stared, open-mouthed, wondering if she should call 911 or just cut her losses and leave. No one would find him for a couple of days at least . . . unless the sheriff came back to question them . . . again.

But then Jeff moved—first his right hand, and then his left foot. He groaned a little bit and after a moment he pulled himself to his hands and knees and still Kourtney stood at the top of the stairs, staring, wondering if she should call someone.

Or worse, she thought, what if Jeff decided to call someone. She couldn't let that happen.

"Oh my God, Jeff," she said, moving down the stairs, her bare feet making no noise on the wood. "I'm so sorry. I don't . . . I don't know what came over me. Are you all right?"

He was still on his hands and knees when she reached him and she noticed his shoulders were shaking. Oh Christ. He was crying again. She clamped down on her irritation because she really couldn't afford to have him continue along this road of independence he was steering recklessly along. He pushed himself to his feet and turned to face her.

Not crying, she realized. Laughing. He was laughing.

For the first time in their fourteen years of marriage, Kourtney shrank from him. He was taller than she was. She'd never noticed it before.

"Wow, Kourtney," he said. "That was amazing. Attempted murder on top of . . . what? Kidnapping of an infant at a hospital? You're a real piece of work. If I weren't so disgusted I'd almost admire your style."

He took a step toward her and his smile faltered. Still scared of her, she thought. But something about his eyes wasn't quite right. He was afraid, yes, but not as intimidated as he'd been. And that could be bad. "Jeff, I said I was sorry. And I am. I would never hurt you." He looked blankly at her. She pressed her advantage. "And I would never hurt Riley. Don't you believe me?"

He gave a sharp bark of a laugh and moved toward the dining room. He limped, like his left knee was hurt. "Jesus Christ, Kourtney. I don't know anymore."

"Let me have a look at your leg, Jeff. I think you might be hurt."

He had flopped into a chair, resting his chin on his hands. Kourtney knelt beside him on the floor and reached for his knee.

"Stop it," he said, his right hand coming from nowhere and hitting her on the jaw. It was an open-handed slap—he hit like a girl—but it was hard enough to click her teeth together and make her lose her balance. She fell back onto the floor.

She'd never been hit before. By anyone. The fact that Jeff would dare to touch her . . . to try to harm her . . . was unbelievable. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, waiting for the shock to subside. After a minute, she sat up and rubbed her cheek. He regarded her for an instant, shaking his head and she was unable to decide what, exactly, he was thinking. After a minute he rose and left the room.

She heard his feet on the stairs. "Get back here you son of a bitch," she yelled.

She still felt the sting of the slap on her cheek. Bastard, she thought. If he wanted to call the cops now, fine. She'd call him crazy. She'd talk about the domestic violence that occurred regularly at their house. She'd paint herself in the portrait of the victim.

She'd never had a light bulb moment. Kourtney Peterson had never experienced inspiration that came from nowhere. Even the thought to take Riley came on slowly, borne of the grief of their own lost child and the practical knowledge that something had to be done. But as she stood, rubbing a hand over the lingering sensation of his hand on her cheek, and walked up the stairs, following the path Jeff took to their bedroom, she saw the world clearly for the first time in her whole life. Solutions were sometimes so simple. So very, very simple.

The suitcase was flung open on the bed, his clothes scattered around it. He'd been to Riley's room too, she noticed. A small brown bear sat beside the small pile of his socks.

"You realize you're making a mistake." It wasn't a question. It was a fact. And he was an idiot if he didn't get it.

He didn't respond, just kept packing. But that didn't matter. She was looking around for something to use . . . something that would crush his skull. She decided on the heavy onyx mantle clock he kept on top of his bureau. It was his grandmother's and hideously ugly. And it weighed about fifteen pounds.

She stood and watched him for a moment, wondering which part of his skull to strike.

It had to look like self defense.

The clock was heavier than it looked. Maybe fifteen pounds was off a bit. Maybe twenty was more accurate. She held it above her head and walked the four steps to where Jeff was angrily tossing things into his suitcase. He turned as she struck out with the clock, raising his arms just in time. The clock struck his forearm and he yelled out at the same time the bone snapped.

"Jesus Christ," he said.

This time, he used his feet, lifting his left leg in a weak attempt at defense, but it was enough. His foot struck her square in the gut. Lucky shot, asshole, she thought. The clock fell to the ground with a dull thud. Kourtney sank to the floor, gasping for breath.

Cradling his arm, Jeff moved to the next room where Kourtney heard him speaking to someone on the telephone. "Someone needs to get over here right away," he said. "My wife has gone crazy."
Chapter 20: Dylan McKenzie  
by Nancy A. Niles

"Whatcha gonna do now, boy?"

Dylan turned and saw his father glaring at him, his fists clenched, his blood-shot blue eyes sparkling with an insane rage. Dylan had nowhere to run, the only escape route being over the balcony and a twenty-five foot fall to a marble floor.

His father's hands were clenching and letting go as he approached his son. "Answer me, you little wimp, whatcha gonna do now? You're trapped, there's no place for you to go except down—like the loser you are."

Dylan looked desperately around. His father had his arms out, keeping Dylan from running along the landing to the stairs and his bulk blocked the entrance to Dylan's bedroom. He was trapped. He felt a flutter in his chest and then a feeling like a hiccup at the base of his throat. No, not now, please, he thought recognizing the symptoms of an oncoming panic attack. Calm down, keep it together—find a way to get out of this.

"You're shakin' like a dog shittin' peach seeds." His father's gruff voice reverberated against his now aching chest. "You gettin' all scared, you gonna start cryin'?" he taunted.

Dylan saw his opening and dove under his father's arm into his bedroom. He landed on his stomach, rolled over and kicked the bedroom door closed. It shook in its frame when his dad began pushing against it and rattling the locked knob. Dylan always kept the little button on the knob pushed in anticipation of circumstances such as this.

"Little girly boy," his dad said, the sound of his voice indicating that he'd moved away from the door and had headed for the stairs. "What a waste of space you are."

Dylan stumbled up and grabbed the box he'd picked up from the post office. He ripped the paper open and tore at the cardboard flap. The bottle of Xanax fell out and he grabbed it, shaking so hard that when he popped the lid off the white pills scattered across the shag carpeting.

He got on his knees, found two of them and stuffed them in his mouth. He bit down and the pasty, acrid tasting medicine almost choked him. Dylan took in deep breaths and kept swallowing, finally getting the noxious stuff down his throat. He lay on the bed and willed himself to breathe slowly and deeply.

His first panic attack had occurred six months ago at school. He'd thought he'd been having a heart attack and his teacher had shuttled him to the school doctor. After taking his pulse and watching Dylan shake, his eyes huge and frightened, the doctor pressed a stethoscope to his chest. The doctor listened for a minute, then told him the arrhythmia had been obvious and that Dylan's heart would skip a beat every other time.

When the doctor had asked him if he felt a strange sensation in the bottom of his throat, like a hiccup, Dylan had nodded his head. He'd grown accustomed to that feeling until it had just seemed normal. The shaking, rapid heartbeat and pain across his chest were also things that he'd accepted as being perfectly all right. But as he heard the doctor tell his dad that he'd been suffering from a panic attack and that his heart had been affected, Dylan realized these things were not good and he swore to himself he'd keep up with the doses of Xanax.

After he and his dad left the school, instead of taking him to a heart doctor, his dad took him home. He had been in one of his rare happy moods. Dylan remembered his dad had been angry that he'd had to come to the school, but after talking to the doctor, his dad's mood did a complete 180—he acted as happy as though he'd just won the lottery. It puzzled Dylan, but he'd been too grateful for the reprieve from his father's abusive tongue to question it.

The pain in his chest had lessened and his legs no longer shook. A wave of shame enveloped him as he thought about his panic attacks. He truly was a loser, just as his dad said. But his dad didn't know how strong and fearless he could be. He didn't think his dad would have the guts to break into strange houses and steal valuable things. His dad had to pick on kids to feel big. Dylan swore to himself he would never be mean to a kid. And then he thought about Riley and assured himself that he couldn't have hurt her, even though he couldn't remember, he just knew he couldn't have killed her. Or could he have?

Is that what that nosy old man, Eloy, had been trying to get him to confess? The thought caused his breath to catch and again he had to will himself to calm down. Why had Eloy been so nice to him? Did he dare trust that old pervert? Sure, he'd said he'd been innocent of child molestation, but Dylan knew prisons were full of so-called innocent men. Yet, Eloy had treated him decently.

When he'd visited Eloy and had not answered any of the old man's questions, and in fact asked him who he'd been expecting to use the sword on, Eloy had chuckled and said, "I guess we both have secrets. Maybe someday you'll be okay with opening up to me, and maybe I'll let you in on a couple of mine. But, in the meantime," the old man had gestured to the cell that Dylan kept in his front pocket, "we can help each other if we find ourselves in a jam." Dylan had handed him the phone and Eloy had entered his number. "You get into any trouble, or need some help, I'm on speed dial. Use it, soldier!"

Dylan opened his cell phone and then changed his mind. He didn't need that old man's help. Hadn't he escaped his father on his own? Everyone thought he'd been nothing but a wimp, but Dylan knew that he only used that persona as a disguise.

He jumped from his bed and tore off his pajamas. The smell of his leather jacket and pants made him feel powerful and brought a thrill to his solar plexus. He slicked back his hair and stared as the transformation from geek to thug materialized. Shedding his glasses for the blue contact lenses, his hand no longer shook. Tucking the switchblade into his pants pocket, he felt that he'd have no trouble sticking the blade to the hilt in his dad's fat gut. This Dylan, this confident and violent Dylan, could not understand why the other Dylan quaked so in front of his old man. This Dylan hated his father and did not harbor an ounce of pity for him. Someday, he swore. Someday, that stupid pig will pay. But tonight he had work to do.

Using his rope ladder, Dylan went out his window and scaled the wall. The sound of his dad's laughter at the sitcom followed him through the gate and out into the street. Dylan took a deep breath of the warm night air and felt free. No one could stop him. Staring at the shadows, he thought about the attack behind the drugstore. Let that sucker come at me again, he felt the hard metal of the switchblade in his pocket. I won't show that sucker any mercy this time.

He felt invincible and the booty he got from these jaunts confirmed how successful and capable he really was. No matter what his dad said about him, Dylan knew a stupid, wimpy boy could not do what he did almost nightly. He laughed aloud and ducked beneath a tree.

His targets tonight were the Boyds, who lived across the street. Dylan had been watching them for the past two weeks and knew tonight they'd be gone for three hours, and sure enough, their car had not been in the driveway. He stealthily made his way to the kitchen door at the back of the house.

Most of the residents at Rubicon Ranch had chosen this same cheap door. There were glass panes that were framed by one-inch-by-one-inch strips of wood. The frame around the bottom pane could be pulled free, the glass pane slipped down and out, giving easy access to the lock on the other side. He stepped into the Boyd's dark kitchen and silently closed the door.

The house felt empty, yet Dylan stood for a few seconds listening. When he was satisfied no one was home, he went up the stairs to the bedrooms. He knew exactly what he had come for. When he'd first begun breaking into homes, many times he'd not found much of value. He'd gotten smart and began to notice jewelry, or new cameras, or anything of value on his neighbors and the kids at school.

Donnie Boyd, a kid in a few of his classes, had been sporting a 24-karat gold ID bracelet. What a dumb kid! The teachers all liked Donnie and thought him very industrious for working during the summer. Donnie always aced tests and volunteered to clean the blackboard. What a suck up!

Donnie had not been better than him. Donnie had worked all summer at a dead end job in order to buy that bracelet. And here Dylan had been able to get it in just a few minutes of work. Didn't that prove that Dylan had been better, smarter and braver than Donnie? What schmucks the Donnies of the world are.

And then he remembered how Donnie had told him he'd put in a good word with his boss if he ever wanted a job. Donnie had looked him straight in his eyes and smiled. Dylan had been better than that. He'd never have to waste his time at some minimum wage job. Sure, there were risks, he could get caught, but he felt confident they'd never be able to lock him up. And like Bob Dylan's song, Eternal Drifter, Dylan knew as the Donnies of the world bowed and scraped and did the right thing, he would slip unnoticed through their world to eternal freedom. And, he realized, he could never afford to trust anyone. He could trust only his mother. She appreciated him more than anyone ever would.

He held the gold bracelet in his hand. It had been heavy and Dylan's heart soared with joy. He'd get a lot of money for this. Soon, he decided, very soon he'd be able to blow this messed up community. . . .
Chapter 21: Mary "Moody" Sinclair

by JJ Dare

It was all coming to a head. The pot was boiling over. A massive volcano was about to erupt. The sky was falling.

Polite euphemisms swirled through Moody's mind, but the only one that made any sense and the one she kept coming back to was, shit was hitting the fan.

This day was a day of screams. From one house to the next, Moody felt the empathic echoes of screams as the fabric of others' lives ripped apart.

Well, Moody didn't actually know if her intuitive feelings were true, but her imagination pictured it. Growing up under Morris and his warped imagery, Moody and her siblings were never short in the creative department.

Communication between the siblings had been kept to a minimum by an unspoken pact. Like three partners in an unspeakable crime, Moody and her brothers felt the less interaction, the less the chance of reliving painful and embarrassing childhood memories.

The last time Moody had spoken over the phone to either of her brothers was almost a decade before. The last time she'd seen either of them was at her high school graduation. She wondered if she would even recognize her siblings if she met them walking down the street.

The only thing that could bring her siblings to her would be the death of their father. Even then, Moody wasn't sure they would come. Hell, Moody wouldn't even come except for the fact that she lived with him. She would just as soon let county take care of everything. There was no love lost in the Sinclair family.

Love had nothing to do with death. People madly in love killed the ones they cared most about.

Was love strong enough to kill? Moody wondered this as she sat at the breakfast nook with her scalding coffee and watched the neighborhood go by. In some cases, it was. In others, it was only strong enough to kill oneself, leaving loved ones straggling behind in a lifeless existence.

Riley was killed from love. Love for the little girl or love for self—the question didn't really matter. Moody's opinion on the matter did not come from professional observations. It came out of a gut feeling about the meaning of life in Rubicon Ranch.

So many secrets and none of them nice. Moody's own secrets were mild in comparison to most, especially her own father. Morris had always led a strange life, but now it had completely toppled over into the dark side of evil. Pictures of dead bodies were all over the Internet, but Moody understood why Morris wanted actual photos. He had to be able to touch something—the photo—that had been close to the real body. Internet pictures of the dead were far too remote for the rush Morris needed.

At least, that was Moody's assumption. In The House of Sinclair, nothing was as it seemed. In the neighborhood of Rubicon Ranch, it was worse. In her father's case, it could be expected he would have odd and disgusting habits. In this quiet desert community, so many of her neighbors had deep secrets.

Again, Moody was assuming. As one of her college professors had told his class, "Think about the first three letters of 'assuming.' Never assume anything, else you'll be the ass of the situation."

Running away. The thought jumped into Moody's head as she sipped her coffee. Everyone around her had come here because they had been running from some personal darkness.

The old man seemed to carry the darkness with him. Hell, they all did. Eloy's darkness was just more apparent. That boy Dylan was a chameleon of evil along with Jeff's wife. Hmmm. Was there a tie between Kourtney and Dylan? How odd this leaping thought coming out of the blue as Moody watched the neighborhood limp along.

Things around her had changed. The mood was not so much secretive as it was sly. Sly and deceitful. A new slogan for living in The Ranch: "Come to Rubicon Ranch and bury your problems—and any bodies you need to be rid of."

Looking down into her cup, Moody couldn't remember if she'd dropped a Xanax in or not. It wasn't like her to forget; her profession demanded she remember the minutest details.

Did she take Zoloft? No, wait, it was Xanax. Or was it one of the many pills she'd squirreled away during those desperate times right after her patient's death? It had been her plan to commit suicide by overdose if she had to go to prison.

At the last moment, she'd chickened out because she wasn't ready to face the type of hell her father wrote about in his horror novels. No, she would rather face the hell on earth she knew than the one Morris believed in.

As she gazed into her half-empty coffee cup, she took a spoon and swirled the cooling liquid. Looking down into the abyss of wet darkness, Moody felt her entire world tilt.

Hell. This was hell. The demons were all around her. It was one to another and thankless for everything. Geese were being shot down and Jesus didn't give a shit anymore. The vampires were on strike and nobody would put their masks back on.

Moody shook her head and tried to get a coherent handle on her thoughts. Where the hell had geese, Jesus and vampires come from? She sounded like some of her more insane patients.

She was a psychologist, for God's sake. She was the one who dealt with the chaos in other people's minds. Why couldn't she make sense in her own?

The music coming from her father's workroom was sending the nerves on the edge of her skin all the way to her skull. Enough. Riley was dead, Morris was contracting pictures of her dead body, and the freaking music was driving Moody into her own personal madness.

Chaotic thoughts swirled through Moody's mind. Riley. Of all the people in Rubicon Ranch, Riley should not have died. How did death make the choice to take a child instead of all the warped adults around her who deserved death? Why her?

Why not? A voice answered Moody's question with resounding malice. Life is death, it continued.

Moody knew she was teetering on the edge of either an epiphany or insanity. Taking her cup to the sink, she glanced out the kitchen window and frowned at the weird scenario playing out on the side of her father's house.

Hidden from the rest of the street by a large privacy fence, the side between the Sinclair house and the Franklin house had always been a source of contention between the two occupants. Neither party wanted the responsibility of upkeeping this no-man's land. As a result, this little piece of fifteen by fifty foot ground became a hidden eyesore.

Scraggly dry grass grew in spots here and there. An upturned wheelbarrow was devolving into rust, along with assorted junk that somehow found its way into the unofficial mini-dump in the otherwise upscale neighborhood.

Now, as Moody watched, something was scurrying here and there in a frantic effort to find something. Stepping out the back door, Moody startled the nasty rodent and it threw an indigent look at her as it ran away.

As she stood in her yard, she spied the sheriff and her next-door neighbor. Something was going on between the two of them and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was. Along with other fierce emotions, Moody momentary felt a green monster rear its head.

The jealousy was fleeting, born of nothing more than a longing for something different in her life besides a criminal record and a crazy father. Her prospects were zero and, for the moment, it suited her.

Walking back into the house, the coolness hit her and dried the thin sheen of sweat on her body. Opening the door to her father's workroom, she had to shout to be heard over the music.

"Dad, it's too loud. You're going to burst your eardrums and my head if you don't turn it down."

Her words were swallowed in the din. The hungry sound monster ate them as soon as she said them.

Flipping the switch on the stereo, the "Sounds of Silence" were finally silenced. Looking around, she expected her father to fly at her and demand his music back. Instead, the quietness made her skin crawl.

Morris was not moving. He sat in his large worn chair with closed eyes. Spread across his lap were pictures, macabre pictures. He'd always kept his safe locked and had threatened death to anyone who even touched it. Now, it was wide open and its horrible contents had been vomited out.

Moody didn't want to touch him. She couldn't tell if he was breathing, but she couldn't bring herself to get closer than a few feet. Part of that feeling was the evilness that always seemed to flow from Morris. The other part was the terrible pictures he had been caressing.

The pull was bad, though. Moody had to look. It was like the hypnotic tug of looking at an accident on the side of the road.

Picking up a death's head cane, Moody nudged her father and the motion sent him tumbling to the floor.

Morris groaned, but remained still. The pictures fell in disarray. Moody was loathe to touch them, or him.

The pull got to her. She couldn't care less about her father—he'd damaged his children beyond repair or even the semblance of care.

The pictures, though, were reeling Moody in. As she turned them over, she realized there were more pictures than just the official ones of dead Riley. Some of them had been taken at different times of the day—desert shadows never lie.

The quality of the pictures was different, too. High-speed film had been used in the official ones—she could tell the quality was better. The others reminded her of ones that might have been printed from a home computer—the pixels in the colors were more apparent.

The shadows. Looking closer, Moody saw the photographer's long shadow had been captured in the homemade photos. A long shadow cast from a rising sun.

These were trophies. The instant Moody made the frightening connection, her blood turned cold.

Who took the homemade set of death pictures and how did Morris get his hands on them?

Another groan interrupted her whirling thoughts. Dispassionately, Moody looked at the thing on the ground. This time, her father opened his eyes and stared at her with his signature demonic glaze.

Morris was still alive.

Picking up the phone, Moody hesitated before calling for help.

"If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again," the recorded voice instructed.

Moody hung up.
Chapter 22: Cooper Dahlsing  
by Christine Husom

Cooper climbed out of the shower and towel-dried his long, lean body. A second later, his skin was damp again. His disturbed thoughts prompted every pore in his body to release beads of sweat. He patted at the moisture and tried to calm his mind, but the police officer's questions, and his answers from all those years before, played over and over, taking him back to the worst day of his life. The day his sister was murdered.

Your parents said you gave your sister a ride to school this morning. Is that true?

Yes.

Did you see her enter the school building?

No.

Was there anyone in the area you didn't recognize, who seemed out of place?

No.

Three questions and three one-word responses. He hoped once, in the million times he relived those moments, something would spark his memory of what happened after he stopped the car in front of his sister's school. But it never changed. It was the same brief conversation that dead-ended against a brick wall.

Cooper's mind touched on the time he awoke with someone's blood on his hands and had no memory of how it got there, then jumped to the present. It seemed an impossibility that Riley, his only friend in Rubicon, the one who reminded him of his sister Cissy, had suffered the same fate as she did. He had to find out if he was a link that connected the two deaths, or if the awful crimes were an unlikely coincidence.

His drying efforts were futile. He hung his towel on a hook in the bathroom and walked mechanically to the bedroom in search of clothes. He dressed in tan chino pants and an off-white linen shirt, wondering if he would ever adjust to the summer desert heat.

"You won't have to worry about it much longer if they throw you in jail," he told his reflection as he finished buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror.

Cooper slipped into walking sandals then went to the kitchen to locate the supplies he'd need. He pulled a few small baggies from their box and a metal tablespoon from the mix of measuring spoons in a utensil drawer. He stuffed them in his pocket and headed out on his self-directed assignment. He was a man on a mission to uncover the truth.

As he passed the McKenzie house, he heard a man's voice raised in anger. He couldn't hear the words clearly, but he made out "scared" and "cryin." Cooper stopped to listen. He bent over, pretending to adjust the buckle on his sandal in case a nosy neighbor was watching and wondered why he was standing there for no good reason.

Riley had mentioned Dylan told her he had some sort of medical condition that caused him to bruise easily. Maybe there was more to it than that. Cooper heard what sounded like a door slamming, then someone rattling it. Should he go up to their house and ring the doorbell? Intervene? Call 911?

The noise stopped, but there were a few more words from the man. Cooper hadn't heard Dylan's voice at all. Maybe the man was yelling at someone on the phone, hung up, slammed the door in anger, then uttered a few last words.

He listened for another few minutes, re-buckling his other sandal. There were no detectable sounds coming from the McKenzie household. He couldn't think of a creative reason to give McKenzie for his visit. "Hi, I heard loud noises and thought I'd check to see if everything's okay," was the best he came up with. If McKenzie was abusing his son, Cooper might be a more effective observer if McKenzie didn't know he was watching him.

He started back on his journey to the desert. He wasn't sure where to begin looking, but thought the police had probably cordoned off the area where Riley was found. He met two women he didn't recognize chatting on the sidewalk and nodded at them. They stopped talking and nodded back.

"He's cute," one of them said when he was a few feet past them. "So what were you saying? That little girl's body was stuffed in an old abandoned TV in the desert?"

"Isn't that the worst thing you've ever heard?"

Cooper almost turned around to ask if that was true, but he knew his guilty expression would raise suspicions. He remembered waking up on his couch the morning after his nighttime desert wanderings thinking there was something about a television and Riley he should remember.

And Riley was found in a television set? Why? Had she tried to escape an attacker and found refuge there, only to die from her injuries?

Television—the thing her parents kept her away from in life had cradled her in death.

He had planned to stop by the Peterson's house to introduce himself and offer his condolences, but he was starting to feel like the prime suspect. If it turned out he was the monster who killed Riley, they would think he was the biggest hypocrite in the world on top of it all, visiting them to pay his respects. They'd think he only did that to keep suspicions away from himself. On the other hand, he might subconsciously give them reasons to suspect him of the crime.

This was the nightmare of all nightmares.

Cooper forced himself to keep moving, to see for himself if the television in question was the one he woke up by the night Riley died. He made his way up the path to the dreaded spot. It was one and the same, all right. The television was gone and there was a mess of footprints and tire tracks near the scene. He didn't know what he'd been thinking. It seemed simple in his plan: find the scene and get some sand samples. But where would he start now? It appeared the authorities had scraped the top layer of sand around the area where the television had lain. No doubt to sift though it for any forensic evidence.

He'd watched crime shows where the investigators compared soil samples found on suspects with the soil at crime scenes. He should have known they'd collect as much evidence as possible. Cooper withdrew the tablespoon and a baggie and carefully approached the former resting spot of the television. He scooped some sand from next to the edge of where it had been scraped and dropped it in the plastic bag.

Maybe all the sand in the area was the same. Maybe some spots had different mineral counts than others. If the samples from under his fingernails matched the samples from the spot Riley's body was found, that in itself was not conclusive, but it was physical evidence. If the investigators found a strand of his hair in the sand they collected, it would clearly put him at the scene.

Cooper placed the bag of sand and tablespoon in his pants pocket, then bowed his head and wept. For his sister. For his little friend. And because he had might have been responsible for their deaths. When his final tears spilled, he raised his head and took a final look at the scene.

There were a few empty tables at the small café. Cooper nodded at a middle-aged, bleached blonde waitress who needed a uniform at least one size bigger than the one she wore. He'd been there a few times, but had never seen her before.

The waitress studied him a moment. "Sit wherever you please."

Cooper nodded and headed for the nearest table. Then—from across the room—he saw a slender arm raise, followed by a wave of her hand.

Lieutenant Frio half-stood. "Over here, professor."

She may be the one arresting him in the near future, but for the immediate future, dining with her was a welcomed diversion.

"Deputy Midget had to stand me up, and I hate to eat alone," she explained.

"Midget?"

"My partner."

"You call your partner Midget?"

"That's his name." Frio smiled, and Cooper fell illogically in lust.

"Ah, a male partner." He cleared his throat. "Personal or professional?"

"What? Oh. Professional. But that's the only personal question I'm answering. No offense. One of my rules. When I'm in uniform, I don't think of myself as Rosaria. I'm a Rojo Duro County Sheriff's Department lieutenant."

Rosaria.

The blonde waitress who had greeted him at the door squeezed her way through the tables and stopped at theirs. "Sorry, but I'm too busy for chit-chat, Lieutenant and company. What'll you have?"

"Chicken sandwich and a milk," Frio decided.

Cooper hadn't looked at the menu. "The same."

"Okay." The waitress snatched up the menus and was gone.

Cooper weighed his words. "Lieutenant, I have some concerns about the young McKenzie boy."

Frio leveled her eyes on him. "Why?"

Cooper told him what Riley had said and what he heard when he walked by their house earlier.

Frio nodded. "Let's just say I'm looking into that myself, and leave it at that."

Cooper drew his eyebrows together. "Any closer to finding out what happened to Riley?" He couldn't say "Riley's killer" out loud.

"Afraid not. And we got ourselves another body. Found out in the desert, too."

Cooper's pores prickled. "Another child?"

"No. Adult male." Frio shook her head. "Used to be a quiet community."

Before I moved here?

Frio's cell phone rang. "Lieutenant Frio . . . Yes, sir. On my way." She closed her phone and stood. "I hope you're hungry enough to eat two sandwiches. Catcha later." And she was off.

When his meal arrived, Cooper mechanically ate while he thought of his next move. He had to seek professional help. He had no choice.

A short, serious woman opened her door and stared at Cooper long enough for him to wonder if she was reading his mind, or trying to figure out who he was.

"Hello, I'm Cooper Dahlsing."

"I know who you are. I'm Mary Sinclair. But you know that, don't you?"

"Yes. May I come in?"

She hesitated, and Cooper thought she was going to say no, but she stepped back and waved him in.

"What can I do for you?" she asked.

"It's about Riley."

Sinclair looked down and shook her head. "An awful thing."

"She told me you were helping her."

"Unofficially. I'm no longer licensed." Sinclair's expression was unreadable.

Cooper didn't know that she wasn't licensed, but nodded anyway. "Did she tell you she was afraid of anyone?"

"Let's get something straight. Whatever Riley, or anyone else has told me is confidential."

Cooper persisted. "She never told me she was adopted. I don't think she knew, but the genetic evidence is obvious."

Moody blinked a few times, like she was surprised, then reverted to her poker face.

"I think she was kidnapped as an infant in Minnesota. I'm from Wisconsin, but it was big regional news. I remember the case. And the woman I believe is her birth mother has been on television, begging for her return."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I'm trying to get some answers and I'm not ready to go to the police yet."

"The police? What for?"

Cooper pulled out his wallet and withdrew a one hundred dollar bill. "I'd like to hire you."

"I can't accept any money. I told you, I'm not licensed."

"Okay, then. Will you give me the same terms you gave Riley?"

"Why?"

"Because we both want to find out who killed her."

"And how will we do that?"

"Will you keep this confidential?"

"Yes."

"I have somnambulism. I go to bed and sometimes wake up in unusual places. The night Riley died I woke up in the desert in the middle of the night. I can't imagine that I could have hurt her, but we need to find out for sure."

Sinclair's frowned slightly. "And how can you—we—do that?"

"You'll need to hypnotize me."

Doctor Mary Sinclair stared at Cooper. "You want me to do what?"

"Hypnotize me," he repeated.

She frowned slightly. "Let's go into my office."

Cooper followed Sinclair into the inner room and sat down in the stuffed chair she indicated. She sat down in the one angled toward his. The arrangement of the chairs gave them the options of either turning toward each other for face-to-face contact, or away from each other to avoid it.

Dr. Sinclair explained, "We've just met. I'd need to know you better, know something of your history. And on the other hand, you'd need to completely trust me before I'd be comfortable hypnotizing you."

Cooper Dahlsing mulled the psychologist's words over and over, processing them. Did he completely trust anyone, including himself? Especially himself? He knew he was asking a great deal from Sinclair in light of the fact they had spoken for the first time that day, but he was hopeful. And desperate.

"Why is that?" he asked.

"Mr. Dahlsing—"

"Doctor," he automatically corrected her, then wondered why it mattered. "Cooper."
Chapter 23: Mark and Jamie Westbrook  
by Nichole R. Bennett

Jamie sat on the bed, leaning against the headrest. Her legs were pulled tightly to her chest and she could almost rest her chin on her knees. Mark made her nervous with his agitated back and forth pacing around the room.

Mark's footsteps filled the room with a steady rhythm that didn't comfort or console Jamie. With every step, Jamie found it more difficult to think and the walls seemed to close in a little more. Tension had been building since the cops showed up and now it was like a tangible thing in the middle of the room.

"Maybe the family in Minnesota doesn't know the girl here is dead." Talking might ease some of the tension, might lighten the mood enough to let her think.

Mark didn't respond. He just kept pacing, bringing the walls closer still.

Jamie had to try again. "I think we can salvage something out of this."

Mark stopped and turned to face her. "Are you really that stupid?"

Flabbergasted, she pulled her legs tighter to her chest.

She assumed Mark would resume his pacing. Instead, he just stared at her. "I asked you if you were stupid." His voice had a bite to it that reminded Jamie of a snake. The "sss" sound slithering into her ears and causing her to shiver with trepidation. Looking into his eyes, she wondered when the kindness and patience she used to see had been replaced with hatred and distrust.

Changing the subject she asked, "Let's go get a drink." Maybe alcohol would defuse the situation.

"No," the venom in Mark's voice didn't lessen. "You're an idiot. The longer we stay here, the greater our chances of screwing this up."

"We aren't going to screw this up." Jamie rose from the bed and took a cautious step toward him.

"You already have. There's no reason we should even be here." He took a step toward her. "Don't you know when to let it go?"

Jamie stepped closer to Mark. "But we can't leave now. The cops have already been here once. They know we're in town." The logic was sound, but saying the words caused a lump to form in the pit of her stomach.

"Also your fault." His voice got louder with each word.

She wanted to remind him that running the stop sign wasn't her fault. Mark had been driving. Bringing that up, however, would not have defused the situation. Instead of adding fuel to the fire, she groveled. In an effort to make her words comforting, she closed the gap between the two, wrapping her arms around him as she spoke. "I'm sorry. If I would have known—"

He pushed her away. "You should have thought this thing through. Use your damn head."

The push surprised her almost as much as the tone of his voice. "I couldn't foresee the little girl dying. Could you?"

Mark didn't answer. Instead, his jaw muscles tense as he clenched his teeth. She was surprised that he didn't answer. Maybe he's just so angry that I would even ask such a question.

"So what do you think we should do?" Jamie made her voice low and smoky, hoping to take the edge off Mark's anger. "I really should have listened to you."

"This is your mess!"

Jamie stared at him. Changing the subject hadn't worked. Trying to agree with him hadn't worked. She couldn't take anymore. "This. Isn't. My. Fault." She spit the words out, hoping that each word would sink into Mark's brain like a dagger.

"Who's fault do you think it is?" he spit back.

"I don't know, but it isn't mine." Her anger was getting the best of her, causing her to match Mark's volume.

Mark took a step toward her. Jamie took a step back, her legs hitting the edge of the bed.

"You really are an idiot aren't you?"

"Don't call me that!"

Feeling claustrophobic, she stepped to her right in an effort to move past the stranger who had taken over Mark's body. Instead of passing him by, she accidentally stepped on his foot.

That was enough to push Mark over the edge. He raised his arm, hand balled into a fist. As his punch flew forward Jamie ducked, squeezing her eyes shut as she did.

Expecting pain, the crack that followed surprised her. She opened her eyes in time to see Mark remove his fist from a newly-formed dent in the wall. The divot wasn't large enough for Jamie to consider it a hole, but the wall was no longer smooth, either.

Jamie looked at Mark and, for the first time since meeting him, was afraid for her safety. Not knowing what else to do, she ran to the bathroom and locked the door.

Leaning against the door, she slid to the floor as the tears slid down her cheeks.

Crap. Everything was falling apart.

With every fiber in his being, Mark Westbrook wanted to punch something. Or someone. But he wouldn't. Instead, using every ounce of willpower he could summon, Mark grabbed the keys, the cell phones, and marched out of the room at the Rubicon Ranch Bed and Breakfast.

Never had a con been this screwed up. Nothing was going the way it should.

"She should have planned this out better," Mark mumbled through clenched teeth.

The owner of the Bed and Breakfast was thankfully occupied when Mark walked passed her and headed out the front door. The last thing he wanted to do was talk with that nosy broad and pretend he was having a good time.

Things were spiraling out of control.

Mark unlocked the rental car, tossed the phones inside, then relocked the door and headed on foot toward the nearby subdivision. It wasn't where he wanted to be. He wanted to be as far from Rubicon Ranch as possible, as far from the state as possible. That, however, would draw suspicions and Mark needed to stay off the cops' radar.

Cops. Never had a con brought the cops so close. It didn't matter to Mark that he was the one who ran that stop sign in front of the sheriff. Coming here was Jamie's idea, making everything else that happened her fault.

Jamie. Just thinking of her caused the muscles in Mark's jaw and hands to tense.

Tensing his hand, though, hurt. Before he'd left their room, Jamie had been babbling about her new plan. Mark warned her. He told her to shut up. When she wouldn't, Mark punched the wall, although he wanted to punch Jamie. As his fist propelled forward, however, he realized that punching Jamie would inevitably bring more attention to them. At the last minute he swung wide and smashed into the wall instead.

At the distinctive crack of bone meeting drywall, Jamie's eyes clouded over and her face took on a hardened expression.

Everything was falling apart.

As he walked toward the subdivision, Mark tried to prioritize the damage.

Jamie would have to go. Not just go, but disappear. The look on her face spoke volumes to Mark. Since his display of temper, she no longer trusted him. Unfortunately for Jamie, she knew too much about him for the two to simply part company. There was no way Mark was going to spend the rest of his life wondering if Jamie was waiting in the wings to rat him out. He needed to rid himself of her. For good.

A screen door slammed in the distance, startling Mark. He hadn't been paying attention to where he was. Looking around, he got his bearings. The house to his left was the same one he'd seen that kid sneak into the night he and Jamie had arrived.

He would have to find that kid. Disposing of Jamie would put Mark in a position to mentor someone else. And the desert was a good place to dispose of someone.

Ahead, a cop car was parked in a driveway. It wasn't the dead kid's house, but Mark didn't want to take the chance of being noticed.

The old man was out again. Mark considered striking up a conversation with him. There was something about the geriatric sentinel that wasn't what he seemed. He portrayed the image of a feeble old man, but Mark had noticed a spring in his step the last time he'd seen him that didn't seem right. Obviously, the old man had secrets, too.

A group of children were playing in the yard just ahead. A young woman watched the herd with a bored expression. Until she saw him, that is. Then her expression changed to concern.

Mark plastered on his "trust me" smile, waved, and shouted a hello. The daycare worker nodded back and resumed her bored watch over the children.

Continuing his walk, Mark reached into his pocket for the plastic bottle filled with an assortment of pills he kept there. Just being reassured of their presence boosted his confidence. The street value in his pocket was enough for a fresh start. A comfortable fresh start.

Selling the drugs had never really been his plan, however. At least, not a full-time plan. Sure, he'd done it once or twice over the years to make some fast cash. Stealing the pills was harder than getting rid of the things. Stealing wasn't the right word since the people he took the pills from often didn't know they had them. Or know they were gone. And that was only when he needed to resort to taking the actual pills.

Six months ago, Mark and Jamie had posed as venture capitalists and offered to help a recently retired doctor invest his savings. In addition to nearly a quarter of a million dollars—safely hidden in a variety of banks under a variety of names—Mark managed to snag a half-full prescription pad. And every last page had been signed by the unlucky doc.

Mark smiled as he remembered how easy it was to rifle through the old man's desk to find the pad. Getting the various prescriptions had been just as simple.

That entire con had been easy. He'd planned it and had foreseen every possible outcome. Not like this one. Not like the way Jamie had screwed up.

His thoughts had come full circle. Back to Jamie. He needed to get rid of her.

I guess I should head back.

He wouldn't dispose of Jamie around here, but he would and soon.

Mark hadn't gone more than a hundred yards when the whoop of a siren made his blood run cold. He turned around to see the sheriff pulling along side him.

"Mr. Westbrook," came the smug voice from inside the vehicle. "Just the man I wanted to speak to."

Once again, plastering on his "trust me" smile, Mark replied, "Anything I can do for ya, sir." Silently, he again cursed Jamie.

The sheriff slammed his tan SUV into park right where it was and crossed to Mark with a quickness belying the casualness of his bearing. He wore a smooth, easy grin. Eerily similar, Mark thought, to his own smile.

"Not holding you up, am I?"

"Not at all. I was just headed back to the B and B. Had to pick up a few things."

"Oh? Things for a trip? Hope you're not planning to leave us."

The taste of brass fired across his tongue. Never in his life had it been more important to maintain his serene composure.

"Well, we're not in a rush to leave, Sheriff. We're enjoying our stay, but our vacation is almost over."

"Been meaning to ask you about that." The sheriff stretched, arching his back and looking down the street—but not until after, Mark knew, he had memorized every detail of Mark's appearance. "What is it that brought you to Rubicon Ranch?"

Mark nodded, giving himself time to remember the ruse they had given the deputies earlier. "Just wanted to spend some time with the wife. Turns out I was able to do some research for a client while we were here."

"Do tell? A client in Minnesota?"

Trying to hide his shock, Mark smiled. "Now, Sheriff, I hope you understand if I can't divulge that information. We signed a confidentiality agreement. Much as I wish I could tell you all about it, we're legally bound to keep silent."

The sheriff chuckled. "'Legally bound.' What a funny expression. Sounds like a guy in handcuffs, doesn't it?" Again he was looking down the street, his face perfectly tranquil. "I asked about Minnesota because Riley and her folks are originally from up there. And, you may have heard, a body was found out in the desert. Oddly enough, we're beginning to think he was from Minnesota too. And, if I were you and I was gathering data for customer who, ironically enough, happened to be from Minnesota, I'd have to start worrying about my paycheck."

"Another body?"

"Fellow about the age of Riley's dad. Seemed to have something to hide. No ID. No license. No luggage. Finally managed to track down who he was though." He leaned forward. "Aren't you going to ask how he died?"

Mark wondered if the sheriff could hear Mark's heart pounding against his chest.

"Is that my business, Sheriff? Do you always have murder and mystery and crime going on around here? Seems like my wife and I have come to sort of a dangerous place. We might be better off leaving earlier than we had intended."

"Funny you would mention that—about mystery and criminal things, I mean. Lieutenant Frio, one of my deputies, reported that some shady drug activity has been going on around here lately. Prescription drug abuse. Kids involved. Pretty unusual for Rubicon Ranch." He shook his head in mock dismay and leaned toward Mark, their faces only inches apart. "I'll tell you, we can use all the help we can get putting this little crime wave behind us."

"I can imagine."

"Yeah. So if you and your lady think of anything—anything at all, we'd really like to hear about it. Don't know when you're planning on pulling out, but make sure you stop by to see me before you leave town. I'll be keeping an eye out for you."

The sheriff straightened abruptly. He passed in front of his vehicle, slid inside, pulled away, and drove swiftly down the street.

Mark watched him, feeling a mixture of relief—that the encounter ended without his being searched and arrested—and dread. The sheriff had cleverly revealed that the two of them were being closely watched by the police.

How could he escape this place? How could he rid himself of Jamie? He couldn't kill her now. The snare was tightening around him. He had to escape somehow without revealing his intentions—and take Jamie with him. Left behind, she would reveal everything she knew about him in exchange for lesser prosecution. Or perhaps the wise thing would be simply to wait. Maybe the sheriff would allow them to leave if someone else was arrested for Riley's death. And the man who might or might not be from Minnesota.

A wave of ironic admiration swept through Mark.

"What a great con artist that cop would make."
Chapter 24: Eloy Franklin

by Deborah J Ledford

Eloy sat in his kitchen thinking it might be time to move on. Then Dylan crept to his mind. That boy needed someone strong in his life. Somebody to count on. He felt for the kid—a mother who had disappeared on him, father who didn't care. No friends that Eloyever saw him with, except little Riley. Now even she was gone. Then again Eloy didn't have any companions either and knew he was in no position to judge.

Photographs from time long passed were scattered on the table before him. The top photo exhibited Eloy in full dress uniform, adorned with ribbons and medals, stern expression on his face, looking young and ready for anything to come his way. Eloy picked up theLeica camera he rarely used anymore. He had been an avid cataloguer of events throughout his life . . . until he discovered the cache of dirty photos in his footlocker. The thought that The Boy could have used his cherished camera to document some of the filth had disgusted him so Eloy hid it away for years. He only discovered the 35mm after unpacking from his move to the Rubicon Ranch house. He looked at the miniscule window that registered seven exposed pictures on the roll.

Last year he thought maybe he could become buddies with Morris Sinclair until his daughter, Moody, skidded that relationship to a halt. Eloy shook his head. She was a pretty woman, but her nickname suited her. He had been on the porch oiling the hinges of theLeica's back housing, thinking maybe he'd take up his old hobby again when Morris appeared at the steps. They visited for an hour, sharing tea and memories of times captured on film. Then Moody screeched to a halt at the curb, stomped to the porch, scowled atEloy, took her father's arm, then sped away.

The stranger who usually drove around with a young woman in the passenger seat looked like he might come over one time. The man had stopped in front of the house when he was alone in the car. But then he drove onward. No one ever took an interest. Except Dylan. Eloy knew that because of the boy he couldn't leave town, disappear without a word, not even leave a note on the door as he had in the past. Still, with the recent discovered bodies, Rubicon Ranch felt more like Detroit than a lazy bedroom community. The realization disturbed him as much as the thought of his son reappearing.

He sighed, placed the camera on the kitchen table and took the cane from the back of a chair. Figuring he may as well do the task he'd been putting off, he crossed to the door that led to the garage. He clicked the switch on the wall and the bright overhead light lit up the area as the garage door crept upward. He looked out on the street and although no headlights swept the street, and he couldn't make out any figures standing in the yards directly across the way, Eloy knew he needed to keep up his charade. He limped to the driver's side door of the 1984 black Cadillac, slid behind the wheel and brought the beast to life.

The Caddy idled its smooth purr as he closed his eyes and breathed in the faint pine scent provided by a cardboard tree that hung from the rearview mirror. A memory came to him, bright and new as the day he lived the experience: Sitting behind the wheel, accelerating the Caddy to eighty-five as it barreled along the highway, Pacific Ocean to the left, rolling hills to the right. His wife sitting beside him, wind from the rolled down windows billowing her straw-colored hair. Her laughter on the edge of girlish giggles, shouting over the roar of the engine, "Faster, Eloy, faster!"

Wetness dripped down his cheeks. He shut the remembrance back into the vault of his mind, wiped away the tears and backed the Cadillac to the driveway. He got out of the car and looked left to right. No one loitered or walked the sidewalks bathed by the streetlights and he could only hear the chatter of a television somewhere and crickets chirping.

He filled two buckets with water from the spigot near the porch, then dumped soap into one of the containers and sloshed the suds around with a sponge. In case any of his neighbors spied on him from behind closed curtains, he enhanced his limp unaided by the cane, which caused the water to splash over the rims as he returned to the vehicle. His training, although honed decades ago, alerted him that someone stood behind him.

He lowered slightly and looked between his legs. Dungarees, sneakers, stance close together, non-threatening as far as Eloy could assess. "Hello, soldier."

The shoes backed up a quick step. "How'd you know I was here? I tried to be real quiet."

"First thing they teach you in basic training is to beware of your surroundings at all times."

"Do you learn that before they teach you to shoot a gun, or after?"

The boy's obsession with the infliction of carnage disturbed Eloy, not for the first time. Hoping to divert the subject of weapons, he tossed Dylan a sponge. "Get busy."

Dylan ran a finger along the trunk. "It's awfully dusty. Where'd you drive it last?"

"Haven't washed her in a while."

Dylan plunged the sponge into the bucket of suds. "I didn't know you even had a car. Looks like it's been out in the desert." He drilled Eloy with an accusatory look.

Eloy remained silent, merely polished a headlight over and over.

"Did you drive it out there?" the boy continued to prod. "We're not destroying evidence, are we?"

"What are you talking about, young man?"

"That's where they found Riley. In the desert. Did you know?"

"Are you asking me if I had anything to do with that little girl's death?"

"Well, I . . . I . . ." Dylan's shoulders drooped as he studied a pool of water on the driveway.

"Are you accusing me of doing something illegal?"

Dylan looked in the direction of his house.

"Are you questioning an officer, soldier?" Eloy all but yelled.

Eloy could only see the boy in profile, but his jaw muscle bulged and the edges of his hair trembled. Dylan slowly turned his head to Eloy and the old man saw a fury building—the shining eyes, flat expression, ready to snap.

"Yes, sir," Dylan said in a dark tone that surprised Eloy. "I am."

Eloy held the scowl for a long moment. Then he smiled and said, "Good for you, soldier. Very good." He laid the sponge down, took up his cane and headed for the open garage. "Come on inside. I've got some leftover meatloaf."

Ten full minutes passed before Eloy heard the click of the back door shut. He pulled two heaping servings of meat and mashed potatoes from the microwave, then placed the meals on the table.

Dylan took no time to take his seat and begin to devour the meal. Eloy sat in stunned silence as the two-inch thick slab of meat disappeared in four bites. Dylan drained his glass of milk, swiped his hand across mouth and let out a loud belch.

"Manners count, young man. Even in the presence of an old fart."

"Sorry," Dylan mumbled. He pushed his clean plate forward and reached for the top photograph on the pile Eloy had stacked on the edge of the table. "Is this you?"

"Long ago."

"You got lots of medals. Must have been a real bad ass."

"I suppose."

"Do you still have the medals?"

"Sure. Packed away. Maybe I'll show them to you someday."

"That'd be cool." Dylan set the picture aside, placed his crossed arms on the table and leaned in closer to Eloy. "You're not gonna tell me why your car's so dusty, are you?"

"Nothing to tell."

Dylan shrugged and reached out to fiddle with the strap attached to the Leica. "Would you let me drive it some day?"

Eloy chuckled. "Well, if I did, you'd have to promise to bring it back."

Dylan blushed, looked down and began to draw figure eights on the tabletop with the tip of his finger.

"What do you want to run from, Dylan? And are you going to ask to borrow my saber along with the keys to my car?"

Dylan stuck his hand in his pocket and something inside jangled. Heavy and metal sounding. Eloy wondered what it could be and hoped it wasn't a handful of bullets.

"Don't do anything stupid, soldier."
Chapter 25: Seth Bryan  
by Lazarus Barnhill

Before Seth Bryan put the Navigator in park and got out, he could see Melanie's form where she'd been the night before, seated with her back to the upstairs window. She was, he surmised, behind her desk at work on the manuscript, the joint project that was the only real bequest her husband had left her. Only, Bryan suspected, it had become a tremendous burden to her. He could not help her with it. And tonight, he feared, he would add even more to the turmoil of her life. But not right away.

He rang the doorbell. Her steps sounded on the stairs. She peered out at him, her body shielded by the scarcely open door.

"If you've found another body," she said slowly, "I'm not coming to look at it."

He laughed. "No body. It's time for me to make up to you for all the advice and insight you've given my department. I've come to take you out for an early supper."

"Thank you, Sheriff. I do appreciate the offer. But as it happens I just ate lunch."

He reached out toward her face. She frowned, but did not pull away as he ran a fingertip along one edge of her mouth.

"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Ms. Gray, does not qualify as a meal." He hooked his thumbs in his belt. "I want to take you to a nice little eatery—not one you have to dress for. Just a little classier than fast food. And if you'll come along willingly, you won't have to eat in handcuffs."

She laughed. It was more hearty and relaxed than anything he had heard from her.

"Let me get my keys."

Bryan stood by the passenger's side of his SUV and opened the door when Melanie reappeared. She had slipped a simple jacket over her peasant dress.

They rode through Rubicon Ranch in a comfortable silence. He had no illusion about her having any depth of trust in him, or much attraction for that matter—although he intended to find out if she had any. She did at least accept him. She had figured out how to remain comfortable around him. For some reason he did not really grasp, he had an abiding desire to express and explain himself to her.

The café was called Haute Sauce, and actually did offer continental cuisine. The hostess, a woman in her early thirties who had more than hinted for months that she wanted to add Bryan to her list of conquests, ignored Melanie and touched his arm a half dozen times more than necessary as she led them to a corner table. He glared at the menu.

Taking a slow breath, he said, "I've been waiting for someone who speaks French so I could come eat here."

"I'm pretty sure what she was saying doesn't need a translator."

"You know—" He dropped the menu on the table. "—it must be the uniform. If I were in street clothes, if I were anybody but a lawman, girls like that would pay me no attention whatever."

"If you say so. So you don't know what to recommend."

"What do you do, Ms. Gray, when literary groupies show too much interest in you? You can't tell me you haven't had your share of quasi-stalkers. People who adore your writing so much they feel as if they really know you—and you know them in return. People who are dying to 'know you as a person' instead of just a best selling author."

As he sat watching her, waiting for a response, he suddenly realized she was about to start crying. He leaned forward in dismay.

"I'm sorry. I touched a nerve. I didn't mean to."

"No. No." She dumped the knife and fork out of the table napkin and dabbed her eyes with it. "I told myself I wouldn't let Sheriff Seth Bryan get to me."

"Honest, I wasn't—"

"But you really didn't get to me. It's just . . . I never had to deal with those people on my own. Until now, Alexander was my buffer. Being so alone when I never anticipated it—that's what gets to me."

Bryan's head tipped slightly to one side. "So if I promise to be sensitive, can I ask about him?"

An expression of doubt flashed across her face. "You're going to be sensitive? Sheriff Seth Bryan—sensitive male?"

"How about this—what if I tell you what I know about you and Alexander? If you want to say anything, you can. Fair enough?"

"Why would you know anything about us?"

"I always learn everything I can about people involved in my cases."

The server, a tall, thin teenage boy, appeared. "Have you had time to—"

"I'll have that roast beef sandwich with the au jus," he said impatiently. "And a glass of tea."

Melanie smiled. "The Cabernet Salad for me. I'll just drink water."

"Excellent choice, ma'am," the kid said. "I'll have some bread out for you right away."

"So, what did you learn?" Melanie asked when the server walked out of earshot.

Bryan sighed. He leaned forward, his hands in his lap. "Alexander was older than you. By four or five years, I believe. He was a teaching assistant at Boulder in the fine art department. He was already a far better photographer than the professor. He needed someone to write text to accompany his work, someone whose literary ability equaled his artistic ability. And you were just an undergrad, the darling of the English faculty. One of his colleagues had heard about you."

He measured the astonishment and recollection in her eyes and continued. "Right after that came the National Geographic article on wetlands. It was hugely popular. Critically the best received piece in years. The photos and text were perfectly paired. And so were you and Alexander. You adored him. He worshipped you. It was perfect. . . . Well, mostly perfect. Who would have thought that a sophisticate from New England like Alexander would ever hook up with a girl from the western slope of Colorado."

She started. "What do you know about the western slope?"

"Delta County? Please. I figure that was your motivation to go to the university and become a literary star."

Melanie studied him in silence. Finally, she spoke. "And who are you, Sheriff Seth Bryan? Is there any more to you than clever manipulation? Learning what you can about people so you can surprise them with what you know and use their emotions against them? Do you have a story that's any less surly and despicable than the little world you live in?"

The waiter appeared with a large tray and deposited their drinks, food and a basket of bread, bandaged in a napkin. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

Bryan looked across the table.

"I think we're fine for now," Melanie said. She watched the kid walk away. "And I thought the French always made you wait."

Bryan stared down at his plate. "Were you serious? Did you mean what you were asking before? Are you really interested in knowing how I got to be the way I am?"

She took a bite of the dark leaves before her, a pungent aroma saturating the air between them. "Do you have to be twenty-one to order this salad?" She studied him as she ate. "Actually, Sheriff, I have become exceedingly curious as to how you got to be the way you are. I've finally decided that it has to do with all the morbid, irrevocably twisted, reprobates you deal with. It happens to police. You get to the point of believing that goodness is only a façade people wear. So when an upstanding citizen reports a death that turns out to be murder, your natural inclination is to assume she had something to do with it."

He smiled. "I suppose it's too late now to confess I knew you had absolutely nothing to do with Riley's death from the instant I saw you. I should acknowledge as well that gigging you, teasing and threatening you have all been, I must say, completely effective ways of getting you to pay attention to me."

"You know," she leaned forward, her tone conspiratorial, as if she were agreeing with him, "my cousin once had a little male dog that used to hump my leg every time we went to visit. It certainly got my attention, though I must confess that to this day whenever I think of it I still dream of hitting it in the head with a stick."

Bryan ignored his plate, gazing at her silently. What was it about this woman—so unlike any he had ever been attracted to, so aloof and disinterested in him—that engaged the core of his being?

"I'm from Greene City, California. You've heard of it?"

"Of course. That big football game is played there."

"The Orchard Bowl. I played in that game, never mind what year. Starting outside linebacker for SC."

"I'm impressed."

"No you're not. And I'm not trying to impress you."

"Oh?"

"You want the real deal. Here it is. I was the fair-haired boy. President of my class in high school. Pledged the best fraternity on campus. Dated a cheerleader and we got married after we graduated."

Melanie stopped eating. She turned her fork over and over between her fingers. "Sounds like the American dream."

"I went into law enforcement. Hired on at the Greene City Police Department. I became a detective. Got my masters. Went up through the ranks like a shot. Until I became the youngest captain in the history of the force. I was on track to becoming the Greene City Chief of Police."

". . . Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but sheriff of this rural county is not on a par with police chief of a major metropolitan city."

"True. I had an affair. With a woman on the force. A junior officer."

"Oh. And your wife found out?"

"My wife knew. Long before it came to light. . . . Monica, my wife, was pretty miserable. She was willing to stay with me because I was this favorite son of Greene City. She was a socialite. She was on all sorts of civic committees and boards. Before she was forty, Monica had everything she had signed up for—well, except kids. She really didn't want kids. I knew I would be a disaster with them, so it wasn't hard to convince me not to have any. Anyway, Monica wanted for nothing and wanted nothing of what she had. Her escape—this is so ironic—were the books you and Alexander made, especially the forest book. She signed up for an eco-tour and traveled to Costa Rica right after she read that book. That was as happy as I ever saw her."

Melanie shrugged. "A lot of people saw the books as a way to escape. Alexander's photos were that good."

"Anyway, Lydia Galvin . . . Lieutenant Lydia . . . she and I had an affair. What Lydia wanted was love. And she wanted me. She could not believe I didn't love her to the extent she loved me. She wanted me to leave Monica. When I wouldn't, she threatened to tell her. I told Monica first, as a preemptory strike. Lydia had visions of confronting Monica. Boy was she surprised when Monica confronted her. Monica told her to be content with what she had with me, that she was going to mess up all our lives if she kept on."

Bryan paused for a reaction from Melanie, but her serene face gave no indication of her thoughts.

He took a sip of tea. "Somehow Lydia got the idea that if she came between me and my career, between me and my marriage, I would magically realize how much I cared for her. Once she told the right people on the force what was happening, the disciplinary procedures couldn't be stopped. And of course discipline issues on the police force become public record. I had been the beloved, fair-haired boy before. It was so totally different to become the pariah. Lydia came to me—even after I had cleaned out my office and watched them paint over my name on my parking space. She came to where I was standing and said, 'Can't you understand how much I love you?'"

"What did you say to her?"

"I said, 'I'm still licensed to carry a sidearm in California and if you come near me again I'm going to shoot you between the eyes.'"

Melanie snorted. She grabbed her glass and took a drink.

"So there I was, dreams lost and dignity in tatters. The thing was, I was still a good lawman. About three months after it all went down, I got a call from Rojo Duro County here. They needed somebody with my skills. And I needed a place out of the public eye, so to speak."

"What about Monica?"

He looked down. "Monica has what is called 'separate maintenance.'"

"So you're not divorced?"

"Nope. Monica still believes that one day I'm going to be a big time chief, maybe in LA or somewhere."

"And she thinks you'll just take her back?"

"Oh, hell no. That's all over. She thinks she'll get my paycheck. Her plan is to wait until I hit it rich and then divorce me. The alimony will be stupendous."

She nodded slowly. "I think I see where you got the idea that everyone is warped and evil. . . . If you don't mind me asking, why are you telling me all this?"

He sighed. "I guess I want you to know who I am and how I got this way. I guess I figured, if I spilled it all out there for you, it would make me more of a human to you—warts, adultery and all. So maybe, when I need you to help me, I won't have to bully you. You'll cooperate because you understand that getting my job done honestly is the most important thing to me."

"Really." She picked up her fork and stabbed it into the salad. "All this time I thought you were just trying to seduce me."

"To be honest, I find you hot. I don't know why. You're nothing like the women I go for. And I know you'd rather claw out my eyes and slash my throat than let me touch you. But who knows? Maybe you'll change your mind about me. We have to solve these murders first."

"'We?' As if I'm really involved?"

Bryan sighed. "More than you know, you are involved. Which brings me to another subject, Ms. Gray."

"Another subject?"

"Yes. I intended to tell you this today. I waited because I knew that, once I brought it up, you wouldn't pay attention to me any more. I've been investigating what happened. Alexander's car wreck, I mean."

She sat up straight, completely focused on him.

"Melanie, I've looked at the reports. I went to the accident scene and took the evidence photos with me." He shook his head. "I've come to the conclusion that Alexander did not die in an accident."
Chapter 26: Melanie Gray  
by Pat Bertram

Fury, like wildfire, flashed through Melanie. Fury at the sheriff for playing his silly games when people were dead, fury at herself for playing his fool.

She clenched her hands and focused her gaze on her half-eaten salad so she wouldn't have to see the smug-looking sheriff sitting opposite her at the restaurant table. She'd been flattered that he thought she could help with his investigation, but apparently the only thing he'd been investigating was her and how to get in her panties. And she'd fallen for it. Cripes, what an idiot! All her resolve not to let him get to her had been for nothing.

And that whole seduction scene—"You'll cooperate because you understand that getting my job done honestly is the most important thing to me." Did he believe his own drivel? And anyway, how could she help when he wasn't doing anything? It had been two days since Riley died. Didn't they say that if they didn't catch a killer within the first forty-eight hours that chances are he or she would never be caught? And the sheriff had wasted those precious hours trying to seduce her.

She'd fallen for Alexander's crap and apparently she hadn't learned anything, because here she was again, playing straight-woman for another unprincipled clown. Alexander, at least, had offered her adventure and marriage, and for a while he had even been faithful. But Bryan? What did he have to offer? Nothing. He was married, and he was a taker. He'd take everything she had, which wasn't much, just her integrity, and she'd be damned before she let him tarnish that with a tawdry affair. She'd seen the look in his eyes when he'd said "And I know you'd rather claw out my eyes and slash my throat than let me touch you." And that look had belied his words. He seemed to think all he had to do was pretend to know her and she'd fall into his oh, so understanding arms.

"What?" he said, sounding as if he didn't know exactly what was going through her mind. How could he not? He, Sheriff Seth Bryan, the great detective.

"As if you don't know." Melanie spit the words from between clenched teeth.

Bryan's brows drew together in an almost believable though comic look of confusion. "That's such a typical womanish remark. I thought you were different."

"You thought I was gullible and naïve. You thought since I put up with Alexander's philandering, I'd put up with yours, too, but that is not going to happen. Only a fool gets involved with a married man, and whatever you think, I am no fool."

Bryan held up his hands, palms toward her. "Whoa."

"Being a widow does not make me ripe for the plucking. I don't need to be serviced like a bitch in heat. Believe me, the last thing I need in my life is a man, especially a married man. Calling it separate maintenance does not make you any less married."

He flashed his teeth. "So you do like me. You're protesting too much."

"Not protesting enough, apparently, or else you wouldn't have that silly grin on your face."

He lost the grin. "What's going on here? I thought we were having a nice meal while we went over the case."

"You should be going over the case with your deputies. They, at least, seem to understand how inappropriate it is for you to include me in your investigation. Unless I'm still a suspect and you're trying to get me to let down my guard and confess?"

"I told you, you were never a suspect."

"As if playing with me, gigging me as you called it, is any better. So let's discuss the case. What were the results of the autopsy? Was Riley murdered or was it an accident? If she was murdered, how was it done and who did it? Were there drugs in her system? Have you interrogated her parents yet to find out what they're hiding? Have you found out who the dead man is and what, if anything, he has to do with Riley's murder? You ignored me when I said he looked liked Riley, but then, that's understandable. I never got a good look at the girl. All I saw was her jaw line, her nose, and her eyebrows, so whatever I blurted out after seeing the man's corpse has to be discounted. Did the same person kill both of them? Or were there two different killers? Or . . ." Melanie paused to grab the thought that flitted through her mind. "Did he kill Riley and someone else kill him?"

Bryan picked up his sandwich, dipped an end in the au jus, bit off a piece, and chewed slowly.

Melanie nodded. "That's what I thought. You're all talk." She deepened her voice and mimicked him. "'We have to solve these murders.' Yeah, like there really is a we. Well, there was a we, but that was Alexander and me. You and I will never be a we." A cough shuddered through her torso. She took a long drink of water, hoping she wasn't coming down with a cold but was merely dehydrated from the strong air-conditioning and her rare monologue.

Bryan gave her a searching look, opened his mouth and then closed it again with what sounded like a resigned sigh. She wondered what he'd been going to say and why he thought better of it, then she let out a sigh of her own. It didn't matter. She had enough to do with grieving and fulfilling her book contract. She had nothing left for the sheriff and his investigation. Whatever he might think, she really didn't know anything. Well, that wasn't strictly true. She did know one thing.

She threw her napkin on the table and stood, ready to flee.

Bryan gaped at her. "What's going on?"

"I'm going home, Sheriff Seth Bryan. I'm through with your games. You lied about investigating Alexander's accident. I saw the photos in the newspaper and I visited the scene of the accident. There was nothing there to indicate that the crash had been anything other than a one-car accident. Perhaps someone had tampered with the car, but the only way to find that out is to investigate the vehicle itself. And you don't care enough to check it out."
Chapter 27: Jeff and Kourtney Peterson  
by J B Kohl and Eric Beetner

A horn blast behind him alerted Jeff that the light was green. His tires squeaked as he lurched forward through the intersection. The car was aimed for home, although he wanted to be anywhere but.

Driving with the sling was difficult. At least it wasn't a stick shift like his first car. Working the gears in that shoebox on wheels in the Minnesota snow would test the best drivers in the world.

His explanation at the Urgent Care clinic on the edge of the Rubicon development was weak and noncommittal. Kind of the way Kourtney would describe him.

His arm, "Banged into something." He left it at that, omitting the part about his wife attacking him with a clock and the fall down the stairs. He'd suffered through the pain during his night on the couch, but by morning he knew he needed actual medical attention. A hairline fracture they said. Not much to do but immobilize it and take care not to "Bang" it on anything again. The way the doctor smiled she must have thought there was a sly, perhaps slightly tipsy, story to go along with the injury. Jeff regarded her grin with a tight-lipped stare.

Thankfully there were no follow up questions, another reason to love the clinic. It couldn't handle anything serious like the hospital, but that was thirty miles down the road, and having the nearby-clinic added to the cocoon-like feeling Rubicon Ranch gave the residents.

All Jeff could think about as he sat in the waiting room was the only other time he'd been there, with Riley. She needed three stitches after she banged her chin on the kitchen counter. Like father like daughter.

His awkward lies to the nursing staff were still better than the embarrassing call to the police. Almost as soon as the dispatcher answered, his backbone went soft.

He started off screaming for help, wailing about how his wife had gone crazy. The look on Kourtney's face reflected back how pathetic he sounded. That familiar emasculating sneer of hers—her mouth a thin line and her eyes saying, "You sound like a woman."

"What is your location, sir?" the dispatcher had asked.

"Um, I'm at home . . . but . . ."

"What is the address?"

Kourtney stayed frozen, waiting for him to say something stupid. Then what? After what had already happened that night he wasn't willing to find out.

"It's . . . never mind. False alarm."

"Sir? Did someone assault you, sir?"

"No. Never mind. It's nothing." It was all he needed to have Sheriff Bryan see this report come across his desk. The police didn't need any more reason to look deeper into their lives. Their secrets were buried right below the surface. A whiff of air would be all it took to unearth them.

Kourtney's judgmental scowl turned to a smug grin as she turned and walked back upstairs.

Out driving, Jeff felt exposed. He much preferred the sanctuary of home. In the years they'd been residents of California, he never found time for friends. Now every face on the sidewalk or driver in another car glared at him suspiciously, an angry mob preparing their torches. They knew what he'd done. They knew his secrets.

Up ahead Jeff saw a Sheriff's car. He cut a hard right down a street he'd never been on. Anything to avoid more scrutiny. The repetitive conformity of Rubicon Ranch made this street almost indistinguishable from his own. He wove the car around the gentle curves and past the manicured lawns, squares of green patched over the dry brown land like a bad toupee.

The muscles in his back spasmed again. They had been tender ever since his fall. He remembered the prescription in his pocket for Vicodin. "If you need it," said the doctor cheerily.

Jeff said nothing. He wanted to tell the doctor she was a fool. No pills could take away the pain he felt. His daughter was dead. Where's the prescription for that?

The pharmacist stabbed at her keyboard and said in a weary tone, "Give me about fifteen minutes mister . . ." She struggled with the doctor's handwriting.

"Peterson."

"Mr. Peterson." The name sparked a light in the darkness. "Oh. Are you . . .?"

Jeff waited. The woman was caught. She knew she was prying, but it had slipped out as easily as gossip with her girlfriends. Her mouth gaped in strangled silence.

"I'm her father."

"Oh, I . . . I'm sorry, Mr. Peterson. I'm sorry for your loss." Her cheeks and neck blushed against her white coat. "I'll get this right away."

Jeff stepped away to the waiting area—a small green carpet and a spindle of informational pamphlets on ailments of all kinds, each with photos of pleasantly smiling people of all colors grinning through their Acid Reflux, Eczema, Diabetes and Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

The pharmacist confirmed what Jeff had known for years—that it took significantly less than fifteen minutes to fill a prescription if they really wanted. She was back in less than three.

"Here you go. Looks like you could use these." She nodded her head at his sling as she packaged the bottle of pills.

"Nothing serious."

"Still. Why suffer, right?" She winced, as if thinking that anything she could say would remind them both of Riley. Jeff handed her his debit and insurance card. She changed subjects while she rang up the transaction. "Crazy about the other death."

"What death?"

"The other, um, body. In the desert."

"Another child?"

"No. An adult. I don't know much about it, just that they found someone else. No ID or anything."

It meant a million things at once. Riley's killer? Another victim from the same person who killed Riley? A necessary cover-up to keep the killer's identity hidden?

And what, if anything, did Kourtney have to do with it?

Jeff felt dizzier than he had at the base of the stairs after his fall. He took the pills and turned to leave.

"Oh, sir. Mr. Peterson. Your cards."

Jeff turned back, collected his debit and insurance cards, and left.

* * *

The morgue attendant recognized Jeff. Jeff swallowed his embarrassment. The county morgue isn't exactly the place you want everyone to know your name.

"Mr. Peterson, what can I do for you?" The man eyed Jeff's sling. He may have known a mourning father on sight but Jeff had to read his nametag to remember even a simple name like Christopher.

"The, um, sheriff said—Sheriff Bryan—he said there's a new body. Um, he wanted me to take a look at it. See if I knew the man."

Christopher tilted his head, his red hair shifting down across his forehead. "I didn't get a call about anything like that."

"I just bumped into him on the street. Outside. When I was running errands." Jeff's arm ached. He wished he'd taken a Vicodin before he started trying to pass his lies. "He told me to stay quiet about it. That it wasn't common knowledge yet. He just thought,y'know . . ."

Christopher stayed firm in his seat. "I'll call in and check with him." He reached for the phone on his desk.

"He's out. I told you. It'll take forever. Don't make me come back here again. Please." Jeff hoped the desperation and panic swirling on his face looked to Christopher like the deep welling pain of a father who'd just lost a child. He hoped even a morgue attendant wasn't immune to sympathy.

"Okay. Sorry. It's just highly unorthodox."

"I know. Just following orders, though. Both of us, I guess."

Christopher smiled like the director at a funeral home. Practiced understanding. One of those times when a look said more than words.

The smells of the steel and white tile room brought back sense memories of identifying Riley's body. He shuffle-stepped past the locker where she had been, and presumably still was. Christopher made no mention of it or gesture toward the refrigerator door.

He slid open a drawer on the bottom row and lifted a white sheet to expose a man's face. Middle-aged. Weather-worn.

A hint of recognition, then a flood.

It was a face that haunted Jeff's dreams for nine years now, the landmarks of which he saw every day in Riley's face. The tired lines of stress added years to the man but the photos Jeff had seen, had committed to memory, were all after the man suffered such trauma. They matched what he saw before him.

He stared into the face of the man who he stole from, the man whose soul and body Jeff had taken a part of and called it his own. He looked down at the dead face of Riley's real father.

Kourtney looked out the sliding glass door to the pool. Riley's beach ball and snorkel set were still in the basket of water toys by the back shed. She let her eyes trace over them once, and then avoided looking in that direction. She looked instead at the undisturbed surface of the water, smooth as glass. She was going to sit by the pool and read because that's what normal people did on a hot day. The funeral was still two days away and there was no one to call. Riley would be cremated and the small box containing her ashes would be buried in the cemetery under a small stone. She and Jeff would put flowers in a vase on the small cement base supporting the headstone every Memorial Day and on Riley's birthday. They would cry a little and then they would come back home and go about their business.

Jeff didn't know about the cremation yet. Kourtney knew what he wanted—an open casket in the front of the church altar where people would ogle and cry, the keening of one feeding the keening of another until the whole sanctuary was nothing but a room of howls.

It was easier to look at a nice wooden box beside a picture of Riley and be done with it. And Kourtney was done with it. It was time to get back to normal. A new normal. One without the daughter who didn't like her anyway.

Jeff made more noise than usual when he came in. His arm was in a sling. When she saw him, Kourtney had a flash of something that may have been guilt, but if she were honest with herself, it was probably disappointment that he hadn't been more seriously injured when he fell.

"Broken?" she asked, turning briefly from her view of the pool to assess him.

"Hairline."

He was pale—paler than usual, and trembling. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face. Even the backs of his hands were sweating.

"You look like you're in pain. Didn't they give you any pills?"

He slumped into a chair and set a brown bottle of pills on the dining room table. He made no move to open the bottle or to do anything that might alleviate his discomfort. Kourtney went back to looking at the pool. She really wanted to go out there, but couldn't seem to make up her mind to open the door and step over the threshold. There were those pool toys in their basket and they were big and bright and so very there that, even though she didn't look at them she could see them, looming in the periphery.

"They found another body in the desert." Jeff's voice was so soft she wasn't sure she heard him at first.

"And?"

"Her father." When Kourtney didn't say anything, Jeff dropped a heavy hand onto the table. Kourtney jumped. "Her real father."

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Another body. "Are you trying to tell me something?" She swallowed, trying to imagine Jeffrey taking a life. Was it possible? How had he spent his time the last days? Listening to music. They were rarely in the same room together unless they were sleeping and he hadn't been sleeping well at all. He could have easily slipped out in the night.

Jeff stood and pushed the chair in, wincing a little bit, like he was still in pain. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

She snorted. It was an ugly sound, she knew, but she felt ugly right then. He was going to accuse her, frame her. She quickly added pieces in her head. He could kill, if Riley was at stake. If he meant what he said earlier, that he suspected her, then placing another body at her feet would be his perfect revenge. Blaming her for killing the man they'd already done so much damage to.

The pieces formed an incomplete picture, but one that frightened her anyway.

He had taken everything from her. He took the baby that she birthed and let it die and then he took Riley from her. "You did it," she said. "Didn't you? What happened? Did he come looking for her and you couldn't bear to let anyone but you have her, so you killed him? Is that what happened?"

"I think we both know I'm incapable of that sort of thing." He took another step in her direction, looking very much capable at that instant.

"You're a kidnapper, aren't you? Stealing babies from hospitals?" She threw the words out as violently as fists to keep him at bay. "Has your heart corroded that much over these years?" She knew it had because hers had too. "What else have you done? What else?" She was shouting and at first, Jeff shrank back from her, looking repulsive with that glaze of sweat marking his pale face.

But then he opened his mouth and roared. It was a raw sound, a coarse, grating sound that ripped his throat. "Enough!"

Kourtney didn't think about the door anymore, didn't think about the colorful toys against the shed. She moved quickly, her flip-flops slapping the tile as sprinted out of the house and broke the "no running" rule she and Jeff had been so careful to enforce around the poolside. The back gate wasn't far away. She could make it there, escape and then what? Tell the sheriff that her husband was angry because nine years ago she made him kidnap Riley? She made a noise that may have been a sob, or a groan. She didn't know and it didn't really matter. She cleared the long side of the pool and turned the corner, moving past the taunting basket of beach toys and then her shoes slipped on the hot stone.

Briefly, she recalled a conversation with Jeff about cement versus stone. "Cement is safer. Less slippery. Even when smooth stone is dry, your shoes can slip on it." But it was a meek warning and Kourtney ignored it.

The memory was no more than a flash, lasting only an instant. But it replayed over and over as she fell, the side of her head striking the hot stone.

Jeff loomed above her. Her bare arms and legs burned, but she couldn't lift them. She opened her mouth to tell him to stay away from her. She felt the blood pooling under her cheek. It was so hot. The stone was so very, very hot.

"I think we're done now," Jeff said.

But they weren't. They weren't, and if she could talk, she could tell him her plan. They would pack and move south toward Mexico. They'd drive all the way down to South America and take up residence on a beach somewhere. They could be happy.

If only she could make her mouth move.

The toe of Jeff's shoe was sharp in her back. He toed her to the edge of the pool. Sunlight hit the water and broke apart into a million diamonds. Was she already at the beach? She felt faint. And the tiles were so hot.

He nudged her over the edge of the pool and into the cool water. Kourtney felt instant relief. Finally. He read her mind. She had been so hot. She'd been too hard on Jeff. She knew that. She needed to tone it down a little bit. She would change. She tried to sigh, to explain herself, to voice her gratitude for the coolness of the pool, but her mouth filled with water. She opened her eyes and stared at the bottom getting closer.
Chapter 28: Dylan McKenzie  
by Nancy A. Niles

Dylan spit on the toe of the black shoe and polished it to a mirror-like shine. His high top sneakers had been thrown into the closet and he'd retrieved the leather dress shoes that he'd owned for over a year and had worn exactly—never. They felt stiff and a little tight but he liked the look and the feel of them. In fact, he thought, they looked like shoes a soldier would wear. With his dress uniform, of course.

He glanced at the worn leather jacket hanging in his closet. That jacket used to be his favorite, but after seeing the picture of Eloy wearing an immaculately pressed uniform with all the colorful medals, Dylan longed to wear such a fine article of clothing. It had not been the uniform itself, he realized, rather what the uniform stood for.

His mother had always raged against the military, saying that she wished the old, rich politicos would be sent to fight the wars instead of the young, handsome men. "If those old hypocrites had to lose their lives on the battlefield there would be no wars," she used to tell him.

"But what about the commies?" Dylan had asked after hearing his dad talk about the communists trying to take over the country. "Wouldn't they destroy America?"

"Don't listen to what your dad says," she'd told him. "The only reason there are wars is because of money and power. That's it. Every time our lame-brained elected officials run the country into too much debt they declare a war. Actually, wars stimulate the economy and keep the big-wigs in their fancy cars and mansions. What a bunch of lowlife scumbags! And that's another good reason to leave this country!"

Dylan was beginning to question his mother's ideas. He'd seen the pride in Eloy's face when he'd looked at those old photos of himself. Dylan knew the old man could probably tell him lots of stories of sacrifice and bravery. Just the thought of wearing a uniform like that made Dylan feel somehow stronger and more capable. People respected the uniform. Even his mother never said anything nasty about soldiers. She'd told him to respect the young men who fought, but not the politicians who sent them to their deaths.

Maybe next time he visited the old man he would show Dylan his dress uniform and medals. He imagined Eloy had tons of cool stuff in that big, rambling house. He could probably break in there with no sweat and take whatever he wanted.

He frowned at himself in the mirror.

A soldier would not dishonor himself by being a thief. A soldier takes pride in being brave, honest and kind.

Dylan liked thinking of himself as a soldier. He'd been surprised at the pride he'd felt when the old man had called him soldier. And he'd been even more surprised that he'd wanted Eloy to like him. And that had been the first time an adult male had taken any interest in him at all. His dad never called him anything but a loser and never had anything to say to him except to order him around and tell him to fetch him a whisky or a beer.

If Dylan had been a soldier his father would even be proud of him. Or maybe not. It seemed his dad would not be happy with him no matter what he did. He realized he'd spent too much time wanting his dad to take an interest in him. Eloy had opened his eyes to that much. That old man did not even know him, yet he treated him as though he had worth just by being alive.

A wave of guilt washed over him when he felt the gold bracelet in his pocket. It was heavy and seemed to be weighing down the side of his pants. He'd almost panicked as Eloy's prying eyes took him in. He feared Eloy could see the outline of the thick piece of jewelry that almost overflowed the skinny pocket of his jeans. He'd kept his hand against the pocket as with each step the gold chains seemed to be trying to jump from their confines and shout to the world that he was a thief.

He knew deep down inside he could be a good person, could even be a soldier like Eloy and could even earn medals and wear one of those dress uniforms that Eloy had been wearing in that photo. These were just trying times and he needed to be able to survive and get to his mom, otherwise he wouldn't have stolen that bracelet. And then he remembered how powerful it had made him feel to take it.

He felt a stomach ache coming on. It was too bad that Eloy and his mother were at such opposite ends of the spectrum. She would be proud of him taking that bracelet. She would see how smart he'd been and she would encourage his criminal behavior.

Eloy on the other hand would probably whip him within an inch of his life.

Dylan laughed out loud as he envisioned the old man trying to catch him. He might not be able to fight him off, but he could sure run away from him. And Dylan admitted, he had been pretty smart in getting that bracelet. He tried to recall the powerful feeling he'd had when he took the piece of jewelry, but it was useless.

He didn't feel powerful now. Dylan had no idea how to turn that bracelet into cold hard cash. He couldn't ask Eloy. That old man was too sharp, he'd get the truth out of him in a nanosecond and Dylan couldn't let that happen. But he needed money so he could leave Rubicon Ranch and get to his mom.

If he took the bracelet to a pawnshop, they'd want to see his ID and he knew the pawn shops regularly received photos of stolen jewelry and were required by law to alert the police. His mom had taught him that much. So what to do? Think, Dylan, figure it out.There had to be some way.

He admired the shiny patent leather shoes on his feet. After he'd left Eloy's he'd returned home for these shoes. They were the only thing he owned that could be considered soldierly. Once he got some money for the bracelet maybe he could find a uniform jacket at the surplus store. That thought cheered him and he headed for downtown.

March, Soldier! Get the job done! You got smarts and with a little luck you'll get rid of the booty and be on your way!

His hand wrapped tightly around the gold chains in his pocket, and when the violent shove against his back propelled him into the block wall, he'd reached out with his hand and whipped the chains through the air. His shoulder banged hard against the unyielding brick and he turned just as the man wearing the ski mask rushed him.

Out of pure instinct Dylan raised his hand and flailed the gold chains across his attacker's face. The man screamed and a cold shiver ran down Dylan's spine at the sound. The attacker kicked Dylan's knee and a sharp, sickening pain brought him to a fetal position, his arms wrapping around his knees, his head tucked into his chest. The hard construction boot of the attacker plowed into his back and Dylan fell forward like a rag doll.

A soldier fights with no regard to pain or injury. A soldier is a machine, a lethal, fighting machine.

Tears streaming down his face, Dylan pushed himself to his knee ignoring the loud pop from the joint and the razor sharp ache shooting through his leg. He held the bracelet like brass knuckles and slugged the assailant square in the jaw. The man's head flew back and now he was the one on the concrete sidewalk. Dylan kicked at the man's head and the attacker grabbed Dylan's shoe and pulled him off balance.

He fell on the sidewalk and curled into a ball to deflect another attack. But to his surprise all he heard was the sound of running footsteps. He raised his head and saw the man limping hurriedly around the corner.

Only fools mess with soldiers! Next time he'd not let the man get away so easy!

He brushed the dirt from his clothes and took a careful step, slowly placing his full weight on his injured knee. It wobbled a little, but Dylan felt sure his leg had not been broken. The chains of the bracelet were still wrapped around his knuckles and he kept them looped around his fingers as he made the slow walk home. He wished he could tell Eloy about the attack and how he'd beaten the man. He felt proud of himself for fighting back and knew at that moment his heart's desire was to be a decorated soldier like Eloy.

The lyrics to Bob Dylan's "Hero Blues" played through his mind. Never before had he wanted to fight another human being, at least not when he'd been in nerd mode. Sure, when he wore his leathers and took on the other persona he would not run from a fight. But Dylan felt so energized, so alive and strong after warding off his attacker that he could see why people wanted to go to war.

And whole cities threw parades and parties for their returning war heroes. He could picture the look on his dad's face if a whole town had a parade for him. And his mom would be so proud. Yes, Dylan could fight, in fact, wanted to fight. He imagined himself in a foxhole shooting at his enemies.

And then he remembered the saber the old guy kept by his side and wondered how it would feel to stab someone with it. His video games showed plenty of gore and spurting blood when someone got stabbed. He used to laugh at the electronic sounding screams as the stricken ones fell down dead. His games were animations, nothing else, they weren't real, and Dylan thought, a poor substitute for the real thing. In fact, they'd become boring and he hardly ever played them anymore.

Just the thought of ramming Eloy's saber through that putz gave him a feeling in the pit of his stomach like he'd gotten when he'd ridden the Canyon Blaster Roller Coaster at Circus Circus in Vegas. That had only been two years ago, but to Dylan it felt like an eternity. His mom had left his dad after that trip and Dylan knew there would be no more vacations with both parents.

He entered his empty house and his stomach rumbled. He couldn't believe he felt hungry again. But he must've burnt off the food Eloy had given him. He threw imaginary punches into the air and savored the remembrance of the feel of his fist smashing into that guy's jaw. He fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich leaving a mess in the kitchen and hoping his dad would get mad about it.

Let him come at me, now.

Dylan vowed that after today, he would not back down from his dad anymore. The thought both excited and frightened him. Stuffing the last of the sandwich in his mouth Dylan sat at the desk in his room. He drew a stick figure with its arms outstretched, its mouth open wide and a huge saber sticking through the middle section.

Rummaging around in his drawer he found a red pen and carefully drew drops of blood on the end of the saber and dripping to the ground. He wished he'd been a better artist so he could draw his dad's face on the stick figure, and then decided he could cut his dad's face out of an old photo. It would be cool to paste in a photo of himself and draw a mask over his face like the one that guy who'd attacked him had worn. Only Dylan's would have lightning bolts on the sides and he'd wear red contact lenses.

He stopped drawing as the attacker's ski mask covered face solidified in his memory. He recalled the blue, bloodshot eyes glaring through the eyeholes, and the smell of beery sweat. That smell had been oh so familiar. He stood up and paced the length of his room. There'd been something tight around the attacker's middle, he'd felt it when the man had pushed against him. Could it have been a type of girdle holding in a beer belly? A beer belly like his dad sported?

No way! That couldn't have been his dad. Why would he attack him like that? He knew his dad hated Lieutenant Frio and he would most certainly have been angry if he'd seen him talking with her that day at the drugstore. After all, the attacker had asked him why he'd been talking to that cop. Things were starting to make sense.

That scream the attacker had made came back to him and he realized he'd recognized his dad's nasally voice.

His breath began to come in short spurts and the familiar hiccup at the base of his throat warned him of an oncoming panic attack. He threw a Xanax in his mouth, swallowed, and willed himself to breathe deeply.

He stood at his bedroom door and listened for any sound from his dad. As far as he could tell the house was empty. Was he safe here? Should he leave before his dad got home? Should he tell Eloy what he suspected?

Dylan's shoulders slumped and he returned to his bed. No one would believe him. No one that is, except his mom. For the first time in his life he felt real anger toward her. Where was she? Why couldn't she be here when he needed her? What was she doing so far away and why hadn't she taken him with her when she'd left his dad?

On the heels of that he remembered Riley's mom and how protective she'd always been. It hadn't seemed to help Riley any, though. He realized he missed that goofy little kid and he missed visiting her. She'd always made sure to save him a big piece of cake, or some of the pastry her parents loved to buy. She'd been a good kid and he felt sorry she'd died. He hoped with all his heart he hadn't been the one that had killed her. He just couldn't remember much of that last night they'd been together.

A wave of guilt riffled through his stomach and he pressed his face into his hands. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he cried for the first time in years. Dylan cried for Riley, for his mom and for himself.

Buck up, Soldier! Stop all that blubberin'. Face this problem head on!

He wiped the tears from his face and with his arms behind his head Dylan lay on the bed feeling his heart beating a fast tattoo against his chest. Lieutenant Frio came to mind and Dylan opened his eyes and stared into space. She might believe him, but then what? She'd question his dad and that would only cause Dylan more problems. Next time his dad might have a knife or a gun. Despair overtook him as he stared at his shiny shoes and at first the smudges on the toe did not register in his mind. He turned the shoe causing the light to reflect off the marred surface and his heart almost leapt into his throat.

There, on the toe of the mirror-like surface was what looked to be a perfect finger print. The attacker grabbing his shoe came back to him and Dylan almost shouted with joy.

"Gotcha!" he whispered and carefully removed the shoe.

His bedside clock showed twelve straight up and Dylan knew where he could find the good Lieutenant.

He'd just finished lacing up his high top sneakers when he heard the front door open and close. He dropped the patent leather shoe with the fingerprint into a plastic bag from Home Depot and shoved it under his bed.

"Where are ya, ya little shit?" his dad's nasally voice called out.

His knee throbbed in a seemingly primal response to the sound of his dad's voice. Dylan had no doubt his dad had been the attacker. He wanted to fight him again, but caution took over. He silently slid into his closet and opened the door a crack in order to peer out.

The knob rattled on his bedroom door, then the jam exploded and the door flew inward from the solid kick of a construction boot. Dylan noticed the bruised cheek and the bloody lip first. Then he saw the nine-inch knife clenched in his dad's fist, reflecting the light.

Dylan's breathing picked up. He had to stay calm. The Xanax he'd just taken should be kicking in. Please. Don't let him find me. And don't let me pass out.

He almost gasped when his dad got on his knees and looked under the bed. He pulled out the Home Depot bag and flung it across the floor.

"Where are ya, sissy boy? Ya think you can beat me up again?" his dad bellowed. "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he looked toward the closet.

Dylan burrowed back into his clothes and held his breath. His dad's big paw rummaged through the clothing and suddenly he was staring into the blood shot blue eyes.

This time Dylan's fist smacked so hard into his dad's nose that Dylan feared he'd broken his knuckles. Like a fat, squat tree, his dad fell backward and landed flat on his back, his eyes open and dazed.

Dylan rubbed the pain from his hand and stared at his dad, gasping and writhing on the floor.

"I'll kill ya," he managed to snarl through his bleeding lip. His nose spurted blood onto the carpeting when he rolled over on his side. Dylan grabbed the Home Depot bag and ran from the room resisting the urge to give his dad a swift kick in the ribs.
Chapter 29: Mary "Moody" Sinclair

by JJ Dare

While Moody listened to Cooper Dahlsing explain why he had come to see her, she let her mind wander to earlier in the day when she'd visited her father in the hospital.

The intensive care unit had smelled of antiseptic and fear. It had reeked of pain and death.

Morris had not seemed to be in pain. One baleful eye remained open and stared at Moody. Moody had stared back.

The official diagnosis was a stroke. The prognosis was, unfortunately, somewhat encouraging. The doctors agreed her father would recover to some degree, but only time would tell how much mobility he would regain. Time would also tell how much the stroke has damaged his mind.

"Why didn't you just die?" she had asked her father.

The opened eye blinked and a shadowy grimace crossed the mobile side of his face.

Moody repeated the question. The eye blinked again. Interesting.

Pulling her chair closer to her father, she asked another question.

"Why didn't you have a heart attack?"

No response. No eye blinking and no change in facial expression.

"Why did you have pictures of corpses in your safe?"

Again, no response.

"Why don't you die?"

The eye blinked once and he grimaced.

Moody shifted position in the chair and studied the man who had fathered her. His open good eye followed her as she leaned back. There was still something sentient inside Morris.

"Why did you kill Riley?"

No response. Well, it had been worth a shot. Moody did not think her father was a child killer, but one never knew the inside of dark hearts.

Staring at her father, Moody had wondered why the universe was allowing her father, who condoned all manner of violence and death, why the universe allowed him to live. He'd be happier in the hell of his nightmare writings.

"Do you know who killed Riley?"

Blink. With another grimace, Morris raised his good hand and pointed over the top of Moody's head. Fatigued by the effort, he dropped the hand back on top of the covers.

What did Morris know? Like a town gossip, Morris had his fingers on the pulse of every form of evil around him. He had always had an inner radar attuned to his fellow monsters' dark dealings.

She should have been surprised, but she wasn't. This was Morris Sinclair, after all.

Moody repeated the question.

"Who killed Riley?"

Blink, grimace, point. Her father's pantomimed answers didn't seem to reveal anything more than he knew or thought he knew the killer. Pointing toward the west where Rubicon Ranch was located did nothing either except confirm his sense of direction.

The air in the sterile room suddenly felt heavy and malevolent. Moody knew it was her own mind making her feel an evil presence in the room besides her father's. Looking at her watch, Moody stood up and leaned toward her father's face.

As if to kiss his check, Moody leaned closer but bypassed her father's hard face and whispered in his ear instead.

"Bye, Dad. If you're still alive when I come back . . . well, let's hope not, right?"

Her father's baleful eye followed her as she backed out of the room. A little tiny part of Moody felt empathy for the man lying helpless in the hospital bed. The little tiny part was overshadowed by the knowledge that the world would be a better place without Morris Sinclair.

Word had gotten out, apparently. Moody had no trouble spotting some of her father's minions in the county hospital's lobby. Their Goth gloom was apparent, even those dressed like regular folks. Something in their demeanor always gave them away. Their darkness appeared to shine like a light bulb.

When she saw the group, Moody turned on her heel and slipped through a service door. Although she'd been occasionally recognized throughout the years as the daughter of Morris Sinclair, most of the time she was able to blend with any crowd. Today was different.

The groupies would have been on the lookout for anyone resembling Morris. Moody was not in the mood to be mobbed with questions about a man she cared less for than she did a stranger on the street.

No, that wasn't entirely true. She cared very much about his eventual departure from life. Not that she would do anything to hasten it. Well, not directly. She was a marked woman and the questions hanging over her head from the last time she'd been involved in a death would mark her even more should something suspicious happen to her father.

Damn. What a situation, Moody thought as she walked to her car. Sitting at the stop sign in front of the hospital, she was almost sideswiped by a van full of post-adolescent Morris junkies. She had long learned to spot them from miles away.

Moody remembered the lightning bolt that had hit her mind as she thought about the strange circumstances of Riley's death. The body had been stuffed in a television console but the message wasn't about television or broadcasts or anything like that. The message was about communication.

Moody pulled the car to the side of the road as she puzzled over her latest thought. She wasn't familiar with existential experiences on a personal level, but she knew she had just had one.

Communication was what? Communication was inter-action and interaction was always one on one, even if one of the participants was a group.

Shakily, Moody had put the car in drive and pulled into traffic. As a police car passed her in the opposite lane, she had felt the officer's eyes boring into her. She felt guilty. Then she felt guilty for feeling guilty.

Snapping back to the present, Moody shook her head as she tried to clear her own confused reasoning. Cooper was still talking and Moody heard herself automatically answer him, but her own mind was twice removed from Cooper's problems.

Too much had happened to her in such a short time and she was starting to become concerned about her ability to separate fact from fantasy. She was afraid she would lose herself to her own psychoses.

One accidental death of a child followed by a close association to another child who had been killed. Really, anyone with half a brain would put Moody on the short list of suspects. Especially if they knew the other things Moody kept hidden under lock and key.

Moody looked at the disturbed man slumped in the chair opposite her. Cooper, Cooper, Cooper, she thought, what secrets are locked away in the wide-awake, yet, sleeping part of your mind? Are you Riley's killer? Do you know if Morris is? Or, more importantly, am I?
Chapter 30: Cooper Dahlsing  
by Christine Husom

"A reputable therapist . . ." Moody Sinclair paused and Cooper wondered why she suddenly looked a little sad and upset. Did it have to do with why she was no longer licensed? "Um, like I said earlier, I need to know more about you besides your medical condition."

Cooper didn't want to spend valuable time talking about himself and thought about where in his life to begin.

Sinclair spoke before he did. "You're a doctor?"

"I have my PhD in genetics."

"Genetics. Hmm." She studied him a minute. "So you figured out that Riley was not the biological daughter of the Petersons?"

"It wouldn't take a geneticist to figure that one out."

Sinclair surprised him by smiling. "So I'm not so smart after all?"

Cooper shrugged. Of course she was smart. "Riley didn't know she was adopted, did she?"

"I guess the knowledge, the truth, can no longer hurt her." Sinclair quietly sighed. "No, she did not."

"So why would a little girl need psychological help?"

"Dr. Dahlsing, I am not going to say any more. Riley may be gone, but her parents are not."

Cooper sat up straighter. "Her adoptive parents, you mean. Her biological parents have been looking for her since she was stolen from a Minnesota hospital nursery."

A brief unguarded look of surprise danced across Sinclair's face. "Minnesota? How do you know—"

"I'm from Wisconsin. I remember when it happened. When I saw Mrs. Neuhaus on television recently pleading for the return of her daughter, I knew that daughter had to be Riley. It all fit."

"Did you tell the police about your suspicions?"

"Not yet."

Sinclair seemed visibly relieved and Cooper wondered why. Did she have a pact with the Petersons? Contact with the biological parents?

She rolled her shoulders forward an inch or so and nodded. "Tell me why you think you may have had anything to do with Riley's death."

Cooper told her about his sister, her unsolved murder, and having no memory of seeing her walk away from his car when he dropped her off at school that fateful morning. He briefly summarized his life, his nighttime wanderings, his career and why he left it all behind to move to Rubicon Ranch. When he described waking up in the desert on the night Riley died near where her body was found, Sinclair shifted in her chair. Cooper recognized she was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

Dr. Sinclair stood. "I can't hypnotize you. Not yet, anyway."

Cooper was more than frustrated. He'd poured out the sordid details of his life before Rubicon and his fears about possible involvement in both his sister's and Riley's deaths—which is what Sinclair asked him to do—for nothing.

"Can you tell me why you won't hypnotize me?"

"Dr. Dahlsing, you are a very guarded man. I can see that much. You've obviously thought this through or you wouldn't be here. But now I need to think over everything you've told me. And what I want you to think about is, do you trust me enough? To guide you through hypnosis—to be successful—I'll need that."

She had a point. Cooper sensed Moody Sinclair had secrets of her own. Dark secrets. He had read about therapists being accused of planting false memories in people. He didn't think that was possible, but it was enough to trigger some doubt. It wouldn't hurt to do a little research on the psychologist to uncover why she no longer had her license to practice psychology.

Cooper thanked the doctor for her consideration, said he'd be in touch, and left.

Where to now? he wondered as walked away from the Sinclair home. Take a right for home, or a left to head into the town? He was too anxious to go home, he had to keep walking. He should have scheduled another appointment with Dr. Sinclair, but maybe it was for the best that he hadn't. If his research on her uncovered something illicit, he wouldn't want to go back. He'd find another psychologist somewhere else.

Cooper reached the business district minutes later. He stopped at the newspaper vending machine that carried the daily paper from Rojo Duro. Stories on Riley and on the unidentified man whose body had also found in the desert ran side by side on the front page. Cooper fished a dollar out of his pocket, inserted it in the machine's slot, and pushed the button. The latch released. He opened it and withdrew the newspaper.

When Lieutenant Frio told Cooper the second body was an adult male, he had moved that information to the back of his mind, figuring the two deaths weren't related. But looking at the artist's sketch of the unidentified man staring at him had him wondering. He knew him from somewhere.

When realization hit, Cooper tried unsuccessfully to convince himself he was imagining things. But he never forgot a face. He had to go back some years in his memory bank and there it was. A photo in the Wisconsin newspaper of Riley's biological mother and father. Her father had one arm hooked around his wife's shoulders and the other on her lap. Their newborn daughter had been snatched from the hospital and they wanted her back. They wouldn't rest until she was safely returned to their large family.

Cooper forced himself to read the article. They did not give the cause of man's death, but police were investigating the manner of death as a homicide.

What was Mr. Neuhaus doing in Rubicon Ranch? Minnesota was over a thousand miles away. There was only one reason: he was here because he had learned Riley's location.

Who knew Neuhaus was in Rubicon Ranch? Did he contact the Petersons, threaten to expose them? When they decided they couldn't face going to prison they killed Riley, then her father? And why would the Petersons leave their bodies in the desert?

Cooper felt a deep connection to Riley, a special connection he had not had shared with anyone since the death of his sister. He wanted to help the authorities get to the bottom of her death. Riley's biological father's death was another matter. Cooper figured when the investigators found out who killed Riley, they'd know who killed Neuhaus.

He considered heading to the small café, but felt he had about enough energy left to make it home. He'd been all geared up to go through hypnosis with Dr. Sinclair, but she wouldn't do it. Sinclair. She wouldn't reveal anything about Riley to him, but maybe she would to the police. The more he thought about Moody, the more he knew she was hiding something.

Cooper's legs got heavier with each step home. The burden of two young loved ones' deaths was weighing him down. He'd moved to Rubicon Ranch for safety and escape, but there was no peace in these hills.
Chapter 31: Mark and Jamie Westbrook  
by Nichole R. Bennett

Jamie paced, her flip-flops making a thwack, thwack, thwack as she did so. Her eyes burned with tears threatening to overflow. Although the window was open, there was no breeze. The hot, stale air pressed down upon her shoulders and chest giving her the feeling that the walls were closing in.

Mark had taken the car keys and the cell phones with him when he stormed out. She had looked for the briefcase, but couldn't find it. He probably took that, too. Jamie couldn't be sure; she had locked herself in the bathroom, afraid Mark would give in to his obvious anger.

Once she had been sure Mark was gone, Jamie wanted to make her own escape. That's when she noticed the keys and phones missing. With the briefcase gone, she didn't even have access to her other IDs or extra money. She was left with whatever was in her pockets. Or Mark's.

And that search didn't lead to money.

What she did find was more interesting. A phone number scribbled in his handwriting on the back of a receipt stuffed in a pair of dirty pants. Another number written in a feminine hand in a different pocket. An empty pill bottle prescribed for one of Mark's many aliases.

Under the bed, however, she found a lone piece of paper from the Minnesota part of their con. It wasn't a sheet she had ever seen. And this was her con. She had done all the background research. Mark had been adamant about not wanting to do any work for that score.

From what Jamie could decipher, it had information about the family of the little girl kidnapped so many years ago. Names, credit information, job histories for both biological parents. There was even a reference to a private investigator the family had originally hired, and contact information for a reporter sympathetic to their cause.

When she'd prepared for this job, Jamie found out what she could about the biological parents and even Riley's parents to see if there was any overlap. There was some. The thought had even occurred to her that this might be a legitimate thing. But a reporter? A private investigator? None of that was in her original pitch to Mark. None of that should have been in any of the information they had on file for this con. That type of information wouldn't matter because neither Mark nor Jamie should be contacting anyone but the families. And then only long enough to get the money and run.

Once again the number of mistakes made during this con began to plague her thoughts. Things that had never gone wrong before were not just going wrong, but failing in epic proportions.

Merely arriving at Rubicon Ranch had been a mistake, Jamie knew that now. Mark's running that stop sign wasn't just a mistake. It was pure stupidity. Mark trying to hit her was frightening.

And Mark wasn't usually stupid, or frightening.

At least, he hadn't been.

Full of frustrated energy, Jamie continued to pace. Without the keys to the rental car, she couldn't leave Rubicon Ranch. There was no one here she could even turn to. Maybe she could seduce that big mountain of a cop. No, something in his eyes told Jamie she wouldn't get far with him. That female cop? Jamie considered playing up Mark's attempt at hitting her. Maybe the other woman had a soft spot for domestic violence victims. On second thought, Jamie didn't remember the lieutenant looking like she had a soft spot for much of anyone.

That settled it. No cops.

Jamie briefly considered walking around the neighborhood just to get away from the room's four walls but she didn't want to accidentally run into Mark. Run over? Maybe. Run into? Definitely not.

She kept pacing. Jamie thought better when she moved and right now she needed to think. She needed to leave. Leave Rubicon without arousing the suspicions of cops. Leave Mark without spending the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. In a perfect world, she could do both simultaneously.

The question was how?

No longer content to pace the floor, Jamie had the intense desire to leave the room. Maybe a change of scenery would do her some good. Or a stiff drink. Since there wasn't any booze in the room, however, she'd have to settle for staring at a different set of walls.

Putting the scraps of paper and the mysterious sheet about the Minnesota family in her pocket, Jamie headed for the door. Chances were Mark didn't know she'd found the paper, but until she had a chance to investigate the information, she didn't want to risk him disposing of anything.

Jamie's hand just started to turn the knob when she remembered the pill bottle and went back to pick it up. The bottle might not be worth much as it was—there weren't any refills left and Jamie didn't recognize the drug's name, anyway—but Jamie thought it might make good "insurance" if she couldn't ditch Mark some other way. There were laws about forged prescriptions, right? And that doctor they'd scammed, the one whose name was listed as the prescribing doctor, would probably be beyond mad by this time. An anonymous call to him, another to the authorities, and Jamie may not have to worry about Mark after all. The realization brought a smile to her face.

The closer she got to the dining room, the deeper the breaths she took, the aroma of fresh baked apple pie becoming stronger with each step. Contrasting with the pleasing smell was a mechanical rar-rar-rar, which also grew with each step.

"Well, there you are!" Consuela smiled as Jamie entered the dining room. "I was wondering if you were ever going to leave your room. I trust everything is all right?"

Jamie smiled and nodded. "Everything's wonderful. I just needed a change of scenery."

The proprietor nodded as the corners of her mouth turned up. "I remember what it was like to be a newlywed. All that 'getting to know each other' is fine, but a little time apart is a nice thing, as well."

Not wanting to discuss herself if possible, Jamie deftly moved the conversation to Consuela. "Something smells good. Apple pie?"

"Yep. I've got one of them in the oven and another cooling in the kitchen. And that obnoxious noise in the background is the ice cream maker." As if on cue, the offensive racket stopped and silence filled the void. "Well, that's finally done. What do you say to some fresh apple pie a la mode?"

"Sounds great," Jamie replied, seating herself at one of the tables.

Consuela disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two plates of pie, topped with vanilla ice cream. A spoon balanced on each plate. "Enjoy," she said. She laid one plate in front of Jamie and the other directly in front of herself as she sat.

Jamie took a bite of the still warm pie, the ice cream melting into a fine mist over the top. "This is really good, thanks."

The two ate in comfortable silence until Consuela spoke. "How are you enjoying your stay?"

Considering what had brought Jamie to Rubicon Ranch and the events forcing her to remain, she replied with, "It's been interesting." Not a lie at any rate.

"It's not usually this . . . exciting around here." Consuela didn't look at Jamie as she spoke. "Let's just hope it stops at two."

"At two?" Jamie looked for a clock.

Consuela, her eyes twinkling with humor, looked up and shook her head as a wry smile crossed her lips. "Sorry, that's not funny. I mean with two bodies, though it would be nice if at two o'clock everything would just be back to normal and Rubicon would be a nice quiet bedroom community where tourists like yourself stop occasionally."

The full implication of her words struck Jamie in the gut. "Two bodies? Someone else died?"

"Not just died. Was murdered, from what I hear."

Jamie was stunned, no flabbergasted, but tried to keep her face as impassive as possible. She tried to remember if Mark had left her alone any other time. He had that first night, and obviously now, but she couldn't be sure those were the only times. Maybe he had snuck out while she was sleeping. He had run to the store, hadn't he? Had he been gone for too long that time? Jamie couldn't remember. "That's horrible," she whispered when she found her voice again.

Consuela nodded. "I hear it was a man. Not from around here, though."

Jamie gulped, simultaneously hopeful and afraid that it had been Mark's body. That would solve all her problems. Aloud she asked, "Do they know who he was?"

The innkeeper shrugged, but remained silent.

A shrug wasn't an answer. Could it be Mark? Had his past finally caught up with him? But if it was Mark, wouldn't the sheriff be here to question her?

Jamie eventually came to the realization that the body wasn't her supposed husband, though she couldn't imagine why Consuela would bother telling her about a second murder. It wasn't as if they had gossiped about anything before this. In fact, Jamie couldn't remember exchanging more than a few basic pleasantries with Consuela. Then again, a second body while they were here might be to her advantage after all. Jamie suppressed the smile crossing her lips by taking a bite of the now soggy apple pie.

As she laid the spoon back down on the plate, Jamie feigned a desperate sigh.

Sympathy and understanding seemed to emanate from the older woman. "Anything I can help with?"

Bartenders and innkeepers. Neither can resist the lure of being a poor man's psychiatrist, thought Jamie with a mild shake of her head. But they are almost always sympathetic to a victim. Jamie forced another sigh, this one more pathetic sounding than the first. "I don't think so," she looked coyly at her plate. "I don't think anyone can help me."

Consuela clucked sympathetically. "We've all had rough spots. Lordy, you'd be surprised at the things I've been through. Sometimes just talking can help. Make ya feel better, anyway."

Jamie nodded. "I suppose. I just, well, I don't want you to think badly of me. Or of Mark."

The innkeeper reached across the table and patted Jamie's hand. "Marriage isn't easy, is it? Somewhere those fairy tales forget to mention that it takes more than love to make a life together work. It takes understanding and work." Another pat on the hand. "A lifetime of understanding and work."

Jamie faked a sniffle, bringing a napkin to her face in an effort to hide the smirk she could feel erupting on her lips. Let the old woman think I need her advice. I need to get her talking enough that I can convince her Mark could be the murderer. She might even help me "escape" if I play this con right.

Once she felt more in control of her expressions, Jamie daubed at her eyes as if tears had started to form. "He's changed."

"People learn so much about each other once they're married," Consuela said. "Much more than when just dating. Maybe what you think is change was there all along."

Jamie remained silent, hoping Consuela would take the silence as contemplation.

After a few minutes Consuela asked, "How has he changed?"

"He's just so stressed," Jamie began. "I was hoping this trip of ours would relax him. It hasn't really worked out that way."

"He brought his work with him?"

"Well, yes." Jamie kept her voice quiet, causing Consuela to lean closer to hear. "He said he needed to finish some things. Even though we're supposed to be on vacation."

Consuela nodded. "Many men are workaholics. Heck, many women are, too. I'm sure he thinks he's being a good provider."

Disappointed that the conversation wasn't leading in the direction Jamie wanted it to, she opted to change her tactic. "I'm not sure it's work. He, well, he has left in the middle of the night while we were here." Jamie managed to make her voice crack and added a sniffle for effect. "I even found a phone number."

Another sympathetic pat on the hand accompanied Consuela's question. "You think he's having an affair? Oh, honey. I'm so sorry."

Jamie used the napkin to once again hide a smile, nodding and shaking her shoulders slightly to make it look like she was holding back sobs. "I just don't know what to do," she whined, hoping to garner additional sympathy from the older woman.

Consuela remained silent, seemingly content to merely pat Jamie's hand. Had Jamie been sincere, the act would have been comforting and supportive. Instead the young con woman saw the means to a clean escape with every touch.

When she felt the silence had gone on long enough, Jamie pushed the napkin to her eyes, hoping to redden them. Anything to help the con along. "He didn't used to be like this, you know," she said, removing the napkin from her face and adding frightened tones to her voice. "But then he got hurt."

The innkeeper's eyes went from sympathetic to concerned, but still she remained silent, allowing Jamie the freedom to tell the story on her own.

"He was rock climbing," Jamie babbled, keeping the conspiratorial whine she had cultivated. "He hurt his back. The doctors, they gave him pain medication, of course. I just don't think he's ever stopped taking it."

"He must have been hurt badly."

Jamie shrugged. "Yes, but the doctors say he's as good as new now. He doesn't even limp."

"No," Consuela agreed. "He seems fine. But pain is a strange thing."

"I suppose." This wasn't going the way Jamie wanted either. "The medication, though, it's like I don't even know him anymore. He just isn't Mark."

Jamie tried hard to suppress the smirk at her joke. Of course he wasn't Mark. Jamie had no idea what his real name was, but it wasn't Mark.

Consuela must not have noticed the smirk, since she just continued patting Jamie's hand, making sympathetic clucking noises.

The older woman's reassurance prompted Jamie to continue her story. "It's been a long time since the accident. He was okay at first, but then. . . ."

"It can be hard to see someone you love hurting, can't it?"

"Yes," agreed Jamie. "It was so hard."

"What do the doctors say now? He seems fine, but pain is a personal thing. What did you say happened to him again?"

"Oh, it was a car accident," Jamie quickly replied, making up a story as she went. "A hit and run. They had to cut him out of the vehicle. He was in critical condition for days. They never found the guy who hit him."

"That's awful."

Jamie nodded. "And now, well, now he just takes drugs all the time, popping pain pills to survive the day and then sleeping pills for the night. I don't know what to do. And then . . . then . . . he disappears. Sometimes he just leaves in the middle of the night." She faked another sob, closing her eyes as if to fight back tears. "I'm just at my wits end."

"I know, honey. It will all be okay," Consuela comforted. "Would you like me to get you some information on local resources? Some good drug counselors? Pain doctors? If not here, what about back home?"

"Back home?"

"You're on vacation, right? I'm sure there are some good resources where you're from."

"Oh, no. I mean, yes. I'm sure there are. But he'd never go to a doctor there. Too much pride, you know?"

"Some men are like that."

"But, yeah. Maybe he'd go see someone here. It wouldn't hurt to try, right?"

"Right," the innkeeper agreed. "I'll get you some information and send it up to your room. Would that work?"

"Sure. Just don't let Mark see it, okay?"

"No problem. I should have something for you soon." Consuela picked up the plates and headed toward the kitchen. "Don't you worry about a thing."

"Thank you so much." Jamie stood and turned to leave.

I should be an actress, she thought as she headed back to the room she shared—for now—with Mark.

Deputy Midget entered the dining room when Jamie left.

"Well? Did I do okay?" Consuela asked. "The girl must think I'm incredibly stupid. She can't even get her story straight."

"Consuela, you did great," Midget replied. "We'll turn you into a first-class deputy yet."
Chapter 32: Eloy Franklin

by Deborah J Ledford

Eloy felt somewhat good about himself for the first time since . . . he couldn't even remember. He reached out and ran a finger the length of the saber on the kitchen table. The feel of cold steel under the pad of his fingers calmed his nerves. He hadn't honed the blade in decades, but still he knew the edge would be sharp enough to slice a ripe tomato without tearing the skin.

The thought of giving Dylan his prized possession tempted him for a moment, then he figured a weapon in a child's hands was never a good thing—unless during wartime. Then every armament at hand was preferable, whether it be a blade, rifle, pistol, rock. He had seen enough carnage during battle to know that even a sharp stick could bring a fatal wound if manipulated with enough force and sheer will to survive.

He wondered what had been in the pocket of Dylan's dungarees and hoped it wasn't a knife. The outline looked to be the size of a fold-out blade, three or four inches in length and hoped the boy hadn't already gone down the path to feeling the need to arm himself.

"Maybe a medal instead," Eloy said to no one.

He crossed the house and went upstairs to pull down the steps to the attic. Once inside the musty space he knelt in front of his footlocker. His hands shook as he lifted the cracked lid. He would need to touch the offensive photographs in order to find the velvet-covered case that contained his medals and ribbons that once adorned his uniform. Wishing he had thought to take the plastic dishwashing gloves from under the kitchen sink, dug through the contents until he felt what he searched for. He took out a thick stack of photos bound with a rubber band and set them aside as bile rose to his throat. He spotted the rectangular medallion case under a pea coat and tucked it in his waistband at the middle of his back.

He walked to the attic's opening. The binding burst and photos fluttered to the floor below. His knees creaked every bit as loud as the rickety staircase as he descended the steps, then nearly slipped on the slick photos.

He knelt down to scoop up gut-wrenching images, trying not to gaze at the terrified children doing unspeakable things to the criminals who forced them to do so. Feeling a decade older, tears streamed down his face as he shuffled through the house to the kitchen. He reached for the saber on the table and exited the back door to the porch. He straightened the pictures into a tight stack and placed them face-down on the patio table.

When he first moved to Rubicon Ranch he had been thrilled by the built-in grill and the matching fire pit circled by a stone bench. At the time he figured he would spend every chilly night out there, enjoying the night air and stars as he watched the flames. But too busy keeping watch over the neighborhood from his sentry on the front porch or windows that faced the street, he had yet to light a single log, grill a single steak. He set the saber down on the stone edge and admired the fine construction before he turned to the grill.

He opened the cabinet door and took out an unopened bottle of charcoal starter and a box of long matches. Then he returned to the table, swept up the pile of photos and went to the fire pit. He placed half of the stack into the pit, doused them with fluid and didn't hesitate as he tossed a lit match to the pyre.

Movement caught Eloy's attention. He squinted to see beyond the wavering heat to see the silhouette of someone sit down at the table near the edge of the patio. He glanced down at the pit and hoped the boy couldn't see the wavering, shrinking images bubble and melting in the flames.

He let out a relieved sigh that the boy had returned. "I've been thinking about the saber, Dylan. You're not ready for that yet." He reached behind him and removed the velvet case from his waistband. "But you have earned a medal. Come on over here and pick one out."

Eloy heard metal clink against metal, then a flick, followed by the crinkle of burning tobacco. Cigarette smoke melded with the stench of burning chemicals and photographic paper.

"Dammit, put that out." He slammed the case on the stone bench behind him. "A soldier resists temptation."

"Old man, you'd better not be doin' what I think you're doin'." The voice said. The voice Eloy hoped to never hear again.

The Boy.

His Boy.

The remaining photos trembled in Eloy's hands.

He cursed himself for having left the lock on the side gate unclasped ever since Dylan's first visit in case the kid needed an immediate safe haven from his father.

Eloy did his best to still his voice as he said, "Why are you here?" He sounded one hundred years old.

"Put them down," The Boy said.

Eloy dropped the pictures to the flames.

The Boy stood so fast the chair screeched against the cement pad and clattered to the ground.

After what seemed hours but could only have been moments The Boy said, "Who is Dylan?" The words: playful, chilling, dangerous. Spoken in a tone of voice that stilled Eloy's heart.

Eloy slid his gaze to the saber, anticipating the feel of the blade in his hand.
Chapter 33: Seth Bryan  
by Lazarus Barnhill

Standing with his arms folded across his chest, the sheriff scanned the three large whiteboards pushed together across the longest wall of the investigation room. He moved his head slowly from left to right and then right to left as he took in the information.

He sighed. "I have no idea how many of these are 'persons of interest' but they are beyond a doubt the most interesting people. . . . How many of these folks are Golden State natives?"

"You mean born in California?" Midget asked from behind his left shoulder.

"Not many," Frio replied. "The Petersons are from Minnesota. The Westbrooks are from parts unknown—but they've been everywhere. Dr. Dahlsing is also from the Upper Midwest. Wisconsin, I think. Melanie Gray is a real newcomer to California. Cort and Dylan McKenzie may be from around the state somewhere, but they haven't been here all that long. Of course Moody Sinclair has spent a lot of time around, but I think her dad brought her to California when she was a kid."

"Eloy Franklin is retired military," Bryan said. "So wherever he started, he had to decide to come to Rubicon Ranch. Not many of these 'unique' people started out here, did they? . . . I wonder sometimes if California makes people weird or weird people just feel comfortable coming here."

"Well I'm not from here." Midget's tone was thoughtful. "I'm a little different sort of guy, but I don't think I'm 'specially weird. There are some really strange folks around here though."

"Midget, for a fellow who stands out in any crowd, you are pathetically normal. Although, over time, you might weird-out like everybody who comes here."

Frio narrowed her eyes. "Esta tierra no era extraño delante de tu pueblo que nos robaron."

Midget glanced at Bryan. "What did she say?"

"She said California wasn't weird before the anglos stole it from her people. Okay, let's look at all these individuals, shall we? And before we give in to our prejudices, let's think about the whole story and where everybody fits in. Give me the tour, Rosaria."

"Okay. Thirty-six hours ago Melanie Gray, author and widow, is walking along in the desert just outside of the subdivision taking photos for her next book. She discovers the body of a child, Riley Peterson, inside a hollowed out TV console. She takes a bunch of photos on two different digital cards and gives us one of them. The child's body goes with Sweetum the coroner and we begin our investigation.

"We notify her parents, Jeff and Kourtney Peterson, of her death. This seems to surprise her father. Her mother shows almost no emotion. We canvas the neighborhood and find out that little Riley was a social butterfly. She knows pretty much everybody. She is in-and-out of everybody's house and into everybody's business. She has a personal relationship with Mary Sinclair—aka 'Moody.' She has a relationship with the token teenager of the subdivision, Dylan McKenzie. She knows Cooper Dahlsing. The only person she seems to keep her distance from is Eloy Franklin. Therefore, during the course of our investigation we find that, contrary to a typical elimination of individuals from our interest list, the number of potential suspects just continues to grow.

"Then the investigation takes an unexpected turn. Another dead body is found in the desert, not near the television set, but instead near a rental car half a mile away. The corpse had been a Minnesota resident, one Mr. Herman Neuhaus. This man and his wife had an infant daughter, Anne Neuhaus, stolen from the hospital shortly after her birth. The child would have been born at almost exactly the same time Riley Peterson would have been born. Apparently some social website alerted the Neuhaus family that a child resembling their missing child was going to school here in Rubicon. Herman makes the decision to come here, perhaps to abduct Riley. Perhaps his thought was that, if the Petersons had kidnapped her at birth, they would not risk getting themselves in trouble with the law if her true parents stole her back.

"Somehow Herman Neuhaus also ends up dead and partially buried. In his car and on his person are evidences of chloroform. Preliminary observations of the coroner indicate that Neuhaus was strangled. Riley, according to the autopsy, died of asphyxiation."

Bryan nodded. "Okay, of the good people we've listed here, who can we at least rule out in Riley's death?"

"Nobody."

He looked at her. "Nobody? Really?"

"Sorry, boss. Nobody." Frio moved to the middle white board and put her hand by the trio of photos in the center. "Any time you have a homicide, you always have to rule out the family first. This family is sketchy as hell, not to mention they probably stole this kid out of the hospital nursery."

"So they thought if Riley was dead they would be less likely to answer questions about their past?" Bryan asked. "That seems like kind of a stretch to me. Anyway, if they were going to get rid of her, why didn't they do a better job of concealing her body?"

"I'm just saying, you can't rule them out. And if you're talking about natural suspects, there is the neighborhood pervert, Mr. Franklin. We know he has a sexual inclination toward small children, which puts him at the top of the list just under the parents."

"Yeah, supposedly. . . . What doesn't make sense to me is why a pedophile would join the military. By definition if you're in the armed services you won't be around children. Plus, apart from the kiddy porn, there is no evidence that he ever acted out."

"Pervert, boss." Frio tapped Eloy's photo. "Top of the list." She moved over to the photo of a graceful, insecure looking woman. "Just under him on the list is the psychologist, Moody Sinclair. She already killed one child and did time for it. That child, like Riley, died of asphyxiation. So maybe she was trying the same sort of 'therapeutic' technique and thought she could get it right this time. So she's on the list."

Midget spoke up. "What about her daddy?"

"What about him?" Bryan asked. "He's a harmless old coot who suffers constant dementia. That's why his daughter has to live with him."

"Listen, Sheriff," the deputy persisted, "right after the girl died, Morris Sinclair was standing out in his yard making rhymes about her being murdered. How many Alzheimer's folks can do that? Maybe he's not so crazy as he is sly."

". . . Okay, so Morris Sinclair can be on the list. I always thought his penchant for bizarre, grotesque violence was a Hollywood kind of thing. Maybe he's trying to live it out." He shifted from one foot to the other, deciding. "I'm going to tell you all now that I don't think either of them is involved in this. But I also don't want to be accused of playing favorites. So I want officers in the Morris house. I'll invent some reason for Moody to bring her dad down here. You call Judge Offenbie. I want a search warrant for their house. If Morris is faking the dementia and he thrill-killed the girl, then he kept a souvenir. They always do. If Moody messed up and accidentally killed her, then there will be a porous blanket of some kind that she wrapped her in. Who's next?"

"Well, we have another household of suspects—Dylan and Cort McKenzie. Dylan is our resident B. and E. rebel. Elise Boyd, who lives across the street from the McKenzie's, claims Dylan broke into her house and stole a bracelet, but she refuses to press charges. Doesn't want to cause any trouble. She says she thinks he's the one who's been sneaking in and out of houses and taking little things, but when the deputy asked her to sign a statement, she backed off. Says she wasn't sure. Says she feels sorry for him. His dad beats the hell out of him and in return Dylan acts out. I'm pretty sure he has the availability of some illegal drugs. So Riley sees him breaking in or coming out of a house and confronts him. Dylan chokes her or even dopes her. That agrees with her preliminary toxreport."

"So you like the kid for her death?"

"Actually no. Dylan is a messed up kid—a little worse than I first thought—and hoped. I don't think he's a killer. I tell you who, of all these people, I like for the girl's murder. It's Dylan's dad. Cort is a chauvinistic thug with anger management issues big time. I have no trouble seeing him smothering the girl just trying to shut her up. And stuffing her in the TV instead of burying her has Cort written all over it."

"So they both stay on the list. We sure aren't ruling many folks out. Who else?"

"The Westbrooks. Consuela gave us a glass dish and a fork with the young woman's prints on them. We got a match. She and a partner have been indulging in a crime spree. Don't know their real names, but the descriptions fit the Westbrooks. It's no accident they showed up about the same time as Neuhaus. They were in this to make a buck. Apparently they figured out that the Petersons stole Riley and they inserted themselves because both families were easy targets."

Midget chuckled. "I bet they were blackmailing the Petersons and taking money from Neuhaus to recover his little girl."

Frio nodded. "Good bet. And something went wrong. People started ending up dead."

Bryan tilted his head. "Why didn't they leave?"

"What?" Frio asked.

"Once the girl and her biological father were dead, why would two shiftless con artists stick around? That would be totally out of character. They would only stay if they didn't know the girl or her father were dead."

"So—" Frio turned to him. "—you're saying the only people we can rule out of this homicide are the two career criminals?"

"Not at all. There is too much going on we don't know about. Maybe there was some payoff they were waiting for and they couldn't leave right away. It will be interesting, I think, to hang onto them and sweat them. I bet Jamie turns on Mark if it keeps her out of serious jail time. So is that it?"

"Nope," Frio said. "Two more. First is your current favorite woman, Melanie Gray."

Bryan nodded. "Heartbreaker. And she's on the list because?"

"She found the body. She suggested immediately that it was a murder and not an accident. She withheld evidence. She had an uncanny perception of the crime scene. And also, her husband died recently under circumstances that we understand now to be suspicious."

"What could that possibly have to do with Riley?"

"Riley was into everybody's business, Sheriff," Midget responded. "Suppose she saw something she wasn't supposed to? Maybe Ms. Gray had to clean up her first homicide by getting rid of the child."

He frowned. "Back in the good-old-days we never suspected attractive women. Still, we do have to keep her on the list. Who else?"

"The kooky professor, Cooper Dahlsing," Frio said. "We know he knew and spent time with Riley. We know he has some emotional issues because he was secretly going to Moody Sinclair for counseling. We don't know what those issues are and that makes it all the more interesting. We also don't know why he relocated here long before he was retirement age and gave up his car. We do know he walks in his sleep."

"How do we know that?"

"I tracked down a colleague of his in Wisconsin," Midget said. "The professor does strange things in his sleep and he doesn't remember doing them. The colleague once saw him in a bar, talking and drinking with a bunch of guys, and when he mentioned it the next day, Dahlsing looked totally blank."

"Interesting. With all this business of potential blackmail and kidnapping coming to light, it's hard for me to imagine our sleepwalker figuring into this. But we really can't take him off the list either." He grimaced. "So we have no real solid direction for one homicide. And to make matters worse we have a second homicide. Surely the pool of suspects is smaller for Neuhaus."

Frio nodded. "Just the way it happened rules out a bunch of people. According to Sweetum's initial report, somebody choked Herman down. He wasn't Arnold Schwarzenegger, but it takes a lot of strength to strangle a grown man."

"Since he was Riley's birth father, I think we pretty much have to assume their deaths are connected. So the suspect pool should pretty much line up—otherwise his murder is the all-time most ironic death in the history of homicide. Who on our list could have done this?"

"A fit, younger male," Midget said. "That rules out the women and the Alzheimer's guy and the teenager."

"So that leaves—" He studied the board. "—Dr. Dahlsing the sleepwalker, Mark Westbrook our con man, anger management McKenzie, and Jeff Peterson."

"What about Eloy Franklin?" Frio asked. "Trained in hand-to-hand combat? He might have pulled it off."

Bryan sighed. "So five guys. Are we supposed to assume that the person who killed Riley also killed Neuhaus? Please, somebody give me a scenario involving these people that makes sense and explains how this double homicide happened."

Midget put his hands in his pockets. "Well, I have an idea."

They looked at him.

"Mr. Neuhaus comes down from Minnesota to steal back his daughter. He comes into the house at night with chloroform to knock her out so she won't scream and wake the Petersons. Somehow they catch him and Jeff puts him in the sleeper hold for a little too long. Corpse number one. Jeff takes Mr. Neuhaus out to the rental car and drives out into the desert. He conceals the body as best he can. Meanwhile Riley has seen all this and she's terribly upset—not to mention very talkative. So Kourtney smothers her and hurries out to the desert. Corpse number two. She stuffs the child in the TV to get home before Jeff. So the next morning, before she has a chance to explain to him what she's done, we show up. That explains why he was so upset and she wasn't."

Bryan considered his words. He stretched slowly. "I hate to admit it, deputy, but that's the only scenario that makes any sense to me. Therefore we know it must be wrong. You're right about you not being California weird. There is something we're missing here."

There was a hint of frustration in Frio's voice. "How do you suggest we rule out the people who aren't responsible and focus on the real suspects?"

Bryan nodded slowly, weighing their options. "Here's what we're going to do. In addition to the search warrant for Moody's house, I want one for the Peterson's. I want to see if there were any signs of a struggle. If two men fought to the death, something got broken and they won't have been able to conceal everything. Then we're going to have a party. What do they call it—a memorial. We're going to bring all these people out to the desert. We're going to take them all out to where we found Riley's body and confront them all."

Frio shook her head. "You really think the guilty ones are going to crack and confess?"

"I don't think that's necessary. I think in all this talk about suspects, there is someone we've underestimated. I bet I'll get the answer I need from Melanie Gray."
Chapter 34: Melanie Gray

by Pat Bertram

Melanie had taken the long way home from the restaurant, winding for hours through Rubicon Ranch, stopping to shoot exotic blooms in landscaped gardens and dainty wildflowers in unkempt yards. By the time she reached Tehachapi Road, she was exhausted. She half expected the sheriff to come after her, but apparently he'd accepted her brush-off as final—if you can call a full-fledged tantrum a brush-off.

Why did he keep getting under her skin? He wasn't her type. Not that she had a type. Alexander was the only man she'd ever loved, and she'd fallen for him so hard she could still feel the bruises twenty-three years later.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she remembered her husband when they first met. His hazel eyes had blazed with golden lights as he smiled at her, and young fool that she'd been, she'd been dazzled. They had a great life, or so it had seemed. She'd felt safe with him as they traveled the world over. And free. What need had she of a house, a car, kids when she had him?

Well, now she had nothing but debts. And doubts. Had Alexander ever loved her as she loved him?

"Are you okay?"

The voice startled Melanie. She scrubbed away her tears and looked around. An old woman with tan, leathery-looking skin and dark eyes shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat was standing by an open mailbox, envelopes clutched in her hand.

"Are you okay?" the woman repeated as she closed the mailbox.

Melanie curved her lips in what she hoped was a friendly smile. "I'm fine. Just hot."

The woman brushed a forearm across her brow. "Too hot for this time of day, that's for sure. Tomorrow is supposed to be even hotter if you can imagine that. Well, at least all this sweat is good for the complexion. Keeps one looking young."

Laughing, the woman minced up the sidewalk to her front door.

Melanie let the smile drop from her face, glad she didn't have to pretend to be amused at the woman's feeble joke. Nothing amused her any more. Not the irony of Alexander dying while texting. He hated texting. Said it was creating a new language and a cult of idiocy. Not the sheriff and his unsubtle attempts at flirtation. Not finding a little girl stuffed in a television set. Had that been someone's idea of a joke? A fitting resting place for a child who watched too much television?

She hastened up Tehachapi, but her footsteps slowed as she reached Delano Road. This neighborhood had never been welcoming, but now it felt threatening, as if unseen storm clouds were gathering above the custom-made houses.

Maybe, finally, the sheriff was going to investigate the murderer instead of investigating her. Maybe, finally, he was going to turn his predatory gaze in the right direction.

She almost felt sorry for the villain.
Chapter 35: Jeff and Kourtney Peterson

by J B Kohl and Eric Beetner

For a moment Jeff couldn't see her body. The wind, a light breeze blowing through the flat desert landscape, rippled the surface of the water turning Kourtney's outline on the bottom of the pool into nothing more than sparks of sunlight on tiny peaks of chlorinated water. It looked like a picture in the Rubicon Ranch brochure.

Jeff stood on the pool's edge, a tiny smear of blood where Kourtney's head had slapped the stones. He felt numb, as if his own lungs were filling with liquid and passing him slowly into unconsciousness.

The water smoothed and he could see her again. Her arms and legs hung in limbo as if she were caught in a spider's web. He searched his soul for regret, for guilt at pushing her in, but he found none.

Jeff's emotions were scorched clean like the wildfires that cleansed the scrub brush every decade. He felt the sun on his neck and over the next half hour could feel the sunburn burrow down into his flesh. He didn't turn away from the water or step into the shade. He concentrated on the heat of his skin, letting the pain make an attempt to burn a hole through to the rest of him so the dull feeling of nothingness would go away.

The muscles in his legs began to burn from standing still. His eyes were sore from the bright reflections coming off the water. Still he did not turn away.

After time his wife's body floated to the top.

Face down she sagged on the surface, turned away from him as if she finally felt shame for what she had done. What she made him do. She floated in slow circles, always threatening to dip under again. Her long hair fanned out around her in tangles. Her feet hung down as if they missed the cool bottom of the pool, or maybe they were reaching for one of the flip-flops that had sunk and landed next to the drain.

A cloud passed in front of the sun and a blanket of shade covered Kourtney's body. Jeff turned and walked away, his legs stiff and prickling with tiny stabs of pain.

Inside, Jeff ignored the phone. He knew he should call Sheriff Bryan but something stopped him. There would be time for that later.

He went upstairs and stood inside Riley's room. He'd been avoiding the bright lime green and pink bedroom since her death. He discovered that Kourtney had started packing her things away so now the room had none of Riley's personality, only an oddly bright paint scheme and a bare mattress on a small-scale bed. It looked more like a crime scene than ever. His daughter's belongings packed away like evidence.

Jeff began opening boxes and sifting through Riley's things. He ran fingers over books he'd read to her, ceramics he'd helped her paint, the wind-up ballerina jewelry box she kept her "treasures" in.

Jeff began sorting. He put anything personal, anything holding a hint at who Riley was as a person, into separate boxes. Framed photos of her first time on a horse, the picture she drew in first grade of her smiling family, the ribbon she won for her school field day.

He packed things away and then labeled the box with the name of Riley's birth family in Minnesota. A token gesture to understanding the child he took from them. He knew it would hurt them. He tried to imagine how strange the sensation of opening a glimpse into what could have been, a message from a ghost.

Jeff decided against writing a note. There was no explanation. No justification. He expected no forgiveness. He only knew he didn't deserve to keep the remnants of her life. He had failed his daughter, his wife, himself.

"I knew we'd pay. Someday. Didn't you know?"

Jeff sat in a reclining chair by the pool. Kourtney's body floated lazy circles around the water like a forgotten toy left to be carried by the wind.

"You kept saying it would be all right. You said we deserved this child. We deserved to be happy." Jeff picked at the label on his bottle of Vicodin, tossing the tiny scraps of paper into the water. "Why did our happiness have to come at the expense of someone else's? And why did she have to pay for our mistakes?"

Kourtney's body bumped against the edge of the pool, the tiny flecks of paper caught in her hair.

"We let her suffer our punishment. It should have been us in the desert. Both of us. Dead and abandoned. Not her. Never her. We deserved it. Not her."

Jeff took another pill. His blood began to slow, his brain paused and began struggling to catch up.

All the things he meant to say to his wife over the years, now he had the chance. He told her how he felt about her, how she'd changed. How the light had gone out of her the day they left the hospital. She thought taking Riley would end her suffering, but it only brought grief on top of grief. They gave the girl a good life, but not the one she deserved. Not the one she was born into.

That life was destined to be shit, Kourtney would always say.

"But it wasn't up to us to decide for her," Jeff said to the water, his voice starting to slur.

Jeff reached for another pill, but found the bottle empty. Had he taken that many already? His muscles were becoming unresponsive. When he tried to set the plastic bottle back on the glass-topped table beside him, his heavy hands knocked over the glass of lemonade. Ice cubes fell to the stone pool deck and broke into pieces, just as Kourtney's head had done. Jeff smiled.

He needed to tell more. Voicing secrets to her deaf ears wasn't enough. In his last moments, he needed to tell the truth.

Jeff stood and headed inside. His body leaned, his feet refused to lift any higher than a drunken shuffle across the pool deck. Stand up, get the blood flowing, he thought. It should gain him an extra few minutes of lucidity.

What it did was move the drugs faster through his system.

At the back sliding glass door he reached out a hand to steady himself. He missed the door frame and hit hard against the solid pane of glass. His arm folded against the door, curling in half and hitting hard with his elbow, shattering the glass. Without the support of the door to stop him, Jeff pitched forward and fell into the house onto a bed of broken glass. He rolled, moaning as he did while hundreds of tiny cuts opened on his skin. The sound came to his ears wrapped in cotton.

He got two hands beneath himself and pushed up, palms crushing the glass underneath and slicing his soft, computer technician hands. His knees remained protected by the thick denim of his jeans. The Vicodin kept the pain a distant whisper. Jeff pushed himself to standing and he continued his staggering move to the front door, now leaving a trail of blood to mark his path.

He lifted his car keys off the row of hooks by the door, noticing the thick coating of blood on his palm as if for the first time. Shouldn't this hurt more? he wondered.

Get to the sheriff. Tell it all. Jeff wanted it said in his own words. Now that Kourtney wasn't around to twist the truth to fit her sad justifications, he could tell the real story. He knew it would come out eventually.

He pressed the button on the key fob and the car doors unlocked. A minivan rolled by in the street. No one noticed him, his drunken stumbling out of the house, the blood spotting through his clothes. That's Rubicon Ranch for you. GOOD NEIGHBORS, says the sign on the south entrance. Good neighbors who keep to themselves. Who ignore you. Who let kidnappers live among them for years, never asking questions. Jeff always wondered what other secrets lay behind the unlocked doors and jewel green lawns of Rubicon Ranch. Maybe this scandal would bring more out into the open. Expose this place for what it was.

His hand slid off the door handle twice before he could grip it tight enough in the slick of blood. He fell into the seat, bumping his head on the door frame as he sat. The world outside dimmed to gray. He wasn't sure if his eyes were fully open or not. He lifted the keys to the ignition, but they slid from between his bloodstained fingers and hit the floor mat.

Jeff leaned back in the seat, too tired to move any more. He started reciting his confession to himself. He saw time running out, the coming blackness. The last thought in his head was a final apology to Riley. Then only the steady wind over the desert. The slow dip of the sun over the hills. The coming night.
Chapter 36: Dylan McKenzie  
by Nancy A. Niles

Dylan stood along the shoulder of the busy highway with his thumb outstretched and a hopeful expression on his face. A semi-truck screeched to a halt and Dylan pulled open the passenger door and jumped in. After fastening the seat belt, he rubbed his hand and wondered for about the twentieth time if he'd broken it when he'd punched his dad. It hurt, but it also felt good—real good.

"Where ya goin', boy?" the truck driver asked as he maneuvered the semi back onto the highway. He turned his face to Dylan when he didn't get an answer.

"I'm not a boy," Dylan said in a low menacing voice and took great satisfaction when the grin on the trucker's face disappeared and he quickly turned his face back toward the road.

"No, I guess you aren't," the trucker conceded. "But you are young. How old are ya, fifteen, sixteen?"

Dylan sized up the man. He had a fat gut, and a cigarette stuck in his mouth. From the yellow teeth Dylan figured he smoked a lot and would probably get out of breath fairly easy. One swift kick in that gut and he'd definitely have an advantage.

My God, what was he thinking? His own thoughts were scaring the beejesus out of him. When had he become so violent? Had he always harbored this evil side? Since he'd beaten up his dad he'd been grinning like a Cheshire cat that had eaten a marijuana laced brownie. In fact, his jaws were even beginning to ache. Violence just felt good. Kicking the heck out of his bully dad had been a good thing and if this smart aleck trucker gave him any problem well, he did have a nice knife tucked away in easy reach that he'd been able to snag before leaving his house.

And not only could he protect himself but he still had the gold bracelet and his pills. If push came to shove he could sell the drugs, too. And maybe he could even get over on this trucker and steal whatever cash the man had. Though by the looks of him he probably wouldn't get much.

"You deaf, kid?" the trucker asked.

"I told you, I ain't no kid. Why don't you mind your own business?"

"Tough little bugger, huh?" the trucker laughed and slapped the steering wheel. "Well, since I'm the one giving you a ride I guess you'd better tell me where you're headed. It'd be a shame for you to be going in the wrong direction."

Where was he heading? That was one good question and Dylan did not have an answer. "Don't worry about me. I'll just ride along for a while."

"Sure thing, boss," the trucker shook his head and spat out the open window. "Runnin' away from home, are ya? Don't get all uptight. I'm sure not gonna turn you in. I've been runnin' away from home myself for the past thirty years." He guffawed loudly and slapped the steering wheel again. "Just relax, I'm real good at mindin' my own bizness."

Dylan closed his eyes and thought about Lieutenant Frio. When he'd told her his story she hadn't seemed too confident that they could actually arrest his dad. "That fingerprint could have gotten on your shoe at any time," she'd said and held up her hand to silence his protests. "Dylan, I believe you, but we need more substantial proof. You've got bruises and you will need to tell the CPS people about the abuse. Your dad will most likely be arrested then. And you will have to go into foster care."

Screw that noise. No one was going to put him in foster care. And what would keep his old man from coming after him at his earliest chance? His mom had been right. The police talk a good game, but justice is something you have to take care of for yourself. No cop could dish out what his dad deserved and no cop could protect him either. Dylan was now on his own, and he knew it.

All was not lost, though. Eloy had taught him a thing or two. Dylan had seen how patient Eloy was as he sat night after night on his dark porch, waiting. He looked completely harmless and somewhat senile, but Dylan knew the deadly saber was always at hand andEloy was as sharp and alert as any of the predator beasts that lived in the surrounding desert. Someday whoever Eloy was waiting for would step into Eloy's trap and justice would be served coldly, cruelly and efficiently.

Dylan had time. He had all the time in the world to plan, stalk and execute anyone he chose. He jumped as Riley's image flashed across his mind. He'd find her killer and serve up justice for her. That is, if he wasn't the killer himself.

And if he had killed Riley, Dylan knew that somehow he had been driven to it. It had not been his fault. His father had made him go insane, or the drug dealer had sold him something that had unleashed demons that he couldn't control. He would not be to blame. For he was a victim, too, wasn't he?

He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the fast moving truck soothe him. He felt good. He had no regrets. In fact, there was no one he really wanted to see. Not even his mother. It felt as though all those useless emotions had flown and he had become an empty vessel. He felt reborn, he had become a heartless warrior starting on his path of righteousness and vengeance.

Bob Dylan's song "Beyond Here Lies Nothin'" came to his mind.
Chapter 37: Cooper Dahlsing  
by Christine Husom

Cooper let himself in his front door and was ready to sink to the floor right there in the entry. He had high hopes when he went to see Dr. Sinclair. He believed she would hypnotize him and he'd walk away relieved he had not hurt Riley. And in his most optimistic moment, he hoped he had seen something to help the police find out who was guilty of that heinous crime.

The other thing, the desire that was at the core of his being, was to find out what happened the day his sister died. The only thing he was certain of was that he dropped her off at her school. Did she in fact make it into the building? Did he wait until she was safely inside, or did he drive away as soon as she was out of the car? That's what he wanted most to know.

The pressure in Cooper's head was building. He knew what the inside of a volcano would feel like, if a volcano could feel. He made his way to the bathroom, found a washcloth in a vanity drawer, turned on the cold water tap, and wetted the cloth. He wrung it out then went to the living room where he stretched out on the couch, folded the washcloth in half, and laid it over his eyes.

Riley, Riley, Riley. Who would hurt you?

It was all the more complicated because the man who had to have been her biological father also turned up dead in the desert. Maybe he killed Riley and then himself. But why? And Rubicon Ranch certainly had any number of suspects. What did Cooper really know about any of them?

Dr. Sinclair's father was famous for his books of horror. And what about Jeff and Kourtney Peterson? Were they the ones who abducted Riley as an infant, or did they adopt her from one of those questionable agencies after the fact? Eloy Franklin was downright strange, lurking behind closed curtains or on his porch, always watching. And it seemed Dylan's father was an unsavory character with a propensity for violence. That reminded Cooper—he needed to follow up with Lieutenant Frio about Dylan's personal safety.

There was no denying that, statistically-speaking, abuse tended to be passed down from one generation to the next. Since Dylan was likely being physically abused, he may have abused his friend, Riley. Maybe not on purpose. Riley could have done something to annoy him and he may have "lost it" like his father did.

Is that what happened to him when his own sister Cissy annoyed him one last time? He hurt her, then blanked it out like he had so many times in his life? He couldn't in his heart of hearts believe that, but trying to remember anything from the time he stopped at her school to the time he pulled into the parking lot at his own school had been part of his daily life forever.

Cooper's headache eased some. He got up and went to his computer. A quick search on Dr. Mary "Moody" Sinclair was in order, and what he learned shocked him. She had been held liable in the death of one of her young patients. The little boy died in her care. Why would Riley's parents take her to see Sinclair? Maybe they didn't know about the psychologist's past. Had Sinclair tried some controversial treatment on Riley that went bad?

One thing was certain—he would not ask her to hypnotize him again. He'd have to trust the police to follow the evidence to get to the bottom of it all.
Chapter 38: Mary "Moody" Sinclair

by JJ Dare

The elephant in the room left when Cooper went out the front door. Moody was relieved when he agreed not to be hypnotized but another part of her was disappointed. Her professional curiosity wanted to get to the bottom of Cooper's psyche and find out what made him tick out of sequence.

He was as likely a suspect as anyone else in Riley's death. In a macabre way familiar to the Sinclair clan, Moody had hoped the guilty party would have been her father. His obsession with death and the evilness of man made him a very likely suspect. It didn't hurt that if Morris was the killer, attention would be taken off of Moody and her dark past.

With a sigh, Moody shook her head. She just didn't see it from Morris. He was a ten-foot pole type of person. He instigated others, but kept his own dirty hands a safe distance away.

The aborted session with Cooper disturbed Moody. Something was off with him more than the others in their sequestered neighborhood. Her initial relief was turning into skin-crawling anxiety. There was something behind the layers of masks Cooper voluntarily and involuntarily wore.

The ringing phone interrupted her thoughts.

"Miss Sinclair, this is Doctor Peabody. Your father is asking for you."

Damn. The old minister of evil hadn't died. As she readied herself to go to the hospital, she recalled a conversation she'd overheard many years ago.

"Kids are the price you pay for sex. But, on the bright side, children destroy. What better monsters are these? Little demons hiding behind nature's mask of innocence. Old times had it right, old boy. Leave 'em on the side of the road or throw the buggers down a cliff if you had too many. Too bad you can't do that now without leaving a trail for the law to follow."

Morris had been talking to one of his cronies as a teenaged Moody had eavesdropped. That conversation rang in her ears as she headed to the hospital to see the man she called "Dad."

On the ride over, Moody thought about Riley. Had she been the product of love or lust? The symbolism of the television was key in the little girl's murder, but it seemed no one had been able to make a connection.

When Moody arrived at Morris's hospital room, he was sitting up and alert. His black eyes snapped toward Moody as she sat in the chair beside his bed.

"I'm ready to go," he said with a slight slur to his voice. So, the stroke had left a mark on him. Moody couldn't stop an involuntary smile, which Morris seemed to mistake for delight that he was coming home.

"If you had any plans on leaving," he said, "you can't. I need you to stay. Doctor said I shouldn't exert myself for awhile or get over-excited. You'll have to take care of my business for me."

Moody's smile slipped a little. Nursemaid to a man she had little use for had not been in her plans to regain her own life.

"Okay, Dad. If the doctor says it's all right for you to be released—"

"Why do you think he called you, you idiot?" Morris interrupted. "Get my damn stuff together and get me home."

Moody's blood shot to her face as she gathered her father's belongings. Signing the release papers, she caught glances between the nurses that said it all. For one of the few times in her life, other people felt sorry for her.

As Moody and Morris made their way through the late evening traffic, Moody noticed the presence of police cars on Delano Road. She turned into their driveway, and three police cars pulled in behind her.

An unfamiliar officer climbed out of a Sheriff's Department cruiser. Before Moody could step out of her own car, the officer motioned for her to roll her window down. Moody saw his hand unsnap the holster and rest lightly on the butt of his gun.

"Miss Sinclair, we need you to step out of the vehicle. Keep your hands where I can see them."

Moody's heart raced and the bile in her stomach rose as she did the officer's bidding.

"Sir, remain where you are and keep your hands up," another officer cautioned Morris. The dark expression on her father's face was directed not at the officers, but at his own daughter.

Two officers escorted Moody inside the house where she gave them permission to search the premises. She smiled as she heard the officers discussing what they were finding. The disgust in their voices gave her a sense of peace.

No one stopped Moody as she drifted into the kitchen. Their attention was focused on her father's morbid treasures. She turned on the radio to shut out the background noise of the search and calmly brewed a cup of tea.
Chapter 39: Mark and Jamie Westbrook  
by Nichole R. Bennett

Jamie was ready to go. Well, she hadn't packed, but that wouldn't take long. Mark had taught her to travel light. She needed to get the heck outta Dodge. Or maybe get to Dodge. Wasn't there a Dodge City in Kansas? Who would look for her there? There couldn't be more than fifty thousand people there. Probably less. And Kansas? Small town cons were hard to pull off. Communities were too close-knit. She'd have to lay low for awhile. Play it straight. Maybe get a job at Mickey D's. They had a Mickey D's there, right? She didn't think managers of fast food restaurants would run her fingerprints or do any kind of background check. Yep, fast food it was.

Whatever. Mark would never find her there. He would never even think to look somewhere like Dodge City, Kansas. It was a perfect plan.

That is if anyone bothered to look for her. Didn't she tell Consuela something about Mark and drugs? Yeah, that was probably the line she gave the innkeeper. Jamie scratched her head as she tried to remember exactly what she'd told the older woman. Abuse. Yes, Jamie was pretty sure she'd hinted at abuse. Drugs for sure. Jamie remembered being very clear about that.

Now if she disappeared Mark would be the main suspect, keeping him in Rubicon Ranch long enough for Jamie to get to Kansas and set up a new identity there. Maybe she'd even go back to being herself, whoever that was.

Jamie threw one other pair of jeans into her backpack and then thought better of it. The more things she took with her, the less chance even these backwater hick cops would think something happened to her. No, it had to look like Mark had gotten rid of her. She couldn't take much of anything except the clothes on her back.

That meant she'd need new clothes. A shopping spree required money. And money was something she didn't have.

She needed to sort this out. The last thing Jamie wanted or needed was to rush into something and either have the cops or Mark track her down. She paced the floor and rubbed her right thumb against the palm of her left hand until the skin on both were warm from the friction. Mentally, she made a list of the things Mark had taught her as she strode from one end of the room to the other.

Keep your story straight. Turn. Too many details will tell the mark you're lying. Turn. Flashing around money will turn you into a mark. Turn. Not enough money and the mark won't take you seriously. Turn. No matter what, don't get caught.

From the hallway came a soft tap and a scratching noise, causing Jamie to press her ear to the door. If someone was out there, she couldn't hear anything else. Maybe her imagination was playing tricks on her. This place made her nervous. She never should have attempted a con so complicated.

If only she'd stuck with simple. Simple. That was it. All she had to do was keep it simple and she'd be outta here. Leave the room. Announce to everyone she encountered that she was meeting Mark. Walk to the highway. Hitchhike to Kansas. She could even do a little pickpocketing from whoever she could catch a ride with. Make up some sob story about an abusive boyfriend, and chances are no one would report her, even if Mark or the cops did come looking for her. Simple.

What could go wrong?

Jamie felt the tension leave her as she focused on the plan she now had. It didn't matter that Mark had left or that he had kept the keys to their rental car. Never again would she have to set foot in Rubicon Ranch. Once Rubicon Ranch had disappeared from whatever rearview mirror she could find, maybe she would even call in some anonymous tip about Mark's wandering the area the night that little girl was killed. If nothing else, that should keep Mark from following her too closely.

Her mind made up, Jamie walked purposefully to the door and opened it.

Only to come face to face with Deputy Midget.

So much for her simple plan.

The institutional gray of the walls, combined with the stale air and sweltering heat in the room, only served to aggravate Mark more. He'd been sitting in the interrogation room since his unfortunate meeting with the sheriff. One more thing to blame Jamie for. If she hadn't insisted on this place, this con, then none of this would have happened.

Everything had been going so well before he let her plan a con. If he ever got out of here he was just going to get in the car and leave. Leave Jamie to find her own way. She wasn't worth this trouble.

Mark looked up and saw his reflection in the two-way mirror. Obviously, someone was watching him from the other side. Waiting for him to make a mistake. These small-town cops probably didn't know about the night he'd left Jamie alone in the room. Unfortunately, when they picked him up earlier, the deputy had searched him right away and found the pills.

The pills. The bottle had his prints. Damn it!

Mark took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. Okay, so they had his prints. Unless they ran them through the national Automated Fingerprint Identification System, he should be fine. If they ran the prints through AFIS, however, multiple states could argue for extradition.

He should have dumped Jamie a long time ago.

At least he hadn't said anything about anything—yet. Not that anyone had been in here to talk to him.

The door opened and the lieutenant walked in, a file folder stuffed with papers in her hands. "Well, you've been a busy guy, haven't you?"

It was time to cut a deal.
Chapter 40: Eloy Franklin

by Deborah J Ledford

The saber felt cold in Eloy's fist. He held it to his side, tip pointed to the ground. The Boy hadn't taken a step, but Eloy knew how fast danger could approach. He steeled himself, prepared for anything.

"Destroying evidence. That's good. Saves me the trouble," The Boy said, but Eloy recognized regret in the voice. Loss. A fresh wound. Eloy hoped so.

"I want no part of you," Eloy said. "Get out now or I'll call the sheriff."

"Ah yes, the sheriff and his band of merry idiots. I've been watching them chase their asses." The Boy stood and took a few steps into the light from the porch's fixture.

Eloy reared back at the sight he barely recalled. Shoulders bent, hair unkempt, white face glowing in the inferior light. Rage seemed to encompass the younger man's being. Eloy swore the power of darkness wilted the shrubbery next to where The Boy stood.

"I heard about that dead little girl," The Boy said "What was her name? Riley? Yeah, Riley," he purred. A salacious grin lifted his lips. "Did you kill her, old man?"

Eloy's stomach roiled. He resisted the urge to raise the saber and charge.

"Bet you did. Missed the war action you were always so proud of, right? Yeah, right."

Eloy gritted his teeth. He let out a deep breath and silently warned himself not to entice The Boy with any reaction. "I know you've been around here lately. Driving the neighborhood. Stalking. Hunting. Probably hiding in the bushes like the coward I know you to be. You killed Riley, didn't you, boy." Not a question. He hoped not a fact.

"If I was a killer you'd be long dead." He took more strides to stand an arm's length away from Eloy.

The Colonel flipped the handle in his hand so the sharp edge of the blade faced upward. A mere flick of his wrist and The Boy would be cleaved belly to chin within a heartbeat.

The deft movement stopped the younger man. A menacing chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Bravo. You've still got the moves. But do you have the guts?"

"Try me," Eloy said, no nervous tremor in his voice. He straightened his back, focused on his breathing, concentrated on The Boy's eyes in search of the insanity that could flash in an instant.

Instead, The Boy raised his open palms in surrender. "I'd forgotten what a hard bastard you are. If you sliced me up right now do you really believe you'd be free of me? Here, there, anywhere, I'll never be gone. I will haunt you even while your corpse rots in hell."

"Until then." Eloy gestured with his head in the direction The Boy had appeared. "Go."

They remained in a standoff, their only movements the rise and fall of their chests.

"Say my name," The Boy pleaded. "Please, old man, say it . . . just once."

Eloy remained silent as long as it took for the boy to shake his head, turn, cross the patio, disappear into the darkness.

He heard the click of the gate's latch, then dropped his now shaking body to the stone bench. The saber fell from his hand and clattered on the patch of cement. Tears coursed a hot trail down his cheeks as he mourned for his last remaining son.

He buried his face in his hands and muttered, "Corey."
Chapter 41: Seth Bryan  
by Lazarus Barnhill

"I need you to come with me," Bryan said when Melanie answered her door.

Instead of her usual tart, slightly defiant look, this time Melanie gave the sheriff an expression of weary resignation. "Is this going to be dinner or a dead body?"

"Neither. I just need you to cooperate one more time. Or maybe I should say, I need you to cooperate for the first time."

"And if I don't, you're going to arrest me, right?"

"Not yet. First we have to join the party."

"Party?" She stepped back into the entry and picked up the broad brimmed hat she wore beneath the full sun. "What's the occasion?"

He escorted her to the passenger's side of the Navigator and opened the door for her. "It's kind of a memorial service. For little Riley. You heard, by the way, about—"

"Her parents. Yes. It's horrible."

Bryan slid into the driver's seat. "Well, I've seen this kind of cascade of deaths before. But usually it has to do with gangs. Not middle class folks in the suburbs."

They drove swiftly up the street and then into the desert. He could tell he was going just a little too fast for Melanie's comfort.

"So who's coming to this memorial? Where is it and why do you need me there?"

He smiled. "You're my new favorite escort. You knew that, right?"

"Oh my God." She buried her face in her hands. "Not just an escort, but your escort. What a put down."

"Yeah, it's my specialty. Anyway, the whole Rubicon gang is going to be there—everyone who was a 'person of interest' in this investigation."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone who's not dead. And it's not really a memorial service. You remember where you found the TV set with Riley's body in it?"

"Of course."

"That's where we're meeting."

"Why?"

He glanced at her as if she had asked a foolish question. "To solve two killings, of course."

"But, her parents killed themselves. Or it was a murder-suicide. Doesn't that sort of imply—"

"Wouldn't that be lovely? Riley's parents kill the child they kidnapped at birth and the birth father who comes to steal her back and then, in a fit of remorse, they do themselves. That would solve everything, wouldn't it?"

"Why doesn't it solve everything?"

He shrugged. "Maybe it does."

She clenched her teeth and looked out the passenger's window, frustration and confusion lining her face. "Why are you dragging me into this, Sheriff? You must know I had nothing to do with anybody's death."

"Really? You had nothing to do with anyone's death? . . . This from a woman whose husband died in a mysterious one-car accident. And when a peace officer reviewed the circumstances and told her there needed to be further investigation because there was some indication of foul play, she vehemently denied it was anything but an accident?"

"I didn't deny it was an accident. I merely said you lied to me. And you did lie. You were lying to get to me."

He pulled up to a ring of four or five official cars, shut off the Navigator and turned to her. "I don't have to lie to get to you. Something strange did happen to your husband in his car. But that's not why we're here." He spoke slowly. "I know you dislike me intensely and want me out of your life. So make that happen. Cooperate with this investigation."

"And just how do I do that?"

He nodded toward the group of deputies and Rubicon Ranch residents that were standing halfway up the knoll. "You'll know when it's time. Let's go. You can open your own door, can't you?"

He seemed oblivious to Melanie's presence as he walked up to the silent group of citizens facing him, flanked by the equally silent deputies. It was only when he came to a stop alongside Frio and Midget that he glanced over his shoulder at Melanie. He watched as she took her place at the farthest edge of the group.

"Are all my interesting persons here, Deputy?"

Midget nodded. "All who are still breathing. Present and accounted for, Sheriff. We found Dylan halfway to Arizona. A truck driver picked him up and gave us a call. Since he picked up the kid in our county, he thought we should know about it."

Bryan projected his voice through the dry desert air. "I want to thank you all for your cooperation in coming here."

"It's not like I had a choice." The voice was feminine and flirtatious, and cynical.

The eyes of the crowd turned to Jamie Westbrook. She lifted her manacled hands and tilted her head.

"Well, it's true," Bryan continued. "Some of you needed a little inducement to cooperate. As for you Ms. Westbrook, we look forward to your continued cooperation."

"She's a goddamn liar."

"Then there's you, Mr. Westbrook. I notice you are shackled as well. Otherwise I fear you would have flown the coop, with or without your lady friend here. There are important lessons to be learned here, Mark. First, the best way to raise quick cash is not to sell drugs in a community full of deputies watching every move you make. And second, when you have a partner in crime, make sure you rat her out before she drops the dime on you."

"You got nothing on me but her word."

Bryan took a step toward him and Westbrook straightened. The sheriff smiled.

"I encourage you to work on that attitude before you see Judge Solis tomorrow. She has a particular dislike of lowlifes who pedal drugs to our schoolchildren. It will be interesting to see whether she'll want you to serve your entire sentence here before sending you back to Minnesota to face extortion and fraud charges. If I don't miss my guess, there are law enforcement officers all over this country who want you to come spend a little time with them."

He gazed out over the silent observers. "Now where was I? Oh yes. I'm grateful for your cooperation as we try to determine exactly who perpetrated the deaths of Riley Peterson and Herman Neuhaus."

"Isn't it, like, obvious?" This time the voice was sullen and adolescent.

"Ah, Dylan McKenzie. Not in handcuffs, but still under arrest for a rash of burglaries in the neighborhood. What's supposed to be so obvious?"

"Her parents. They killed her. And they killed that other dude."

"Then they killed themselves? Hmm. I suppose a murder-suicide should make us suspect them. On the other hand, suppose you're a teenager sneaking around and breaking into people's houses. Suppose little Riley Peterson catches you and you don't want to get, like, busted. So now you also have a reason to—"

"I never did anything to Riley!"

"Besides giving her drugs, you mean?" When the kid looked down, the sheriff said, "And then you ran away. To a cop like me, that sounds a little suspicious, Dylan."

"Leave him alone."

Bryan gazed at the man beside the teenager. "Well, Cort McKenzie. How ironic, you telling us to leave your son alone. Are you the only one allowed to beat him?"

McKenzie started toward the sheriff. Lieutenant Frio immediately stepped in his path, her hands raised and opened toward him.

The father stopped, glaring at the lieutenant as he replied to Bryan. "I never laid a hand on that kid."

"Then why didn't you report whoever kept leaving all those bruises on him?" the sheriff asked. "And while we're at it, why did your wife leave, Cort? Did you bruise her up too?"

He stepped toward Bryan again. "You can't talk to me like—"

"Calm down and step back, sir." Frio positioned herself directly between McKenzie and the sheriff.

"Don't touch me and get out of my face, sweetheart!"

"I have not touched you, Mr. McKenzie. Step back and be quiet or go to jail."

As if responding to a dare, Cort McKenzie took a half step forward and pointed his finger at Bryan. "I have my rights!"

The lieutenant pulled his hand down. Instantly a look of enraged indignation painted McKenzie's face. He raised both hands to push Frio and as he did she effortlessly sidestepped him, captured one hand, put one foot behind his propped leg and slammed him to the ground.

There came a gasp from the throng, equaled by the sound of the wind bursting from McKenzie's lungs. Frio rolled him to one side and smoothly secured handcuffs on his wrists so he was shackled behind his back.

She pushed his back onto the ground and hovered over him. "I'm so glad you did that. I've been waiting all week for you to do that."

"Wow." Bryan grinned broadly. "Just look at the bad boys we're locking up here today. And we're not through, are we, Moody?"

The psychologist's expression darkened. "I had nothing to do with Riley's death."

"No, you didn't. And neither did your dad." The sheriff nodded at the stooped figure standing beside her. "Glad you could join us, Mr. Sinclair."

"Huh?"

"Drop the act, Morris. We know you aren't suffering from dementia. And, no, your daughter didn't tell us. Terry Sweetum told us. When we searched your house, we found all your gory autopsy photos. At first we thought it was the coroner providing them for you, until we determined that the pictures were all scans. Terry would go in at night and raid his dad's files and make copies of the photos he found. He couldn't make originals because he couldn't bypass the security on his dad's computer."

Morris Sinclair stared at Bryan. At length he responded with complete clarity. "What law did I break, Sheriff?"

"Receiving stolen property for starters, Morris. We'll let the D.A. figure out what else." He shrugged. "I don't think there's a law against creeping out the whole subdivision. You may get some prize, though. Your real life is scarier than any of those spook books you write."

"Gothic horror."

"Whatever. We're not going to cuff you, Morris. Just behave yourself." He looked across the crowd again. "So I think that concludes the preliminaries. Now on to our main purpose for being here."

"About time," Mark Westbrook muttered.

"You see, I happen to know who killed Riley Peterson. It wasn't Dylan. It wasn't you, Moody. It wasn't you, Eloy, despite your reputation. . . . I know you got caught with kiddy sex pics, but I also know they weren't yours, were they? Professor Dahlsing, you may have gone walking in your sleep that night, but we know you didn't kill the child either. Jamie and Mark Westbrook are career criminals, but they didn't murder Riley. She was supposed to be their meal ticket. Jeff and Kourtney Peterson didn't kill her either. The death of a child destroys a lot of marriages. It did that for the Peterson's, even though Riley wasn't even their child. And now the death toll has increased by two."

Bryan looped his thumbs in his pistol belt. "Sounds as if I have eliminated all the suspects, doesn't it? I suppose that's proper because Riley Peterson was not murdered. Her death was an accident and it was at the hands of her true father, Herman Neuhaus."

Jamie Westbrook shot an outraged look at Mark. Morris Sinclair smirked. Moody looked startled, then thoughtful, as if something that had puzzled her finally made sense.

"Two fathers?" Dylan said. "Shit. One is bad enough."

"Mr. Neuhaus and his wife learned of Riley on the internet," Bryan continued. "The Westbrooks were hired by the Neuhauses to find out some solid information about the girl. Unfortunately for all involved, our little con artists decided to play both sides of the fence. They tried to blackmail the Petersons—extort money from them to keep silent. Meanwhile Herman Neuhaus figured out on his own where his daughter was. He came from Minnesota to California to reclaim her.

"Herman decided to circumvent the courts. He knew the Petersons couldn't challenge him legally if he just kidnapped his own daughter back. His problem was that Riley had no idea who he was. As friendly a child as she was, she would never get in the car with a stranger. So he decided to chloroform her. He got into her room and he put the chemical-soaked rag across her face. He took her out of the house and walked back to where he had hidden his rental car. And when he got there, he realized he had used too much. He had smothered the child he wanted to save."

The sheriff waited until all the residents, their heads lowered as they reflected on his words, looked back up at him. "We know from the chemical reports that Riley died of chloroform poisoning. We know that Herman Neuhaus procured chloroform in Los Angeles before he drove here to Rubicon Ranch. Therefore we know that none of you killed Riley."

"Good show, Sheriff," Morris said. "Now can we leave?"

"Unfortunately, that still leaves us with one unexplained death. And, unlike Riley's death, it is a murder. Herman Neuhaus did not kill himself. . . . One of you did."

When he did not continue, they began to steal looks at one another. The murmuring among them grew until at last Moody spoke up.

"Who did, Sheriff? Do you know?"

He turned to the silent woman in the broad brimmed hat standing apart from the throng. He called her name.

"Melanie Gray."
Chapter 42: Melanie Gray  
by Pat Bertram

The sound of her name hit Melanie with such force she staggered backward. Deputy Midget grasped her upper arm. At first she thought he meant only to steady her, but then he propelled her toward the sheriff. What next? Handcuffs? This can't be happening. "I'm innocent," she wanted to scream like a bimbo in a bad movie. "You've got to believe me!" But she kept her mouth shut. Sheriff Bryan didn't have to believe her, and saying the words would make her appear guilty. And she was guilty—guilty of believing that lying, no-good sheriff when he said she wasn't a suspect. Not only did he consider her a suspect, apparently he considered her the only suspect.

Feeling sick to her stomach at his betrayal, she put her free hand over her mouth to stay the nausea.

"Melanie?" the sheriff said again.

Pointedly ignoring him, she glanced at the small crowd of people gathered on the rocky hillside under the glaringly bright sun. Most were studying her with various degrees of interest, though a few seemed more enthralled by their own personal dramas than in her plight. Moody Sinclair stared with undisguised hatred at the suddenly rational Morris Sinclair. Ms. Westbrook with her waist-length brown hair and the muscle-bound Mr. Westbrook exchanged smug looks as if each had somehow gotten the better of the other. The sullen kid tried to kick his downed father, but Lieutenant Frio pulled him away.

"I didn't do it." Hating the echo of pleading Melanie heard in her soft-spoken words, she raised her voice. "I didn't kill Herman Neuhaus."

"I know you didn't," Bryan said

"What?" Melanie gaped the sheriff. "Then why—"

"But you know who did," he continued as if she hadn't spoken.

Melanie wrenched her arm from Midget's grasp. For a second, she considered running off. Bryan had just admitted publicly that he didn't consider her a suspect, so he had no reason to hold her.

"What's going on?" she heard someone whisper.

"This is bullshit," someone else muttered.

"It's like we're in one of those stupid movies from Masterpiece Theater," said a third in a mock British accent.

The sheriff held up a hand, and the patter stopped, though people still moved restively.

Poised to bolt, Melanie glanced at the spot where the television had been, and her resistance faded. Poor little girl. Riley deserved better than Sheriff Bryan's feeble efforts to discover the truth of her death. And Melanie had promised to cooperate with the man.

She blew out a breath. "I wish I could help you, Sheriff, but I don't know who killed Riley's father."

Unable to meet his gaze, she ducked her head and focused on the ground. The prolonged heat wave had turned the normally hard-packed earth to dust. Shoe prints stood out as if embossed on the desert floor. So many different sole treads—the paisley-like print of her own shoes, the intricate crosshatch tread of Midget's shoes, the waffle-like print . . .

"Oh." The single word burst out of her like a gasp, and for one startling moment, she understood the sheriff's strategy. Bryan knew as well as she did what the killer's shoe prints looked like, but if he didn't have probable cause to get search warrants for all the suspects, he'd have a difficult time finding the shoes that matched the prints, and even if he could get the warrants, it would take time. Here, in the open, he didn't need a search warrant—the prints were visible for anyone to study. And by having her point out the killer, he'd have a witness at a trial.

"These prints are the same as those I saw by the abandoned car," she said.

"Are you sure?" Bryan asked. "That's a common shoe tread."

"I'm positive. The wear pattern is identical, and there's a jagged circle on the left heel, as if he'd stepped on a sharp rock."

The sheriff grinned at her. "That's my girl."

Melanie clenched her hands and said through gritted teeth, "I'm not your girl."

But the sheriff, now grim-faced, was already heading toward the silver-haired man Midget had handcuffed.

"Cooper Dahlsing, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say . . ."

Cooper stood still, as if shocked into immobility, while Bryan read him his rights, and Melanie felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for the professor. He seemed both bewildered by the announcement that he'd killed a man, and resigned, as if he'd been expecting the terrible news. Bryan had mentioned the man's sleepwalking. Was it possible the professor had killed without even being aware of taking another life?

"Let's go," Midget said. Cooper remained standing, staring straight ahead. Midget tugged on his prisoner's arm, but Cooper still didn't move. Midget shot a furrowed-brow look at the sheriff. "Is he sleepwalking?"

"Considering that he's not walking," the sheriff said, "my guess is no."

Melanie's neighbor stepped forward, and Melanie remembered that Moody had once been a psychologist.

"He could be having a seizure," Moody said. "He told me that his sleepwalking episodes were the result of a rare form of epilepsy."

"Epilepsy?" Midget jumped away from Cooper.

"Seizures are caused by abnormal electricity in the brain," Moody said. "It's not catching."

"Can you snap him out of it?" Bryan asked.

"Without drugs? No. But seizures sometimes last only a few seconds."

"It's been more than a few seconds."

"Sometimes they last longer, Sheriff." Moody took a couple of steps closer to the handcuffed man and spoke in a soothing voice. "Hi, Cooper. When we talked before, I said you'd have to trust me, but you couldn't then. Do you trust me now? I promise you have nothing to fear from me."

Melanie swayed, and she realized the woman's hypnotic voice was making her drowsy. She pulled herself upright, and clenched her hands until they hurt. She could leave now; no one would notice—everyone, including the Westbrooks and the McKenzies, kept their attention focused on Moody—but after being dragged all over Rubicon Ranch by the sheriff, she felt she had a stake in finding out why such a gentle-looking man had turned to murder.

Cooper's eyelids fluttered, and his lips smacked.

"Cooper?" Moody said. "You can talk to me. I'm your friend."

His eyelids fluttered again, then he gave a small start and looked around as if he didn't know where he was.

"It's time to find out what happened," Moody said soothingly. "Not knowing the truth has haunted you long enough. Do you remember that night? It was hot, almost as hot as it is now. You saw something. What did you see?"

After a few long seconds, during which not one of the bystanders seemed to take a breath, Cooper turned his head toward Moody. Two words drifted out of his mouth. "Man. Cissy."

"Cissy, your sister?"

"Yes. Cecelia."

"Who's Cecelia," Morris rasped. "I thought the dead kid's name was Riley."

Moody turned to her father, and brought her arm down twice in a gesture that obviously meant for him to shush. Watching the byplay, Melanie almost missed Cooper's words.

"I gave her a ride to school that morning."

"You gave your sister a ride to school." Moody said in her hypnotic voice.

"She was just a kid. Eight years younger. I was supposed to watch her."

"You were a kid, too," Moody said. "Only seventeen."

"I never saw her again. Not alive."

"What happened to your sister?"

"I don't know. Murdered." Long silence. "I saw her with some man."

"You saw Cissy?" Moody asked.

"He carried her out of the house, put her in the car. I couldn't let him take her."

"Of course you couldn't let him take her. You loved her. What did you do?"

"Ran after him. Followed his car into the desert. When he stopped, I caught up to him. I tried to pull him out of the car. I tugged and tugged. Then he stopped moving."

After a moment of confusion, wondering how Cooper could have seen his sister for the last time when he dropped her off at school but had also seen her being carried out of the house, the truth hit Melanie. Cooper had somehow mixed up the two little girls in his mind. Cooper had seen Herman Neuhaus carrying Riley out of the Peterson's house and thought he'd finally be able to save his sister. What trauma the professor must have gone through as a teenager imagining the horrors of his sister's last hours. And then to see his imaginings playing out for real here, in Rubicon Ranch.

"What did you do next?" Moody asked calmly, hypnotically.

"Cissy was dead. He killed her. I couldn't take her home. I needed to protect her."

"So you took her out of the car?"

"I put her in the old television."

"To protect her from the snakes?"

"I wanted her to be happy. She loved to play there. Liked to pretend she was a star."

"What did you do with the man?"

"I drove his car to a different part of the desert and hid him. I wanted to keep him away from her. I walked back through the desert, over the knolls, passed the old television where I hid Riley's body." Cooper shuddered and tried to yank his hands out of the cuffs.

Melanie gave herself a shake, feeling as if she, too, were coming out of a trance. She uncurled her hands, and rotated her tight shoulders.

"It's okay, Cooper," Moody said. "You're fine."

Cooper looked at the crowd, then fixed his gaze on Moody. "But I killed a man. And I didn't save Riley."

Moody seemed taken aback. "You remember?"

"Yes. Now I do. I couldn't reach him through the open car door, so I grabbed the only thing I could—his neck. I didn't mean to kill him. I only wanted to save Cissy. . . . I mean Riley. I thought I was doing so well. I haven't had a sleepwalking episode since I moved here, and then I woke in the desert that night. I saw sand beneath my fingernails and felt as though something terrible had happened."

"For cripes sake," Morris bellowed. "That's it? The father accidentally kills the girl and then this wimp accidentally kills the father? That's not much of a crime. If I couldn't come up with a better plot than a bunch of accidents, I'd give up writing."

The Westbrooks laughed, Dylan took another shot at kicking his father, and the motionless tableau turned into a milling mass of humanity.

Melanie considered Morris's words. Despite his lack of sensitivity, he was right about one thing—Cooper's actions didn't seem like much of a crime. Maybe the courts would go easy on the professor. He hadn't intended to kill the man. He'd only tried to save a little girl.

Tears welled up in Melanie's eyes. So much death. Riley, her birth father, her pseudo-parents. And Alexander. Maybe the sheriff would find out why Alexander died, just as he'd found out why all those other people had died. But it wouldn't make any difference. Alexander would still be dead.

In small groups, the sheriff, his deputies, their prisoners, and the persons of interest all started down the hill. Turning her back on them, Melanie walked to the crest of the knoll and down the other side. She thought she heard Seth call her name, but she kept on walking.
The Authors:

Lazarus Barnhill is a native of Oklahoma who has lived all over the south, holds three degrees, including a Doctorate in Spiritual Development, and is a romantic at heart.

Eric Beetner is a TV and film editor, director and producer, and an award-winning short story and screenwriter who lives in L.A. with his wife and two daughters.

Nichole R. Bennett is a mystery lover with a fascination for the supernatural—everything from angels and spirits to ghosts and hauntings.

Pat Bertram is a native of Colorado temporarily stranded in the Mojave Desert. She's written four novels and one non-fiction book Grief: The Great Yearning.

JJ Dare has been an author since age seven. Love for the amazing worlds the written word opens up keeps Dare writing, mostly mysteries, thrillers, and dramas.

Christine Husom is a former corrections officer, mental health practitioner, and deputy sheriff. She enjoys solving mysteries in stories and in real life.

JB Kohl works as a medical and technical writer as well as a fiction writer. She lives in Virginia with her husband and three children.

Deborah J Ledford writes the Steven Hawk/Inola Walela thriller series. Her latest release, SNARE, is The Hillerman Sky Award Finalist.

Nancy A Niles, a native Las Vegan, is an award-winning poet and a graphic artist. She worked as an extra in the movie Con Air, and she has traveled extensively.
THE SAGA CONTINUES

Residents of Rubicon Ranch find body parts scattered all over the desert. Who was the victim and why did someone want him so very dead? Seven Second Wind authors are collaborating to create another innovative crime novel set in the desert community of Rubicon Ranch.

You can find the ongoing story at:

www.rubiconranch.wordpress.com

Available From Second Wind Publishing

SNARE

by Deborah J Ledford

Revenge with a beat. Native American pop singer/songwriter Katina Salvo's is attacked during an altercation at her first live concert. Could the assailant be a mysterious, dangerous man from her youth? Or her estranged father recently released from prison for killing her mother?

ONE TOO MANY BLOWS TO THE HEAD

by JB Kohl & Eric Beetner

In a world of fixed fights and mob influence Ray Ward and his brother, Rex, are two of the only clean fighters in town. With Ray in the corner and Rex in the ring they are headed for the big time. Until that fateful night. Now Ray has a score to settle using a lifetime of lessons in how to fight back.

THE MEDICINE PEOPLE

by Lazarus Barnhill

After 25 years as a fugitive, triple murder suspect Ben Whitekiller returns to his small eastern Oklahoma hometown. Why has he come back? Why are those who sought him so disturbed at his return? What secrets will the young officer, Dan Hook, find out about Ben, and himself?

Available From Second Wind Publishing

LIGHT BRINGER

by Pat Bertram

Becka Johnson had been abandoned on the doorstep of a remote cabin in Chalcedony, Colorado when she was a baby. Now, 37 years later, she has re-turned to Chalcedony to discover her identity, but she only finds more questions. Who has been looking for her all those years? And why are the same people interested in a fellow newcomer?

FALSE POSITIVE

by JJ Dare

Joe Daniels tried for years to put his military, special op, mercenary past behind him. Then everything came crashing down around him. A terrible accident that nearly claimed his wife's life not only opened the door to his past, but forced him to recognize all of his perceptions of the world around him were wrong.

GHOST MOUNTAIN

by Nichole R Bennett

After moving to the Black Hills of South Dakota, Cerri meets a spirit guide who insists she find justice for a murdered man. Now Cerri must con-vince the FBI that she is getting her information from another realm and not from first-hand knowledge of the murder.

Available From Second Wind Publishing

VENDETTA

by Nancy A Niles

When Private Investigator, Tina Munroe agrees to help out an old friend she encounters vandalism, a psycho with a Molotov cocktail, a gangster who has his own agenda Time is running out when her friend and assistant, Megan is kidnapped. Have Tina's actions to save one friend caused another friend to die?

BURIED IN WOLF LAKE

by Christine Husom

When a family's Golden Retriever brings home the dismembered leg of a young woman, Sergeant Corrine Alecksonand Detective Elton Dawes discover they are up against psycho-path. Are there other victims, and will they learn the killer's identity in time to prevent another brutal murder?

MURDER IN THE WIND

Anthology

Included in this anthology of crime and mystery short stories are stories by:

Lazarus Barnhill

Eric Beetner

Pat Bertram

JJ Dare

Christine Husom

Deborah J Ledford

